The wolf at the door

12

On the way back, he reviewed the situation. He wasn't bothered in the slightest by what he had just done. Ivanov could hardly call in the law. All he could do was haul the wretched Kerimov back to the Embassy's sick bay. Lermov would have to hear about what had happened, of course, but it was obvious that Ivanov had broken the rules they'd all agreed on. What would Lermov make of that? Not very much, Holley concluded. He'd probably tell Ivanov to stop being an ass. Holley had made his point, drawn a line in the sand, and that was that.

He got out at the hotel but didn't go in. There wasn't much he could do right now, waiting on news of the meeting and which way things would swing. He also needed to give Chekhov the addresses and phone numbers of Barry and Flynn so Chekhov could speak to Potanin and get things up and running, but there was the same problem there. Frustrated, he went along to Shepherd's Market to visit Selim.

Sitting in the study, darkness falling outside, a gas fire burning in the Victorian fireplace, Holley fidgeted while waiting for the call. Selim had once again provided champagne, but Holley's was untouched.

"You really should drink up, Daniel," said Selim. "It'll help you relax. What's wrong? Can you tell me?"

"Not in any detail," said Holley. "It's just… I'm on the verge of satisfactory resolution to my job here, but-"

"But someone is interfering?"

"How do you know?" Holley asked.

"Because you always do things on your own. You hate any interference, and I can just bet that whoever you're doing this job for doesn't see it the same way."

"We agreed that we should never meet, that we should only make contact by encrypted mobile, and just now I had some eager young bastard, together with a sergeant the size of a brick wall, try to put me in a car in Kilburn."

"Ah, a sergeant. The military's involved, then. Men in uniform, they need to take charge, give orders."

"Well, not to me." Holley took the glass and drank it down in one gulp.

"So what did you do?"

Holley reached to the ankle holster and took out the Colt.25 and laid it on the brass table. "Shot the Sergeant in the back of the hand as he gripped the wheel and left his captain to struggle back to the Embassy with him."

"Wonderful." Selim smiled. "That's the best thing I've heard in years. You're a lone wolf, Daniel, the most dangerous beast in the forest."

Holley's mobile sounded. It was Caitlin. "Can we talk?"

Holley glanced at Selim, who pointed to the kitchen, picked up the bottle of champagne, and went out.

"I'm with a friend, but you can speak now. How did it go?"

"They went for it completely. And listen to this: we've already had a stroke of luck. It seems that Ferguson's usual car was damaged in a minor accident last week, so it's away for repair. Henry Pool said it's common knowledge amongst the other drivers because Ferguson was very angry."

"So he thinks he can be the replacement car?"

"Absolutely certain. Pool says if he asks for it, he'll get it. The dispatcher is an old pal of his."

"He's not concerned about the hazard?"

"He said it's common to leave passengers in the limousine to run errands for them, get a newspaper or cigarettes or sometimes a bottle. He'll nip out, set off the bomb, and no one will be the wiser."

"And the others are just as enthusiastic?"

"Yes, Docherty is quite happy about handling the Dark Man situation. He lived in Wapping years ago and knows his way round down there."

"And Murray?"

"No problem. He's going to put a suit and tie on, drive up to Cambridge in the morning with the photo, find where Monica Starling lives, and put a face to the name."

"And Cochran?"

"He said that he seemed to have less to do than anyone. If I can't find a way to break into a house inhabited by two spinster ladies, he said, I should be ashamed of myself."

"Excellent. Call Barry and Flynn, too, tell them the good news, and give them the following name: Mikhail Potanin. Have you got that?"

"I've written it down."

"He is a very experienced guy in this kind of business, and he'll be in touch with them. They have nothing to fear. He'll help in any way he can. This Friday in New York is definitely on."

"Yes, I've got all that."

"Get on to them right now. And… thanks, Caitlin."

He called Chekhov next. It sounded like there was a party going on in the Park Lane apartment: music, female laughter.

"It's me," Holley told him. "What's going on over there?"

"Daniel, old son. Just a few friends."

"Are you drunk?"

"Never that, Daniel. You insult me as a Russian."

"We need to talk."

"And we shall. I'll go into my study, close the door, and silence the chattering of fools." There was a movement, a certain banging, and the noise died. "How can I help?"

