Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens

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      The woman came in the door behind them, looked at Kincaid and Brady, allowed her eyes to settle on Sherenko, and walked through to the restaurant at the far end. She was mid-twenties, tall, dark hair immaculately groomed, high-heeled shoes and expensive dress.

      Brady turned as she went past.

      ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sherenko told him.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘You couldn’t afford it.’

      Brady was still watching the woman. ‘Why couldn’t I?’

      The waitress cleared the cocktails and brought the San Miguels.

      Sherenko rubbed the lime round the rim of the bottle. ‘To understand, you have to understand the new Russian women, some of whom you see here tonight.’ He waved his hand towards the rest of the bar, the movement controlled and economic. ‘Okay, some of them are working girls. Some of them are young, probably late teens, dressing up and trying to look good. Others are high-class, good lookers, good dressers. Probably born into the party. By which I mean the Communist Party.’

      He took a pull of San Miguel and smiled as the waitress served them the tortilla chips and salsa.

      ‘There is, however, a third type. Probably slightly older. Late twenties, early thirties. Similar background, university educated and multi-lingual, but now running their own businesses, or at least successful in their chosen careers. High-earners and high-players, but not on the game.’ He played with the bottle. ‘A woman like this might be single or might still be married but is running the show, might have got fed up with her husband. Perhaps he drinks too much Stoli so she’s kicked him out.’

      He looked at Kincaid. Too close to home – Kincaid felt the unease, though for Stolichnaya read Jack Daniels. Screw you, Sherenko.

      Sherenko looked back at Brady. ‘So she works hard during the daytime and plays hard at night. Comes to a place like this – hell, you can see them, see the way they do it. They could make the catwalks in Milan without problems, but the fashion world doesn’t appeal because it’s not as much fun as here.’ Sherenko looked round the bar again and Kincaid realized the woman who had come in earlier was glancing at him. ‘So she comes in, looks round, decides who she likes the look of. Makes eye contact and they’ll eat, possibly dance. She might pay, he might pay, it doesn’t matter. Might take in a club, might do some dope. And if she fancies him then she’ll go to bed with him; if she doesn’t, she’ll say ciao.’ He paused slightly. ‘Takova zhizn.’ He threw back his head and hands in a slightly exaggerated manner. ‘I’m me and nobody else. Take me or leave me.’

      Arrogant son-of-a-bitch, Kincaid thought again.

      ‘So why couldn’t I afford one?’ Brady asked.

      ‘You could still afford some of them, but not the high class girls, not the ones you’re really talking about.’

      And you’re saying you could, Kincaid thought. More than that. You’re saying you wouldn’t have to.

      ‘Why not?’ Brady asked.

      ‘A year ago the men they went for, the ones with the dollars, were the expats, the foreign businessmen. Now the ones with the real money in Moscow are the mafia.’

      When Sherenko dropped them at the block containing the company apartment it was past eleven. The apartment was on the fourth floor, the furniture and decor functional rather than attractive. Two bedrooms, sitting-room, kitchen at the rear, and small bathroom. No bath, but an electric power shower bought in London.

      Riley was at a computer in the sitting-room. ‘Coffee?’ He logged off the Internet.

      ‘Anything stronger?’ Kincaid asked.

      ‘Glenmorangie?’

      ‘Sounds fine.’

      Brady claimed an early start the next morning and went to the second bedroom – two single beds, not much space between.

      Riley fetched two glasses and a bottle. ‘Where’d Nik take you?’

      ‘The Santa Fe. Playing it safe, I guess.’

      Riley laughed, poured them each a measure, and settled in the armchair. ‘How was it?’ he asked.

      ‘Take it or leave it,’ Kincaid told him. ‘Tell me about Sherenko,’ he asked.

      ‘Why?’

      Kincaid shrugged.

      Riley sipped the malt. ‘You have problems with Nik, Jack?’

      ‘He’s not the easiest man to work with.’

      ‘Which is why Tom’s pissed off and gone to bed?’

      Kincaid shrugged again but said nothing.

      Riley stared at him above the glass. ‘Can I ask you something, Jack?’

      ‘Sure.’

      ‘You got problems with Moscow?’

      ‘No. Why’d you ask?’

      ‘No reason.’

      ‘So tell me about Sherenko.’

      ‘Not much to say really. Ex-Alpha, like a lot of the boys. Apparently he served with Alpha for a while, then left. Surfaced two, three years back and Mikhail signed him up. Good operator, probably the best. Bit of a loner, keeps himself to himself. Divorced, couple of kids.’

      Riley poured himself another Glenmorangie and passed the bottle across.

      ‘There’s one other thing I don’t understand.’ Kincaid splashed the clear brown liquid into the glass. ‘Sherenko was a member of Alpha.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Alpha was Special Forces, including anti-terrorism, but primarily within the Soviet Union.’

      ‘For most of its history. Why?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      Except if Alpha was internal, there was no reason for members of Alpha to speak English. The Omega guys are all Alpha, and they don’t. A few words perhaps, but nothing more. So why does Sherenko speak it fluently?

      For the past hour he had lain on the bed and tried not to sleep; now he felt himself taking the first inevitable steps. The sunlight gave way to the shadow, the rusted door to the left opened, and the morgue attendant beckoned him in. He stepped into the cold; the white tiles of the corridor were almost blurred and the sounds of his footsteps were muffled yet echoing. You knew you would come this way, the sliver of rationality told him. He fought it anyway, tried to escape from it even though he knew it was to no avail. Moved slowly – all such moments were in slow motion – and followed the attendant. Stepped forward as the attendant moved aside, saw that it was his own hands which gripped the wheel at the centre of the door and ground it anti-clockwise. The sweat poured off his body. The lock gave way and the door swung open. He glanced to his left СКАЧАТЬ