Without Mercy

LONDON
4

When Igor Levin flew from Ireland to London, it was in a Belov International jet and Liam Bell flew with him, under a false identity. Levin didn’t approach the Embassy, not then. He stayed in an indifferent hotel in Kensington next door to Bell, waited patiently while the man from Dublin made his arrangements with Mary Killane and Dermot Fitzgerald, and then, after the outcome, delivered Fitzgerald to Heathrow for the flight to Ibiza.

He wasn’t impressed. In his opinion the whole business had been badly handled. The Killane girl, for example. Anyone with half a brain would find it too much a coincidence that she, the last person to treat the Bernstein woman, had been murdered so soon afterward and so close to the hospital.

Perhaps things were done differently in Belfast. Maybe the IRA had employed such fear, such power, that they thought they could get away with anything. Or maybe they were just used to getting away with anything.

“Never mind, Igor,” he mused, after delivering Bell to the airfield for his return flight. “You’re just the hired help.”

He’d already rented a Mercedes, but now, taking advantage of his wealth, he moved into a suite at the Dorchester Hotel overlooking Hyde Park.

“Only the best, Igor,” he said, and drove down to the Embassy of the Russian Federation situated in Kensington Palace Gardens. There was a snag at first, when he discovered the Ambassador was in Paris, but a further inquiry revealed that the senior commercial attaché, Colonel Boris Luhzkov, in reality Head of Station for the GRU, was lunching in the pub across the High Street. Levin went out the main gates, waited for a break in the traffic, then crossed the road.

Luhzkov was in a window seat on his own devouring shepherd’s pie, a half-empty glass of red wine before him. Levin got two more and went across. He put one of the glasses on the table.

“You always like two.”

Luhzkov looked astonished. “My God, Igor, it is you. I had a message from Moscow this morning. It said you were joining my staff.”

“Not quite true, old son. In a way, it’s you who are joining my staff.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

Levin took the envelope from his inside pocket, extracted the Putin warrant and passed it over. “Read that.”

He sat down and lit a cigarette. When Luhzkov handed it back, his hand shook. “For God’s sake, you’d better not lose it. But what does it mean, Igor?”

“That I’m on a special assignment for the President himself. I need a front, so I’m to be a commercial attaché. Any quarrel with that?”

“Of course not.”

“For the moment, I need an office and all that goes with it. I won’t need an Embassy car, I’ve hired a Mercedes, and I don’t need housing – I’m staying at the Dorchester. It’s nice to be back, isn’t it, Boris, and what better place for a Russian intelligence officer to stay than the best hotel in London?”

Luhzkov had totally capitulated. “Anything you say, Igor.”

“Good. The shepherd’s pie looks delicious. I think I’ll have some,” and Levin turned and waved to a waitress.

Later, when the necessary office had been provided, he worked his way through GRU’s computer records, cross-referencing them with the file Ashimov had provided him. Ferguson, Dillon, the Salters. Names, computer printouts, addresses. He even checked on Bell’s past and that of his men whom he’d met at Drumore. An unsavory bunch, no finesse. On the other hand, Bell must have had something going for him to have become Chief of Staff of one of the most notorious organizations in the world.

Dillon was a totally different article; his exploits spoke for themselves. The thing that impressed Levin the most was that in all those years with the IRA, the police and secret intelligence hadn’t touched him once. Levin was lost in admiration.

Even the Salters surprised him. They were far from the usual run of gangsters. Harry Salter’s aging face spoke for itself, and Billy’s deeds were remarkable. Men who didn’t give a damn, the Salters and Dillon.

“Just like me,” Levin said softly.

Hannah Bernstein filled him with a strange kind of regret when he read her file again and looked at her photo. She’d been a remarkable woman – you had to be to make Superintendent rank in Special Branch. An Oxford psychologist and yet she’d killed more than once. And the Jewish background. It made him feel uncomfortable and he knew why that was.

Her death, of course, had had nothing to do with him. She’d been close to death anyway, thanks to Ashimov. The drug the nurse had used might not even have been necessary. Ashimov had killed her, really.

“Trying to comfort yourself, Igor?” he murmured. “Levin, the honorable man? Well, not after what you’ve done, boyo.”

He tapped into the police security facility and all the details of the Mary Killane killing were there: the murder scene, the names of those at Scotland Yard handling the case, the fact that there was a press blackout.

The forensic pathologist in charge of the autopsy was a Professor George Langley. Levin checked him out on the computer. Langley normally worked out of Church Street Mortuary off Kensington High Street. Quite convenient for the Russian Embassy.

