Without Mercy

LONDON
14

At the White House, Blake Johnson listened to Ferguson almost in disbelief. “My God, I can’t believe you’ve managed to pull it off, Charles.”

“No, not me, Blake. Credit Roper, Dillon and Billy, and two superb RAF pilots willing to put themselves on the line. I’ll get back to you as things develop.”

Blake almost burst into the Oval Office and found Jake Cazalet up to his eyes in documents as ever.

“What the hell is this, Blake?” Cazalet sat back, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Blake told him – and Cazalet couldn’t stop laughing. “God, I can only imagine the look on Putin’s face! Go on, Blake, this is a special occasion, there’s scotch in the cabinet. I’ll toast you.”

At Farley Field, the Citation X coasted in as early light filtered through the dawn sky. Ferguson and Harry stood watching as it landed and taxied up and stopped. The Airstairs door opened, Parry got out and turned and gave his hand to Bella Zubin. She came down the steps, Billy followed with her suitcase, then came Max and Dillon and the pilots.

Ferguson went to meet them. “Mrs. Zubin, I can’t tell you what this means. I’m General Ferguson.”

“I can’t tell you what it means to me to be here after all these years, and my son with me. I still can’t believe it’s true. All thanks to these wonderful men. Heroes, all of them.”

“Yes, I’d agree there. I have a safe house at Holland Park. We’ll take you there to settle in, then we’ll decide where you’d like to go. There’s a limousine here for you.”

His driver came forward and picked up her suitcase. She said, “That’s all I brought out of Russia, General, the images of a full life. Other than that, just the clothes I’m standing up in.”

“Well, we’ll soon put that right.”

She got into the limousine, and Max Zubin followed her. “We’ll see you later,” Dillon said.

They moved away and Harry hugged Billy. “Jesus, you got away with it.”

“It was like a dream, really,” Billy said. “Lots of snow and Dillon poncing around dressed in the Russian equivalent of an SS uniform. That bleeding plane, it’s so fast, you’re there and then you’re here. It’s weird.”

Ferguson turned to Lacey and Parry. “Since the Russians can never admit this happened, I’m sure courier service planes will continue to operate as normal. On the other hand, I’d suggest you gentlemen avoid the duty in the future. In view of the extreme hazard you engaged in, however, the consequences if you’d been apprehended, I intend to have you both awarded a bar to your Air Force Cross.”

“I don’t know what to say, sir,” Lacey said.

“He’s right.” Dillon smiled. “It would have been the Gulag for you two.”

“And what about you, Billy?” Lacey demanded.

“Personally, all I want is to get down to the Dark Man and get the chef on to a great English breakfast. If you’d phone him, Harry, I’d be obliged, and if the rest of you have any bleeding sense, you’ll join me, including the pride of the RAF. Come on, Dillon,” and he led the way to Harry’s Range Rover.

While the plane had still been in the air, Volkov had been at the Belov Complex, viewing the guard before they put his corpse in a body bag. “No burial, instant cremation,” he ordered the GRU captain in charge.

Snow drifting, he went up to the reception area of the Belov Complex, and found the receptionist in his green uniform being treated by paramedics. He took the avuncular approach.

“You’ve done well. This must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“I can’t understand it. It was Mr. Belov himself, with some old lady. He said, ‘I’m Josef Belov, surely you recognize me?’ ”

“And then what happened?”

“Someone called out in English. It was from the plane. He said, ‘Come on, Igor.’ No – wait. He started to say something else. Dil something.”

Volkov’s heart chilled. “And what happened next?”

“A GRU captain appeared. He said it was a matter of State and that his name was Captain Levin. He told Mr. Belov to get on the plane, and then he took me into the office and knocked me out.”

Dear God, Dillon. Volkov patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “You’ve done well,” he repeated, turned, walked away and beckoned to the GRU captain.

“Make sure he’s on the penal battalion plane for Station Gorky tomorrow. Destroy his records. He ceases to exist.”

“At your orders, General.”

Volkov went back through the snow to his limousine. “Dillon,” he murmured. “You cunning bastard.” And yet he felt a certain admiration. “To follow us so closely, to do it so quickly. Who in the hell would have thought of it?” There was an almost reluctant smile on his face. “ ‘I’m Captain Levin,’ ” he murmured. “You dog, Dillon.”

He lit a Russian cigarette, leaned back and said to his driver, “The Kremlin.”

There was nothing certain in this life, except that the President would not be pleased.

He sat in his office for quite some time until the secret door opened and the President stalked in. “We’re going to look like fools!”

“Mr. President, we can always say he’s ill, so the ceremony has to be postponed. Maybe he’s had cancer all along. That would explain his generosity to the State. And then after an appropriate period of time… maybe he’ll die. Willing it all to the State, of course. We can still do this.”

Putin stood lost in thought. “Maybe. For your sake, I hope so, Volkov.” He glowered at the General, then stalked back out, the secret door closing behind him.

Volkov sat there, still feeling uneasy. Perhaps more could be done here, there were loose ends. He lifted his coded phone, checked on his list of numbers and called Ashimov.

At Drumore Place, Ashimov was seated by the fire with Liam Bell, enjoying a drink, and he jumped to attention. “I’ve bad news for you, Ashimov.”

