Without Mercy

LONDON IRELAND
10

When they landed at Farley Field, the Daimler was waiting, with Ferguson beside the driver. There was also a Shogun with the Military Police Sergeant Major from Holland Park, Henderson, and a black sergeant called Doyle. They stood, waiting, watchful, in navy blue blazers and neat ties, normal except for the earpieces and that special look common to security men all over the world.

They disembarked from the Citation and walked toward the Daimler, and Ferguson got out. “Major Novikova, what a pleasure. I seldom get the opportunity to greet someone risen from the dead.” He held out his hand, which she took instinctively. “I hope they’ve been looking after you?”

Which reduced her to helpless laughter. “Come on, General, let’s get on with it. Let’s see what you’re going to do with me and then I’ll comment. One thing is certain. I’ll need a hairdresser. Prolonged immersion in seawater is not to be recommended.”

“I’m sure we can manage that. I’ll have one brought in.”

“To the Holland Park safe house?”

“Such a good address. Excellent quarters, totally secure, wonderful company. Major Roper’s there. Very special man. You’ll get on famously.”

“While you pick my brains.”

“Now, would I do that to you, Major?”

“Absolutely,” and she climbed into the Daimler as he held open the door for her.

At Holland Park, they were joined by Roper and sat round the table in the conference center, Henderson and Doyle standing against the wall keeping a watchful eye on things.

“You must think you’ve been through the wringer, Major,” Ferguson told her.

“You could say that. Life with Dillon and Billy is a bit of a roller coaster.”

“Now, tell me about the Putin warrant. I can take it as definite that the President himself passed that document across?”

“Yes, I was there with Ashimov.” She shrugged. “And Levin.”

“And?”

She smiled. “Ah, I see you don’t know everything.”

“Oh, but I do know most things. Volkov, for example? What can you tell me about him?”

“I only met him once. He appears to control Belov International for the government. The President joined us, handed over the warrant, told us he expected us to do our duty in this matter. Never mentioned Belov, just left.”

“What’s the point of the exercise?”

“Two, actually. Belov International is so important to the country at the moment, they don’t want the sort of movement on the world financial market that would take place if there was news of Belov’s death.”

“And what’s your second point?”

“Volkov thinks you and your people are a great nuisance and better put out of the way once and for all.”

“Thanks very much,” Billy told her.

“Would you say the President agrees?”

“The President is clever. He hands out a warrant, but it gives not the slightest indication what it’s for.”

“The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way necessary,” Dillon said. “That can mean everything or nothing, but not from Volkov’s point of view.”

“And Ashimov’s been happy to assist him,” Greta said.

There was a pause. Roper said, “So an unhappy Max Zubin still sits there in Station Gorky.”

“Yes, I thought you’d know about him. Well, he’s shaved the beard off. It is an extraordinary resemblance, so they tell me. He posed as Belov once before. Ashimov was there.”

“Yes, we know that.”

“And his mother in Moscow?”

“I’ve met her. Fantastic woman, one of our greatest actresses. She leads an open life. I mean, where would she go with him to think of?”

“And where would he go?” Dillon said.

“Any plans for him to be moved?” Roper asked.

“I believe so. An appearance in Moscow or Paris. I suppose a sight of him would dispel any rumors about Belov, keep things looking normal.”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

“What about Levin?” Ferguson asked. “Where do you think he’s gone?”

“He had the plane, so he’ll have gone to Ballykelly. Ashimov is there.”

“Really? How interesting.” Ferguson stood up. “I must take that on board. Enough for now. Your hairdresser, after all, he’s top priority. We’ll meet again later.”

At Hangman’s Wharf, there was a magnificent warehouse development. It was Harry’s pride and joy, walking distance from the Dark Man and turned into apartments of total luxury, unique in design.