However, there was nothing on the police incident screen referring to Hannah Bernstein, and Levin sat back, lit a cigarette and went to the small icebox in the corner, opened it, found the vodka and poured a large one. It calmed him down, helped him think.

So, it would seem reasonable that an autopsy on Hannah Bernstein would be performed by the same eminent pathologist who was performing it on Mary Killane. A strong chance surely. He had another shot of vodka, returned the bottle. There was just one more thing to do. Luhzkov’s remark in the pub that he’d better not lose the Putin warrant had stuck in his mind, so he took the letter out and put it through the office copier. He made three copies, put two in the office safe, one in his briefcase in an envelope and returned the original to his inside pocket.

He phoned Ashimov on his coded mobile and found him at the Royal George with Greta. “Just reporting in. Bell got back without incident?”

“Yes. What’s happening there?”

Levin brought him up to date. “I’m just about to go out and start sniffing around.”

“Yes, do that,” Ashimov told him.

“Frankly, I’ve not been impressed with the way things went here. It may have suited Bell, but if that’s the best the IRA can do, they’re a bunch of clodhoppers. The way Fitzgerald disposed of that girl was ridiculous and unnecessary.”

“We’re in the death business, Igor, there’s no time for finesse.”

He switched off and Greta Novikova said, “Trouble?”

“Just Igor sounding off. He isn’t impressed with the IRA.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Greta told him. “Neither am I.”

In his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson sat with Rabbi Julian Bernstein and Blake Johnson. Dillon sat on the windowsill. There was a knock at the door and Hannah’s father, Arnold Bernstein, came in.

“Sorry I’m late. I had an operation.”

“That’s all right,” Ferguson said. “Carry on, Rabbi.”

“Well, as you know, a Jewish body should not be desecrated by an autopsy, and should be buried within the twenty-four-hour window. But an expert rabbi may determine otherwise in exceptional circumstances. I have made a judgment, and in view of the murder of the young nurse and the circumstances surrounding Hannah’s death, I believe it is necessary to establish exactly what happened. With the blessing of my son, I give my permission for the autopsy.”

“I know how difficult this must be for you, but I’m most grateful. I’ll phone Professor Langley now.”

It was raining hard, so Levin wore a raincoat and trilby hat and carried a black umbrella. The Church Street Mortuary was surprisingly busy, with quite a number of cars outside. It was an aging building, probably Victorian, like many in that part of London, with the look of being a rather shabby old-fashioned school.

Inside it was well decorated and surprisingly pleasant, with two girls behind the reception desk and a number of people milling around, apparently reporters.

“Come on, Gail,” a young man said to one of the receptionists. “So was the Killane woman murdered or wasn’t she? What’s all the mystery?”

“I can’t tell you that,” the girl named Gail said. “All I know is that Professor Langley’s on another case.”

“Is there a link?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

She moved away, leaving the other girl in charge, as Ferguson, Dillon, the Bernsteins and Blake came in. Levin recognized all of them from their files.

Ferguson announced himself.

“Oh, this way, gentlemen.”

She led them through to the back corridor and they disappeared through a door. The young reporter said disconsolately, “Nobody ever tells you a thing. I’ll get hell at the office.”

He took out a cigarette and Levin gave him a light. “Who are you with?”

“Northern Echo. What about you?”

“Evening Standard. We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

They found Langley in a room lined with white tiles, fluorescent lights making everything look harsh and unreal. There were steel operating tables and Hannah Bernstein lay on top of one of them. She looked calm, eyes closed, the top of her head covered, blood seeping through a little. In turn, both the Bernsteins leaned over and kissed her forehead. Ferguson said, “Forgive me, Professor, but will you confirm what you told me on the telephone?”

“Yes. In my opinion, Hannah Bernstein was murdered. Her heart was in a poor state anyway, but I’ve found traces of the drug Dazone in her system, a drug which had not been part of her medications at Rosedene; I’ve checked on that. Recently introduced into her system, and in overdose quantity.”

There was a dreadful silence, then Ferguson said, “You will appreciate the significance of this to the Mary Killane case.”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve never had much faith in coincidence. I’ve been told the time Killane gave Hannah her medication. The Dazone kicks in in half an hour at the most, which fits into the time scale of Killane’s murder.”

“Well, it saves one trial in the matter,” Ferguson said. “Now we have to find out who shot Killane. She has an IRA connection.”

“What happens now?” Dillon demanded.

