The wolf at the door

7

A little later, Ivanov called in. "I've got them, Colonel, a thoroughly unpleasant couple. Greta Bikov was right to describe them as moronic."

"Did they give you any trouble?"

"Not really, they've been drinking and they're generally surly and cocky. The duty officer at the training school was only a lieutenant, so as I outranked him, he accepted the situation without fuss. I didn't have to use the letter."

"Where are you?"

"Almost with you. I'm in a standard military police secure van. I'm up front with the driver. I've put them in the rear with two police sergeants, and they thought that was a great joke. It's the booze, of course."

"Well, let's try to wipe the smiles off their faces. I'll wait for you in the interrogation cell we used for Greta Bikov."

He went out on the walkway and found the old tea lady pushing her trolley towards him. She stopped and poured a glass of tea from the samovar without a word. He accepted it and gave her a banknote.

"I can't change that," she said.

He drank the hot tea gratefully. "That's all right, babushka, maybe you still have a cigarette to spare from that packet I gave you."

She produced the pack of Marlboros from her smock pouch and extracted one carefully. "They won't like you smoking it."

"Then they can lump it, babushka, I'm a colonel, a full colonel."

She produced a plastic lighter and flicked it on for him, and, as he blew out smoke, she smiled for the first time since he'd known her. "I like you, tovarich," she said.

"And why do you like me, babushka?"

"Because the truth about you is that you don't give a toss."

"Absolutely right, babushka." He was laughing as he walked away.

When he went into the interrogation cell, he found a police sergeant on either side of the door and Oleg and Petrovich sitting behind the table, still handcuffed. Ivanov was sitting near the door and jumped up.

"Prisoners present as ordered, Colonel."

They were so drunk, they started to laugh, and Oleg said, "Is he taking the piss? I mean, this has gone far enough. We're lieutenants in the GRU, or hadn't you noticed?"

Lermov walked around the table slowly, the cigarette still in his mouth, and stood looking down at them, then gently stubbed it out, and said to the two sergeants at the door, who were looking grim and flexing their clubs, "The left leg first on each of them, if you please."

They moved in, clubs swinging, and both of the men howled and went down. The sergeants pulled them on their feet. Ivanov had seldom seen two drunks sober up so fast. Oleg was actually sobbing.

"Let's get one thing clear. The sergeants will be quite happy to move to your right leg and then each arm in turn, but I detest violence, so listen carefully. Captain Ivanov, if you please!"

Ivanov read the letter. When he was finished, Lermov said, "My warrant from Prime Minister Putin gives me total authority over your destiny. I shall now question you on certain matters relating to your service in the London Embassy that involved you. If you do not tell me the exact truth about what happened, you will be reduced to the ranks and posted to a penal regiment."

They stared at him dumbly, total dismay on their faces. Lermov held up the Putin letter. "This warrant from your Prime Minister gives me the power to do this. I have no more time to waste. Give me your answer."

"Anything, Colonel," Petrovich mumbled.

"That's right, sir," Oleg joined in. "Just tell us what you want to know."

"Then sit down and let's get started."

From then on, it was easy, and they fell over themselves to pour out the truth. Colonel Luzhkov had offered them this very special job to kidnap an American, Blake Johnson, who had just arrived in town and was staying in a top-floor suite at a hotel in Mayfair. A truck that did laundry pickups in the area was available to them, and uniforms to go with it. They explained how they'd gone up in a service elevator, abducted Blake Johnson, returned to the truck, hid him in the rear, and driven away, their destination a private airfield at Berkley Down, where a Russian Falcon was waiting to fly him to Moscow and onwards to Station Gorky.

Then came the business of the truck being forced to stop, an unexpected passenger in the rear, the man in the black hood, who spoke the kind of Russian you'd expect from a Mafia lowlife, who shot Petrovich in the hand and blew away half of Oleg's right ear, then drove off with Blake Johnson in the truck and left them to phone the Embassy for help. Luzhkov had been furiously angry, had referred to the man in the black hood as someone named Dillon, because this Dillon had a reputation for shooting half an ear off people who offended him.