"Everything's dropped into place. Caitlin and her cell will swing into action here on Friday. As we speak, she's confirming with Barry and Flynn that it's on for Friday. I'll give you their phone numbers."

Chekhov said, "If I press a button, I'm recording this, so just tell me."

Holley did. "I'm dropping this in Potanin's lap to watch over them, make sure they're up to it-and, if necessary, clean up any messes."

"Don't worry, Daniel, he's done this kind of thing many times before," Chekhov said.

"I gathered that, but make sure he realizes it's serious business. I hear you had Ivanov on your case?"

"He gave me a call, I asked him if he'd spoken to you, and he said not yet. I get the impression he doesn't exactly trust you."

"And I don't trust him. He called me, demanding that I fill him in on everything. I gave him short shrift. I had a package to deliver to Caitlin Daly."

"And don't tell me: he followed you?"

"He didn't need to. He just popped up. But he wasn't supposed to approach her or me in any way-that was the plan. He turned up in the graveyard at the church with some thug called Kerimov in tow. Tried to force me into his car."

"Oh, dear, tell me what happened."

"I shot him in the hand, not Ivanov, the large peasant. I left them there to sort it out, went along to the main road, and hailed a cab."

"If you were here, I would embrace you, my friend," Max told him. "That's the most entertaining thing I've heard in years."

"Glad to oblige. Call Potanin now and tell him to get things moving in New York. I'm relying on you."

"The instant we hang up. What about Kurbsky?"

"I've got one of Caitlin Daly's people investigating the house in Belsize. I've been to have a look. There's something strange there, but I'm not sure what," Holley told him.

"Surely Kurbsky couldn't have been hanging out there. It's too obvious."

"I saw a weird guy coming out, a ghoul, God help him, obviously on chemotherapy."

"That couldn't be Kurbsky. He certainly doesn't have cancer."

"I'm not saying it was him. I just have a hunch about the place, that something's not quite kosher. Anyway, let's get moving. Let me know how things go."

But Chekhov did not immediately call Potanin. He stood there thinking about it, then he sighed deeply, murmured, "I suppose I'd better," and called his contact number for Lermov in Moscow.

The Colonel answered at once. "I wondered when I might hear from you. How's Holley getting on?"

"Quite brilliantly," Chekhov told him. "I've got to say, Josef, he's a remarkable man. Here's the state of play at the moment."

He quickly went through everything Holley had told him, and when he was finished Lermov said, "He certainly works fast."

"So I should go through with it, call Potanin in New York and tell him to give Barry and Flynn any help they need?"

"Of course you should go through with it! This could be an extraordinary coup. Let me know everything-everything!-as it happens, even when I'm with Putin."

"I will, of course," Chekhov told him. "What do you think of this unfortunate business with Ivanov?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Chekhov told him, delighting in it, because he resented Ivanov's assumption of command and had come to realize that he didn't like him anyway.

Lermov said, "Stupid boy. I had high hopes of him, but there you are. I'll make my displeasure clear when he tells me."

"If he tells you," Chekhov said.

"Oh, he'll tell me all right, Max. I'll see to it."

At Shepherd's Market, the awnings out against light rain, Daniel and Selim enjoyed a late supper at a restaurant called Al Bustan. It was crowded, a constant buzz of conversation washing over them, but they had a certain privacy in the corner booth where they were sitting.

"Food is poetry to the people who run this restaurant," Selim told him, and sipped his wine. "You are calmer now, I think?"

"Because things are coming together," Daniel said. "But you're right about the food. Though anything would taste good after five years of the cooking in the Lubyanka. It's nice here." He looked around the restaurant. "It reminds me of Algiers."

And that made him think of Shabwa and the desert training camp and all that came since, and his mood darkened.

"What is it, my friend?"

Holley told him. "Nothing was ever the same when they'd finished with me. Algiers and Malik and the business became all I had."

"And now you think you have nothing?"

"In a way. I've been more disappointed than I'd hoped."

"We are all in the hands of Allah. He is responsible for all things."

"Then He willed me to exact a terrible vengeance on those four men who murdered that young woman. That deed changed me entirely. A different man took my place, and still does."