“I invoke the Official Secrets Act and put the matter before a Special Crown Coroner. He’ll give what’s called a closed court order. No jury necessary. A burial order will also be issued, and you, Rabbi, may bury your granddaughter. All that will take place quickly. You may alert your undertaker. I can’t say how sorry we all are.”

“May she rest in peace.”

The response from Dillon was uncontrollable. “Well, I’m damned if I will.” He turned and brushed past the young receptionist, Gail, who had been standing at the door, and went out.

Dillon went through the crowd, angry beyond belief, pushing against Levin, who said, “Hey, watch it, old man.”

Dillon shook his head. “Sorry.” He pushed on and went out into the rain.

Levin waited and the young reporter said, “Something’s going on.”

Ferguson and the others emerged, pushed through the crowd and went out, and the receptionist appeared.

“What was all that about, Gail?” the young reporter asked.

“Don’t be daft. We have our ethics here. Anyway, it’s more than my job’s worth to talk to you.”

“Useless bitch.”

“Thanks very much,” she said, as she pulled on her coat.

Levin said to the young reporter loud enough for her to hear, “You shouldn’t speak to a lady like that. It’s not on.”

She flashed him a smile of gratitude, said to the other receptionist, “I’m going for my break,” and went out.

Levin followed. She hesitated on the step, faced by the pouring rain, and he put up his umbrella. It took a Russian, schooled at one of London’s greatest public schools, to sound so charming, and it had just the right rough edge to it.

“Some people just have no manners, but to speak to a lady like that…” He shook his head. “I should have punched him in the mouth.”

“Oh, he’s just stupid, but thanks for being so nice.”

“I don’t know where you’re going, but you’ll get soaked without my umbrella. Where are you going, by the way?”

“Oh, the Grenadier pub. I’m on a half shift until nine tonight, so I have sandwiches and a coffee there.”

“What a coincidence – I was going to call in there myself. Shall we go together?”

He shielded her from the heavy rain, an arm slightly around her waist. “Are you a reporter, too?” she asked.

“So they tell me.” They reached the pub. “Come on, in we go.” It was still early and there was plenty of room. He helped her off with her coat. “May I join you? I could do with a sandwich, too.”

She was obviously attracted. “Why not? Prawn on salad and tea.”

“Oh, we can do better than that.” He went to the bar, gave the waitress an order and came back with two glasses of champagne. “There you go.”

“I say, this is nice.” She was sparkling with pleasure.

“You deserve it. You’re in the death business. Not many people could do what you do.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She drank the champagne and ate her sandwiches and he bought her another glass and got to work. “The things you have to put up with in your work. I mean, look at what happened earlier.”

She was a little tipsy and very flushed. “Well, I must admit, it was very unusual.”

“You were there?”

“Well, I showed them all in to the professor, so I was standing by the door when he told them his findings.”

“Just a moment.” Levin got up, went to the bar and returned with two more. “What were you saying? It must have been awful.”

“Well, I shouldn’t really say anything,” but she leaned forward.

The whole story came out, naturally, and then she checked her watch and gasped, “Oh, I’m late already.” She jumped up and he helped her into her coat.

“I’ll walk you back.” It was still raining. He said, “A pity you’re on shift tonight. We could have had dinner.”

“Oh, my boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

Levin managed to stop himself laughing out loud. He took her to the mortuary entrance through the rain.

“Take care,” he said, and walked away.

And then, as he went to the entrance and paused to look back, he noticed a black hearse. Something made him pause. Rabbi Julian Bernstein emerged. Behind him, pallbearers came out with a coffin.

He watched it being put into the hearse, and the rear door closed. As Rabbi Bernstein got into the front of the hearse behind the driver and the pallbearers got into another limousine, Levin cut back. There was the name and telephone number of the undertaker in gold leaf under the tailgate. He memorized it and walked on to the Embassy. Once in his office, he phoned Ashimov.

“Things have moved.”

“Tell me.”

Levin did. “I told you they’d been clumsy, your IRA chums. It won’t take a man like Dillon long to see which way things have gone. You’d better see that Fitzgerald keeps his head down in Ibiza. Do you want me to go out there and take care of him?”

“Don’t be stupid, Igor, I need these people. Stay there, check out the funeral and keep an eye out for Ferguson and company.”

“So you don’t want me to knock off Dillon for you?”

“Not now. Just obey orders, Igor.”

Levin sat back and thought about it, then rang the undertakers. “I’m hoping to send flowers as a token of respect for Miss Hannah Bernstein. I’m not sure whether the body will be there or at home.”

