The wolf at the door

MOSCOW

A hell of a story," Ivanov said when Lermov was finished.

"He's been in the Lubyanka five years now. I did his first interrogation when we got back from the Kosovo mission, which was a highly illegal affair anyway, so he couldn't be put on trial in any public sense."

"Which explains him serving life imprisonment at the Lubyanka?" Ivanov said.

"Exactly. For the good of the State, rubber-stamped in some office."

"So he just sits there in his cell going slowly mad?"

Lermov shook his head. "I've kept watch over him. When we first got down to business, I pointed out that the usual prospect for a man like him would be a transfer to Station Gorky, where all he could expect was treatment of a kind that would shorten his life considerably. On the other hand, if he cooperated with me, he could enjoy privileged-prisoner status at the Lubyanka, his own cell and a job in the library."

"And he proved sensible?" Ivanov said. "But, then, who wouldn't?"

"No, it was more complicated than that. You could say he was just being sensible, a pragmatist, but I soon discovered it was subtler. I never had the slightest difficulty in getting answers to my questions from him."

"That's extraordinary," Ivanov said. "But why?"

"I'll tell you later. I have to speak with the governor of the Lubyanka. I'm going to get him transferred here to my authority."

"And what do you want me to do?" Ivanov asked.

"Make sure Max Chekhov gets here soon."

In London, Max Chekhov was in his apartment in Park Lane, standing in front of a mirror in his dressing room and adjusting his bow tie, when his mobile sounded.

"Who is it?" he asked in English.

The answer came in Russian and used his old army rank. "Major Chekhov?"

"Yes."

"Captain Peter Ivanov calling from GRU headquarters in Moscow on behalf of Colonel Josef Lermov."

Chekhov was immediately wary, for, as an old military hand with connections at the highest level of government, he knew the name Lermov was one to take seriously.

"What is this about?" he demanded. "I'm due at the Royal Opera House in a couple of hours to see Carmen."

"Well, I'm afraid she'll have to wait," Ivanov told him. "Your presence is requested in Moscow. By the Prime Minister, no less."

Chekhov was shocked and also immediately worried. "Why? What's this about?"

"You'll find out soon enough. There's a plane waiting for you at Berkley Down. I suggest you don't keep the Prime Minister waiting."

He clicked off, and Chekhov called Major Ivan Chelek at the Embassy and, when he answered, told him what had happened.

"Have you any idea what's going on, Ivan?"

"I can't say, Max. I do know that Putin's appointed Josef Lermov as Head of Station here. He's also given him the task of solving the Kurbsky riddle. I've been helping the investigation at this end as much as I could."

"And what have you found?"

"That's not for me to say, Max. If I were you, I wouldn't linger."

He switched off, and Chekhov unfastened his bow tie and started to unbutton his dress shirt, angry, but frightened as well. What the hell did Putin want him for?

The reason for his unease was a dark secret. Sometime before, Charles Ferguson had ordered his kidnapping by the Salters, and Chekhov had ended up at the Holland Park safe house. Chekhov was not a brave man, and he had spilled the beans about various matters to earn his release.

If it ever got out at the Kremlin, he was not only finished, he was a dead man. On the other hand, Ferguson had never approached him again. Maybe nobody knew? With a sinking sense of dread, Chekhov began to dress appropriately for winter in Moscow.

Ivanov found Lermov in the bar, vodkas waiting in a bucket of crushed ice. The Colonel toasted him. "How did it go with Chekhov?"

Ivanov took his vodka down in a single gulp, and told him. "I got the impression the summons worried him," he said.

"The mention of Putin's name worries a lot of people." Lermov swallowed another vodka.

"What about you?"

"Daniel Holley, you mean? I spoke to the governor at the Lubyanka, and faxed him a copy of the Putin letter. Holley is on his way here."

"You were going to tell me more about his interrogation."

"Yes, I was. When I told you that I had no difficulty getting answers to my questions, you sounded a little disappointed. It was as if you expected more from him."

"You could be right, I suppose," Ivanov admitted.

"It took me a long time and many interviews to really get to the truth about him. He told me his secrets, but it wasn't because he was afraid of the threat of Station Gorky."