"This is too sad, Daniel, we must think of something better. Have you some time to spare tomorrow or are you trapped by your affairs? I have a small car in a garage I rent not far from here. A Mini Cooper. We could go out for a drive. Have lunch."

Holley thought about it. It wasn't a good idea, but, really, everything was in motion. New York was in play. The others had their orders. Any remaining communication would be by phone anyway.

"All right, let's do it," Daniel said. "And I'm remembering something about Chekhov. He has a country place called Bolt Hole, located in an interesting part of West Sussex. Salt marshes, lots of sea, a causeway reaching out to a low island with an ancient house. I've seen it on television."

"It sounds fun. Does he go there a lot?"

"I don't think so. He told me he was refused permission for a helicopter pad, so he has to drive."

"So what? We could get to West Sussex in two hours. I have friends nearby." Selim shook his head. "These oligarchs, they are worse than Suleiman the Magnificent. Shall we take that as definite?"

"Absolutely," Holley told him. "We'll leave at ten."

"Then I suggest an early night." Selim raised his hand and called to the waiter for the bill.

Holley undressed and put on a robe, and Caitlin came on the Codex. "I've heard from Barry, and he's heard from Potanin. He said he's going to meet them tomorrow, with a friend of his named Bulganin. He suggested Barry take Miller and Flynn do Blake Johnson."

"Fine. Quogue should be pretty straightforward, but Miller is more difficult," Holley said. "Barry shouldn't underestimate him. Miller's a killer."

"God willing, he prevails," she said.

"Or Allah," he told her. "Same difference."

He poured a nightcap and went and stood at the window, watching the late-night traffic pass. Max Chekhov hadn't got back to him, but he'd clearly kept his promise and passed the details to Potanin. Chekhov probably had a woman or two keeping him busy, not that it mattered. He'd done his job. He wondered how Ivanov was managing to explain his sergeant's unfortunate accident. He'd bet anything Ivanov found a way to absolve himself of any blame. He looked at his watch. He probably should call Lermov himself, but it was too late now, three in the morning in Moscow. It could wait, and he went to bed.

For many years, Holley had had a recurring dream about Rosaleen Coogan and the events of that night. It lasted for a period of three or four weeks, usually during times of great stress and activity. It had not been much of a problem during his years of imprisonment, but now, and for the first time in a while, it surfaced.

It was always the same, a strange black-and-white landscape remarkably similar to film noir, buildings rising into the night streets, and she was there at his side, the only other person in a dark world, and she said she was going and would be back but never did, never came back again, and the streets were like a maze in the darkness as he ran from one place to another and never could find her. The strangest thing of all was trying to wake from that dream. It took an incredible physical struggle, and he would lie there in bed, soaked in sweat and trembling, and feeling a heartbreaking sense of loss for Rosaleen and the fact that she was gone, never to be found.

This time, lying on the bed of his suite in the Albany Regency Hotel, it was different. Somehow, Lady Monica Starling had become part of that dream, she was there with Rosaleen, and it was them both that Daniel was running around seeking, and he suddenly knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that no matter what anyone said, or wished or argued, that she'd killed a Provo herself, there was no way he could be a party to killing her, and Rosaleen would have agreed with him.

It somehow gave him a lightness of being, a calm happiness, call it what you like, but it was there for a moment, clear and profound, as if he had been touched by something. He felt a strange sense of peace, a kind of release, as he went to turn on the shower. He could take the men, but not Monica, and Caitlin and all the rest of them would have to accept that. He started to get dressed but then stopped, and decided it was better to be dressed for action, you never knew what might come up. He put on the nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest first, which was capable of stopping a.44 round at point-blank range. A white shirt and formal tie covered it, and, once he'd pulled on his trousers, he fastened the holster to his right ankle. When he left the hotel, borrowing one of its umbrellas, in his black suit and black raincoat, he looked like a thoroughly respectable City professional man.

It had rained during the night but stopped by the time Holley went around to Selim's, where he found a simple breakfast of croissants, coffee, and ripe bananas waiting. Selim wore a French beret and a black duster coat as they made their way through several backstreets and came to a mews named Friars Yard. He produced a key and opened the end garage, revealing a black Mini Cooper.

