The Wolf at the Door (21 page)

There was snow mixed
with sleet in the evening darkness as the Falcon carrying Max Chekhov landed at the Belov International private-aircraft facility close to the main Moscow airport. When the plane pulled in to the entrance of the terminal building and Chekhov came down the steps, Lermov was waiting for him in full uniform, fur hat, and fur collar. He saluted, giving Chekhov his title, one soldier to another.

“Major Chekhov . . . Josef Lermov.”

“Kind of you to meet me, Colonel.”

“A pleasure but also a duty. The Prime Minister is waiting for you now.”

For a moment, Chekhov was terrified again and fought to control his shaking. He stumbled slightly, mounting the icy steps leading into the terminal, his walking stick sliding.

Lermov caught him and laughed. “Take care. I wouldn’t want you to fall and break a leg. The Prime Minister doesn’t permit excuses.”

“That is my experience of him, too.”

They reached the limousine, a porter following with Chekhov’s bags, and found Ivanov waiting. Lermov made the introductions, then he and Chekhov sat in the rear and Ivanov got behind the wheel and drove away.

The snow was falling lightly now, and it was really rather peaceful. Chekhov said, “It’s a great pleasure to meet you. You name is certainly familiar to me. Could I ask what this all is about?”

“General Charles Ferguson.”

Chekhov’s sudden anger blotted out any fears he was going through at that moment. “That bastard! I’m half crippled, as you may have noticed, and it’s all his fault. A shotgun blast in one knee-cap delivered by gangsters in his employ.”

“Yes, I’d heard something of the sort. Well, the Prime Minister’s had enough. He’s entrusted me with the task of doing something about it. He wants them finished off.”

With his rather unique experience of the ways of General Charles Ferguson and company, Chekhov had reservations about Lermov’s prospects but felt it politic to offer only enthusiasm. And he was relieved to hear that they didn’t seem to know anything about his other past history with them. This could work out nicely.

“I will tell you, Colonel, and with all my heart, I would like nothing better than to see those swine wiped off the face of the earth.”

“Then we must do our best to oblige you.”

 

 

 

Twenty minutes later,
they were sitting in the same office where Lermov had met Putin before, the one that belonged to General Volkov, once head of the GRU. As they waited, Chekhov said, “A great man, Volkov, did you know him?”

“Not intimately.”

“Disappeared off the face of the earth. I wonder what became of him?”

“Oh, I think it highly likely that he and his men were murdered by this man Dillon on Ferguson’s orders,” Lermov told him.

“Good God.” Chekhov crossed himself.

“Yes, they fully deserve killing. And the Prime Minister has told me I may rely on you for any help I need.”

Before Chekhov could reply, the wall panel opened, and Putin appeared in a tracksuit. “There you are, Chekhov. Good flight? Is your leg improved?”

“Excellent, Prime Minister, really excellent,” Chekhov gabbled.

“Has Colonel Lermov explained the task I have given him?”

“Yes, sir, he has,” Chekhov managed to say. “I completely agree with everything you have ordered. He may rely on me totally in London.”

“Good.” Putin turned to Lermov. “How’s it going?”

“Very well, Prime Minister. I was inspired by your advice to think Moscow Mafia and how they would handle it.”

“And you’ve come up with an answer.”

“A man, Prime Minister, and just the one for the job.”

“Don’t tell me,” Putin said. “Just get on with it, and let the result speak for itself. Good luck.”

He moved, the door opened in the paneling, and he was gone. Chekhov heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God. Let’s get out of here. Where do we go now?”

“The Astoria, the staff hotel for GRU headquarters. It’s not exactly the Dorchester, but you’ll be amongst friends.”

 

 

 

Chekhov accepted the Astoria
with good grace, for an old soldier amongst soldiers again usually fits in. Ivanov helped him settle in, and suggested meeting downstairs in half an hour for a meal.