The ultimate was the penthouse, vast, spread across a huge top floor, reached by two private elevators, one in front, the other at the back. Where the original cargo gates opened, there were now terraces of hardwood jutting twenty feet out over the river, and from the penthouse, it was a seventy-foot drop.

The furnishings were cedar and mahogany, a great desk for Harry Salter in the corner, sofas, sumptuous carpets everywhere, Indian, Chinese, and in the open-plan design, a fabulous kitchen area with graceful hoods taking the fumes away, and Harry’s personal chef, Selim, from the restaurant Harry’s Place. He had energetically supervised the meal, mainly Indonesian, for the Salters, Dillon, Ferguson and Roper. Even Henderson and Doyle, seated at the far end of the bar and keeping a watchful eye on things, had been well taken care of. And there was Greta, of course.

“You’ve been very frank, Major,” Ferguson told her. “Why?”

“Well, to be practical, I suspect you know most of what I told you. I might have done a little filling in, but that’s all. Anyway, what happens now? You can’t arrest me. That would be terribly inconvenient.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Every job you and your people do is a black operation. It never happened, never existed. Dillon and Billy would never dream of going out there under orders and killing everybody on sight, but they do, which leaves me in the clear. So what happens to me?”

“If he sends you back, love, I think old Volkov would either shoot you or send you to the Gulag.” That was Billy.

“Of course, you could claim asylum,” Roper said.

“If I found myself on the pavement, the most you could do is ask Colonel Luhzkov to send me home. I have diplomatic immunity.”

“How boring,” Ferguson said.

“And what a bleeding waste,” Harry put in.

“What if I made you a proposition?” Ferguson said.

“Throw in my lot with you?”

“Oh, no, something much more subtle. What if I gave you a chance to return to the fold, your own people?”

“What, hand me over to Luhzkov? Tell him to fly me out?”

“Much, much better than that. Now listen to me. There’s one thing I suggest you do first, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“First, let me ask you where you think Levin might be.”

She frowned. “Drumore Place, probably.”

He handed her his Codex Four. “I’m sure you know his number. Give him a call. Tell him what you think of him. After all, he dumped you at Khufra.”

She sat looking at him, then shook her head. “What would be the point?”

“I’d like to know if he is there. I’d like to know if Ashimov is still there. I want them, and don’t kid yourself, I intend to have them. Dead or alive, it makes no odds to me.”

“So what does that mean?”

“If you won’t join in, we’ll go and find out for ourselves. Dillon, young Billy here. Come to think of it, I’ll go.”

Billy said, “Not another bleeding beach drop.”

“Any approach from a plane would alert them,” Ferguson said. “No, we’ll do what we’ve done before. A passage by night, Billy. Oban to the Irish coast. It will do me good, a little rough weather and sea air. Does it suit you gentlemen?”

Dillon was smiling, Billy shrugged and Harry said, “Only if I can come, too.”

Ferguson said, “That’s it, then.” He smiled at Greta. “You, my love, will be left in limbo with Major Roper at Holland Park.”

“That’s actually illegal,” she said.

“Well, I could just as easily have you deported via the Russian Ambassador, direct to Moscow. I don’t think it would do your career plans much good, do you?”

“My God, you’re just as bad as they are.”

“True. It’s the nature of the game we all play, and in my own way, I’m sure I’m just as unforgiving as General Volkov. You see, there’s one unfortunate thing about this whole wretched business which won’t go away.”

“And what would that be?”

“Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein.”

There was a moment of terrible silence, as if a chill had touched everyone there.

Dillon’s face was white, skin stretched, the eyes dark holes. It was as if Death had come to meet them. Strangely, it was Billy who spoke in a gentle voice.

“She was a special lady. She deserved better.”

There was nothing Greta could say, and Ferguson sighed. “You could have joined the team, Major. You blew it. So, we’ll leave you in limbo.”

Levin sat in the Royal George as rain swept in from the sea, finished his fish pie and ordered another vodka from Patrick Ryan, who had only half a left ear: a row of surgical clips holding it together, the whole lot glistening with surgical spray.

