Without Mercy

DRUMORE PLACE DUBLIN MOSCOW
3

Three weeks earlier, Sean Dillon and Billy Salter were at Drumore Place, that great house that was Josef Belov’s pride and joy, engaged in a desperate firefight while the villagers kept their heads down inside their cottages.

At the Royal George, Patrick Ryan had the shutters up while his mother, who was the cook at Drumore Place, and old Hamilton, the butler, cowered in the kitchen, where Ryan joined them.

“Mother Mary, it’s just like the old days,” she moaned.

“Sure, and they never went away,” he told her, which was true, for this was still Provisional IRA country to the core. He splashed whiskey into three glasses. “Get that down you and shut up. It’s none of our affair. The nearest police are twenty miles up the coast. One sergeant and three men, and they’d drive the other way if they knew. God save the good work.” He swallowed his whiskey down and crossed himself as sporadic shooting continued.

There was silence for a while and then they heard a boat engine start in to life down in the harbor. It increased in power, and Ryan hurried through the bar, opened the door and peered out. It had left the tiny harbor and moved beyond the point when the explosion took place. There was a momentary ball of fire, and as it cleared, he saw the boat half under the water, the stern raised, and it looked as if someone was scrambling over, but he could not be certain for a cloud passed over the moon.

Hamilton appeared beside him and the old lady. “What is it?”

“Some sort of explosion on the Kathleen. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw someone. I’m going to check.”

“You’ll need some help. Get some of the men.”

“Don’t be daft. They’ll all stay close to home this night.”

He hurried out to his old Land Rover, got behind the wheel and drove away, down through the village, following the narrow road toward the point, no more than five minutes away, got out and ran toward the top of the steps leading down to the small beach below. It was very dark down there, only the waves dashing in, and then the cloud moved away and the moon shone through and he saw something, head and shoulders perhaps, and started down.

Greta Novikova had been standing in the stern of the Kathleen, Belov and Tod Murphy in the wheelhouse, when the explosion took place in the engine room. The two men didn’t stand a chance, but the force of the blast, a great wind, drove her across the stern rail as the shattered boat lifted and then dove down to its last resting place. She plunged headfirst into the water, lucky enough to slide to one side and miss the propellers. She went under, and surfaced, turning as the sea swallowed the Kathleen. An undertow sucked at her as if greedy to take her with it, and frightened and dazed, she screamed and kicked out toward the cliffs of the point.

There was a trench in the seabed at that place, fully fifty fathoms deep, so that as the Kathleen descended rapidly, there was turbulence on the surface, waves driving toward the small beach, increasing in force and taking her with them.

In the moonlight, she saw Ryan plunging knee-deep in the water to reach for her. She cried out, he grabbed, waist-deep in water, pulling her close.

“I’ve got you.” He waded onto the beach, pulling her behind him. He held her close as she gasped for air. “Who was with you?”

“Belov… Tod Murphy.”

“And Kelly and the others?”

“There was a shoot-out at Drumore Place. I don’t know. You must take me there.”

“Jesus, woman, you’re in no fit state to go anywhere. There’s blood on your face. You must have taken a hell of a battering.”

“I must find out what’s happened to Major Ashimov. I must.”

And it was Kelly he was worried about. After all, if Kelly was still around, there was the IRA to consider.

He patted her shoulder. “I’ve got the Land Rover at the top of the steps. I’ll take you now.”

Yuri Ashimov knew none of this, for he was unconscious, facedown at Drumore Place, not dead, in spite of the two bullets Billy Salter had pumped into him, thanks to the nylon-and-titanium vest he’d been wearing beneath his shirt. An invention of the Wilkinson Sword Company, it was efficient enough to block even a.44 bullet. On the other hand, the shock to the cardiovascular system usually caused unconsciousness for a while.

Lying there, he stirred and groaned, moved a little and pulled himself up. He shook his head to clear it, remembering firing his pistol at Dillon, knocking the AK from his hands, thinking he’d got the bastard and then the shot catching his shoulder, spinning him round, and his last memory, Billy Salter’s face as he’d fired the heart shot. There was a chair nearby; he reached for it, pulled himself up and sat down. He heard a footfall and one of Kelly’s men, Toby McGuire, appeared in the archway.

“What happened to you?” Ashimov asked harshly.

“I was waiting in the summerhouse. Somebody jumped me. Knocked me out with a rifle stock.”

“Where is everybody?”

“Kelly’s dead and O’Neill. I was up and around when Dillon and the other guy came out on the terrace. I kept out of the way, but I heard what they were saying.”

“And what was that?”

