Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ were doubling up – in the nearest seat on the other side of the aisle. No one allowed to get anywhere near the holdalls.

      Five minutes later the 767 pushed back; three minutes after that, at 10.02 GMT, it lifted off, climbed over north London, and turned east on the standard route to Moscow over Amsterdam and Berlin. Two hours and sixteen minutes later it crossed the border of what had once been the Soviet Union. An hour and sixteen minutes after that it dropped on to the pockmarked runway of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport, trundled to Gate 9, the air bridge was connected, the engines died, and the seatbelt signs flicked off. Whyte lifted the bags and joined the queue to leave the plane.

      The boys were waiting at the top of the jetbridge. There were two of them, thirties, big build and disciplined, automatics concealed in waist holsters. A tall woman in the dark green of the Border Guards stood beside them.

      ‘Good flight?’ The bodyguard’s English was precise without being perfect.

      ‘Fine.’

      Arnie Maddox was halfway to the airport when the cellphone rang. It was six-fifty in the evening; fifteen minutes to the airport and another forty after that till his flight took off for Moscow. The seven hours he had spent in St Petersburg that day had gone well and the paperwork from the last meeting was balanced on his lap.

      ‘Arnie?’

      ‘Yep.’ He held the cellphone with his left hand and used his right to turn over the page of the document he was reading.

      ‘Arnie, it’s Phil. There’s a problem. The money that was coming in this afternoon …’ Dwyer’s voice trailed off.

      ‘What about it?’

      ‘It’s gone missing.’

      Maddox’s flight landed at Sheremetyevo just over three hours later. Arriving now, Maddox told his driver on the cellphone the moment he stepped off the plane. Even late evening the militia moved cars on outside the airport, so drivers waited at the Novotel, 200 metres away. Maddox pushed his way through the freelance drivers offering cab rides into the city and went outside. The Cherokee Grand Jeep pulled in. Maddox grunted a greeting, slid into the rear seat, and phoned Dwyer that he was on his way in. Thirty-five minutes later he was in his office off Tverskaya.

      Dwyer sat opposite him and slightly left, his facial muscles twitching occasionally with nerves, and the American manager liaising with the Russian security company contracted by ConTex sat to the right, trying not to show anything. Maddox thanked his secretary for working late and asked her to bring him coffee.

      ‘Tell me.’ He looked at the security liaison manager.

      ‘The courier company confirm that one of their people, Whyte, left London as scheduled. Whyte was travelling alone. The courier scheduled to accompany him was taken ill this morning and there wasn’t time to bring in a replacement. British Airways have confirmed that Whyte was on the flight; the last time they saw him was walking up the jetbridge from the aircraft. Immigration confirm that Whyte was met by two security people. Problem is, they weren’t ours. The security team who were supposed to meet him were held up and arrived late.’

      ‘Jeez …’ Heads and jobs and reputations on the line, Maddox was aware; not just the man opposite him. He swung in the chair, sipped the coffee and gave himself time to think. ‘Houston’s been informed?’ It was to the security liaison.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you’ve spoken to McIntyre?’ This time to Dwyer.

      Cal McIntyre was President of ConTex, Cal McIntyre was ConTex. Cal McIntyre would already have been informed, but McIntyre would be waiting for Maddox to call him, because that was the way McIntyre operated.

      ‘Not personally.’

      ‘Better do it, then.’ Maddox put the mug back on the table. ‘Anything else before I talk to Cal?’

      ‘I still need the five million,’ Dwyer told him.

      Thanks, Maddox almost said. He punched one of the direct numbers to McIntyre’s office in Houston on the Stu-iii, flicked the telephone on conference so they could all hear, then left his desk and stood with his back to the window, because that was what McIntyre would do when he took the call.

      ‘Cal McIntyre’s office.’ The secretary was honey-toned. Blond hair and good-looking, Maddox remembered. And efficient, because that was the only way you survived with McIntyre.

      ‘Hi, Shirl, it’s Arnie Maddox in Moscow. Is Cal there?’ He waited for the connection. In Moscow it was late evening, the sky purpling. In Houston it was early afternoon, the sky blue and the sun blazing. ‘Cal. Arnie Maddox in Moscow.’

      ‘Arnie.’ McIntyre was tall, big-boned but gaunt, early sixties and hide skin. He pushed the chair back from the desk, stood up, and leaned with his back against the window, the city spread seventeen storeys below.

      ‘Cal, I’m going secure.’ Maddox put the call on hold and turned the key of the Stu-iii. In Houston McIntyre did the same. ‘You’ve been informed.’ Maddox resumed the conversation.

      ‘Yep.’

      Time to do it, Maddox understood; time to play it as Cal McIntyre would have played it.

      ‘Okay, Cal. This is the score. As you’re aware, this morning’s shipment went missing. I’ve begun running checks this end, first indication is that the security contractor screwed up.’ He made a point of taking a mouthful of coffee. ‘The insurance people will obviously want to run their own checks on this. I’m happy with that as long as they don’t get their noses up the wrong asses. Phil’s deal is looking good, Kazakhstan’s on schedule. In view of the latter two points we need a replacement shipment ASAP.’

      ‘Big shipment, Arnie,’ McIntyre told him, just to let Maddox know, then turned his attention to Dwyer. ‘Phil how close are you?’

      ‘Close as we can be at this stage.’

      ‘Anybody else sniffing?’

      ‘Nobody yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’

      McIntyre switched his attention back to Maddox. ‘Okay, Arnie, you got another shipment coming in tomorrow.’ But don’t fuck up again. Because you’ve covered your ass on this one, but next time … ‘What about security?’

      ‘You want me to sort out someone else?’

      ‘I will. Speak to you in an hour.’ The ConTex president hung up, returned to his desk, consulted the confidential list of telephone numbers he had drawn up over the years, drew out two, and called the first.

      ‘Drew, this is Cal McIntyre at ConTex. Got a little problem in Moscow and would appreciate some advice on it.’

      ‘Shoot,’ the man in the lush forested green of the Virginia countryside told him.

      ‘Shipment of money’s gone missing. The security company ConTex has been employing are either involved or haven’t got their asses in the ball game. I need another company, able to provide security plus investigation.’

      ‘Give me an hour,’ the man from Langley told him.

      McIntyre thanked him, called СКАЧАТЬ