The wolf at the door

10

After a while, Ivanov entered the office, a bag in one hand. He opened it and produced two mobile phones with their chargers.

Holley examined one. "It looks good, small, light."

"It's called a Codex, produced by British intelligence. To be honest, we've simply stolen it and manufactured it for ourselves. It's totally encrypted. The number for each one is on the sticker on the back. You just peel it off."

"Excellent."

"And I've gone round to records and found your passport. I'm having the forgery section bring the passport up-to-date with a few entry stamps, as you wanted, and they're creating a new one for Daniel Grimshaw." He held up a small camera. "So don't smile, please, just look solemn."

He took what he wanted, and Lermov came along the walkway and opened the door. "What's all this?"

"Forgery, need a passport photo," Ivanov told him.

"I see. Chekhov's gone to bed. I think we all should."

"One more thing," Holley said. "I need some clothes."

"I suppose we could find something suitable enough for flying in the Falcon-" Ivanov began, and Holley cut him off.

"Don't be stupid. I am not flying in the Falcon. British intelligence monitors your planes in and out of the country. I can't afford to be seen anywhere near you, and, to be frank about it, neither can Chekhov. He shouldn't be observed getting off a Russian flight in the company of important GRU people. It's too political a statement."

Lermov nodded. "You're right, of course. I see you have the mobiles you wanted. We have them now, too, so we can keep in touch at all times. Ivanov will take you shopping for clothes tomorrow."

"But what guarantee do we have that, once out of our sight, he won't do a runner, Colonel?" Ivanov demanded.

"Don't be silly, where would he go?"

Ivanov went out, and Lermov turned and smiled. "So it's coming together for you, you think?"

"I think so. I know how the game should proceed, the moves the players would be required to make, but until I have spoken to Caitlin Daly and checked whether her cell has survived I can give you no assurance of anything."

"I understand. When do you want to leave?"

"The sooner, the better. The day after tomorrow, if possible, certainly no longer than the day after that."

"I'll leave you now, to make your call."

He opened the door and paused as Holley said, "And which call would that be?"

"Daniel, as the Americans say, 'You can't kid a kidder.' You haven't asked for mad money to survive on, for accommodation while you're in London, or, most important of all, for weaponry. This can only mean you have a source in mind, someone with an encrypted mobile like you have now. Amazing things, mobiles. Within two minutes, you can be talking to someone anywhere in the world. Algiers, for instance."

"You wily old fox," Holley told him.

"It's been said before. I'll leave you to it."

In the old Moorish house on the hill overlooking the harbor of Algiers, Hamid Malik lay on the bed in his bedroom, the windows open to the night air, the light wind stirring the fragrance from the garden below. He was reading a day-old copy of the Financial Times and wondering what the world was coming to. And then his mobile sounded.

"Who is this?" he asked in Arabic.

Holley replied in English, thickening his Yorkshire accent. "It's me, you daft bastard. I can't remember the exact words, but somewhere in the Bible it says: 'For this my son was dead, and is alive again.' "

Malik, bursting with emotion, replied in Arabic, "Praise be to Allah. I have always known what happened to you in Kosovo long ago. A man named Lermov got in touch with me."

"So I understand. He tells me you've been a valuable asset."

"Purely business. Arms for Somalia, or wherever the Russians are stirring up trouble."

"So the death business is booming?"

"As always, partner. So when can I see you back in Algiers?"

"I'm not sure. There's a rather unusual mess in London that the Russians want me to clear up."

"Blood in the streets, you mean?" Malik groaned. "Daniel, you are closer than a brother to me. When does it end?"

"As Allah wills, old friend," Holley said. "There's a debt to pay here if I'm to be set free."

"I see." Malik thought about it for a moment. "What if you went ahead with this venture, got to London, and simply disappeared? This would be easy for me to arrange. You know I have blood relatives living in England. Connections of every kind in the Islamic world."

"Russia is one of the most powerful nations on earth, with round sixty thousand GRU members worldwide. One way or the other, I'd be hounded down if I did a runner. I must go with the tide on this one and hope for the best."