Toby McGuire took a deep, shuddering breath and told him about the Kathleen and what had happened.

Ashimov sat there thinking about it. “So that’s what he said about Major Novikova? If she wasn’t willing to take the risks, she shouldn’t have joined?”

“That was it. Then he said to this guy Billy, ‘I expect our day will come.’ ”

“Oh, it will.” Ashimov nodded. “You can count on it. So they went?”

“He said he had all the keys to the cars in the courtyard. Two hours to Belfast and then home, that’s what he said.”

“Right.” Ashimov rose, picked up his pistol from the floor and put it in his waistband.

McGuire said, “What happens now? It’s a right mess.”

“Yes, it is. But we made some contingency plans, we’ll be all right. The main thing is that you’re still on board. Is that understood?”

McGuire looked baffled. “Right, Major.”

“It isn’t so much what I say, it’s what the man in Dublin says. The Provisional IRA will take care of the cleanup here. There’ll be a new team to take over from Kelly and you’ll be a part of it.”

“If you say so, Major.”

“I do. Now go to the kitchen and see if you can find some spare keys for the cars.”

“On my way.”

McGuire went out and Ashimov went along to Belov’s study and sat behind the desk with the satellite phone and rang a Moscow number. It was astonishing the clarity of these things, he thought, and also thought of Greta, surprised at how angry he felt.

A voice said in Russian, “Volkov. Who’s this?”

“Ashimov at Drumore. We have a problem.”

“Explain.”

When he was finished, Volkov said, “That’s certainly inconvenient, but our backup plans are in place. You’ll need to come to Moscow for a meeting at once.”

“Of course. Send a jet for me.”

“You’ll make the new arrangements with the IRA?”

“No need – everything’s still set.”

“Excellent. The death of Belov would be very inconvenient to our business plans.”

“Of course.”

“Another performance from Max Zubin would be in order, I think.”

“I agree.”

“On the other hand, the fewer people who know, the better. The locals should not be told that Belov is dead.”

“You mean I should withhold the information from the IRA?”

“That would seem sensible.”

“All right.”

“Good. I’ll arrange the plane. See you soon.”

Ashimov switched off the phone, put it down and that’s when he received the shock of his life. He looked up to find Greta Novikova standing in the doorway, Patrick Ryan’s arm around her, and he was amazed at the feeling of joy that flooded through him. He had never been a man to feel much emotion for anyone and surprised himself by rushing round the desk and embracing her.

“Greta, I can’t believe it. I heard what happened.” He kissed her, then held her at arm’s length. “My God, what happened to you?”

“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said. “What about you?”

“Salter thought he killed me, but I was wearing body armor. Belov? Murphy?”

“Gone,” she said. “It’s a miracle I’m here,” and she explained about the blast.

There was blood on the left side of her head and he examined it. “It’s not too bad, but it might need a couple of stitches. We’ll get that fixed by the good sisters at Saint Mary’s near Ballykelly.”

“The Sisters?” She was bewildered.

“They’re a nursing order. Belov does a lot for them.”

Ryan had gone away and now returned with the kitchen first-aid box. He rummaged in it and produced a large bandage, and Ashimov patched her up. McGuire was hovering in the background. Greta staggered a little and Ashimov caught her.

“Take it easy. I’ll take you upstairs to your room so you can change.”

“What for?”

“We’re going to Moscow. A plane is coming to pick us up.” As he led her out, he said to the other two, “Wait for me.”

In Dublin, Liam Bell sat in the sitting room of his apartment in a warehouse development. He was reading the evening paper, his spectacles giving him the look of a schoolteacher, which, in his youth, he’d been. Many years of dedicated service to the IRA had take him as far as Chief of Staff. He’d resigned a year earlier to nurse his wife through terminal cancer and another had taken his place in the command structure. Now he was bored out of his mind and thirsting for action – any kind of action – and his phone rang and presented him with some.

Ashimov said, “Mr. Bell? Yuri Ashimov. Several years ago, you made a promise that we could call you if needed.”

“You still can.”

“Do you know a man called Sean Dillon?”

“Indeed I do. If that bastard’s on your back, you’ve got trouble.”

“Listen to me. Would you be prepared to move in here with, say, half a dozen IRA men? I’d make it worth your while.”

“I thought you had Dermot Kelly and his boys?”

“Not any longer.”

“What happened?”

Ashimov gave him a version of events that excluded any participation by Belov. “Anyway, a general cleanup is in order. You can rely on Patrick Ryan. He’s a good man.”