“Oh, here overnight.”

“And the funeral?”

“Ten o’clock in the morning at Golders Green.”

“So kind.”

He thought about things for a while, then decided to go for a drive, which took him to Wapping and Cable Wharf and the Dark Man. It was almost night, lights on the river, and he parked, one of many cars, so things were busy. He went and stood on the edge of the wharf and lit a cigarette. He’d always liked rivers, the smell of them, the boats, but now he felt curiously empty. It was Bernstein. He kept thinking of her photo, the look on her face. Dammit, her death was not really his affair, there was an inevitability to it. So why did he feel as he did? The Jewish link? But that was nonsense. It had always meant little to him, and death had been a way of life for years.

“Pull yourself together, Igor,” he murmured, and flicked his cigarette into the Thames. He took a small leather pouch from his pocket, extracted a minuscule earpiece, another device developed by the GRU, and pushed it into his right ear. The chip it contained enhanced sound considerably. Then he crossed the wharf and entered the Dark Man.

Ferguson, Dillon and the Salters were all there, including Roper in his wheelchair. They had the corner booth, but the bar itself was busy. Levin got a large vodka and helped himself to an Evening Standard someone had left. He had luck then, for a man and a woman in a small two-person booth next to his quarry got up to go, and Levin moved fast to take their place. He was protected from view by the wooden wall between the booths, but when he gave his earpiece a quarter turn, he could hear what was going on perfectly. He started to work his way through the newspaper and listened attentively.

Billy Salter was talking. “What’s going on? This bird, this Mary Killane. What’s the connection?”

It was Roper who intervened. “An IRA connection from childhood. Her father was a Provo hard man. He died of cancer years ago in the Maze Prison. The mother took the girl to Dublin when she was very young.”

“You’ve checked out what happened to her thoroughly?”

“Charles, I could tell you the schools she went to, where she trained as a nurse. All that.”

“Have you checked whether she was a member of the IRA herself?”

“As well as I could, and she wasn’t.”

“Was she a member of any political groups, anything like that?”

“As far as I can tell, which is considerable, she’s not a member of any group connected to Sinn Fein, I can guarantee that.”

It was Dillon who cut in. “She wouldn’t be. Her worth would be her being in the Republic and uninvolved. Going by her age, she’d be a sleeper.”

“What in the hell is a bleeding ‘sleeper’?” Harry asked.

“The new wave, Harry. Nice, decent professional people who work in hospitals or offices or universities, a lot of them London Irish. Born here, English accents. A perfect cover – until they’re activated.”

“In a way, that applies to you, Sean,” Ferguson said. “Your father brought you here as a little boy. Your education was English.”

“True. You don’t need an Irish accent to be Irish. The IRA discovered that with me a long time ago, and these days, it’s even more important. If you think they’ve given up, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“So Mary Killane’s task was to give Hannah Bernstein an overdose,” Ferguson said. “But why?”

There was silence. Roper said, “As a Special Branch Officer, Hannah not only put members of the IRA away, she killed them.”

“So what are you saying?” Blake said. “Somebody in the hierarchy waits until she’s almost dying anyway before deciding to have her put down?”

“Like a dog.” Dillon’s voice was almost toneless, without feeling.

Billy went to the bar and ordered more drinks. They were still sitting in silence when he returned. “Revenge is the only thing that makes sense. Whoever it was wanted their own back. Because of the IRA connection, we’re assuming it’s the IRA. But could she have been doing it for somebody else?”

One of the waitresses brought the drinks. Dillon looked at his Bushmills and swallowed it down. “Whoa, Billy. A girl like her, her whole background smacks of decency. I bet she went to Mass twice a week. And she’s a nurse, she chose a caring profession. A girl like that wouldn’t kill a fly normally. She would need strong persuasion to do what she did. When I was a boy, the Jesuits at school right here in London taught me an important thing. ‘By the small things shall thou know them.’ ”

It was Billy, in many ways Dillon’s other self, who said, “And the small thing here is the fact that her father was an IRA activist.”

“Who died in a British prison,” Roper said.

“A girl like her would need to believe fervently,” Dillon said. “She’d have to believe it was the right thing to do. A girl who goes to Mass? So what would make her do such a thing? She would need to believe it was acceptable, if you like.”

“A political act, in a way?” Roper said.

Ferguson shook his head. “An act of war.”

“Which explains why the IRA connection is so important,” Harry Salter said. “But who would it be? Who put her up to it?”

Roper said, “And then was reckless enough to knock her off afterward?”