So that was it, all there, a perfect piece of the jigsaw. They sat there, broken and humble, and Lermov didn't even feel grateful. Animali, the Italian word for "scum," was the only way to describe them. Blake Johnson was the enemy, and Lermov knew him only by reputation, but that didn't mean one couldn't feel distaste for what had been planned for him.

He considered it all, then stood and said to the sergeants, "Take these men to a holding cell." He turned to Ivanov. "Put the necessary documentation in hand for their demotion to the ranks and transfer them to an appropriate penal battalion."

Both men gasped in disbelief. "But you promised, Colonel, that if we told you the truth, we'd be all right."

"Yes, I lied, but you thoroughly deserve it." He went to the door, which one of the sergeants opened for him, and walked out.

Back in the corner of the officers' bar, he sipped tea and reviewed the situation. It was certainly all coming together, thanks to patient questioning and sound detective work. They were almost there, and then Ivanov came in and sat down opposite him, an edge of excitement to him. He put a transcript on the table.

"Just in from London. Excellent stuff, so I spoke to Major Chelek to confirm."

Lermov poured another glass of tea. "Just tell me."

"GRU computer experts said the London Embassy can access Scotland Yard files, and no one named Ali Selim has a criminal record. The computer checked on other people of that name resident in London and found several, but one seemed particularly interesting-because he was dead."

Lermov said, "Explain."

"Remember the Garden of Eden sailed downriver on Monday afternoon? Well, this Ali Selim was fished out of the river at Wapping two days later."

"Drowned, of course."

"No, his throat was cut."

"I see. What is the source of this information?"

"Grafton Street Morgue in Wapping, where the body was delivered by the paramedics who recovered it. It's all there in the morgue records. A brief report of the recovery of the body, identity and address in a wallet found on the body. He lived at a place called India Wharf on the Thames. The autopsy report indicated that due to possible contamination of the body, cremation was urgent, and this took place at the morgue facility the same day."

"I must say, Ferguson is definitely turning out to be the ruthless bastard of legend. Is that everything?"

"Major Chelek has gone down himself to this India Wharf where Selim lived to see what he can find out. He'll be in touch as soon as possible."

"Then let's have something to eat until he does."

An hour in the canteen, a heavy vegetable broth that was a meal in itself with black bread, and, once again, a glass of the rough red wine.

"Peasant food," Lermov said. "In spite of the delights of the modern world, we still love the kind of food our grandparents enjoyed."

They went back to the office, and, ten minutes later, Ivanov's secure mobile sounded. "Put it on speaker," Lermov ordered.

Ivan Chelek's voice was clear and firm. "Well, here I am on India Wharf, looking out over the Thames, Ivanov. It's raining."

"I'm here also," Lermov told him. "We'll make this a conference call. So where are we at?"

"It seems to be an anchorage surrounded by old Victorian warehouses, most of them boarded up just waiting for a developer to knock them all down. Four motorboats tied up for the winter with canvas covers. No sign of any kind of habitation."

"So Ali Selim didn't live there."

"Oh yes he did. There's a lane at the top with a few old terrace houses and a corner shop. I walked up, tried the shop, and struck gold."

"Go on," Lermov told him.

"The people living in the houses are all Islamics of one kind or another, and the shop was their general store, run by an aging Arab named Hussein. We had the place to ourselves. I'm an old Iraq hand, as no one knows better than you, so I went and locked the front door, took a pistol from my pocket and five hundred pounds in fifties, and put them on the counter. I told him in Arabic that he had a clear choice. He could answer my questions or I would blow his brains out."

"And?" Lermov said.

"Proved a mine of information. Ali Selim was born in London. His father was a seaman off a freighter, in the old days when the Pool of London was thriving. He met and married a cockney white woman. It seems Ali was a very frightening and violent man from his youth. He went to prison on many occasions for robbery, assault, that kind of thing."

"And yet there is no police record on him at Scotland Yard," Ivanov observed.

"Obviously, his record had been wiped clean," Lermov said. "As if he never existed."