“I was two years in the Maze Prison with him. He’s one of our own.” Bell laughed harshly. “What a bastard Dillon is. I’ve had my brushes with him. Anyway, I’ve phone calls to make, recruiting to do. You can leave it with me.”

“And the disposal of the corpses?”

“I’m an expert in that department.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

Ashimov walked through to the terrace and found Ryan and McGuire standing by the body of Kelly.

“Poor old Kelly,” McGuire said. “He never knew what hit him.”

“And that’s a fact.” Ashimov took a silenced pistol from his left-hand pocket and shot McGuire in the side of the head. He went down like a stone, and Patrick Ryan jumped back, hands raised, fear on his face.

“No, for God’s sake.”

“Not you, you fool.”

“But why?”

“Because he knew Josef Belov is dead and that doesn’t suit me or those involved with me in Moscow. Listen here. You know Liam Bell, an old friend, I think.”

Ryan was astonished. “Of course. I was in the same cell at the Maze Prison with him.”

“I’ve spoken to him in Dublin. He’ll be here within hours with a crew. He’ll take over everything Kelly was responsible for, and he’ll take care of this lot.” He stirred McGuire with his foot. “They’ll do a satisfactory disposal job.”

“I see.”

“He’ll expect you to fit in, you know.”

“I could do that,” Ryan said slowly.

“I want you to be my eyes and ears. I’ll make your fortune, Patrick, put the Royal George in your name. Would you like that?”

Ryan’s face lit up. “That would be grand.”

“One thing. Nobody, not even Liam Bell, must know that Belov went down on that boat. It was just Tod Murphy as far as Bell knows.”

Ryan took a deep breath. “Right, I’m your man.”

“Good. McGuire should have some keys in his pocket. Get them, would you?”

Ryan fished them out.

“Excellent.” They walked through to the hall and Greta came down the great stairs in a fawn coat and black trouser suit, a traveling bag slung over one shoulder. “You look better, a lot better. Let’s get moving. I’ll be in touch, Patrick.”

They went out and Ryan waited. He heard one of the cars start up outside and then move off.

It was very quiet, too quiet, but he’d taken a step on the kind of journey from which there was no going back.

The convent looked more like a country house than anything else, but inside it was a very different story. The nuns were a nursing order, the Little Sisters of Pity, and Belov had put a great deal of money into the place, a couple of operating theaters, all sorts of medical facilities. The result was a facility that was of great benefit to the local farming community, and a further enhancement of the Belov name.

The Mother Superior, Sister Teresa, was a general surgeon. She saw Greta at once in reception, gave her a cursory check and frowned. “You have been in the wars. What happened?”

Ashimov said quietly, “She was in an accident.”

Greta, improvising, said, “It was so stupid. I was on a fishing boat moored in the harbor, and I slipped stepping over the stern and fell.”

“Several feet. That’s not good.”

“I fell into water. Such a fool.”

“Well, your head’s going to need a stitch or two, and I think we’ll give you a quick scan.”

“Do we have time for all that?” Greta asked Ashimov.

“You can come and watch through the surgery window, but not if you smoke,” Sister Teresa said, and led Greta out.

Ashimov went outside to think things over and he did smoke. In fact, he smoked several, going back over events. He should have been dead, but he wasn’t, thanks to Belov’s gift of the titanium vest. Ferguson would have been behind it, because of what happened to Bernstein, the Salters and Dillon, always Dillon. Now Belov was dead. He thought of their years together in Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, and this was what it had come to. Well, they would all pay, he’d see to that.

His coded mobile rang and he answered. It was Volkov. “The plane should be with you in about thirty minutes. Has anything else happened?”

Ashimov told him of Greta’s astonishing escape.

“That’s good news. She could be of great use.”

“Liam Bell is organizing things in Dublin as we speak. I’ve taken steps to ensure that he isn’t aware of what really happened. To Belov, I mean. There’s only one man left who knows, besides myself.”

“And who would that be?” Ashimov told him. “Let’s hope your judgment proves sound. I’ll see you soon.”

Ashimov lit another cigarette. Volkov was one of the few men who impressed him. A man of mystery way beyond the reach of any Russian government organization. He smiled slightly. He was like Ferguson, in a way. Yes, a Russian Ferguson responsible only to the President.

He threw the cigarette away as a plane roared overhead, obviously coming in to land at the runway Belov had ordered to be laid at the development there. As he went back into reception, Mother Teresa returned with Greta.

“Five stitches, I’m afraid, but I’m good at embroidery. No fracture, but considerable bruising. You must take care, my dear.”

“My thanks,” Ashimov told her. “But we must go. That was our plane landing.”

