Quantum

14

Irena Cherny placed the handset back in the cradle of the multiline phone on her desk and sighed. She took a deep breath, attempting to stave off the anger that threatened to disrupt her normally poised demeanor.

‘Yop t’voi yo mat!’ she growled, cursing the man with an expression suggesting an incestuous relationship between the bureaucrat and his mother.

She glanced down at the slip of paper containing the flight and cargo identification numbers for the materials acquired by Dmitri Leskov’s team in the United States. Orlov had handed it to her more than two hours ago, requesting that she locate the shipment and arrange for it to be retrieved.

Cherny stood, brushed at a crease in her skirt, and calmly walked to her employer’s office. She knocked, and Victor Orlov waved her in.

‘Did you talk with the people at Sheremetyevo?’ Orlov asked.

‘Da, Victor Ivanovich, I most certainly did.’

‘And?’

‘And I have been able to confirm that the aircraft has indeed arrived and been unloaded.’

‘Good, then we can send a truck down to retrieve our shipment.’

‘Not yet,’ Cherny said.

‘Why?’

‘As you requested, I called Customs using only the name on the cargo manifest and made no mention of you or the company.’

Orlov nodded.

‘After wasting a great deal of my time, they finally connected me with someone who allegedly has enough blood flowing between his ears to generate a spark of intelligence. This individual informed me that the aircraft that arrived from Chicago had no cargo on board that matches our number or description.’

‘How can this be? Voronin faxed us all the paperwork. The shipment should have been on that plane.’

‘I understand, but according to the people who unloaded the aircraft, it was not on board. Since the manifest that arrived with the aircraft also did not indicate that our property was on board, the man I spoke with suggested that there may have been a clerical error in Chicago.’

Orlov was on his feet, pacing in front of the tall windows that faced the Moskva River.

‘Get Voronin on the phone.’

Cherny did a mental calculation of the time difference. ‘It’s four in the morning there.’

‘I don’t care if I have to wake that fat slob up. I want to know where my property is.’

Cherny nodded and returned to her desk. In five minutes she connected Orlov with Voronin.

‘Victor Ivanovich,’ Voronin said groggily, still trying to shake the sleep from his head. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can answer a question, Pyotr Yefimovich. Where is my property?’

‘It left Chicago yesterday. It should be in Moscow by now.’

‘According to Russian Customs, no cargo containers bearing the numbers that you faxed me were on the plane. Again, I ask, Where is my property?’

Voronin was now fully awake, fear for his life causing an adrenaline-fueled rise in both his heart rate and blood pressure. ‘Could the Customs people be fucking around with you?’

‘I don’t think so, because they didn’t try to extort any money from me. They say that there was no cargo on the plane matching the information you sent me.’

‘I swear to God, Victor, I wouldn’t do this to you.’

Orlov could hear the fear in Voronin’s voice, a fear that the man was perfectly justified in feeling. Even halfway around the world, Voronin knew that Victor Orlov could make his life a living hell or, worse, take his life. Orlov did what his business required, and ordering a man’s death was no different from cashing a check.

‘I know, Pyotr. And you know that I don’t like excuses. I want results; I want my property. Find it today.’

‘Da, Victor Ivanovich. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.’