He told him all abut it, and emphasized, “You’re in deep shit as well. We’ve been outfoxed by Ferguson and Dillon over and over again. The business in Algiers, the loss of Major Novikova, all those botched attempts in London, in Drumore, and now this debacle in Moscow. And the final insolence – Dillon masquerading as Levin. The President is mad as hell.”

Ashimov was choking. “What can I say, General?”

“I think you’d better come home, Major. We’ll discuss your future when I see you.”

He switched off, smiling, but Ashimov wasn’t smiling at his end. A return home and a discussion of his future could mean anything from a bullet in the head to a one-way trip to some Gulag. On the other hand, if he could recover the situation, dispose of Max Zubin and his mother, for example, perhaps even Dillon… The rage boiled up in him. Always Dillon.

He poured a large vodka and slopped it down. Liam Bell said, “What’s your problem?”

And Ashimov poured it all out.

At the same time, Volkov phoned Levin, who had moved back to the Dorchester and the delights of the Piano Bar. He was at a corner table indulging in iced vodka and beluga caviar, like a true Russian, but as Volkov spoke, Levin was all attention.

Afterward he said, “You’ve got to give it to him. It was a stroke of genius, the whole caper.”

“You don’t need to exaggerate. I wish he worked for me. I’ve spoken to Ashimov, pointed out his blame in the matter, and suggested he return home. He knows what that means, so I suspect he’ll try to come up with some scheme to eradicate the Zubins in London. Something to make him look good to me. He’ll probably try to recruit the Irishman, Liam Bell.”

“He’ll certainly try to recruit me,” Levin said.

“Exactly. I’m not sure I can rely on you, but do what you can.”

When Ashimov was finished, Liam Bell shook his head. “You’re in more than a tight corner, my friend. Go back home and God knows what Volkov will have done to you.”

“Where else can I go?” Ashimov said. “But if I can go back with some sort of victory, knock off Zubin, his mother, even Dillon…”

There was a madness about him now, Liam Bell saw that. He shrugged. “How in the hell could you achieve that?”

“Igor Levin is still in place at the London Embassy. If he’ll join me, he’ll have all the GRU intelligence sources we need to find out what Ferguson’s done with Zubin and his mother.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“You could help. You’ve still got London contacts.”

“Oh, no,” Bell said. “I’ve had enough on this one.”

“I’ve got a fortune in the contingency fund in the safe in my study. I’ll call in a company Falcon, we land at Archbury. A couple of days should do it. I’ll give you twenty-five thousand pounds in advance, another twenty-five when we get back.”

And as usual, greed won the day. “Two days?” Bell said. “And I want the fifty in advance.”

“All right.” Ashimov didn’t even argue.

“Well, phone Igor Levin, set it up and let’s see the color of your money.”

After Volkov’s call, Levin had been waiting to hear from Drumore Place, had been wondering how to handle Ashimov when he was contacted, which he was in his suite at the Dorchester.

Ashimov said, “We’ve had problems in Moscow.”

Levin had decided on the direct approach. “I know all about the whole bloody mess.”

“God, if I could get my hands on Dillon,” Ashimov said.

“Well, you can’t, old stick. So, Volkov’s told you to come home, is that it?”

“Yes!”

“We all know what that means.”

“I’m coming over,” Ashimov said, and his desperation was plain. “If we could find where they have Zubin and his mother, I could deal with them.”

“Get them back to Russia, you mean? I think it’s too late for that.”

“They can end up in the Thames as far as I’m concerned,” Ashimov exploded. “Just find out where they are. Dammit, you’ve got all the resources of the GRU – find out! I’ll be flying into Archbury.”

“Alone?”

“No, Bell has agreed to accompany me.”

“Out of loyalty or for money?”

“Money, of course.”

“Always the best way. I’ll see what I can do.”

He sat there, thinking about it. There had been a disturbing edge of madness about Ashimov, but maybe there always had been. Still, he had a certain duty in this matter, so he found his coat, called for his Mercedes and drove to the Russian Embassy in Kensington.

In his office, Luhzkov sat and listened as Levin made certain demands.

“But this is really asking too much, Igor. You ask for full cooperation from us at every level. How can I agree to it when I don’t even know what is so urgent that you request this?”

Levin produced his mobile, made a call and said, “It’s good to speak to you, General. I’m having problems with Colonel Luhzkov at the London Embassy. He questions the importance of my mission.” He listened, then passed the phone across. “General Volkov would appreciate a word.”

Volkov said, “You’ve got a good record, Luhzkov, you’re a fine officer. I’m amazed at your attitude in this matter. I’m sure Levin misheard. Ask him to speak to me again.”

Luhzkov did, already trembling. Levin listened, then said, “Of course, General.”

He took the Putin warrant from his pocket and laid it before the Colonel. Luhzkov read it, remembering when Levin had first shown it to him in the pub, and Volkov said, “Would you dispute an order from your President, Colonel?”

“Of course not, General, anything I can do, anything.”

“This is a matter of the highest state security, Colonel. Captain Levin acts not only with my total authority, as head of the GRU, but under direct order from the President himself.”

“I understand, General.” Luhzkov was in deep water and he realized it.