"A factory limited edition, small but deadly. I indulged myself. It will do in excess of a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour."

"And have you?"

"That, Daniel, is my dark secret. Would you care to drive?"

"It's been rather a long time since I did, but Daniel Grimshaw does have a perfectly valid forged license."

"Then put your umbrella in the back with the other one already in there."

"You think it will rain again?"

"Absolutely. This is England, Daniel. Off we go, and if you decide to have a crash, do it with style." With the driving, it was as if he'd never been away, for the Mini Cooper handled superbly, and they had a good fast run from London to Guildford and all the way to Chichester, where they had a pit stop at the Ship Hotel and more coffee.

After that, they followed the Mini's Sat Nav through a maze of country roads and came to Patch End, and Holley pulled up at the side of the road. There was a salt marsh, an inlet with four houses, three old-fashioned fishing boats beached on the shingle, and a small motorboat.

Selim opened the glove compartment and took out a pair of Zeiss binoculars. He peered down. "There's a woman in the garden of the end house hanging out laundry. Do you want to take a look?"

Holley did and nodded. "I know Chekhov owns a house down there, and I bet that's a lady named Lily White. Her son, Jacob, keeps an eye on things for Chekhov while he's away."

"It wouldn't have much traffic down there. We'll go and see what Bolt Hole has to offer."

A mile farther on, they discovered a pub set back from the road with a sizable garden. The main part of it was undeniably old, but there was a modern extension that suggested a motel. It looked anything but prosperous, and it was just at that moment that the weather broke again.

"Rather sad, when you think of it," Selim said. "Imagine staying at that place in the rain."

"Well, Chekhov fell in love with Bolt Hole, told me so himself," Holley said. "So let's go and see why."

There were no cliffs but a headland of sorts, with a fringe of trees on top, a small car park behind, and the marsh below, with the causeway running out to the island. It was beautiful beyond doubt: the old house, the sea, and, every so often, a strange geyser of foam erupting.

"So that's where the name Bolt Hole comes from," Holley said, raising the binoculars. "Spectacular."

"Very impressive," Selim said. "And so is the motor yacht at the jetty on the seaside."

"It's called the Mermaid." Holley focused the binoculars in time to see a thickset, rough-looking man wearing a battered naval cap and an old reefer coat emerge from the wheelhouse.

"Jacob White in the flesh," Holley said. "Talking to someone on his mobile."

"There's a Mercedes coming in from the left down there."

Holley swung around to observe and received a shock, for the Mercedes turned along the causeway, pulled in on the jetty beside the Mermaid, and stopped at the gangway, where Jacob White stood waiting. Ivanov got out from behind the wheel, and Chekhov emerged from the passenger side.

"I'd like to say I can't believe it," Holley said. "But I do. Let me fill you in on these two."

He explained, and Selim said, "Well, you could say the plot thickens. But let's move, we may be noticed."

"They weren't supposed to go even near each other. The only communication was supposed to be by Codex. So what are they up to?"

"Ivanov's your biggest problem, the young military action dog who wants to be in charge."

"And Chekhov?"

"My dear Daniel, you took me into your confidence last night. You gave me no specifics, but forgive a man used to subterfuge when he guesses that this all has to do with the Russians. And by the Russians, I assume it leads to Putin."

"The man himself."

"Max Chekhov is an oligarch, and they've fallen increasingly on hard times in the financial mess of the world of today and they need to look to the Kremlin for support. Chekhov has more to contend with than most, since he was chosen to head Belov International when the State took it over again."

"In other words, he's a Putin man." Holley nodded. "Lermov told me that Putin told him Chekhov was the only oligarch he had any time for, and that was only because he had him in his pocket."

"So what would you like to do now?" Selim asked, but didn't get an answer.

A harsh voice called, "Hold on, you two. What are you doing sniffing round here? I saw you looking down at the boat, and you had binoculars."

"I think you're mistaken," Holley called, and hissed at Selim, "Keep going, let's get out of here."

Behind him, Jacob White increased his pace, reached out, grabbed Holley, and swung him around. Selim also turned and saw Chekhov and Ivanov toiling up the path behind.

"My God, it's you," Ivanov called. "Hold him, Jacob."