“When did you say he’d be back?” he asked Ryan, referring to Ashimov.

“Two, maybe three. He and Liam Bell went down to Dublin. I heard them talking. It was something to do with the Russian Embassy.”

There was a roaring overhead. Levin said, “That sounds like an approach to Ballykelly.”

“It could be.”

He went off to the kitchen, and a moment later, Levin’s phone rang. Ashimov said, “I’m still at the Embassy in Dublin awaiting orders, God knows why, but I’ve news for you.”

“And what would that be?”

“Volkov wants you in London. They’re sending a Falcon.”

“I think it’s just flown in.”

“You’re to report to Luhzkov and await orders.”

“Have you any idea why?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Is it safe, for God’s sake?”

“Of course it is. You’re a commercial attaché at the Embassy, Ferguson can’t touch you. It would cause a diplomatic incident, and they wouldn’t like that at the moment.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask questions, just do as you’re told.”

He switched off, Levin sighed, went behind the bar, found a glass and reached for the vodka. The door burst open in a gust of rain and wind, and Liam Bell swept in with one of his men, Connor.

“There you are. How was Ibiza?”

“Hardly noticed. Algeria was crap.”

“Give me one of those.”

Levin dosed it out and one for Connor. “So you’ve come back alone? I’ve just had Ashimov on the phone from Dublin.”

“He was closeted with the Ambassador, all highly bloody secret and not for the ears of a peasant like me. Told me he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow and sent me packing.”

“And me thinking you were such good friends.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Bell grabbed the vodka bottle and poured another.

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

He walked round the bar, and Connor, a brawny individual, grabbed him by the jacket. “Don’t you talk to Mr. Bell like that, you Russian prick.”

“Actually, my grandmother on my mother’s side came from Cork.” Levin tossed the vodka in his glass into Connor’s eyes and head-butted him, sending him back against the bar.

Liam Bell reached under his armpit, and Levin had his Walther out and under his chin in a second.

“I wouldn’t – I really wouldn’t. They’ve sent a plane for me. I’m needed in London.” He patted Bell on the face. “Try and be good while I’m away.”

Lacey and Parry delivered Ferguson and his party to the RAF Air Sea Rescue Base at Oban on the west coast of Scotland, where they were picked up by a couple of RAF sergeants who took them by Land Rover to Oban itself.

One of them said, “That’s the Highlander, two hundred yards out. The inflatable at the jetty is yours. I know it doesn’t seem much, sir, but it’s got twin screws, a depth sounder, radar, automatic steering. It just looks bad because it’s meant to.”

“I get the point, Sergeant.” Ferguson smiled. “Actually, we’re old friends.”

“Safe journey back.”

“I don’t care what he says.” Harry shook his head. “It looks like a bummer to me.”

“I agree it doesn’t look like it’s nosing into the marina at Monte Carlo, but I suspect it will suit our purposes adequately,” Ferguson said. “Now let’s get our gear on board.”

A great deal of Oban seemed to be enveloped in a blanket of mist, and rain swept in. In the distance, clouds swallowed the mountaintops and bay and Kerrera, and there was heavy weather as waves dashed across the Firth of Lorn.

“I’ve said it before,” Billy moaned. “What a bloody place. It rains all the time, it’s cold…”

“Nonsense.” Ferguson patted his shoulder. “Some of the finest views in the Highlands here. Now let’s stow our gear and think about food.”

Ferguson, everything stowed, went up on deck and found Dillon in the wheelhouse with Harry and Billy. He was taking weaponry from the Quartermaster’s bag and passing pistols across.

“One for you, Charles.”

He gave him a Walther, then dropped a flap beside the instrument panel, disclosing some clips screwed into place. He put a Walther in one, a Browning with a twenty-round clip in the other, and pushed the flap back into place.

