That way, the absence of the two men from the PO Start facility could be explained by reference to a copy of the transit documents, and they wouldn’t be missed for a few days.
The Russian hadn’t liked this idea at first, but when Wilson pointed out that, if he agreed, the two-million-dollar fee they’d promised to the two technicians would instead be paid to him, he’d quickly changed his mind.
They walked back to where Borisov was standing, visibly nervous and now holding a Tokarev 7.62-millimetre semi-automatic pistol firmly in his right hand. Despite his reluctant agreement with their actions in killing Nabov and Devenko, Borisov trusted the two Americans about as far as he could spit a rat, and he knew he was now outnumbered two to one by armed men with fresh blood on their hands.
Wilson glanced around, checking they were still unobserved. The Russian handed him the docket containing the transit and export documentation. The American glanced at it, then passed it to Dawson.
‘It was a pleasure doing business with you, Yuri,’ Wilson said, and reached into his jacket.
Immediately Borisov raised his pistol and aimed it straight at Wilson’s stomach, his eyes flicking watchfully between the two men, now alert for the first sign of hostile intent.
‘Your money, Yuri,’ the American said calmingly. ‘I’m just getting your money.’ He eased his jacket open with his left hand, revealing no shoulder or belt holster, and reached into the inside pocket with his thumb and forefinger. He pulled out a dark blue booklet bearing what looked like an eagle insignia on the cover, and passed it across.
Borisov took a couple of steps backwards, his eyes dancing between the passbook and the two Americans, while still covering them with his pistol. He opened the book awkwardly, using his left hand. He checked the name of the account holder printed inside the front cover, and the certified balance, before he nodded in satisfaction and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Wilson extended his hand, but Borisov didn’t take it. He was still holding the Tokarev and had absolutely no intention of putting the weapon away.
‘Perhaps,’ he ventured, ‘I might be able to do business with you again.’
‘Perhaps you might,’ Wilson echoed, though he already knew there was no possibility of this ever occurring. This deal was essentially a one-shot operation that would generate more money than any of them could hope to spend in several lifetimes.
Borisov retreated cautiously towards his car, almost walking backwards, still fearful of a double-cross even at that late stage. The Americans watched silently until he drove away.
They checked that all the doors on the truck were firmly locked, then returned to the hotel. Fifteen minutes later they were back outside in the car park, their trousers, brogues and sports coats replaced by jeans, work boots and the heavy dark-blue jackets stripped from the bodies of the two dead technicians — their transformation into a pair of truck drivers now complete.
Dawson stashed their two large suitcases and the laptop bags behind the seats, and drove off, taking the road towards Saratov.
The problem they still had was one of trust, or more accurately the complete lack of it. Borisov now had his Swiss bank-account passbook holding a balance of two million dollars — not a bad week’s work for anyone — and they had the weapon they needed.
But the Americans knew there was no reason why Borisov shouldn’t decide to make an anonymous call to the SVR or the FSB. And if their truck were to be stopped, the Russian would be more or less fireproof. There was nothing, apart from his signature at the bottom of the correctly completed transit and export documentation, that could possibly link him to the theft of the device. There was no record even of the opening of the secure storeroom which held the weapons, because he’d simply taken the keys from the office late one afternoon, met Nabov and Devenko at the storage building concerned and inside twenty minutes they’d completed the substitution. Just fifteen minutes after that, Borisov had been sitting at his desk, the keys back in the safe, and the two technicians were elsewhere on the site, filling the crate with the other items on the manifest he’d previously given them.
Every week, the administrator signed dozens of similar documents, and everybody in the office had ready access to the secure-storage keys, because the key safe remained unlocked during the working day. Any investigation might initially focus on Borisov, but there would be no way to connect him directly to the theft.
The Americans hoped he would be satisfied with the money and keep silent, but hoping didn’t cut it.
Wilson had told the Russian that they’d be heading for the Turkish border at Leninakan in Azerbaijan, but they doubted he really believed them. And that, of course, was not the way they were going to leave the country. Their route out would be fast, and far from obvious. The first leg, from Kondal to Saratov, was the shortest, just a few miles, and Dawson calculated they’d get there late that afternoon, even after finding somewhere to dump the two bodies.
But first they had three small jobs to do. They had to repack the weapon, though that could wait until they found a secluded stretch of road. Dawson needed to make an international call to confirm they’d got the device, but that, too, could wait. The fund transfer couldn’t, just in case Borisov decided to try accessing his Swiss bank account immediately.
The passbook that was tucked inside the Russian’s jacket pocket was not all it appeared to be. It was a genuine passbook, issued by a real Swiss bank, and the account actually did contain two million American dollars. What Borisov didn’t know was that the account was in joint names, the other signatory being Richard Wilson — or rather an alias chosen by him.
Dawson stopped the truck in a lay-by just as Wilson pulled out his mobile phone and his diary. He checked the bank’s telephone number and called it. While he waited to be connected, he opened another passbook that was almost identical to the one they’d given Borisov.
When a bank official picked up the call, Wilson gave him the account number and the name he had used to set it up, and answered three security questions before being allowed access. Then he instructed that the entire balance, including accrued interest, be transferred at once to a bank in the Cayman Islands. There was no need for him to do anything else, because that finance house had standing instructions to immediately send any such receipts directly to another bank in Gibraltar.
Within twenty-four hours, the money would have been bounced around the world half a dozen times, and would be effectively untraceable. Bizarrely, its resting place for the next few days would be in Switzerland, at a bank two streets away from the first one in the chain, but in an account with a completely different name.
Wilson’s only regret was that he wouldn’t be able to see the expression on the Russian’s face when he tried to draw on his ‘investment’.
Chapter Three
‘Here he is, at last. Fucking A-rabs got no sense of time,’ O’Hagan muttered.
‘You’re late,’ Petrucci snapped, as the two Americans climbed into the Mercedes.
The Arab shrugged as he pulled away. ‘We’ve plenty of time.’