“In this matter, Captain Levin has total control. I’ve already spoken to the Ambassador. Until the present emergency is solved, Captain Levin is in charge and will be offered every assistance.”

“Anything I can do, you may rely on me, General.”

He handed the phone to Levin, his face very pale. Levin said, “Look, General, I don’t know what you expect all this to achieve, but I’ll do what Ashimov wants. You do realize he’s a madman, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not.”

“Actually, that’s what I’m relying on.”

Volkov switched off and Levin put the mobile in his pocket. “The first thing you do, Luhzkov, is speak to Ferguson and ask for any news he has of the whereabouts of Major Greta Novikova. You will tell him you have information that she’s being held at Holland Park. As a diplomatic attaché at our Embassy, she is entitled to diplomatic immunity and the right to be returned to Russia.”

“Can this be true?”

“For God’s sake, Boris, get real. The days of shepherd’s pie and beer at the pub are long gone. Do it!”

“As you say.”

“I do say. You also make it clear to all GRU personnel in the Embassy that I’m in charge. Anything I want, I get. Men, equipment, whatever.”

“Of course.”

“As long as we know where we are.” Levin smiled. “I’d better go and get on with it.”

He arranged a command center at the Embassy, with a Sergeant Chomsky in charge of communications. A team of six men followed, with full use of anything needed in the vehicle pool. Suzuki motorcycles figured largely, there was a Telecom van in the garage, and another rather artistic van, emblazoned with signs claiming to belong to a courier service.

Levin assembled Chomsky and the men. “Line up.”

They did and he allowed each man to read the Putin warrant. “Any questions?” he asked. No one said a word. “This is a matter of extreme importance, so nobody questions, nobody argues. If you do, I’ll have you sent to a very unpleasant place. Chomsky?”

“At your orders, Captain.”

“Sergeant Chomsky and I survived Afghanistan and Chechnya. London is far preferable, so we’ve no intention of fucking up here, have we, Sergeant?”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“Good. I’ll issue a list of my requirements. Anything you want, you get.” He smiled. “Except women. Women are your responsibility.”

He walked away from the motor pool. The men laughed nervously. One of them said, “Where’d he get an accent like that? And that suit! What is he, some kind of ponce?”

Chomsky gave him a long look. “I wouldn’t advise you letting him hear you say that. He’d kill you and smile while he’s doing it. Now let’s get to work.”

The safe house at Holland Park was an obvious target. A few yards up the road, Chomsky had a Telecom van parked, a manhole cover up, a man in a yellow jacket and helmet working. He was backed up by a motorcyclist in a side street.

In Cavendish Place outside Ferguson’s apartment, a gardener was working in the central area of the square.

Levin debated about Dillon’s cottage in Stable Mews, but decided against it. More and more, he felt an affinity with Dillon.

He said to Chomsky, “Not Dillon. Anything in the slightest way out of the ordinary near his place, and he’d smell it like a hound dog. I would.”

Chomsky, a law student who’d only joined the army as a conscript, had fed on Afghanistan and Chechnya and found he liked it. He had immersed himself in the files of the whole affair.

“I don’t think they’d put them up in a hotel, sir, so Holland Park makes sense, probably as a temporary measure.”

“And what comes after?”

“God knows. Some sort of house elsewhere. If the Captain will allow me?” He opened a file. “I took the liberty of accessing these gangsters, the Salters. They make the Moscow Mafia look like rubbish. Millionaires many times over.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, Chomsky. I’d forgotten you spent two years training for the law before the army.”

“They own houses and developments all over London, sir. I don’t mean rubbish. First-class stuff in some of the most exclusive squares.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Everything stems from Hangman’s Wharf, sir, the Dark Man. I’ve been and looked. Boats of every kind tie up at the wharf, some people live in them, others work on them. I found one for rent almost opposite the pub. I’ll put Popov in it. His English is excellent. He can spend his time painting the damn boat or whatever. He’ll have a Suzuki. Who knows what might come out of the Dark Man.”

“Excellent,” Levin told him. “They all seem enthusiastic.”

“It’s a little different from that, sir.” Chomsky was almost apologetic. “They like it here, they like life in London. They don’t want to screw up and get sent home.”

“Dear God, what’s the world coming to? Okay, straight to work. I need to know where the Zubins are being held as soon as possible.”

At Holland Park, Max Zubin and his mother were handed over to Sergeant Doyle. “Temporary accommodation, I promise you,” said Ferguson.

After they’d gone upstairs, he went in to Roper. “God, I feel knocked out. I can’t believe it worked.”

“Thanks to Dillon and Billy Salter.” Roper lit a cigarette. “Dillon’s had a death wish for years. I worry that young Billy’s inherited it. Where are they?”

“Dark Man for breakfast.”

“And why aren’t we?”

“Damn you, you’re right,” and Ferguson called to Doyle. “Get the People Carrier out, Sergeant. Hangman’s Wharf for breakfast.”

Ashimov, in the kitchen having breakfast with Bell, answered Levin’s call.

“I’ve got a phony motorcycle cop parked at Holland Park. A big van emerged, carrying Ferguson and Roper. My man followed and guess what? The Dark Man at Wapping. I’d say it’s certain Zubin and his mother were taken to Holland Park.”