"What is he afraid of, then?" Ivanov asked.

"Nothing." Lermov shrugged. "He is a nihilist."

"And what would that be?"

"A common philosophy in tsarist times. A nihilist is someone who believes that nothing has any value-in his case, that nothing has any value anymore."

"I'm not sure I follow," Ivanov said.

"The rape and murder of Rosaleen Coogan, and his execution of the four men responsible-I think it completely changed him. I don't think he's been able to take anything seriously since then. To him, it's all a violent game, in a way."

"And you think that's the way he sees it?"

"Yes, I do." Lermov took off his glasses and pinched his nose. "And if he doesn't care about anything, that includes himself."

"Come in, Dr. Freud."

Lermov's mobile sounded, and he answered it, listened, and nodded. "We'll see you in two minutes." He gave Ivanov a brief smile. "Holley is at the main entrance. I'll leave you to do the honors. Just bring him up to the office, and we won't need a guard."

As Ivanov approached, he saw a man in a black tracksuit standing between two prison guards and chatting with them. To Ivanov's surprise, he didn't have the shaved head of a prisoner, which was privilege indeed. His dark brown hair was reasonably long, with no sign of gray in spite of his age. He looked fit and well in the tracksuit. His good, strong face wore a slight smile, the smile of a man who couldn't take anything too seriously.

"Mr. Holley, I'm Peter Ivanov." The two guards put their heels together, and Ivanov signed for him.

"God bless, lads," Holley told them in very acceptable Russian. "Don't do anything I would." They went away smiling, and he turned to Ivanov. "What happens now?"

"I take you to Colonel Lermov. I've been working with him on this case by order of the Prime Minister."

"I am impressed." Ivanov led the way, and Holley said, "You'll know all about me, then?"

"You could say that."

"So you'll know what dear old Josef wants with me?"

"Of course I do, but I think he'll prefer to tell you himself. This way." He gestured up the stairs to the walkway and followed Holley up.

Lermov was standing beside the old tea lady, and she was filling a glass for him.

"Just in time, Josef," Holley said. "I'll join you."

"Another for my friend, babushka," Lermov told her. "You look good, Daniel. They've been treating you well, I think."

"Six months since you last saw me," Holley said. "I've been promoted. Looking after the accounts in the general supply office. A corrupt lot, the staff in there. Thieves and chancers. Most of them merited a cell themselves."

"Yes, the governor told me how pleased he was. Didn't want to part with you."

Holley sipped the tea the old lady had given him. "And is he going to part with me? How can he? Who says so?"

Lermov took the letter from his pocket and unfolded it. "Captain Ivanov and I have several copies between us. It's proved to be an open sesame everywhere we've shown it."

Holley held it in one hand and studied it, still sipping his tea. "Well, it would, wouldn't it? Vladimir bloody Putin himself." He handed the letter back. "Your chum here dismissed the guards. What was that all about?"

"We don't need them," Ivanov told him. "What are you going to do, Daniel, suddenly make a run for it? Where would you go?"

"Daniel, now, is it?" Holley said. "We are getting friendly." He switched to English, and the Yorkshire accent was obvious. "I'll say it again, Josef, what goes on?"

Lermov answered him in English. "It's a miracle you're here at all, Daniel. Five years ago, when you killed two of my men in Kosovo, the rest wanted to execute you. I kept you alive, with two bullets in you, for moral reasons, then discovered we'd captured someone very special indeed."

"Someone worth saving," Holley said.

"Absolutely-an open window on terrorism and the death business. Over twenty years of hard experience. You were beyond price, and the knowledge I've gained from our many talks has been i nvaluable."

"Happy to have been of service, but I didn't have much of a choice about that, did I?"

"Station Gorky?" Lermov shook his head. "At least be honest with yourself. You had a choice of a better option and took it. Whatever else you are, you're no martyr, Daniel, and shall I tell you why? You have to believe to be a martyr. You, my friend, don't believe in anything."

Daniel Holley changed, something dark passing on his face like a shadow over the sun, an elemental force there that had Ivanov reaching for the flap of his holstered pistol, and then Holley actually laughed.

"You want to know something, Josef? I think you might well be right. What happens now?"