Ferguson said, “Well, the Murder Squad is working hard at it.”

“They’ll get nowhere,” Dillon said bleakly. “You leave this with me. I’ll find the truth here, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Nothing stupid, Dillon?”

“Oh, he’s always that,” Billy said.

Ferguson nodded. “Which leads us to a bit of business. The terrible thing that’s happened has left us shorthanded in my department. I could ask for someone from Special Branch to replace Hannah, but I’ve decided not to. Billy, you’ve impressed me, more than you know, in the past few years. You know what it entails, you’ve helped out enough, killed on many occasions.”

“Now you’re being nice to me. What is this?”

Ferguson took an envelope from his pocket. “In there you will find a warrant card making you an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service in my employ, filling the gap left by Superintendent Hannah Bernstein. The photo was easy. Blame Major Roper for obtaining the more complicated information.”

Harry Salter turned to Roper. “You conniving bastard.”

Billy said, “Shut up.” He took out the warrant card and opened it. He turned to Dillon, then back to Ferguson. “What is it the Yanks say? Proud to serve.”

“Excellent. Do remember one thing. When you present yourself at the Ministry of Defence, do wear one of your better suits. Dillon, of course, has his own standards. You don’t need to report at nine o’clock in the morning. I intend to be present at Golders Green at ten o’clock at Superintendent Bernstein’s interment. I’m sure I’ll see you there.”

Harry Salter said, “I think you’ll see us all there.” He turned to Roper. “Don’t worry about your wheelchair, old son. We’ve got a People Traveller thing. Takes eight. We’ll go together. What about you, Dillon?”

Dillon was very pale, his eyes dark holes. “I’ll see you there. I’ll make my own way.”

He went to the bar, got another drink and came back. Blake Johnson said, “I’d join you, but I’ve got a plane standing by. As I said before, my instincts tell me that some of the answers to the Belov affair might be found at Drumore Place. I was thinking of dropping in at Belfast Airport on my way back, hiring a car and driving down there, an American tourist on the way through to Dublin. How does that sound?”

“Jesus,” Billy said. “Are you sure?”

Dillon said, “Your plane is official, booked out by the Embassy?”

“Of course.”

“Right. We took out Kelly and his boys, but that still is IRA country. I’d take a Walther PPK for your armpit and a Colt twenty-five with hollow-point cartridges in an ankle holster. If they find the Walther, there’s a chance they’ll miss the Colt.”

“That bad?”

“I’ve said. It’s IRA country. Kelly’s gone, someone comes in to fill the vacuum.”

“Shall I go with him?” Billy asked.

“Don’t be silly. You’d spoil his American tourist image. We’ve got things to do here anyway. I’m leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dillon turned and left, and Levin, glancing up, caught his eye. Levin went back to his newspaper. Dillon, on his way out, frowned. There was something there, but he was tired and his brain wasn’t functioning as well as normal. There was a terrible pressure on him, his one thought Hannah and what had happened to her. All the violence, everything he’d done for Ferguson, the killings, the mayhem, and she had been thrown into it and Dillon, as he walked to the Mini Cooper, was left with the inescapable feeling that it had somehow been his fault.

Behind, as the rest of the group stirred, Levin got up and left. He went back to his Mercedes, got in and phoned Ashimov.

“Have I got news for you.”

Ashimov was sitting after dinner beside the open fire in the Great Hall of Drumore Place with Greta and Liam Bell. “Tell me,” he said, and listened. After a while, he said, “Excellent. You stay on in London and keep a close eye on Dillon. Leave Blake Johnson to me.”

He switched off, turned to Bell and Greta and said, “We’re going to have an interesting visitor. One of President Jake Cazalet’s most trusted associates.”

“What’s he coming for?” Greta asked.

“To find out what’s happened here since Kelly and the rest of us faded from the scene.”

He told her what Levin had heard. “He’s good – damn good, but so is Blake Johnson. I’ll pull his photo out of the computer for you,” he told Bell. “A war hero in Vietnam, then the FBI, now the President’s most trusted security man.”

“We’ll give him a warm welcome,” Bell said.

Greta put in, “If he sniffs around and finds nothing, wouldn’t that be better?”

“Possibly.” But Ashimov’s eyes were glittering. “All right, we’ve seen off Bernstein, but what a coup to get Johnson. That would really hurt Cazalet, hurt all of them.” He turned to Bell. “We’ll make a decision when he turns up tomorrow.”

“I’m your man,” Bell said, and finished his drink.