Moscow USA

Sherenko parked, got out, nodded at the policemen and shook hands with the attendant. A bird was singing in a tree behind the grey-brick building. Kincaid left the car and glanced inside. The building was dark and cavernous, high ceiling, no upper levels, and a large concrete floor with a tarpaulin over something in the centre. No bodies, though. The attendant went into an office on the right and returned with two pairs of surgical gloves. ‘I’ll see you down there.’

The corridors smelt of antiseptic and the hospital bustled around him. Kincaid picked up the signs, turned left, then right. Checked his watch and hurried on.

Sherenko took one pair of gloves, gave Kincaid the other, and walked past the building. The area was rough and overgrown, grass and weeds growing on mounds and through a tangle of metal to the right. In front of them and to their left a ramp dropped underground towards the block on the road at an angle of around twenty degrees. The surface had been tarmacked at some stage but now it was torn and rough, and the sides were red brick, washed over with concrete. It was some fifty metres long, the last ten under the overhang of the ground above.

They walked down. No birds any more, Kincaid realized. The sides now were tarred black as protection against wet and damp, though the black and the concrete were peeling off and the brickwork underneath was decayed and crumbling. They stepped out of the sunlight. There were two doors in the semi-darkness at the bottom. The one to the right was metal and painted black, a padlock on it, and the one to the left was rusted red, no locks visible on it, therefore apparently no way of accessing it. They stood and waited, not speaking. There was a grating sound from inside the door to the left, as if someone was turning a handle, then the door was pushed open and they stepped through.

The corridors were silent around him now, though the smell of antiseptic was stronger. He turned right and stood in front of the door, punched the combination into the security lock, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The corridor was long; its floor, ceiling and walls were tiled white, but the tiles were discoloured and chipped, and eerie in the low-power overhead lighting. Left, Kincaid assumed, was back to the building at the rear. The attendant turned right. They followed him fifteen metres, turned half right then half left. The door was to the right. It was large and metalled, rusting at the edges and the bottom, a large metal handle in the centre also rusted slightly. The attendant looked at them. ‘You ready?’ He grasped the handle and turned it anti-clockwise, the sound the same as when he opened the main door to the outside, then pulled open the door. The light inside was already on. The attendant moved aside and Kincaid stepped through.

The morgue was empty, but that was the way it had been arranged. No attendants to ask questions and no pen-pushers to request signatures when the footsteps came down the corridor in two minutes’ time. The gleaming white examination slab was in the centre of the floor and the plastic body bag lay upon it. I was point man for you. I was baby-sitting you, Joshua; I was the one who was supposed to bring you through. I was the one Leo Panelli recommended to you, the one in whose hands you put your faith and your trust and your life. And I let you down. He walked round the slab, unzipped the bag, and looked at the face.

Oh Christ, Kincaid thought.

The bodies were naked and stacked on top of each other to the ceiling. Some blue, some white, some a garish tinted orange. Four or five deep, shoulders and heads hanging over one edge of the two tables which ran from the door to the far end, and legs and feet over the other. More on the floor underneath – again stacked on each other – as well as on the trolleys between. Eyes staring at him and mouths open to him. The lighting was in grilles overhead and the refrigeration bars which ran round the walls halfway up were rusting.

Oh Christ, he thought again.

The body nearest him had once been a man. The hair was long and matted, the eyes and mouth were open and twisted so the corpse seemed to be looking at him, the front of the torso was stitched following an autopsy, and the skin was orange. The body on which it lay was white, the one below that tinged a pale blue. The woman on the nearest trolley to him had a scarf tied round her head. A dirty sheet covered her nakedness – the only body covered – but her mouth was still open, her eyes were twisted up so that no matter where he stood they seemed to be staring at him, and the smell drifted out at him. Perhaps her smell, perhaps the smell of them all.

He looked for Joshua and saw the girl.

What had once been a beautiful face. Body still beautiful, breasts still full and nipples still dark on them. Blond hair splayed like corn over her shoulders and long slender legs slightly open as if the male body below was penetrating her.

Sherenko showed the attendant Whyte’s photograph and pulled on the surgical gloves. ‘He went missing yesterday, so where might he be?’

‘Should be at the front, but I’ve been away, and in this place you never know.’

Sherenko nodded. ‘Vpered.’ Let’s do it.

Sherenko picked his way between the two tables and Kincaid squeezed along the narrow space along the wall to the right.

Male, stiff and old, yellow skin and gunshot wound in lower abdomen. Woman, mid-forties, so don’t bother to look. Another male, too young – hell, no more than a kid. Another woman. Kincaid tried not to breathe, tried to look only at the faces, tried to stop the faces looking back at him.

‘Take the feet,’ Sherenko told him.

Business not personal, O’Bramsky had said five years ago. Business not personal, Sherenko’s attitude and eyes said now. Bastard, Kincaid thought. He grabbed the woman’s feet, Sherenko the shoulders, and moved her so they could see the face of the male underneath. Kincaid straightened and glanced at the girl even though he did not want to. Beautiful girl, beautiful body. So what the hell is someone like her doing here? Why the hell is Sherenko staring at her as if he’d paid his money at a peepshow?