"He existed all right," Chelek said. "Apparently, he had relatives in Afghanistan who helped with the poppy trade, and he was into the drug business and made big money."

"Was he interested in the Islamic movement?"

"Not at all. He drank very heavily and made strange remarks when he was drunk, deriding Islam, and mocking such things as the bombing attacks in London by British-born Muslims, saying that he'd done far more that they ever could imagine. He once said to Hussein that they should have come to Belfast with him in the old days and seen some real action."

"Did he indeed?" Lermov said. "So we've established that he was a thoroughly frightening individual who would appear to have some sort of terrorist links in his past, and that's if he is to be believed. Is that it, then?"

"Not quite. Ali Selim lived in a barge anchored in the basin here. He also had an orange motorboat with a huge outboard motor. It was called Running Dog, and he boasted it could do forty knots. Both vessels have disappeared."

"Has Hussein got any explanations for that?" Lermov asked.

"Yes, he sometimes looks after an old greyhound for his son. On the Monday that the meeting was taking place on the Garden of Eden, he locked up his shop at one o'clock and walked the dog down the street, leading to the wharf. As he got to the end of the wharf, he drew back because he saw two men in fluorescent-yellow-and-black jackets being urged off the barge by Ali and pushed towards the Running Dog. The thing is, their hands were tied. Ali was wearing a similar jacket and carrying a large canvas bag."

"Were they talking?"

"It looked like it, but Hussein couldn't hear a thing. He said the weather was terrible, pouring rain, and mist so thick that the Running Dog disappeared as it roared away."

Ivanov said, "And Hussein turned right round and went straight back to the shop and minded his own business."

"I'd say a sensible thing to do, considering his experience of the kind of man Ali Selim was," Lermov told him.

"So what does all this say to us?" Chelek asked.

Lermov said to Ivanov, "I recall you telling me about a small riverboat exploding, an overheated gas tank or something."

Chelek said, "You think that was the Running Dog?"

"I've never been so certain of anything in my life," Lermov said. "This is how I write the story. Ali Selim sets out in the Running Dog to attack the Garden of Eden, probably with a bomb of some kind. I feel that his two prisoners were Kurbsky and Bounine."

"But what happened to Luzhkov?" Ivanov demanded.

"I cannot answer that."

"But what do you feel most probable?"

"Ali Selim is the person most likely to have had the answer. His barge has obviously been spirited away by Charles Ferguson, who has also had his criminal file at Scotland Yard wiped clean. It's as if he never existed. The crematorium at Grafton Street Morgue has taken care of that, reducing him to six pounds of gray ash. It was possibly an oversight on Ferguson's part not to have the morgue records wiped out, too."

"So it's all over?" Chelek said.

"Not at all," Lermov replied. "I must make my report to the Prime Minister, but what do I tell him? That Alexander Kurbsky is alive and well and safe in the hands of a most bitter enemy of Russia, and that Charles Ferguson has won again?"

"When can I expect to see you in London?" Chelek asked.

"I'll only know that when I've seen him and he confirms my task. Then I'll need time to work out a plan of action. In the meantime, you must continue to run things over there, Ivan. How did you end things with Hussein?"

"I told him that I had it on good authority that Ali Selim was dead."

"And what did he say to that?"

"He shrugged, and said in Arabic it was his time."

"I suppose it was. Take care, old friend."

Ivanov switched off his mobile. "So what now, the Prime Minister?"

"No avoiding it." Lermov patted him on the shoulder. "You've done well, and I definitely intend to take you with me to London when I go, but there's still work to be done here, so let's get started. I'll summarize what's happened, and you can take it down on your laptop."

"Then what?"

"Forward it to the Prime Minister's Office and request an i nterview."

It was lightly snowing on the way to the Kremlin but pleasantly warm in what had once been Volkov's office. They'd presented themselves in good time for the interview, but were still waiting an hour after the designated time.

"Do you think he's making us wait deliberately?"

"We're not important enough, Peter."

"Well, I believe that we are still one of the greatest nations on earth," Ivanov said. "And considering the state of the world today, that he has time for us at all surprises me."