Holley, on the half turn as Jacob swung him around, delivered a reverse elbow stroke into the mouth, and, as Jacob doubled over, raised a knee in his face that lifted him backwards. The result was quite devastating.

Chekhov and Ivanov paused, Chekhov looking shocked. "Daniel," he said. "What's going on?"

"I might ask you the same thing," Holley answered, and Ivanov pulled a Makarov out of his trench coat pocket.

"My turn, you bastard," he said, and shot him.

It was like a tremendous punch in the chest delivered by a sixteen-stone heavyweight fighter, and Holley staggered, lost his balance, and fell on his back. From the first impact, he had taken one deep breath after another, for sometimes the force of a blow into body armor could induce unconsciousness. All those years ago in the camp, he'd been trained to handle such a situation.

He closed his eyes, heard Chekhov say, "You've killed him, you fool, you've ruined everything."

"The bastard deserved killing." Ivanov dropped to one knee. "I think I'll give him one in the forehead just to make sure."

Holley drew out the Colt.25, opened his eyes, reached up, and shot off half of Ivanov's left ear. Ivanov screamed, dropped the Makarov, and got to his feet, clutching the wound, blood streaming through his fingers.

Holley got up, aware of the pain in his chest and still breathing deeply. "I don't know what's been going on, Max, between you and the boy wonder here. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I've organized everything for Friday, completed my side of the bargain, but what have you and this piece of dung been up to, that's the question. I don't think Lermov will be pleased, and God help you with Putin if he found that everything had been turned into a cock-up because you and Ivanov had a different agenda."

Chekhov was horrified. "I didn't intend anything like this, Daniel, believe me. What am I going to do?"

"There must be a first-aid kit on the Mermaid. Strap him up, put him in the backseat, and get back to the Embassy in London. Next time, I really will kill him." He nodded at Jacob White, who had managed to get to his feet. "Maybe the last of the ape-men can give you a helping hand."

"I don't think he can even help himself," Chekhov said, and walked a few yards after them as they went to where the Mini Cooper was parked. He took out his diary and its pencil.

Selim saw what he was doing. "Ah, you are noting the number, hoping to trace me? It is Algerian, my friend, quite untraceable."

Holley turned. "Grow up, Max, or do you want a bullet yourself? Just piss off, and tell anyone who needs to know that everything is organized, or, as I suspect Caitlin Daly would say, on Friday we'll 'astonish' the world."

Selim got behind the wheel. "Get in, and I'll show you what a great driver I am. What would you like to do?"

Holley unbuttoned his shirt, found the Makarov round sticking in his bulletproof vest, and pulled it out. "A well-dressed man shouldn't be without one. As to what I'd like to do. That place, the Ship Hotel in Chichester, where we stopped for coffee, had a decent-looking restaurant. I'd say we could get there in half an hour. Sorry you won't be able to join me in the bottle of champagne I'm going to order."

"Then you'll have to drink it all yourself, dear boy," Selim Malik told him, and they drove away.

The lunch was all that could be expected, and Holley drank far too much champagne, as he admitted, but the real discovery was Selim's driving skill. He was first-rate.

On the way back to London, Holley, half asleep in his seat, said, "I've got to give it to you, Selim. You handle this thing like a racing driver."

"Always my dream," Selim told him. "Many years ago when I was at Oxford University, a policeman who pulled me up for speeding said, 'Who do you think you are, Stirling Moss?' "

"And you were flattered?"

"Who wouldn't be? Britain's all-time favorite star of the racetrack and a true gentleman. Now, of course, I am getting too old."

Holley was aware of nothing more after that because he fell asleep.

He woke with a start to Selim's touch on his shoulder. They were outside the hotel. "Here we are. What now?"

"Have a shower, sort myself out. Check the bruising." Holley managed a laugh.

"So you have nothing particularly important to do?"

"Everything's sorted, Selim, as I told Chekhov. It's all in order. Friday, everything comes together, and we solve the problem for Mister Big at the Kremlin. I've one call to make on my Codex, and then I'm going to turn it off so nobody can get me for the rest of the night."

"I have a suggestion. The Curzon Cinema in Shepherd's Market shows many interesting films. Tonight they show a French film directed by Jean-Pierre Melville in 1956, Bob le flambeur. It's a wonderful heist movie-an aging gangster is tempted back into one last fatal throw of the dice."