"So how can I help you?"

"I'll need a banker, and weaponry. Your cousin with the antique shop in London in Shepherd's Market, is he still alive?"

"Selim Malik? Very much so."

"That would be fine. The Albany Regency is just round the corner. Tell him to book me a studio suite there from the day after tomorrow. Nothing too ostentatious. I've always found that staying in a reasonably expensive class of hotel is the best cover of all."

"I'll take your word for it. Anything else?"

"They've recovered my old passport for me, but they're putting together another one. Daniel Grimshaw, born in Leeds," Daniel said.

"I must admit that sounds Yorkshire enough. You are presumably using an encrypted phone?"

"A British Codex."

"Give me your number." Holley did. "Now we are truly linked like brothers. Just as in the old days." Malik laughed. "Stay well, my friend, and stay close."

The following day, Ivanov took Holley to GUM, a store which seemed to be able to supply every human need, and, as the clothes had to support Holley's role as a prosperous businessman, he went for top of the range in everything, somewhat to Ivanov's alarm.

"The prices here are shocking."

"You've got the card Lermov gave you, so who's counting?" He got an excellent suitcase, a black single-breasted suit, a navy blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, four shirts, two pairs of black shoes, underwear, a collegiate-looking striped tie, and a black raincoat that Ivanov said was outrageously expensive but had a reinforced inside pocket lined with soft leather in which to carry a concealed pistol.

"You're sure that's it?" Ivanov asked as he produced the card and paid.

"Why didn't you get something for yourself while we're here?" Holley asked.

"That would be dishonorable," Ivanov said as they walked out, and then he smiled. "Besides, better to wait. The pound was down again in the paper this morning. Much cheaper to shop in London."

"A sensible point of view." They were walking towards the limousine. "Obviously, I haven't fired any kind of weapon recently. Is there a firing range at headquarters?" Holley asked.

"In the cellars. I'll arrange it, but I shouldn't imagine you'll have a problem."

"You're right, of course, but it would be sensible to test myself," Holley said as they drove away.

The firing range was the same as such places the world over. The sergeant in charge was named Lisin, a hard old soldier favoring cropped hair and a GRU tracksuit. There was a bad scar on his left cheek that could only have been caused by a narrow miss-"the kiss of a bullet," as the old-timers put it.

It was a gloomy sort of place, the cellar, the bare lights at the far end picking the target figures out of the darkness, six of them side-by-side.

"Here you are again, then, Captain Ivanov, still wanting to try your luck?"

"That's it, Sergeant," Ivanov told him cheerfully. "What have you got for us today?"

"It's good for you to handle the enemy's preferred choices. There's a Glock here, if anybody fancies it. A Beretta, much used by the American Army in Vietnam. And this Browning Hi Power that's been round in the British Army for years, still the weapon of choice with many members of the SAS."

Ivanov hesitated, a door creaked open behind, and Holley glanced over his shoulder and saw Lermov and Chekhov come in. He turned back to Ivanov.

"Of course, the Glock takes some beating, but the other two have certainly proved themselves over the years." He turned, smiled easily at Lisin, who frowned, suddenly wary.

Lermov said, "Show us how it's done, Sergeant."

"A pleasure, sir." Lisin picked up the Glock, assessed the position, and fired from left to right, deliberately, shooting the first three targets in the heart. He put the safety on and turned to Ivanov. "Three totally dead men, and that's the point, sir, isn't it?" He held the Glock out. "Would you like to have a go? There's still plenty of rounds in it."

Ivanov took the Glock, holding it two-handed, turned and fired quickly at the other three targets. He caught the edge of the heart in the fourth target, the fifth under the ribs, and the sixth in the top edge of the heart.

"Not doing too well today, are we, sir?" Lisin said, a slight smile on his face, and Ivanov was shamed.

Lermov said, "We all have our off days, Peter."

Lisin took the Glock and fired at the three targets again in the same deliberate way, shooting each one in the center of the heart. He emptied the weapon, and turned to Holley.