"I agree, but I think it only proves how passionately he is involved with events in London."

The door in the paneled wall swung open, and Vladimir Putin entered, immaculate in the black suit and white shirt he favored.

"My apologies, gentlemen, one economic crisis after another seems to be the norm for the world we live in. I did find time to read your resume of the Kurbsky affair. Succinct and to the point, Colonel."

"Captain Ivanov's help has been invaluable, and I intend to take him with me when I take up my duties in London."

"Excellent." He sat down at the desk. "I agree with the conclusions in your report, Colonel. Luzhkov was foolish and stupid, and, like you, I believe he has paid the ultimate price. Kurbsky and possibly Bounine are alive and well and in the care of Charles Ferguson and his people. They have all been a thorn in our side for too long. One attempt after another to eliminate them has failed, and it's time we do it right."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"As I said before, Colonel, destroy them, Charles Ferguson and all his people. Finish them off, Colonel, once and for all. The British are not our friends, they grant asylum to dissidents, traitors to our country. The British Government allows their territory to be used as a launching pad to fight Russia. This will send them a message."

"If I may, there are still many Russians living in London, many of them oligarchs and friends," Lermov said. "But the world financial crisis has altered things. Many who had billions have lost billions. They're keeping their heads down and trying to recoup. They wouldn't like an ill wind blowing in from the Motherland."

"I haven't the slightest sympathy for those bastards. If you do need help in that area, remember that the State owns Belov International, and the chief executive officer is Max Chekhov. He's the only oligarch I have any time for and that's because he's in my pocket."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Think of the Moscow Mafia, Colonel. Someone tries to rock the boat by moving into someone else's territory, and what does the boss do? He sends for an expert, a specialist, usually a stranger from out of town, to handle it."

"I'll take that on board and consider it, Prime Minister."

"But at your soonest, Colonel, at your soonest. You have my letter. Use it. Don't allow anyone to stand in your way." He got up to go, opened the door in the paneling, and paused. "Those fools, Oleg and Petrovich, I approve of you dumping them in a penal regiment."

"It seemed appropriate," Lermov said.

"But what about this Greta Bikov? That her confessions have been of great assistance can't be denied, but she is totally untrustworthy. Her behavior speaks for itself."

"And what would you suggest, Prime Minister?"

"I have a perfect solution. There is a small GRU detachment at Station Gorky, am I right?"

"I understand so."

"Transfer her to it on a one-year detachment."

He was gone. Ivanov turned. "Poor, silly little bitch. Will you tell her or do you want me to do it?"

"I'll do it, and, in a way, Putin's right. It could be the making of her. At least she's not being kicked out of the army. Let's get out of here. We've got a lot to do."

"Anything special for me?"

"Yes, Max Chekhov. Dig out everything about him."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Give Greta Bikov her new orders."

Which was not as bad as he expected. Sergeant Stransky had brought her into the interrogation cell again, where she had found Lermov waiting, and he told her the worst.

Her face was blank, eyes fixed and staring, as he delivered the news. "This is the personal decision of the Prime Minister."

Of all things, there was not only a kind of relief but a slight smile. "Putin himself? I'm honored. I'm sure that he's only thinking what's best for me. I know I did wrong." She smiled fully. "After all, it's only a year. You've been very kind, Colonel."

She rose and turned to Stransky, who took her arm and led her away. "My God," Lermov said softly. "She thinks she's got away with it."

He laughed wryly as it suddenly occurred to him that she had, and he got up and went in search of Ivanov.

He found him sitting at his computer. Lermov paused, and then asked, "How did it go with Greta?"

"I got the impression she thinks she's come up smelling of roses. God help the male members of staff at Station Gorky, she'll wreak havoc. What have you got?"

"Max Chekhov, age fifty, married but no children. Wife lives with her widowed mother in St. Petersburg, but he never visits. A university degree in general engineering, He worked as a road builder and military engineer in Afghanistan. Wounded in a roadside ambush and sent home when we still thought we were winning the war. Worked for many construction firms, and then came the crazy years, oil and gas in Siberia and all the other things. Like with most oligarchs, it just happened, and, there he was, a billionaire. He loves London, booze, and women, in that order, but he's a shrewd operator, which is why Putin made Chekhov chief executive officer when the State took over Belov International."