“Glad to have been of help. Give my regards to Mr. Belov.”

“I certainly will.”

He took Greta’s elbow and led her to the car. “Are you all right?” he said as he helped her in.

The patch on the side of her forehead was neat enough, and she touched it. “I had a local anesthetic. I feel tired more than anything else.”

He got behind the wheel. “You can sleep on the plane. Moscow next stop.”

March in Moscow was much as to be expected. The snow had seemed to be on the verge of clearing, but was back again when they landed, a light powdering only, but crisp and cold. A limousine was waiting, a Mercedes, and they drove away instantly to the Belov International townhouse, a place of some splendor, but they had barely settled in when Volkov called.

“I need to see you at once. Bring the Major with you.”

“Where, exactly?”

“The Kremlin, of course.”

Ashimov switched off and turned to Greta. “How are you feeling?” She’d slept like a log on the plane. “Any better?”

“It was worse in Chechnya. Not too good in Iraq, either, come to think of it.” She smiled. “I’ll be fine, Yuri.”

“So you feel up to a visit to the Kremlin?”

Her eyes sparkled. “My, but we are moving in dangerous waters. How exciting.”

“Then let’s go.”

Snow was falling lightly as they drove through the streets, past the massive entrance to the Kremlin, moving through side streets, until they emerged at an obscure entrance at the back. They were passed through a series of checkpoints manned by uniformed guards, but never once questioned, simply waved through at each one until they reached a small courtyard behind high railings and halted at steps leading up to an archway. They went up, the door opened and a hard young man in an excellent suit appeared.

“A pleasure to see you again, Major Ashimov.” He inclined his head to Greta. “Major.”

“We’ve met before?” Ashimov asked.

“Chechnya, some years ago, but I was a very junior officer. You wouldn’t remember. My name is Igor Levin. This way, if you please. General Volkov is waiting.”

He led the way through gloomy corridors and back stairs, finally opening a door leading to a much larger and more ornate corridor. There were gilt mirrors, portraits from another age, fine carpeting.

“I must say, this is beautiful.”

“I imagine that Tsar Nicholas thought so, too,” Levin said.

They came to an ornate door, where a burly individual, again in an excellent suit, was seated in a high chair. A machine pistol was on a small table beside him. He didn’t stand and didn’t speak.

“We like to be prepared for any eventuality,” Levin said.

“Even in here?” Greta said.

“Especially in here.” He opened a door and ushered them in without announcement and stood at the back of the room, which was quite stunning, very French. Its paneled walls were beautifully painted with formal scenes of the seventeenth century, and there were portraits of the same period, a magnificent fireplace with a real fire, or so it appeared, an exquisite mirror above it. Chairs and a settee decorated the room, but the really striking thing was the huge desk in the center and the man who sat behind it. He had looked up as they entered and was nothing like Greta had expected. He was perhaps sixty, hair decidedly thinning, wearing wire spectacles of an old-fashioned type, a neat suit in navy blue, a dark tie. He could have been the manager of an insurance office, this man who, according to what Ashimov had told her, wielded such power. When he spoke, his voice was not much more than a whisper.

“My dear Ashimov, so you made it in one piece again?”

“My luck is good, Comrade.”

“I’m never too sure whether you should call me that any longer.”

“Old habits die hard.”

Volkov stood up, came round the desk and shook hands with Greta. “Your luck is also good, Major.”

“Yes, Comrade.

There was a power to him, she realized that now, and as he continued to hold her hand, it flowed through her. “More than luck, I think. I believe in God, you see, like my blessed mother before me. Everything is for a purpose.” He patted her hand. “But I am a poor host, and for a beautiful and brave young Russian woman who has gone through the ordeal you have, there is only one remedy. The finest vodka we have.” He said to Levin, “Igor, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not, Comrade General.”

“Igor,” Volkov told him gently, “I have told you never to use my title publicly.”

“I am suitably chastened, Comrade General.”

“Hopeless. Come, we sit by the fire and talk. Igor always seems to see the lighter side of life despite having served in Afghanistan with the KGB at nineteen, then the paratroopers in Chechnya. He was in the GRU when he fell into my hands, and now he’s one of my security guards. Took a bullet for me once.”

“There’s nothing like KGB training,” said Ashimov.

“Yes. Now let’s sit by the fire. I’ve things to say.”

Levin opened a cupboard and produced an ice bucket containing a bottle of vodka and frosted glasses.

“You will join us, Igor. Just one, though. You must remember your trigger finger.”