The smell crept over them, consumed them; the eyes and the limbs and the hair. They came to the end, made their way back, and began to check the bodies on the table along the left wall. Male, white flesh almost translucent, the arm broken at a grotesque angle, either before death or after. Female, needle marks up the arms and face half missing. They finished checking the bodies on the tables, bent down, and checked underneath. An arm brushed against Kincaid’s face.

They came to the trolleys in the middle, came closer to the girl. Female, so no need to check, but the body beneath her was male, so they had to touch her, handle her. Move her so they could see the face of the man across whose body her legs were spread.

They came to the end.

In forty seconds the footsteps would come down the corridor. ‘Sorry, my friend …’ Kincaid zipped up the bag and left.

The attendant swung the door back in place and sealed the dead back in their own world, then they went back down the white-tiled passageway and out through the metalled rusting door to the gloom at the bottom of the incline down.

‘Thanks.’ Sherenko pulled off the gloves, shook the attendant’s hand, handed him a business card and slid him a folded hundred-dollar bill. ‘Keep the photo. If he shows, let me know.’

The man disappeared back inside and pulled the door shut. Kincaid and Sherenko walked back up the slope, into the sun at the top, and drove away.

The thin girls were still playing tennis and the children were still climbing amongst the felled trees, the washing was still hanging on the balconies and the couple were sitting on the grass holding hands. Kincaid rolled down his side window and allowed the little wind there was to brush against his face. At the top Sherenko turned left and dropped toward the Profsojuznaja metro station, past the kiosk where he had bought the Stolichnaya, then turned right at the lights toward Leninski Prospekt. Five minutes later Red Square was on their left, on the other side of the river, the domes of St Basil’s sparkling in the evening sun and the walls and towers of the Kremlin behind it. They crossed the river and turned right, up one street and down another. The buildings were suddenly changing, a set of kiosks on a corner – better built kiosks, better-dressed people round them – music coming from somewhere, and shops on either side.

Sherenko pulled in, switched off the engine, got out, and sat against the bonnet, breathing deeply. A well-dressed couple passed them, passed the armed guard on the door to the club behind them. A black Mercedes pulled in and two men – smart haircuts and padded suits – got out and went inside. Kincaid stepped out of the BMW and drew the air into his lungs, ran his fingers through his hair again as if that would dispel the odour. Sherenko fetched the Stolichnaya from the glove compartment and leaned again against the bonnet, cracked open the top and took a long stogram.

Chert vozmi, Kincaid thought. Screw you. You didn’t stand in the morgue at Belle Vue, you had no idea what it means to go into a place like the morgue on C’urupy Ulica. He leaned across, wrenched the bottle from Sherenko’s grasp, and took a long pull.

Sherenko took the bottle back, emptied it, threw it in a bin at the side of a kiosk with tables in front, jerked into the driver’s seat and started the engine in one movement, and pulled away, barely waiting for Kincaid to get in.

‘Riley said you and Brady were showing me Moscow tonight.’ Sherenko’s eyes were fixed on the road in front.

Screw you, Sherenko, Kincaid thought again. Screw you, Joshua. ‘Yeah. Show you Moscow.’

When the two of them plus Brady arrived at the Santa Fe it was almost nine-thirty. The restaurant, in one of Moscow’s residential suburbs, was protected by tall white walls, BMWs and Mercedes were pulled in to the dust strip between the road and the wall, and the South Western American style double gates were slightly ajar, one guard outside and a second inside. Sherenko nodded at the guards and led Kincaid and Brady through. The restaurant was to the left, white-washed and Spanish style, with steps up to it.

The first bar was spacious, high ceilings and tables and chairs around the edge. All of those present were well-dressed, a mix of expats and Russians. They looked round, chose a table near the door, and smiled at the waitress who asked for their drink orders. Didn’t expect to find tequila and Tex-Mex in Moscow, Brady joked, and ordered a margarita. Same, Kincaid told the waitress. Three – Sherenko held up three fingers. Two minutes later the waitress brought the margaritas and took their orders: salsa dip, ribs and French fries, and San Miguels in the bottle.

‘Vashe zdorovye.’ Kincaid held up the glass.

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 and saw the attendant grinning at him, the smile not on the face but on the gash of red which had once been his throat. Saw that the face was not the attendant’s, but his own. Saw his own hand, dismembered from his arm, beckoning him inside. The bodies were stacked to the ceiling. Red and blue and orange, the colours exaggerated and unreal, as if they had never been real, as if they were dummies from the set of a horror movie. He pulled the rubber gloves on. His fingers slid through the rips in the rubber, and he began the search. Saw the man: yellow skin and gunshot wound in the lower abdomen. Except there were two wounds, not one: the entry point of the 8.58x71mm round neat in the centre of his shoulders, and the front and chest of the body torn where the round had exited. He saw the girl. Naked body still beautiful, breasts still full and nipples dark on them, long legs slightly open as if the male body below her was penetrating her, blonde hair splayed like corn over her shoulders. Except the hair was black and the girl he now saw wore Levis.