“Just so you all know they’re there. Now, what was it you said about food?”

They crossed to the jetty in the inflatable, found a nearby pub that offered a log fire, a variety of drinks and a venison pie, which they all sampled. Later, back on the Highlander, they sat under the canvas awning over the stern, rain pouring off, and except for Billy, drank whiskey and smoked, and Dillon turned on the deck lights, for that early darkness of the far north was closing in on them.

“So what’s the plan?” Ferguson asked.

“What would you like to happen?” Dillon asked.

“I’d like us to slip in out of the night like young Lord Nelson on a culling-out expedition.”

“And do what?”

“Get our hands on Ashimov and Levin or, to be honest and it was a perfect world, shoot the bastards. Do you think that’s too much to expect?”

“Not if we leave at six, hit the Irish coast early in the morning under cover of darkness, drape the Highlander with nets to look like a fishing boat. That way we can close in on shore and land.”

“We’ve one big advantage,” Billy said. “Dillon and me know Drumore Place, know what we’re getting into.”

There was a pause. Ferguson said, “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Just that you and Harry stay on the boat,” Dillon said, “and no arguments. We need somebody on board anyway to handle it if we have to make a quick getaway.”

“He’s right,” Harry said. “I mean, we’d be just lumbering around, wouldn’t we?”

“I know, Harry, I, too, hate getting old.” Ferguson nodded. “The ball’s in your court, Sean.”

Dillon shook his head. “There you go, calling me by my first name again.”

They left at six, Dillon at the wheel and Ferguson joined him. It was still dark, wind stirring. “What’s the forecast?” Ferguson asked.

“Four to five when we hit the open sea.” Dillon took out a cigarette one-handed and flicked his Zippo. “I love this.”

“So do I. Remember I told you how I tried to make up for a lost love by sailing the Atlantic run single-handed, Portsmouth by Long Island?”

“I remember what lost you your love. The woman couldn’t marry a man who’d take out five IRA men in Derry who’d tried to assassinate him.”

“An old story, my boy. Is there any chance you could let me take over?”

“Be my guest.”

Dillon went out, and Ferguson checked his instruments and took the Highlander through the harbor entrance in a long sweeping current to the Firth.

The swell started to move beneath, the masthead light began to roll rhythmically from side to side. Through the gloom, he could see the red-and-green navigation lights of a steamer. He steadied at twelve knots and plunged forward, feeling better than he’d done for years.

In London earlier in the afternoon, Levin had reported to Luhzkov at the Embassy.

“So, what’s all the fuss about?”

“I’ve no idea. I had a Most Secret from Volkov, saying to hold you here.”

“You mean physically?”

“Of course not. Hold you available.”

“And you don’t know why?”

“No.

Levin said, “Well, Boris, you have my number. I’m staying at the Dorchester, so you’ll have no trouble finding me.”

Later, sitting in the corner of the Piano Bar, indulging in a pasta salad and champagne, Levin was approached by Guiliano, the manager.

“So, we could have a little excitement around here,” Guiliano said.

“What do you mean?”

“A fellow countryman of yours.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Putin. He’s going to attend some EU conference in Paris, but there’s a whisper he’ll look in here on his way back.”

“You mean visit London?”

“No, visit here, the Dorchester. He’d be in good company. We’ve had every President in Europe stay at this hotel.”

He went to attend another customer. Levin lit a cigarette and sat there thinking about it. Maybe that was it, maybe his presence was needed in some way. It was a crazy world where international intelligence organizations could have their secrets and yet those secrets were readily available on the Grand Hotel circuit. You had to laugh, and he waved to the waiter to pour him another glass of champagne and toasted himself.

“To you, Igor,” he murmured. “The only sane man in a world gone mad.”

Having said that, it occurred to him that under the circumstances it might be sensible to book out of the hotel until he’d seen the way things worked out, which meant staff quarters at the Embassy for a while. How dreary, but there was no help for it.