"Would you like to have a go, sir? If so, I'll put up fresh targets."

"No need," Holley told him. "I've never been in love with a Glock, and the Beretta is a fine weapon, but the Browning has a history to it." He turned, holding the weapon against his right thigh, then his hand swung up, firing single-handed in an oddly old-fashioned way, starting with one and ending with six, shooting each target between the eyes. He ejected the magazine and pulled off his sound mufflers and placed the Browning on the table.

Lisin was dumbfounded. Ivanov stared at Holley in awe. "I've never seen anything like that."

"Because it's a gift." Lermov patted Holley on the shoulder. "From God, like all gifts."

"From the Devil, is more likely," Holley said. "I'm going up to the office now." He walked to the back of the cellar where Chekhov was standing, amazed. "If you can spare the time, Max, I need to talk to you."

When Chekhov joined him in the study, he found him sitting at the computer. "Come and look at this," Holley said.

Chekhov pulled a chair forward. Bolt Hole was on screen. "Hey, I recognize that, it's a magazine interview I did. I didn't realize it was online."

"There's more, several magazine and newspaper stories. I'll show you."

They sat watching for five or ten minutes. Chekhov said, laughing, "Why are people so interested? I'm not a film star."

"You're an oligarch, a billionaire. You're a curiosity to the English. How did you buy it?"

"It was advertised for sale in Country Life magazine. I had my driver run me down to West Sussex and fell in love with it i nstantly."

"And bought it, just like that?"

"It's what we oligarchs do, Daniel. We have so much money, it has no meaning anymore."

"Do you often stay there?"

"Whenever I can. If they'd allowed me the helicopter pad, I would probably have visited more because of the convenience, but they didn't. If I go down for a while, I take staff from the town house that Belov owns in Mayfair."

"So who looks after the place?"

"I own a cottage a mile and a half down the road on a creek running through the marsh. It's called Patch End, and a local lady, a widow named Lily White, keeps an eye on Bolt Hole and acts as housekeeper. Her son, Jacob, a local fisherman, looks after my boat, the Mermaid."

"And what's that like?" Holley asked.

"A bit like a sport fisherman but about twice the size. I like to go for a sail when I'm there."

"If the weather's right?"

"Oh, I don't know. It can be fun, or used to be. I've been limited these last couple of years with my leg."

"Do you go anyplace else?"

"I go to the States every couple of months. Belov has a building in New York, and I visit on business."

Holley nodded. "Okay, that's all good to know. Now, when you return to London, make sure it's by yourself. You shouldn't be seen with anyone like Lermov or Ivanov. I'll do the same. I'll fly business class under an assumed name on a British Airways flight to Heathrow. The only way I will communicate with you is by encrypted mobile. The same rule applies to my dealings with Lermov and Ivanov. I'd advise you to do the same."

For a moment, the memory of his brief kidnapping and interrogation at the hands of Charles Ferguson and his people returned to haunt Chekhov, and he had an insane desire to tell Holley all about it, but that would never do. He was, after all, still in Russia. He would just have to travel hopefully.

"Everything you say makes sense. What happens when we get there, and you speak to this Caitlin Daly woman?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. She might say, 'You're out of your head, get away from me or I'll call a policeman,' which means the whole thing's off. Bizarre, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," Max Chekhov said. "I'll see you later."

Soon after, the door clicked, and Ivanov entered with a large envelope, which he emptied on the desk. There was Holley's original passport, in very good condition, along with another in the name of Daniel Grimshaw, plus a driver's license.

"I must say, the forgeries are excellent," Holley told him.

"You don't have a credit card."

"I'll take care of that myself."

"And you're not going to tell me how."

"Of course not."

"Nor where you're going to stay."

"That's correct. Now, go tell your boss that I'm ready to go."

He went out. Holley found some plastic envelopes, tidied the desk, turned off the computer, and left the office. In his bedroom, he took the purchases he had made at GUM, laid them on the bed neatly, then put his Holley passport in one of the plastic envelopes, zipped it up, and put it in the inside left pocket of the jacket of the black suit. The Grimshaw passport he put in the right inside pocket. He laid out a white shirt and underwear, socks, a pair of shoes, then packed everything else into the suitcase.