“So what now?”

Levin went through the arrangements he had made. “I think we’ve covered most options.”

“I think so, too. I’ve ordered the plane. Bell and I will come over later this morning. We’re staying in some hotel he knows near the Embassy in Kensington. The Tangier. Small and unpretentious.”

Levin could have said that large and ostentatious was the best way to conceal anything, but he let it go.

“I’ll expect to hear from you.”

“I can’t wait.”

Sitting over coffee after breakfast, Ferguson said, “The question is, what do we do with them?”

“What’s wrong with Holland Park?” Billy said.

“Too constrained. I’d like them established somewhere more established.”

“What you want is quiet obscurity for a few weeks until Zubin grows a beard again,” Dillon said.

“Something like that.”

“The money’s there,” Ferguson said. “Plenty to buy a nice place.”

“Yes, but finding what you want takes time,” Billy said. “I like old Bella, she’s a great lady. She deserves the best.” He frowned. “Just a minute, I’ve got an idea, Harry. We’ve got a list of properties a yard long in Mayfair, the West End.”

“Billy, sometimes you get it right,” Harry said. “We’ll come up with something suitable, I’m sure.”

At eleven o’clock on Russian television, with an atmosphere of some solemnity and gloom, it was announced that Josef Belov had collapsed and been rushed to hospital. There was a suspicion of a recurrence of stomach cancer. There had been concern about his health for some time. There was a definite hint that he had made some sort of personal sacrifice as regards the future of Belov International. There was a significant absence of political figures to comment, but footage of Max Zubin at the Dorchester in London with Putin and the British Prime Minister was run and rerun.

The announcement was picked up by the BBC, where at Holland Park, Zubin and his mother saw it. So did Greta Novikova, who immediately demanded Roper. She found him in the computer room.

“What the hell happened?” she asked.

“Well, as usual, Dillon happened, and a few friends.”

Afterward, she sat there shaking her head. “Ashimov will be in serious trouble, Roper. You must understand, he’ll be called home, and I wouldn’t like to think of the price he’ll have to pay. He’ll be blamed for everything.”

“That’s the problem.”

“So, the Zubins are here?”

“On the floor above you.” He glanced at his watch. “They’ll be down for lunch soon. Do you want to join in? After all, you met them in Moscow.”

She got up. “Why not?” She walked to the door, Doyle following, and hesitated. “I love my country, Roper, does that make sense?”

“If you go back, you’ll disappear from sight forever. Stalin may have died a long time ago, but nothing changes, Greta.”

She went out slowly, Doyle following.

Ashimov flew over from Ballykelly, rising up through heavy rain. He found the vodka and sat there drinking. “Bloody country, it rains nearly every day. I’ll be glad to get out of it.”

“To Russia? Lousy weather, I should have thought, at this time of the year. Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Bell said.

“Of what?”

“Oh, our line of work. Years of putting yourself on the line, dodgy passports like today, lies.”

Ashimov swallowed more vodka. “I loved it, worked my way up from being a private soldier. They’d have made me a colonel for sure this year. I was still officially GRU, though I was responsible for all Belov’s security. You know the good work I did with the KGB in the old days working for the Irish Cause.”

“I can’t deny that.”

“And then Ferguson and Dillon came on the scene, always Dillon. This business with Zubin has ruined my life.”

“And you think knocking off Zubin and his mother will put you back on Volkov’s good books?”

“I’d be even better if it could be Ferguson and Dillon. I’d like to see them both rot in hell.”

In spite of being obviously drunk, he had another, and Bell, on the other side of the aisle, picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it, already regretting his involvement. But times were hard. It wasn’t the old days any longer, with a pistol in your pocket and a song in your heart for the glorious Cause. Fifty thousand pounds. He’d just have to put up with this madman. After all, it was only two days.

Chomsky hadn’t told Levin the exact truth about Popov, his man in the boat at Hangman’s Wharf, for like Levin himself, Popov’s mother had been English. She had died of cancer while Popov served in Chechnya. The truth was she’d had a younger sister living in Islington, so Popov’s posting to the London Embassy had presented him with an aunt and a ready-made extended family. His English was not only excellent, as Chomsky had said, it was perfect, which proved more than useful on his assignment at Hangman’s Wharf, for nobody doubted he was English.

He ventured into the pub, had meat-and-potato pie, beer, even recognized Harry Salter and Billy from the photos he’d been shown. Outside working on the boat at the wharf, he’d noticed them walking down to the warehouse development and going in. He’d taken a walk that way, read the notice board outside extolling the virtues of Salter Developments.

There was a small exhibition in the foyer, plans on display, leaflets declaring how special the apartments were and, most special of all, the penthouse. At that end of the wharf, the development continued, rising straight up from the Thames, a row of balconies sixty feet high, and what had originally been some sort of cargo gates.

A man in a security uniform wandered out of the entrance. He smiled. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“You can say that again.”

“Do you live round here?”

“Only on a temporary basis. I’m doing one of the boats up along the wharf there. Just a paint job, really. Charley Black.”

He held out his hand, the man shook it.

“Tony Small. I’ve not been here long myself.”