"That sounds like just my kind of movie," Holley said. "I can't wait. We'll have dinner afterwards. I'll see you in an hour."

When he called Caitlin Daly, he got an instant response. "Where are you?" he asked.

"At my office. Paperwork for the charity, and I've got a forum to attend with Monsignor Murphy."

"Don't you find it difficult to fit everything in?"

"Of course, but it's important, the work we do, and he's used to leaning on me in many ways. He's an important figure in the Catholic Church in London. Even the rich respond to him, and their money is important to us."

"When I read all the files on your people, it fascinated me that the whole Hope of Mary thing came out of Murphy doing a visit to Derry for a few months during the worst of the Troubles and being impressed by the work the Little Sisters of Pity were doing. I never got any idea he was in favor of a violent solution to the Troubles."

"He isn't. To believe in Sinn Fein and a United Ireland was always as natural as breathing for him, and I'm not saying he wouldn't confess an IRA man when the Church said he shouldn't-but not an ounce more than that. He's a great and good man."

"And a bit of a holy fool. I wonder what he'd say about your involvement in the Glorious Cause? You're sure he hasn't got an inkling?"

"Absolutely not. He'd be horrified. Stop this, Daniel, I don't want to hear any more on the subject."

"Have you had any final news from Barry and Flynn?"

"Not yet, but it's only noon over there. Flynn and Bulganin were supposed to go down to this Quogue place."

"You're right. Tomorrow will be soon enough. You'll be having a meeting in the chapel at the refuge, I suppose?"

"You're not going to suggest joining us?"

"There's no need. Everything's worked out. You've done very well. I'm going out to a show, so I'll turn off my mobile. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He got dressed, thinking about it. She obviously wanted to be in charge, a psychological hang-up, that, because of being leader of the cell for so many years. And that was fine, though he didn't know how she'd react to his insistence that Monica Starling be taken out of the equation. He realized that it'd be better if he told her about it face-to-face, but he would leave that until tomorrow night.

His phone sounded just before he was leaving. It was Chekhov. "Daniel, you've got to understand the pressures I'm under. Ivanov is a madman. I knew he was too good to be true the first time I met him."

"How is the bastard?"

"Never mind that. He shot you in the chest. How did you survive that?"

"I was wearing a bulletproof vest under my shirt. You really should consider it for yourself, Max."

"My God, I'm going to get one straightaway, but about Ivanov. I patched him up on the boat, and drove him back to the Embassy, as you suggested. They had some top surgeon in to stitch him up, but he's going to look very strange."

"What were you doing there in the first place?"

"He was very insistent that I should take him down there and show it to him. He said that perhaps it could be useful sometime."

"In what way?"

"He didn't say. I thought he might want it for weekends. You know, boyfriends and so on."

"I didn't realize his inclinations ran that way. Mind you, that's his business. To each his own. I'm going out, so you needn't try again. If you want to cover your back, phone Lermov and tell him what happened."

"Actually, I already have."

"You're a laugh a minute, Max." Holley switched off and left.

Bob le flambeur was sensationally good and lifted his spirits in spite of the downbeat ending. "Marvelous," he told Selim as they sat in the booth at Al Busten. "They don't make them like that anymore. I didn't get a chance to tell you, by the way: Chekhov called me."

"What happened?"

Holley told him. "A pity the sod didn't die in the back of the Mercedes."

"You have a point. With such a man, one wonders what he could try next. Your big day, whatever it is, is Friday. I presume that after that your problems will be over?"

"It would be a clean break, let's put it that way."

"So what of tomorrow?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. I have one important phone call to make in the morning. The rest is just time filling."

"Then may I suggest an excellent way to spend the whole day. Twenty miles out of town is a spa and country club of which I happen to be a member. An excellent gymnasium, two swimming pools, more health treatments than you would know what to do with. There is even a golf course."

"I don't play golf."

"You can drive round in a cart with some clubs and try?"

"You know something, you're absolutely right," Holley told him, and emptied the champagne bottle into their glasses and toasted him. "And if it's anything like it's been, it'll be a nice day out in the rain."