Lermov nodded to Ivanov, who said to Holley in English, "You and I will go into the office opposite, where I'll show you a DVD and offer you certain files on the computer-"

"Some of which is information gained from you from our conversations over the years," Lermov cut in.

"-Then we'll have a look at a situation that is giving us trouble, and we'll see what suggestions you might make to rectify the matter," Ivanov finished.

"That's what you were always good at, Daniel, isn't that so? Analyzing the situation, assessing the risk? You're a master at that sort of thing," Lermov said.

"If that's supposed to make me feel good, you're wasting your time. What is the point of this exercise, Josef?"

"Your sentence, Daniel. You've done five years so far, you're forty-nine and look forty on a bad day. But as the years roll on, that won't last. Maybe we can do something about that."

"Your logic is irrefutable." Holley turned to Ivanov. "So let's go into the damn office and see what you've got."

"I'll leave you to it," Lermov told him, and went along to the walkway to where the old tea lady had pushed her trolley, when Holley's mood turned black.

"Tea, Colonel?"

"No, babushka, I need vodka… a lot of vodka."

"The one with the accent? He's a little mad, I think."

"Aren't we all, babushka?" Lermov told her, and went down the stairs.

But instead of the bar, he went to his room, sat at a desk by the window, got out the manuscript of the book he was working on, and read through the current chapter, which had been cut off in midsentence by a tap on the shoulder by Ivanov in the university library. It was good stuff, but it was unfinished, there was no ending, but, then, there seldom was in his business, the life he'd chosen instead of a calm and scholarly career in the academic world. It suddenly struck him that he'd never really had a choice. He glanced at the final page of the chapter, then closed the manuscript with a kind of finality and put it in his briefcase.

"So what next?" he asked himself softly, and the knock on the door answered him.

Holley wore a cord around his neck, a red-and-gold security tag dangling from it of the kind worn only by senior staff members.

Lermov pointed to it. "What's this?" he asked Ivanov.

"I thought people might wonder who he was when he's walking round."

"You know, like going to the lavatory or down to the bar, Josef," Holley told him.

He pulled a chair forward, sat opposite Lermov, and Ivanov leaned against the door. Lermov said, "So you've gone through everything, Daniel?"

"Absolutely. You don't seem to have missed much, you and the boy wonder here."

"So what do you think?"

"About the fact that the boss man wants Charles Ferguson and his people eliminated and doesn't care how you do it?"

"Yes," Lermov replied calmly.

"Well, I like his advice about that Moscow Mafia hit man. It's almost flattering. I've been called many things, but Mafia has never been one of them."

"Get on with it."

"All right. If we take Ferguson's immediate clan, that means Roper, Dillon, Miller and his sister, the two Salters, and Blake Johnson. Eight in all," Holley said.

"Don't forget Kurbsky and Bounine," Ivanov put in.

"Silly me," Holley said. "I was forgetting the greatest novelist Russia's produced in modern times, a possible Nobel Prize winner. So ten in all."

"So it would appear. Peter joked that all we needed was a dinner party and a bomb under the table."

Holley glanced at Ivanov. "It's the real world we're talking about here." He turned back to Lermov. "So the man in the Kremlin wants no hint of any Russian influence in this whole affair?"

"If possible."

"So if there was a hint of PIRA about what takes place, that would be just the thing?" Daniel asked.

"Exactly." Lermov leaned forward. "I was thinking of Caitlin Daly."

Holley allowed his anger to show. "Damn you, Josef, I should never have told you about her."

"You told me many things, Daniel, it was part of our agreement."

"This is ridiculous. I visited her only once, Lermov, in November 1995. That's fourteen years ago. She could be dead, for all I know."

"She is alive and well, living and working exactly where she was then." Lermov smiled. "I had Major Ivan Chelek at the London Embassy make inquiries."

Holley said, "He went to the church, I suppose?"

"Something like that. He said she was a very attractive lady."

"She would be about fifty now," Holley said.

"Chelek said you could take ten years off that."

Holley suddenly got up. "I don't know about you two, but I need a drink. I can't get my head round this."

He turned to the door, Ivanov barred his way for a moment but Lermov nodded, so Holley pulled it open and went out.