The vodka was sublime and burned its way down. “Excellent,” Volkov told them. “Damn Ferguson and damn the Prime Minister. Another, Igor, and then we’ll get down to business.”

They sat by the fire and Volkov began. “This is the situation. Since the end of the Iraq war, Belov International has continued to prosper. Since the vote for democracy in Iraq, the prospect is very real of the oil industry there returning to full flow, indeed to achieve a level of production beyond all expectation, and we are in the middle of it. We’re talking a company worth fifteen billion and rising.”

“That would be staggering,” Greta said.

“And nothing must be allowed to put such success at risk. In other words, Belov can’t die. Igor will take you to see Max Zubin tonight. We’ll ship him off to Station Gorky to settle him in, let the world know where he is and slip him back when necessary.”

“Which will totally confuse Ferguson and company in London,” Ashimov said, “Dillon having reported back on a successful mission.”

“And we mustn’t forget President Cazalet and that Blake Johnson man of his. They always exchange information with their British cousins,” Volkov pointed out.

Greta said, “But after Dillon’s report, they’ll know the Belov in Siberia is false.”

“Yes, but Ferguson can’t afford to disclose it – admit that his agents, acting on behalf of the Prime Minister, conducted a slaughter in the Republic of Ireland, a sovereign state. Where a highly important Russian citizen happened to be at the same time.”

“So it’s a standoff,” Ashimov said. “There’s nothing the Brits can do about it and we keep the world financial markets happy.”

“There’s more to it than that. This organization that Ferguson runs, the so-called Prime Minister’s Private Army. Such typical British hypocrisy. They’ve been committing murders for years and getting away with it. Dillon’s record speaks for itself. Well, the President thinks we should lance the boil, as it were.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“Yes. Total elimination of Ferguson’s team once and for all. The General himself, his personal assistant, this Superintendent Bernstein, Dillon of course, and these Salter people, the London gangsters who’ve been helping him out during the last few years. While you’re at it, perhaps Cazalet’s man, too, Blake Johnson. Another thorough nuisance.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ashimov said.

“It’s a tall order, I know, but already started in a way. That woman Bernstein you ran down in London, she’s in a medical facility Ferguson runs in Saint John’s Wood. It would be a good start to things if you could find some means of easing her on.”

“As you say, Comrade.” Ashimov wasn’t troubled in the slightest by the thought.

“Good,” Volkov said. “I leave it all in your capable hands. I’ve left you, Major Novikova, on the books of the London Embassy as a commercial attaché. It will bring you diplomatic immunity, although I’m certain Ferguson won’t make a move against you. At the worst, they could only ask you to leave. Captain Levin will have a similar situation at the Embassy to act as backup. The appropriate documentation is in the file on my desk.” He turned to Ashimov. “I would think it prudent for you not to return to London, if only because Dillon would attempt retribution.”

“As you say, Comrade.”

“Igor will take you to see Max Zubin to make certain he knows what is expected of him. Spend the night, then return to Ireland tomorrow. Igor will go with you. I envy you your inevitable success. I don’t think there’s anything more.”

But there was, for at that very moment a secret door in the wall swung open and President Putin walked in.

They all leaped to their feet, for it was an astonishing moment. Putin wore a tracksuit, a towel around his neck.

“You must excuse me, Comrades. Affairs of state got in the way of my hour in the gym this morning, so I’ve been making up for it. Good to see you again, Major Ashimov. You must be feeling like a cat at the moment, a tomcat, naturally.”

“Very much so, Comrade President.”

Putin turned to Greta. “Major Novikova.” He offered his hand. “I hear good things about you, even if you are GRU.”

It was his little joke, a reference to the intense rivalry between the KGB, to which he had once belonged, and GRU Military Intelligence.

Greta said, “It would have been an honor to have served under you.”

“Yes, well, in Afghanistan, this one did.” He tapped Ashimov on the shoulder. “And Captain Levin, the boy wonder.” He swiveled to look at Volkov. “All of us served, in good times and in bad – served Russia and each other. I expect nothing less from you in this present matter.”

There was a moment’s silence. Ashimov said, “It would be our honor.”

Putin nodded, turned to Volkov and handed him an envelope. “There is what you asked for. Read it.”

Volkov opened the envelope and took out a document, which he unfolded.

“Aloud, please.”

“From the Office of the President of the Russian Federation at the Kremlin. The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way demanded. Signed, Vladimir Putin.”

“It may help, it may not. It’s in your hands now.” Putin stepped behind the secret door and it swung noiselessly back into place. It was as if he had never been.

Volkov replaced the letter in the envelope and gave it to Ashimov. “Such power. You must guard it well. Now, on your way.”