Nikolai Sherenko pulled himself from the nightmare and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet around him and the first light shone cold through the windows. He checked the time, rose, pulled on a dressing-gown, and made himself coffee. When he left it was six-thirty. Three minutes before seven he was at the office. Kincaid arrived at seven-fifteen. By seven-thirty they had updated the case log and Gerasimov and Riley had joined them.

The first backgrounds on Maddox and Dwyer at ConTex, and the couriers Whyte and Pearce, had come in overnight. They called for fresh coffee and flicked through them, then Kincaid and Sherenko were driven to the ConTex offices off the Tverskaya.

Maddox and Dwyer were waiting for them in Maddox’s office; both were in shirtsleeves and Maddox wore cowboy boots. They shook hands and sat down, Maddox leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, Dwyer in a high-backed leather chair to the right, and Kincaid and Sherenko facing them.

‘I’d like to make two things clear right away.’ Kincaid took the lead. US company, US money goes missing after all. ‘First, we’re all on the same side. Second, I brought in six million yesterday, and only one million of that went to Kazakhstan, so you’ve obviously got something else going which you might not want to talk about.’

‘Appreciated.’ Dwyer looked nervous.

Maddox changed position slightly. ‘Shoot.’

‘I’d like to do the interviews separately.’

‘No problems.’

Because we’re all on the same side, Kincaid understood; because us American boys have to stick together. He opened the briefcase he carried and took out a Sony cassette recorder. ‘I’d also like to tape the interviews. That way there’s no misunderstanding.’

‘Fine,’ Maddox told him. ‘Who’d you want to speak to first?’

‘Guess we’ll start with you.’

Dwyer began to leave. Got a meeting over lunch, but other than that he’d made the day free, he informed them. Kincaid thanked him, watched him go, accepted a coffee and clicked on the cassette recorder. ‘Arnie, I’ve read the reports. Can you take me through them, give us the general overall picture of what happened.’ His ballgame, his demeanour said; him calling the plays.

Maddox led them through his return from Kazakhstan, which was routine; the need for the dollars there, which was also routine, plus the need for additional dollars to finance something Phil Dwyer was working on.

‘Can you tell me what that is?’

Difficult, Maddox’s grimace said.

Commercial confidentiality – Kincaid nodded his understanding, no problems. Take me on, he told Maddox: how’d you communicate with Houston over this? When Kazakhstan wants money, how do your people there tell you? How did this shipment differ from any others? How many staff would have known about it and how much did the company providing the security pick-up know?

They broke for ten minutes while Maddox took a call from Kazakhstan.

Take me through your personal timetable, Kincaid asked Maddox when they reconvened; who you met and who you talked to. Take me through that day. What about the waiter who served him and Phil Dwyer at dinner, what about when he and Phil went for a walk after? What about Nite Flite; anyone pick them out more than the usual way, anyone target them? What about when they left, when Maddox’s driver picked them up?

They moved next door to the office Dwyer was using and ran the same routine, Kincaid asking the questions because the show was his.

Anybody Dwyer had met who’d asked him about what he was doing, anybody ask about the dollar shipments? The shipment was in two sections, they didn’t want the details of course, but what about the people he was dealing with? Were they from a company or a government department or were they individuals? How and when did the subject of payment come up? Did the guys he was dealing with specify a date and did they therefore know the money was coming in? Anyone asked him anything, but anything, which in retrospect struck him as unusual? What about his staff? Anyone at the hotel or Nite Flite?

Dwyer glanced at his watch.

‘Time to leave?’ Kincaid asked.

‘Afraid so.’ Dwyer stood up. ‘Like I said, I have to meet someone over lunch. Feel free to come back this afternoon.’

‘Not necessary, Phil. I think we have everything we want.’ Kincaid returned the cassette recorder to the briefcase and allowed Dwyer to show them out of his office and down the corridor. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. They shook hands. Dwyer half-turned from them to return to his office.

‘Hope you used some protection, Phil.’ It was Sherenko, casual, boys amongst boys, beer at the bar and your round next. ‘You know about the girls in Moscow.’

‘Course I used some protection.’ Dwyer was still on the half-turn, the laugh on his face and the conspiracy in his eyes. ‘Course we all know about the girls in …’ His face froze.

The fog descended on Kincaid: deep and cold and freezing. Screw you, Sherenko, he thought, because all morning you sat and listened and didn’t intervene. Okay, so I didn’t give you the chance, but screw you anyway. Screw you Dwyer and Maddox, because you played the American card with me and I fell for it. Thought you were telling me the truth therefore went easy on you. Okay, so I believed you because the ConTex enquiry is as good as wrapped up and the report’s as good as written. Okay, so I went into the goddam interview believing you before you’d even said a word, because I detest and loathe this city just as I detest and loathe people like Sherenko. So screw you, Dwyer and Maddox, for taking me to the cleaners. Screw you, Sherenko, for knowing what they were doing all along, even screw you for getting me out of it. Screw you, Joshua, because you’re still sitting on my shoulder as Bram said you would.

He stared at Dwyer. ‘Thought you said Arnie’s driver collected you and him from Nite Flite, Phil.’ There was just enough threat in his voice. ‘Thought you said you didn’t score that night?’