Ivanov said, "He doesn't seem keen."

"He'll come round. We've talked so many times over the years, I feel I know him." He shrugged. "At least, as much as one can ever hope to understand another human being."

"Forgive me, Colonel, but I'm a cynic," Ivanov told him. "I often experience considerable difficulty in knowing myself."

"I admire your honesty. Tell me something: how often have you killed?"

"I was too young for Afghanistan and the First Chechen War, but I was bloodied in the Second. I was twenty when I went to that. Field intelligence, not infantry, but it was a desperate, bloody business. The Chechens were barbarians of the first order, imported Muslims from all over the place to serve with them. You couldn't drive anywhere without being ambushed."

"Yes, I saw some of that myself," Lermov said, "and know exactly what you mean. Daniel Holley's experience has been different. His killing has been close and personal. Back in Kosovo when my Spetsnaz boys got him, he double-tapped the two men he killed on the instant, no hesitation."

"I wonder how many times he did that on his travels?" Ivanov said. "It stands to reason that as an arms salesman, he kept rough company."

"Exactly." Lermov stood up. "Let's see how he's getting on."

They found Holley sitting in the bar, a glass of beer in front of him and a large whiskey. Lermov said, "I thought you had no money."

"I told the barman I was waiting for you. Have a seat."

Lermov waved to the barman and sat down.

Holley raised the beer and drank, not stopping until the glass was empty. He finished with a sigh, and said in English, "As they'd say in Leeds, that were grand." He reached for the glass of whiskey and tossed it down. "And that were even better."

"Would you like another one?" Lermov asked.

"Not really. It'd be nice to have a rugby match to go with it. But this is Moscow, not Leeds, and Russia, not Yorkshire, so let's get down to brass tacks."

"And what would that be?"

"Why do you think a woman I spoke to fourteen years ago will still be waiting and still interested in a cause long gone?"

"But that's what sleepers do, Daniel, they're always the chosen ones, the believers, and they wait, no matter how long it takes, even if they're never needed at all."

"A gloomy prospect," Holley said.

"And let me remind you what Caitlin Daly did back in 1991-the bombs she and her cell set off in London. The general panic, confusion, and fear she caused lasted for months. A considerable victory."

Holley said, "I know all that. Anyway, there's not just her to consider. What about the men in her cell? Alive or dead, who knows? I can't even remember their names."

"I can help you there. I have a fax all the way from your old partner in Algiers, Hamid Malik. I got in touch with him when you fell into my hands five years ago. He's proved a valuable asset to us," Lermov told him.

"You clever sod," Holley said. He waved to the barman.

"Yes, I am, aren't I? Anyway, he had the original correspondence from your cousin Liam, and I have all the names."

"It means nothing. Even if these men are still round, there's no way of knowing if they feel the same way about dear old Ireland."

"True, but I've given the list to Chelek, and he'll trace them."

"You said you didn't want any obvious Russian involvement in this business."

"Absolutely right, but it'll save you time, and, once you get there, it'll all be in your hands. It'll also be of assistance to Caitlin Daly if she has lost touch, but you won't know that until you've seen her."

"Don't you mean if I see her?" Holley asked, and drank his new beer down.

"No, I mean when you see her, so make your decision now."

"To arrange the deaths of ten people, one of them a woman, isn't what I planned to do when I got up this morning."

"You mean, when you got up in your cell at the Lubyanka, where Captain Ivanov will certainly return you if I order him to. And then I'll give him another order."

"To do what?"

"To get your head shaved, your belongings packed and ready for the early-morning flight to Station Gorky."

There was a pregnant moment, and Ivanov looked wary. Holley said, "So in the end, Josef, you're just as bad a bastard as the rest of us."

"I've no intention of having my head served up on a plate at the Kremlin."

"I can see that, you're not the John the Baptist type. So you want me to play public executioner again?"

"I suppose I do."

"And can the hawk fly away to freedom afterwards?"

"I should imagine that is exactly what he would do if this matter was resolved to our mutual satisfaction."