“Might see you in the pub later.”

“Could be.”

Levin’s boys followed various vehicles out of Holland Park, sometimes cross-matching Ferguson from Cavendish Place or the other way round, Dillon in his Mini Cooper, the Salters, particularly Billy, visiting a number of times and occasionally the trail leading to the Ministry of Defence.

There was a breakthrough when Billy, in his uncle’s Aston, left Holland Park with the Zubins. The man in the Telecom manhole alerted his colleague on a security firm Suzuki, who followed them all over Mayfair and the West End visiting twelve properties, eventually returning to Holland Park.

“House-hunting, Captain,” the false security man told him. “Sometimes there was a For Rent or a For Sale board.”

“And sometimes not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The real estate agent’s boards, what was the name?”

“Salter Enterprises.”

“And afterwards, they returned to Holland Park?”

“No, sir, they stopped at Hangman’s Wharf. There’s a Salter warehouse development there. They went in and had a look. Came out an hour later. It’s close to the Dark Man.”

“Did they go in the pub?”

“No. Billy Salter took them straight back to Holland Park.”

“Interesting,” Levin said to Chomsky. “Contact Popov and tell him to find out what he can about this development on the wharf.”

Popov worked away at painting his boat by the wharf, and in the later part of the afternoon saw the security man, Tony Small, emerge from the development and walk along to the Dark Man. Popov left his work and went across to the pub. It had just started to rain.

Small was seated in a corner booth, eating a Cornish pasty, a beer at his elbow, and reading the London Evening Standard. Popov got a beer and turned and smiled.

“Hello, again.”

Small looked up. “Oh, it’s you. How’s it going?”

“Just started to rain. Won’t help the painting. Can I join you?”

“Why not?”

Popov sat on the other side of the table. “I was really impressed with that place where you work. Somebody told me that this Salter company owns this pub.”

“They own more than that, mate. Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, own just about everything you can see from here along the riverbank.”

“Is that so?”

“Millions in development. Restaurants, gambling, you name it, they’re into it. It’s strictly legal, but it wasn’t always like that. King of the river, Harry. I should know, I spent five years with the river police. Nobody messed with Harry Salter.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe you’re working here in Wapping and don’t realize who he is.”

“No, I’m from West Sussex,” Popov said. “Had a real estate agency in Chichester. I got a nice offer to take me over from a national company. Good money, so I took it.” Sticking with the truth, he went on, “My old aunt lives in Islington. I’m staying with her and I’m doing the boat up for a friend of hers while I consider my options.”

“Oh, I see.” Small finished his beer and waved to the bar. “Two more.” He then went on to fill in Popov with details of the wicked past of the Salters.

“My God,” Popov said when he’d finished. “And now he’s finished a place like your development. Must be making a fortune.”

“He will be when he’s sold them. It’s all being talked up in the trade. He’s going to do that for a month, then kind of explode on the market. They’re all nice, the apartments, but I tell you what – you should see the penthouse. It’s fantastic. Great views of the Thames all the way down.”

“God, I’d love to see that,” Popov said. “I mean, having been in the business.” He finished his beer. “Fancy a scotch?”

“Well, that’s very nice of you. How can I refuse?”

By the time he’d accepted two large ones, mellowed by alcohol, he said, “I should be getting back. Tell you what, come and have a look.”

Which Popov did and saw everything. The two private elevators at the front, two more at the rear, the glorious penthouse spread across the top of the building, beautifully furnished, the old cargo gates jutting out over the river like terraces. It was all very impressive.

“This is wonderful,” he said.

“It’s going to cost somebody a packet.”

“I thought I saw someone going in earlier,” Popov said.

“Yes, you did. Billy Salter was showing a couple round, a middle-aged guy and an old lady. She was ecstatic about it. He’s invited them round for drinks at six-thirty.”

“It’ll be dark then,” Popov said.

“Not too dark for champagne and caviar. He’s having it brought round from the pub.”

“God, the rich know how to live.” Popov shook his head. “Thanks, Tony. I’d better get back and see if the weather allows me to continue working.”

He hurried back to the boat, eager to get his mobile out and tell Chomsky everything.

Levin, sitting with Chomsky, said, “So the Salters have invited the Zubins round to this penthouse. Why?”

“To discuss moving them in for a while?”

“Exactly. So, who else would be invited? Put your lawyer’s mind to that.”

“Ferguson and Dillon. That’s probably it.”

“They might have their minders.”

“I don’t think so. It’s only a hundred yards from the pub, and Harry, the gangster, might like to play the gracious host. I’d say he’ll have the goodies delivered beforehand, everything laid out nicely, low lights, soft music.”

“He could also have a couple of hoods prowling around, armed to the teeth.”

“So I could be wrong.”

Levin’s mobile went. It was Ashimov. “We’re at the Tangier.”

“You’ve told the Falcon to wait at Archbury?”

“Yes, but why?”

“My dear Yuri, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s never to leave anything to chance. You never know when you’re going to need to get out of somewhere in a hurry.”

“Never mind that. What’s happening?”

“I’ll call you back.”

Igor Levin lit a Russian cigarette and offered one to Chomsky, who said, “You’re having second thoughts.” It was a statement, not a question.