Careful and meticulous, as always, but he liked things to be right, and it meant that he was ready to go and everything else was in his head.

He went downstairs and found Lermov in the bar with Chekhov. As usual, they were drinking vodka. "Everything in order?" Lermov inquired.

"I think you could say that." Holly waved to the barman. "A large scotch over here."

Ivanov came in with an envelope in his hand. "As you ordered, Colonel."

The barman brought the scotch, Lermov opened the envelope and took out an airline ticket. He examined it, then pushed it over. "Ten o'clock in the morning, Daniel, business class, British Airways to London, just as you wanted."

Holley examined it. "Excellent. The only thing missing is a few euros for expenses and a taxi from Heathrow to downtown at the other end. A thousand should do it."

"I would have thought five hundred would be ample." He smiled at Holley. "After all, as I understand it, you have your own banking arrangements in place. Meantime, the Prime Minister has asked me to join his party in New York-he's giving a speech to the UN on Friday. I'll fly to London after that. Captain Ivanov will leave in the Embassy mail plane tomorrow and assist Major Chelek." His slight, weary smile was for all of them. "I think we know where we are with this business, gentlemen."

Chekhov tried to look eager. "The 'game's afoot,' isn't that what the English say? That writer, Conan Doyle?"

"Shakespeare, actually," Daniel told him. "But we'll only have a game at all if Caitlin Daly decides to join us."

"Well, let's travel hopefully," Lermov said, and got up. "I need you in my office, Peter, we have much to do."

"Before you go, let's get one thing straight," Holley said. "As they say in the theater, it's 'my gig' over there, and what I say goes. Max takes his orders from me."

Ivanov was going to say something, but Lermov shut him up. "Of course, Daniel."

They went out. Daniel knocked back his scotch, and Chekhov said, "Let me get you another."

"Why not? But just the one." Chekhov called to the barman, and Daniel said, "Your staff at Belov International in New York, are they mostly Russian?"

"No. The New York branch was an American firm when Belov took it over years ago. But we do have many Russians there. And as you must know, the Moscow Mafia extends not only to London but also New York."

"And you employ such people?"

"On the security side of things. They can be very useful. Our head of security at the Belov building is one such man. Mikhail Potanin."

"Who is, I suppose, capable of most things?"

"Let's say he's very reliable. One has to be practical. Sometimes in business, people must be persuaded to see reason."

"That must be very reassuring for poor put-upon businessmen like yourself." Holley got up to go.

Chekhov said, "So it will be just the voice on the phone over there. You will keep me informed, won't you?"

"As much as I feel necessary. You've got to trust me, Max. After all, I've got to trust you. Lermov will want to know everything I say to you, so try juggling with that. But remember what we agreed. I'm in charge over there. You take your orders from me."

"Of course."

"I'm better for you in every way, Max, better than Lermov, believe me. So be sensible."

"Why wouldn't I?" Max managed to sound indignant.

"Because you couldn't have become a millionaire without being a devious bastard. Play straight with me." Holly smiled. "Or I'll kill you."

In his bedroom, he called Malik in Algiers. "Everything set?"

"Yes. Selim remembers you well from the old days and looks forward to meeting you. The Albany Regency is one he uses regularly himself for overseas agents visiting him, and he's booked you a suite. It's all on the firm. And he uses an encrypted mobile himself. I'll give you the number."

He did, and Holley wrote it down. "I won't call him now, but you could confirm my arrival. Tell him I don't want to be picked up. I'll get a taxi at Heathrow."

"I'll let him know. Stay in touch, and may Allah protect you, my brother."

"I could be spending the rest of my life in the Lubyanka or even Station Gorky. Now I've been offered a chance to earn my way out of it. I'd say the hand of God has got something to do with that. Take care, Malik."

He lay back on the bed, pillowed his head, and stared up at the ceiling, taking a very deep breath, his stomach churning.

"Now it begins," he said softly. "Now it begins."