"Excellent." Holley tossed his whiskey down. "If you'd said yes, I wouldn't have believed you anyway." He got up. "Right, I don't know what you are doing about my accommodation, but I presume I can use the office, so I'm going to go up now and knock out some sort of plan of action."

"A room will be arranged for you," Lermov told him. "But the office is yours. You may use my authority to extract any information you like from the GRU computers."

"And this Max Chekhov who's on his way from London? I know we're supposed to keep the Russian influence out of things, but he's floating along on a sea of money, booze, and women. I bet he could be useful."

He went out, and Lermov said, "So, Peter, are you disappointed again?"

"No," Ivanov said. "I think he's a thoroughly dangerous man."

"I know, and he looks so agreeable. Let's have another vodka on it." There was snow mixed with sleet in the evening darkness as the Falcon carrying Max Chekhov landed at the Belov International private-aircraft facility close to the main Moscow airport. When the plane pulled in to the entrance of the terminal building and Chekhov came down the steps, Lermov was waiting for him in full uniform, fur hat, and fur collar. He saluted, giving Chekhov his title, one soldier to another.

"Major Chekhov… Josef Lermov."

"Kind of you to meet me, Colonel."

"A pleasure but also a duty. The Prime Minister is waiting for you now."

For a moment, Chekhov was terrified again and fought to control his shaking. He stumbled slightly, mounting the icy steps leading into the terminal, his walking stick sliding.

Lermov caught him and laughed. "Take care. I wouldn't want you to fall and break a leg. The Prime Minister doesn't permit excuses."

"That is my experience of him, too."

They reached the limousine, a porter following with Chekhov's bags, and found Ivanov waiting. Lermov made the introductions, then he and Chekhov sat in the rear and Ivanov got behind the wheel and drove away.

The snow was falling lightly now, and it was really rather peaceful. Chekhov said, "It's a great pleasure to meet you. You name is certainly familiar to me. Could I ask what this all is about?"

"General Charles Ferguson."

Chekhov's sudden anger blotted out any fears he was going through at that moment. "That bastard! I'm half crippled, as you may have noticed, and it's all his fault. A shotgun blast in one knee-cap delivered by gangsters in his employ."

"Yes, I'd heard something of the sort. Well, the Prime Minister's had enough. He's entrusted me with the task of doing something about it. He wants them finished off."

With his rather unique experience of the ways of General Charles Ferguson and company, Chekhov had reservations about Lermov's prospects but felt it politic to offer only enthusiasm. And he was relieved to hear that they didn't seem to know anything about his other past history with them. This could work out nicely.

"I will tell you, Colonel, and with all my heart, I would like nothing better than to see those swine wiped off the face of the earth."

"Then we must do our best to oblige you."

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the same office where Lermov had met Putin before, the one that belonged to General Volkov, once head of the GRU. As they waited, Chekhov said, "A great man, Volkov, did you know him?"

"Not intimately."

"Disappeared off the face of the earth. I wonder what became of him?"

"Oh, I think it highly likely that he and his men were murdered by this man Dillon on Ferguson's orders," Lermov told him.

"Good God." Chekhov crossed himself.

"Yes, they fully deserve killing. And the Prime Minister has told me I may rely on you for any help I need."

Before Chekhov could reply, the wall panel opened, and Putin appeared in a tracksuit. "There you are, Chekhov. Good flight? Is your leg improved?"

"Excellent, Prime Minister, really excellent," Chekhov gabbled.

"Has Colonel Lermov explained the task I have given him?"

"Yes, sir, he has," Chekhov managed to say. "I completely agree with everything you have ordered. He may rely on me totally in London."

"Good." Putin turned to Lermov. "How's it going?"

"Very well, Prime Minister. I was inspired by your advice to think Moscow Mafia and how they would handle it."

"And you've come up with an answer."

"A man, Prime Minister, and just the one for the job."

"Don't tell me," Putin said. "Just get on with it, and let the result speak for itself. Good luck."

He moved, the door opened in the paneling, and he was gone. Chekhov heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God. Let's get out of here. Where do we go now?"

"The Astoria, the staff hotel for GRU headquarters. It's not exactly the Dorchester, but you'll be amongst friends."