Levin said, “He’s an oaf, that one. He’s also a murderous bastard.”

“And Max Zubin was a paratrooper in Chechnya, and so were you.”

“True. I’m also an officer of the GRU who’s supposed to obey orders and serve his country.”

“As a lawyer, I could argue that what you’re obeying are General Volkov’s orders, which might not be what actually is right for your country.”

“Yes, I take your point. We could argue this one until the crack of doom. Book a Mercedes, draw me two AK47s from the gun room and put them in the trunk. I’ll deal with Ashimov.”

He was angry, felt pushed, but there it was, so he phoned Ashimov and said, “There you are. I know where they’ll be at six-thirty. I’ll take you there. Look for me,” and he switched off and said to Chomsky, “There are some wonderful English passports in GRU files. If I were you, I’d fill one in.”

At Holland Park, Ferguson was talking to Roper when Dillon walked in. “Good, I’m glad you could make it,” Ferguson said. “Harry’s putting himself out. Caviar, champagne. I can’t persuade this one to join us.”

“I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep in three days,” Roper said. “I’m winding down. If you want an extra guest, take Greta Novikova. She actually met them in Moscow, had breakfast with them this morning. They like her.”

“An interesting idea,” Ferguson said, and turned to Doyle. “Tell the major we’re taking her out, Sergeant, for some champagne and caviar.”

Doyle said, “I would say she won’t be able to resist, sir,” and he went out.

Roper poured a scotch. “I hope you’re carrying, Sean.”

“Always do. Why?”

“Because I still have the feeling this is not over yet.”

“To be frank, I’ve been thinking that, too.”

Dillon slipped a hand under the back of his jacket and touched the butt of the Walther in the back of his waistband.

Greta appeared fifteen minutes later in a black suit and a duster coat. “What’s this?” she asked Ferguson. “Are you trying to soften me up?”

“Not at all. It’s a social occasion, my dear, to take you out of yourself. We won’t be needing you, Sergeant, so let’s be off,” and he took her out through the door, his hand under her elbow.

At the Hotel Tangier, Levin called Ashimov’s suite, told him he was in the bar, got himself a vodka and sat in the corner. It was early evening, so no one was in the bar itself, two or three people in the lounge area. After a while, Ashimov and Bell arrived.

Ashimov was tanked up, eyes glittering. “What’s going on?”

“Keep your voice down,” Levin said. “Unless you want half the hotel to know our business.”

“How dare you speak to me like that? I’m your commanding officer.”

“I act under direct orders from General Volkov. That’s the only reason I’m assisting in this matter at all. I’ll take you where you want to go, but before we do, I’ll explain, as far as I know, the situation we’ll find there.”

“What the hell is this?” Ashimov demanded loudly.

Levin got up and said to Bell, “I’m going out to my Mercedes and I’m going to drive away. If you move fast, you can join me, but not unless this idiot here keeps his mouth shut.”

He walked out, got behind the wheel of the Mercedes, and Bell and Ashimov scrambled in behind. “There are two AK47s in the back of the car,” Levin said. “We’ll be where we’re going in half an hour. Now keep quiet while I explain what I know of the situation. I’m letting you know now, I can’t guarantee who’ll be there other than the Zubins.”

Ashimov was burning. “I’ll have you court-martialed for this.”

Levin pulled in at the curb, leaned back and drove his elbow into Ashimov’s mouth. “Any more, and I’ll kick you out. Now make up your mind.”

Ashimov put a handkerchief to his bloodied mouth, Bell leaned over and patted Levin on the shoulder. “Just take us there and let’s get this thing over with.”

“Then persuade your friend.”

At Hangman’s Wharf, Levin parked by the development, got out and opened the rear compartment. Bell and Ashimov joined him. “There are your weapons.” He turned and waved, and Popov, on the deck of the boat, ran forward through the gathering darkness.

“Yes, Captain.”

“They’re upstairs, are they?” Levin looked up at the lights in the penthouse.

“There was food and booze delivered earlier, when the Salters arrived.”

“No minders?”

“None. A short while ago, a Daimler appeared. The Zubins, Ferguson and Dillon and Major Novikova.”

“Greta? Really? How interesting. Well… you’ve done a good job. Now get out of here. Tell Chomsky I’ve said he can do the same for you. He’ll know what I mean.”

Popov cleared off rapidly. Bell said, “Now what?”

“Well, I’ll go and sort the security guard out. Once that’s done I’ll call you.”

He walked in the foyer, lighting a cigarette, and found Tony Small watering potted plants beside a huge fish tank. He turned and smiled. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Not really, old chap.” Levin pulled a silenced Walther from his raincoat pocket and struck him across the side of the head. Small went down like a stone. Levin grasped him by the collar, dragged him behind the reception desk, opened the office door and deposited him inside. Then he locked the door. He turned and whistled, and Ashimov and Bell hastened to join him.

“Over here.” He led the way to the lifts and pressed the right button. “All the way to the sixth floor and there’s your party, Major.”

The open-plan kitchen of the penthouse was ideal for the kind of entertaining Harry had in mind. There was caviar, prawns, salads, Dom Pérignon champagne. Greta, having been warmly received by Bella, busied herself offering caviar on toast while Billy saw to the champagne.

