of his tea over his documents. He paused to catch a laboured breath. ‘You bastards! You Georgian bastards!’ He wasn’t used to shouting, and in a bizarre way, realised he enjoyed the release of tension it brought.
He felt the front of his pants were wet, causing unfamiliar fear to freeze him for a moment. ‘What have they done to me?’ he mumbled, moving towards the open door with small faltering steps.
‘Viktor!’ he bawled. ‘Where are you? Damn you! What have those bastards done to me? What have they . . .’
At that moment he emerged into the hall. Viktor Besedov was nowhere to be seen. His chair was empty, and the long, well lit hall completely deserted. ‘Viktor?’ Kolyunov queried quietly, but there was not even a subtle echo to give him some degree of comfort.
As he turned and twisted in his fruitless search, he became aware of having difficulty maintaining his balance, and in trying to straighten his glasses, pitched them spinning to the floor. ‘Help me!’ he cried out weakly, creeping back to his room. ‘Help me.’ But his almost silent pleading was in vain. The building was deserted. ‘FSB!’ he croaked, leaning against his desk for support. ‘FSB. Three billion! I should never …’
Kolyunov tried to lift the phone, but the fatal injection was taking full effect and his limbs would not move. He knew all the authority and power he had enjoyed only minutes before, were gone, and as he begged for death not to claim him before he could say his goodbyes, his knees crumpled, dropping him to the floor, his face a bright pink.
Life for the Russian bureaucrat had faded to black while the three assassins became lost in a snowy encounter with Moscow’s early evening rush hour.
1
Moscow, 5 January
Suddenly it was dark outside. The loping aircraft was descending through thick cloud which had wrapped Moscow in a grey shroud for almost a week. Despite poor conditions made worse by a freezing Siberian wind, Aeroflot flight SU242 from London Heathrow touched down at Sheremetyevo-2 on time.
With a document case under his arm, the tall, thirty-eight-year-old New Yorker was Central Casting’s archetypal Western biznessman. Impressive in immaculate midnight-blue topcoat, crisp Brooks Brothers’ navy suit and black Church’s lace-ups, he would have been more comfortable in jeans and sweatshirt, but he had learnt from hard experience that it was essential in Russia to conform, especially in business where appearance counted for much more than it did back home.
In deference to Russian winters, he wore the grey rabbit-fur shapka his father had given him. The hat hid his wavy blonde hair and threw shadow over his deep-set, bespectacled blue eyes. Arriving in Russia used to give him an indefinable buzz, but with all the political upheaval, he sensed the atmosphere was now one of foreboding. Nothing specific, but he was aware of the constant unsettling sensation of strangers watching strangers. For him, coming to Russia now was not dissimilar to jumping into cold water, only to find it not too bad once you were in.
Brisk, confident strides took him along the first-floor galleried walkway, distancing him from the mighty Ilyushin 86 still disgorging its luggage onto trucks in the snow outside. Guards stationed at regular intervals and the lights of the Duty Free shops below, were the only signs of life in the building.
Crocker took the stairs down two at a time, making his way to Immigration and Customs Control. There was a lot on his mind: the pig iron from Kiev to Germany, survival suits from Thailand for the Russian merchant navy, condoms for his friends in the military, and copper for London. Trade had dropped off considerably for his company since the break-up of the USSR, but he was a pragmatist of the first order. Endeavouring to lift his mood, he quietly whistled a few bars of Misty, standing in line in the large hall with its confused echoes. He had nothing else to do but think and reminisce, detached briefly from his surroundings until chimes and incomprehensible babble burst from the public address system, jerking him back to reality.
With his visa and passport examined by the young soldier with an acne-splattered face, Lee Henry Crocker knew he was now officially in Mother Russia and over the first hurdle of his trip. He began to relax. His enviable, easy smile had faded since news of his brother’s death had reached him a week earlier, and now, with the realisation that Paul was not going to be waiting for him at the gate, the frame of mind he had fought hard to overcome during the three-hour flight, came back. The solitary rose, the slap on the back, the ‘Hi there, kid,’ all gone, forever.
He grabbed his shoulder bag from the carousel and with a fresh imprint on his Customs Declaration form, made for the exit, more than pleased to be getting out of the malodorous building. He stopped at the Duty Free and spent some of his US dollars before heading for the gate.
Suddenly, from the shadows of the building, two uniformed policemen appeared, blocking his way. The sight of them instantly cleared and concentrated his mind. Pistols holstered at the hip made Crocker feel apprehensive, especially as neither seemed too friendly. This was a major hurdle he had not anticipated. He took a quick look at his watch and decided he was okay for time.
The shorter and slighter of the two policemen was bald with dead eyes as grey as the colour of his uniform. His round, pasty face was almost without feature. ‘Mr Lee Crocker?’ he snapped.
‘Yup,’ replied Crocker, a man not easily fazed. Puzzlement was mingling with a hint of alarm.
‘Come with us.’ It was an order, not a request. The sounds and sights around him coalesced into a blur as Crocker followed the direction indicated by the taller, more powerfully built man. He knew of the heavy-handed style of Russian totalitarianism, and how much it was prone to corruption, but he was willing to give it a chance, hoping it would turn out to be some misunderstanding. With his eyes on the pistols, he followed obediently.
He was led into a small, brightly lit room where the bare concrete floor and walls were painted in battleship-ship grey with matching metal desk and chairs. Posters bearing screeds of small legislative copy were the only embellishment. The American tried hard to guess what was to come.
‘Sit down, Mr Crocker,’ said Dead Eyes, who appeared to be the senior of the two. Crocker presumed the taller man was there as extra muscle should things become difficult during the ensuing interview.
‘What’s this all about?’ demanded Crocker, having become less tolerant since his graduation from MIT with a good Masters degree. Removing his hat, he looked from one policeman to the other. ‘I’ve got a valid visa and I’m in a hurry.’ He thought exerting a little authoritative pressure would indicate a superior status and a lack of timidity. It was also the only thing he could think of saying at the time.
‘Just a few questions, Mr Crocker,’ said an unperturbed Dead Eyes with an unconvincing attempt at a friendly smile. ‘Just answer truthfully please.’
‘Of course,’ muttered Crocker.
The taller man moved to stand behind Crocker while the other sat at the desk, placing his peaked hat in front of him.
Crocker did not like the idea of being unable to see both men at the same time. He had never had dealings with Russian police before, but rumours were rife as to the way they operated. He decided he was caught in the classic white hat, black hat routine with the black hat towering behind him. Crocker could not help staring at the policeman’s pallor as Dead Eyes scanned a few sheets of paper taken from his jacket pocket.
This guy ought to get out more often and catch some sun.
‘You are in Moscow on business, Mr Crocker? A general