He turned, opened the secret door and disappeared as completely as had his master.

“So there we are,” Ashimov said. “What happens now?”

“I’m taking you out,” Igor said. “There’s a very acceptable nightclub called the Green Parrot. It’s owned by the Mafia, but they know me.”

“There is a purpose to this, I presume?”

“You want to see Max Zubin perform, don’t you?”

On the way to the club, it was Greta who said, “We’re being followed.”

“Good for you, but it’s all right. They’re my people. They’ll arrange Zubin’s onward transportation to Station Gorky.”

“I don’t understand,” Greta said. “If Zubin is so important, why is he allowed to have so free a life? To perform in public and so on?”

“Because of his mother,” Ashimov told her. “Bella Zubin.”

Greta was astounded. “The actress?”

“The great actress,” Ashimov said. “One of Russia’s finest. Unfortunately, she dabbled too much in politics and was sent to the Gulag.”

“I thought she was dead.”

“No, very much alive at eighty-five and living in a comfortable condominium by the river. Her son would not wish to see her returned to a more uncomfortable situation. That’s why we could trust him not to make a run for it when he was playing Belov in Paris the other year.”

Greta shook her head. “I remember seeing her play the Queen in Hamlet when I was a little girl. She was wonderful.”

“It’s a hard life, Greta,” Ashimov said, “but some things are more important.”

The Green Parrot was up a side street in an old brownstone house, a neon sign advertising the fact over an arched doorway. Levin parked outside and the doorman stepped out.

“You can’t park there. Clear off.”

The other limousine pulled in behind them and three men in black leather coats got out. The doorman took one look and hurriedly backed off.

“Sorry, Comrades.” He opened the door behind him, the three men went in first and Levin, Ashimov and Greta followed.

The club was small, curiously old-fashioned, a little like some joint in one of those cinema noir, black-and-white thrillers from the Hollywood of the forties. The headwaiter even wore a white tuxedo as if doing an impersonation of Rick in Casablanca. He turned, saw Levin and his party, and his face fell.

The tables were crowded, but one of Levin’s men brushed past the headwaiter as he came forward, ignored the bearded man at the microphone who seemed to have the audience in stitches with his humor, and leaned down to a table of five people in the front, three women, two men. Whatever he said was enough. They vacated the table at once and moved away.

The man at the microphone said, “I know I can be bad, but this is ridiculous.”

Levin called, “Max, you’re looking good. How about the piano? ‘A Foggy Day in London Town.’ You know how I love all those old numbers. Let’s all cheer for Fred Astaire. The Yanks are our friends now.”

He sat down with Ashimov and Greta; the three minders stood against the wall.

Max Zubin shook his head and, waving at the audience, said, “The GRU, my friends, what do you expect? My master calls and I obey.”

He went to the piano at the back of the stage, a baby grand. A drummer and a double bass player were already there, and Zubin sat down and started a driving, complex version of “Foggy Day” that wouldn’t have been out of place in any great piano bar in London or New York.

Levin called the headwaiter over. “Vodka, on the house, and don’t forget the boys behind me.”

“It is my pleasure, Captain.”

“And a little beluga on toast, the way I like it.”

“Of course.”

There was a roar of applause as Zubin finished and Levin stood up, clapping. “Marvelous,” he called. “More.”

Zubin moved into “Night and Day” and waiters appeared hurriedly with glasses of vodka on a tray, each glass in a larger glass with crushed ice, one waiter handing them out to the security guards, the other to the party at the table, the third distributing the beluga caviar.

As they started on the feast Ashimov said, “You live well, my friend.”

“I could be dead tomorrow, that’s what I learned in Afghanistan and Chechnya.” He crunched toast and savored the beluga.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Greta said, as she followed suit.

“It was in the Chechen capital I got a taste for it. We took the Grand Hotel in a firefight – a very bloody firefight. Found the beluga in the icebox behind the bar in the main kitchen. A few of us survived that fight. Not many. The Twenty-first Independent Parachute Company, made up of anyone they could reach out and grab. We were wolfing that caviar down when we heard the piano start to play in the anteroom. We went out to see what was going on and there he was, an infantry captain named Max Zubin.”

“And what was he playing?” Greta asked.

“ ‘As Time Goes By.’ I swear to God, just like in Casablanca. You know the old movie? I’ve seen it in American, and I’ve seen it dubbed with Bogart speaking Russian and it’s just as fantastic.” He stood up, applauded and called, “Max, let’s do the Grand in Chechnya, in memory of the Twenty-first and all those guys we left. Let’s do ‘As Time Goes By.’ ”

He sat down, snapped his fingers for another vodka and ate some more toast and caviar, somehow managing to hum the tune at the same time.