“It’s perfect,” he said to Ferguson. “They’ll be way up over the world here. I mean, look at the views.” He pulled one shutter after another to the side and stepped out on the hardwood terrace and leaned on the rail. “It’s fantastic.” Lights sparkled on a passing boat in the gathering darkness below.

“It certainly is,” Ferguson said, and went back inside. “Bella, Max. Do you think you could put up with staying here for a while?”

“My dear General, who couldn’t?” Bella said.

“First-rate security,” Harry said, as Billy went round topping up the champagne. “Or it will be when we’re up and running properly, you’ll have no worries here. Drink up, folks. To a job well done – to friendship.”

They all joined in the toast, glasses raised, crystal lights illuminating the magnificent vista of the huge penthouse, the shutters opening to the terraces outside, lights from the river below. And at the far end of the entrance corridor, the lift came smoothly to a halt and Igor Levin led the way out, followed by Ashimov and Bell.

Ashimov, his AK held at the ready, brushed Levin to the side roughly. “Where are they? Let me get at them.”

He half-ran along the corridor, Levin went after him, a Walther in his hand and pursued by Bell. There was immediate shock in the party group, but Ashimov fired into the ceiling.

“Hold it – everybody. Just do as you’re told. Hands on heads!”

Levin moved to one side and stood with his back to one of the entrances to the terrace outside. The men hesitated, then did as they were told.

Greta glanced at Levin. “Igor, what a surprise.”

“Not as much as you being here, you traitoress bitch. I should shoot you myself,” Ashimov said.

He held the AK on his hip, covering them. Bell did the same; Levin’s right hand hung at his side, holding the Walther.

Ferguson said, “You’ve got it wrong. Major Novikova is my prisoner. She is not here of her own free will.”

Ashimov stepped forward at once and smacked the butt of his AK into the side of Ferguson’s neck. The General went down with a groan, falling against Harry, who tried to catch him, leaning over, and Ashimov gave him the same as Ferguson in the back of the neck.

Max Zubin held his mother close. Billy and Dillon stood there, hands behind the neck, Greta between them, trembling a little.

Ashimov said, “So, shaking with fear, are you?” She shook her head. “You should. You’re a disgrace to your uniform.”

“You disgrace my country by your very existence, you animal.”

He struck her backhanded across the face, sending her staggering into Dillon, who caught her. Ashimov said, “A traitor to her country, Captain Levin.” There was a strange formality to the way he spoke. “You may have the honor of executing her.”

There was a stunned silence. Bella said, “You take me back to the Gulag. Many people like you in charge there. No better than Nazis.”

“Shut up, old woman, your turn will come.” He looked at Levin. “I gave you an order. Shoot Major Novikova.”

There was a pause while everyone waited. Levin had raised the Walther slightly, but now he said, “Sorry I can’t oblige, but I don’t think I want to do that.”

His hand came up fast, but not fast enough, as Ashimov fired two rounds slamming into Levin’s chest, sending him out on the terrace to go backward over the hardwood rail and down into the river below.

Dillon pushed Greta to one side, his hand went under his jacket at the rear, the Walther came up smoothly and he shot Ashimov in the forehead twice. Billy, on one knee, had reached for the Colt.25 in his ankle holster and caught Bell with a heart shot. The Irishman went backward, involuntarily firing at the ceiling for a moment.

Greta ran out to the terrace rail and peered down into the dark. “My God, Igor.”

Dillon put an arm around her. “It’s a tidal river, the Thames. What goes in goes out one way or the other. At the end, he just couldn’t do it. We all have choices.”

Behind them they heard Ferguson on the phone. “Ferguson here. I’ve got two disposals for you. Most immediate.” He gave the address.

Greta said, “What does he mean, disposal?”

“We have access to a private crematorium in North London. The corpse goes in for thirty minutes. What’s left is six pounds of gray ash.”

“And Ferguson can do that?”

“Ferguson can do anything.”

Harry said, “I feel well-used. The bastard could certainly dish it out.” He poured champagne down and swallowed it. “Come on, everybody. Another drink, then we’ll see you home.”

Ferguson said to Bella and Zubin, “I think you’ll find this is the end of the affair.”

“A short run,” Bella said. “And thank God for it.”

The lift returned and Billy got out. “I found the security guard, Tony Small, in the back of reception. No serious damage, just a sore head. I told him it was a mob thing. Five hundred quid will keep him happy.”

“We’ll get you good people back home,” Ferguson said. “I’ll leave you and Billy to handle the disposal people, Harry.”

“We’ll be in touch, General.”

Sometime earlier, Levin had drifted out of the Thames close to a ladder that took him up to the wharf. Rounds blocked by a bulletproof vest often knock the recipient unconscious, but not in Levin’s case. The ice-cold waters of the Thames had taken care of that. He reached in his shirt, pulled out Ashimov’s two rounds, then hurried to where he had left the Mercedes, got in and drove away.

Half an hour later, at the Dorchester, where he had arrived soaked to the skin, he showered, changed clothes and packed. He had various phone numbers from GRU records, and one of them was the Holland Park safe house. He phoned and a man answered.

“Who is this?”

“Would that be Major Roper?”