Chekhov accepted the Astoria with good grace, for an old soldier amongst soldiers again usually fits in. Ivanov helped him settle in, and suggested meeting downstairs in half an hour for a meal.

Chekhov said, "Look, Captain, I was wounded in Afghanistan, so I'm not just a rich fool like some of my fellow oligarchs. Your colonel has told me about your plan, and the Prime Minister's just confirmed it to me."

"Do you have a problem with it?"

"Of course not, those bastards crippled me. But just sit down for ten minutes and tell me exactly what's happening. Would that be asking too much?"

"Not at all," Ivanov said, and told him everything.

Afterwards, he left Chekhov to unpack and went in search of Holley, whom he found in the office, working away on the computer, papers spread around, sometimes making notes by hand.

He sat down for a while, watching him. "I see you still like doing things the old-fashioned way."

"It may seem strange," Holley said, "but I find that no matter how much information I accumulate electronically, I can extract the essence of things with a few brief notes by hand."

"And what are you searching for?" They turned and found Lermov standing in the doorway, Chekhov peering over his shoulder. "Max Chekhov… Daniel Holley."

Holley nodded, and said, "Anything and everything about all the individuals involved in this affair, their comings and goings, their timetables. Take Lady Monica Starling, for instance. I've now got her family home in Essex, her brother's house in Dover Street, her rooms in Cambridge. I've got a full schedule of her lectures and seminars online. And I've got pretty much the same for most of the people on our list, as much as is possible."

"So when do you think you'll be ready?" Lermov asked. "To give Daly a call and tell her the day of reckoning is here?"

"Oh, very soon, I should think. First, I need something from you: encrypted mobiles, one for each of us, and a spare for Caitlin Daly."

Lermov said, "See to that, Peter. Anything else?"

"You'll have my passport on file somewhere. I'd only just renewed it in 'ninety-four when you grabbed me in Kosovo."

"You want to have it back?" Lermov asked.

"It would be nice. And, don't forget, I was always a highly successful businessman in the world's eyes, although a trifle disreputable because of the arms dealing. The darker side of my record has never been in the public domain. I even have a bank deposit in London. If you can find the passport, your people could put a stamp or two in it to fill in the five-year gap." Holley nodded, looking thoughtful. "And while you're at it, prepare another British passport to go with it. Daniel Grimshaw, a good Yorkshire name. I can thicken my accent to go with that."

"Is that all?" Lermov said. "If it is, I suggest we go down for dinner."

Holley shook his head. "I'll join you a bit later. I still need to check a few things about the opposition. I need to know exactly what their schedules are." He smiled. "You said that if you want to assassinate ten people, invite them round to dinner and explode a bomb under the table. Obviously, we can't do that. But assassination victim by victim has its problems also. It's like a warning light to anyone else connected."

"I can see that, but what's the answer?"

"To hit everybody at once, no matter where they are."

"That would take some planning," Ivanov told him.

"You could say that. So leave me to it. And I'd appreciate the encrypted mobiles at your soonest."

They left, and Holley cut to the news on television. They were talking politics as usual, and there was some fuss about Europe's cry that the Russian Federation was depriving them of gas and oil, turning off the pipelines. They cut to Putin vigorously defending himself, blaming America for interfering in European affairs, castigating Britain for supporting them. It seems there was some meeting of the UN in just a week, and Putin was going there to defend his point of view.

Holley switched off, smiling slightly. "Clever bastard," he said softly. "Daring the President and the Prime Minister to show up and face him. Which, of course, they won't." And then a switch clicked in his head. What was it he had seen? He quickly paged through his notes and-yes, there it was. Harry Miller's Parliamentary diary: 6th February, visit to the United Nations, New York, on behalf of the Prime Minister. It was the date of Putin's intended appearance.

He pushed a bit further and found a booking for Miller at the Plaza Hotel in New York, a place he knew well, looking across Central Park. And there was something else he'd noticed before. What was it, what was it?

And then he had it. His fingers danced over the computer keys again, accessing the White House administrative logs. Yes, Blake Johnson would be spending a three-day weekend on Long Island and in New York City: On Presidential business at the United Nations. And the first day of Blake's holiday was February 6th, a Friday.

Miller amp; Johnson. Holley smiled.