“An enthusiast,” Ashimov told Greta.

“The crowd seems to like it.”

And indeed they did, large sections singing along, some in English, others in Russian. Zubin finished on a high. People cheered, stood up and clapped. He waved to everyone, nodded to the double bass player, who put his instrument down and took over the piano, then came down from the stage, shaking hands on the way, and sat down at the spare seat at the table.

Levin smiled. “You haven’t lost your touch.” He handed him a vodka, which Zubin swallowed in one gulp, then reached for another. “Why are you being so nice to me, Igor?”

Levin said, “Let’s put it this way. The beard suits you, but it’s time to take it off again.”

“Christ, no,” Max Zubin groaned. “Not that.”

“I’m afraid so. Surely you remember Major Ashimov from Paris? I’ll let him explain.”

The Zubin apartment was a time capsule from another age. Even the maid was aging and could have been out of a Chekhov play. The interior was more thirties than anything else, with a grand piano covered by photos of the great and the good in silver frames.

Levin, Ashimov and Greta were admitted by the maid, who viewed them all suspiciously.

“Is my mother at home, Sonia?” Zubin asked.

“Where else would she be? She is preparing to go to bed.”

“I’d like a word.”

“What a ridiculous time to call. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

She went out and he lit a cigarette. “You must excuse Sonia. She’s a failed actress who became my mother’s dresser.”

Greta moved to the piano and examined the photos. Zubin sat at it and started to play “Falling in Love Again.”

“Marlene Dietrich’s national anthem,” Greta told him.

“You’ll find her and my mother amongst the photos there.”

Greta was working her way through and picked one up. “My God, this is her with Laurence Olivier.”

“In London, where we did The Three Sisters,” a voice interrupted. “I made the mistake of coming back.”

And there she was in the flesh, wearing a silk robe, her hair tied back, powerful and thrilling in spite of her age.

Ashimov stepped forward. “You look like some great warrior queen.”

“Don’t try flattery, Major. I remember you well from that affair in Paris. So, you need my son again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She turned to Greta. “And who’s this one?”

“Major Greta Novikova of GRU.”

“Typecasting, but good bone structure.”

Greta couldn’t think of a thing to say. Bella did a surprising thing. As Sonia came in with the ritual glasses of vodka on a tray, the old actress patted Igor Levin on the cheek.

“He looks in on me from time to time, this one. A nice boy in spite of himself.”

Levin took her hand and kissed it. “No man could have a greater compliment.”

They all took their vodka. “So, this is State business?”

“Direct from Putin himself.”

“Well, to hell with him and to hell with the lot of you. Where are you taking him?”

“Station Gorky in Siberia,” Levin said.

“For a while only. You’ll see him again soon,” Ashimov said.

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” She turned to Zubin. “You’ll have to get rid of the beard. A pity. It suits you.” She turned to Levin. “Can I have him for tonight?”

“Where would he go?” Levin smiled. “His escort will be downstairs.”

“I thought so. All right, the rest of you can get out. I’d like some time with my son.”

Which they did, there was not much else to say. She turned to Zubin, who was still playing, and raised her glass to Sonia, who came over with the vodka bottle.

“If it wasn’t for me, you could make a run for it.”

“Things are as they are, Mama, so running is out of the question.”

“You’re a good son, Max, always were. So it’s the same old thing as Paris?”

“No, I think this is rather more important. They’ve shown me a warrant from Putin.”

“Then God help us.” She swallowed her vodka down and tossed the glass into the fireplace.

Onward from Moscow, the Falcon rose to forty thousand feet and moved on into the night, while Levin slept and Greta and Ashimov talked in low voices.

“What’s the story on the boy wonder there?” she asked.

“His father was an infantry colonel, a military attaché at the London Embassy, his mother was English. Igor spent a couple of years at a posh public school in Westminster, London. He should have gone to university, but he’s a strange one, marches to his own drummer. He went home on holiday and just decided to join the army without even consulting his father, who couldn’t do anything about it because it would have looked bad.”

“Some KGB time was mentioned, the paratroopers and now GRU,” she said.

“Yes. He became a war hero, decorated twice. The thing that singled him out for a commission was when he took out a Chechnyan general.”

“As a sniper?”

“It was more complicated than that. He’s something of an actor, and made a very convincing Chechnyan. Worked himself close in, slit the man’s throat and walked off laughing.”

“My God.”