“And who would you be?”

“Igor Levin. Are you aware of what happened at the penthouse?”

“Of course. I was told Ashimov blew you away.”

“Over a railing and a rather steep fall into the Thames. Tell Dillon there’s nothing like a titanium vest. I survived, got back to the Dorchester, where my condition probably surprised the doorman, but being the best hotel in London they were able to cope. Just tell me. What happened after Ashimov shot me?”

Roper told him in a few short sentences. “It’s all taken care of. Ashimov and the ex-Chief of Staff of the IRA are, as we speak, being turned into six pounds each of gray ash. The Zubins have survived, so have Ferguson and Harry, though a little damaged.”

“I was surprised to see Greta there.”

“Only as a guest.”

“Give Dillon and Billy my respects.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ve got diplomatic immunity. You can’t touch me.”

“And you would be advised to stay out of Russia.”

“Yes, but I have an English passport through my mother, and an Irish one through one of my grandmothers. Not to mention lots of money, Roper. I think I’ll lay low in Dublin for a while. What the hell, you sound like a nice guy, so I’ll give you my mobile number. If Dillon wants me, I’ll make it easy.”

“Cheeky bastard,” but Roper took it.

“Take care, though for a man in a wheelchair you do well. Tell Greta not to be stupid.”

The line went dead.

Roper sat there, smiling, then reached for the whiskey bottle and found it empty. He pushed his chair to the drinks cabinet, found a bottle of scotch and opened it. He poured a glass and held it high.

“Well, here’s to you. Good luck.”

A moment later, Ferguson came in with Greta, Dillon and the Zubins.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Ferguson said.

“So I should.” Roper poured another scotch. “I’ve just been talking to a ghost. You know, someone who’s returned from the dead.”

And it was Dillon, with that extraordinary sixth sense, who said, “Igor Levin.”

“He was wearing a bulletproof vest, just like you favor, Sean. Headfirst into the Thames.”

“Thank God,” Bella Zubin said. “He was always a lovely boy, wasn’t he, Max?”

“Well, that’s one way of describing him,” her son told her.

Greta was unable to stop smiling. “He’s himself alone, that one.”

“And he said to tell Greta not to be stupid.”

She stopped smiling and shrugged. Ferguson said, “He’s right, except that diplomatic immunity would send him home.”

“He is half English.”

“Volkov would crucify him.”

“I’m not so sure. He’ll go from Archbury, there’s a Falcon there. I’ve checked. Are you going to stop him?”

“Irish citizen. What would be the point?” He turned to Dillon. “What do you think?”

“Well, we not only know where he is, he’s left his mobile number.”

“Exactly.” Ferguson smiled. “Damn his eyes, I like the bastard. Who knows what the future holds?”

Igor Levin waited on the High Street beside Kensington Palace Gardens. It was raining heavily, the Russian Embassy up there. The end of something, in a way.

The phone rang and Volkov said, “God, what a bloody mess. I don’t blame you. Ashimov’s insane, I should have realized that years ago. I’ve heard you’ve decided to flee to Dublin. That’s the smart move, but there’s part of you that’s still a sentimentalist. Taking Chomsky and Popov with you, I understand.”

“Yes, they’re very good. But then, so were Ferguson’s people.”

“Dillon – I wish he was available. Brutal, resourceful. And that language thing he has. Very useful.”

“And the Zubins?”

“Forget them. Ferguson will always have them guarded. Putin’ll just have to get ahold of Belov International another way. He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him, so we’re all just laying low. Heads are going to roll, so I’m going to make damn sure one of them isn’t mine.” He sighed. “Take care, Igor.” And he switched off.

A moment or so later, Chomsky and Popov said good-bye to the Embassy of the Russian Federation, came down Kensington Palace Gardens, each with a couple of suitcases. They loaded up the Mercedes and Levin got out to help. They were as excited as schoolboys.

Levin said, “You drive, Chomsky, and you sit with him, Popov. I’ll spread myself in the back. Your passports are all in order, I trust.”

“Ah, yes, Captain,” Chomsky said. “I thought we might as well go the whole hog and take two each from the files, English and Irish.”

“They’re excellent, sir,” Popov said. “Stamps on all the pages. We’ve been to places I haven’t been, if you follow me.”

“Oh, I do,” Levin said. “Put Archbury into the road-finder, Chomsky, and follow the instructions.”

“Will there be the chance of trouble, sir?”

“I doubt it. But let’s not take any chances – let’s move.”

He took out his Russian cigarettes, selected one, pinched the tube and lit it. Then he produced a couple of miniature bottles of vodka from his pocket, which he’d taken from the bar in his room at the Dorchester. There was a shelf in the Mercedes, water in plastic bottles and plastic tumblers. He filled one of them with the contents of the two vodka miniatures.

It had been a long day, a hard day, but here he was, against all the odds. He drank some of the vodka. Volkov had been extraordinarily well informed about his plans, and Levin, looking at the two young men in front, wondered which one it was, Chomsky or Popov. It had to be one of them, the information had been too fresh.

Not that it mattered. That was for another time. He examined the rest of his vodka and considered toasting Greta Novikova, but what would have been the point? He swallowed it down and sat back.