"I suppose the argument is that as a rich man in his own right, he's to be trusted," Lermov said. "Where does he live?"

"There's a company house off South Audley Street in Mayfair, which he never uses personally but leaves to visiting dignitaries. His personal treat is an exclusive apartment on Park Lane-where, apparently, he was shot in the knee one night by a hit man delivering flowers. It's thought to be the work of these gangsters, the Salters."

"Well, they do get round, don't they? Anything else?"

"A place off the West Sussex coast called Bolt Hole. It's reached by a causeway passing through a marsh, and it's private. There was an article about Chekhov buying the place and wanting to build a helicopter pad and the authorities forbidding it because of the marsh and the birds being protected. There's a photo of him, if you want to see it. He agreed not to build the helicopter pad and said he's fallen in love with the island."

"Show me," Lermov said, and Ivanov obeyed. Chekhov wore a reefer coat and leaned on a walking stick, had long hair and dark glasses. "He looks pleased with himself."

"Well, he would be, having bought that place," Ivanov said. "It looks bloody marvelous to me. Here's another photo from the same newspaper. A strange name, Bolt Hole. I wonder what it means?"

"Probably Saxon or something like that," Lermov said. "I think I'd like to see Chekhov. Handle it for me. Speak to him and get him here. Now, let's go have a drink."

In the bar, Ivanov said, "So it seems the Prime Minister won't be content with anything less than the destruction of Ferguson and his entire group."

"Which has been tried before."

"And failed."

"But it doesn't have to. You just need the right weapon. If you want to be certain of hitting the bull's-eye, you must be able to put the muzzle of your weapon against it and pull the trigger."

"Difficult when the target is people."

"Not really. The man who tried to assassinate Ronald Reagan walked right up to him and fired, in spite of the crowds and the security people," Lermov pointed out.

"But that implies sacrifice," Ivanov suggested.

"Of course, the principle beloved of suicide bombers, but your truly professional assassin plans to perform the act and survive to do it again, like Carlos the Jackal. Look how long he lasted."

"I see what you mean," Ivanov said.

"My studies of revolutionary movements and terrorism covers anarchist bombings in tsarist times, Fenian dynamiters when Queen Victoria was on the throne, and, in the twentieth century, everyone from the IRA to Al Qaeda. One thing is clear. Except for religiously motivated suicide bombers seeking an imagined salvation, the majority of terrorists would much prefer to survive."

"And live to fight another day?"

"Exactly."

"So how many are we talking about? Ferguson, Roper, the Salters, Dillon, and Miller…" Ivanov began.

"Plus Miller's sister, Monica Starling. She's Dillon's girlfriend now but working for Ferguson." Lermov nodded. "Blake Johnson."

"That adds up to eight," Ivanov said.

"Ten, if Kurbsky and Bounine are still alive and well and in Ferguson's hands."

"An invitation to a dinner party and a bomb under the table would take care of it," Ivanov said.

"Very amusing, but nothing is that certain in life. Somebody tried a bomb under a table at Wolf's Lair in the hope of catching Hitler out, and it was a conspicuous failure."

"Sorry, Colonel, I was obviously joking and the Prime Minister isn't. What do you make of that advice he gave you, when he said think of the Moscow Mafia and what they do when somebody's giving them a problem?"

"Send for an expert, a specialist, usually a stranger from out of town who nobody knows? Yes, I've been thinking about that."

"It sounds like a plot from a movie."

"But life often is," Lermov said. "Because cinema, in its simplicity, gets straight to the point by leaving out all the boring bits."

"I'm not certain what you mean, Colonel," Ivanov said warily.

"That the Prime Minister could be right. What we need is just such a man… and I know where he is."

"And where is that?" Ivanov was totally bewildered.

"The Lubyanka Prison. His name is Daniel Holley."

"He's British?" Ivanov asked.

"Oh, yes, an extraordinary man. And an even more extraordinary killer."