“That’s the thing. He really doesn’t care. Not about anything. His father was involved with Belov in the old days, so when the money started pouring in, he got his share. Ten million sterling, that kind of money. He was killed in a car crash with his wife the other year, which left Igor very well fixed and all nicely stashed away in London.”

“So Levin could be on the Riviera. Champagne, girls, a yacht? Why not?”

“He reminds me of Sean Dillon in a way,” Ashimov said. “Dillon is also well fixed in the money department. You could ask why he continues to live the life he does.”

He poured Greta a glass of champagne while she thought about it. “A kind of madness?” she asked. “A need to live on the dangerous edge?”

“You could have a point.”

“Well, if that means comparing him with Dillon, he must be mad. When I was involved with Dillon in Iraq, he seemed to be enjoying the whole business.”

Igor Levin stirred and said, “It’s very simple. Life can be so boring.” He tilted up his seat. “If you’ve finished talking about me, I’d like a glass of the old bubbles there.”

Ashimov said, “Ah, you’re awake, are you? Well, first things first. I’m going to need you, Igor, so I have something for you. When Billy Salter shot me at Drumore, my life was saved by a personal gift from Belov, a nylon-and-titanium vest. Even stops a forty-five. Fits nicely under your shirt.” He took a package from his briefcase. “My gift to you.”

Levin put it on the seat beside him. “Frightfully good of you, old boy, but I’d still appreciate some champagne.”

He spoke in an impeccable English public school accent.

Greta poured him a glass. “They’ll love you at the Reform Club.”

“I should damn well hope so.” He sipped some of the champagne. “I must say, Dillon sounds rather like the twin I never had. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“You won’t have to wait long,” Ashimov said. “After stopping at Drumore, we’re off to London for you to take up your new duties.”

“Where I may be received with less than enthusiasm.”

“Not when the Ambassador sees your warrant from Putin.”

“Oh, good, I’m to have that, am I?”

He still spoke in that English upper-class accent. Ashimov opened a briefcase, took out a file and passed it across.

“Here’s everything you need to know on Dillon, Ferguson, Roper and the Salters. These people are bad news, my friend, as bad as you’ve ever known.”

Levin flicked the file and it opened by chance at a printout about Bernstein. He went through it quickly. “What a woman. This is an incredible record.”

“Well, don’t fall in love with her. She’s the first one to go.”

“A nice Jewish girl, and you forget – my father was Jewish.”

“Your mother was Christian,” Ashimov said. “You can only be a Jew through your mother.”

“An academic argument. All those wonderful genes. They never go away. If I was religious, I’d say it was a blessing from God. Personally, I’m rather proud of it.”

“Good for you. Now read the file and see what you’re getting into. I’ll fill you in on the IRA side of things later.”

“As you say.”

Levin settled back with the file, while Ashimov poured Greta some more champagne and used his satellite phone to contact Liam Bell. He found him at Drumore Place.

“It’s me,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine. We’ve moved in, got things arranged. No trouble from the villagers. Life, shall we say, is back to normal. What about you?”

“Well, I’ve a target for you, during the coming weeks.”

“And what would that be?”

“Sean Dillon, Ferguson and company.”

“Jesus! A tall order.”

“We’ll discuss it in detail when I’m there. However, I’m going to need someone from your side of the coin. A hit man who’ll do the job, no questions asked, no argument, no sentimentality.”

“What you mean is you’re looking for the original cold-blooded bastard.”

“No, that’s you,” Ashimov told him. “What I’m looking for is a reasonable facsimile. I know the Peace Process is supposed to have brought an end to the glorious cause of Irish unity, but I believe you do have sleepers in London. Young men and women in good suits who work in the stock exchange…”

“And hanker after the romance of the struggle,” Bell said. “You might be surprised by how many of those there are. What would you be offering?”

“Oh, to you, a big payday. Funds for the organization, of course, not for the personal bank account in Spain. What you pay for him or, indeed, her to eradicate someone for me is your business.”

“Would you be involved?”

“Not personally. I’ll be staying there for a while with Major Novikova. I’m bringing a young colleague from Moscow who’ll handle the London end. He’ll work out of the London Embassy. The target is legitimate from your point of view. A high-ranking Special Branch officer who’s put more of your friends inside the last few years than she’s had hot dinners.”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” Bell said. “I’ve got ideas right away. Leave it with me.”

“We’ll see you soon.”

Levin looked up. “Dillon really is quite something. Now I’m really looking forward to meeting him.”

“Make sure it isn’t your last meeting,” Ashimov told him, and poured another glass of champagne.