Chekhov said, “Look, Captain, I was wounded in Afghanistan, so I’m not just a rich fool like some of my fellow oligarchs. Your colonel has told me about your plan, and the Prime Minister’s just confirmed it to me.”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

“Of course not, those bastards crippled me. But just sit down for ten minutes and tell me exactly what’s happening. Would that be asking too much?”

“Not at all,” Ivanov said, and told him everything.

 

 

 

Afterwards, he left Chekhov
to unpack and went in search of Holley, whom he found in the office, working away on the computer, papers spread around, sometimes making notes by hand.

He sat down for a while, watching him. “I see you still like doing things the old-fashioned way.”

“It may seem strange,” Holley said, “but I find that no matter how much information I accumulate electronically, I can extract the essence of things with a few brief notes by hand.”

“And what are you searching for?” They turned and found Lermov standing in the doorway, Chekhov peering over his shoulder. “Max Chekhov . . . Daniel Holley.”

Holley nodded, and said, “Anything and everything about all the individuals involved in this affair, their comings and goings, their timetables. Take Lady Monica Starling, for instance. I’ve now got her family home in Essex, her brother’s house in Dover Street, her rooms in Cambridge. I’ve got a full schedule of her lectures and seminars online. And I’ve got pretty much the same for most of the people on our list, as much as is possible.”

“So when do you think you’ll be ready?” Lermov asked. “To give Daly a call and tell her the day of reckoning is here?”

“Oh, very soon, I should think. First, I need something from you: encrypted mobiles, one for each of us, and a spare for Caitlin Daly.”

Lermov said, “See to that, Peter. Anything else?”

“You’ll have my passport on file somewhere. I’d only just renewed it in ’ninety-four when you grabbed me in Kosovo.”

“You want to have it back?” Lermov asked.

“It would be nice. And, don’t forget, I was always a highly successful businessman in the world’s eyes, although a trifle disreputable because of the arms dealing. The darker side of my record has never been in the public domain. I even have a bank deposit in London. If you can find the passport, your people could put a stamp or two in it to fill in the five-year gap.” Holley nodded, looking thoughtful. “And while you’re at it, prepare another British passport to go with it. Daniel Grimshaw, a good Yorkshire name. I can thicken my accent to go with that.”

“Is that all?” Lermov said. “If it is, I suggest we go down for dinner.”

Holley shook his head. “I’ll join you a bit later. I still need to check a few things about the opposition. I need to know exactly what their schedules are.” He smiled. “You said that if you want to assassinate ten people, invite them round to dinner and explode a bomb under the table. Obviously, we can’t do that. But assassination victim by victim has its problems also. It’s like a warning light to anyone else connected.”

“I can see that, but what’s the answer?”

“To hit everybody at once, no matter where they are.”

“That would take some planning,” Ivanov told him.

“You could say that. So leave me to it. And I’d appreciate the encrypted mobiles at your soonest.”

They left, and Holley cut to the news on television. They were talking politics as usual, and there was some fuss about Europe’s cry that the Russian Federation was depriving them of gas and oil, turning off the pipelines. They cut to Putin vigorously defending himself, blaming America for interfering in European affairs, castigating Britain for supporting them. It seems there was some meeting of the UN in just a week, and Putin was going there to defend his point of view.

Holley switched off, smiling slightly. “Clever bastard,” he said softly. “Daring the President and the Prime Minister to show up and face him. Which, of course, they won’t.” And then a switch clicked in his head. What was it he had seen? He quickly paged through his notes and—yes, there it was. Harry Miller’s Parliamentary diary:
6th February, visit to the United Nations, New York, on behalf of the Prime Minister.
It was the date of Putin’s intended appearance.

He pushed a bit further and found a booking for Miller at the Plaza Hotel in New York, a place he knew well, looking across Central Park. And there was something else he’d noticed before. What was it, what was it?

 

 

 

And then he had it.
His fingers danced over the computer keys again, accessing the White House administrative logs. Yes, Blake Johnson would be spending a three-day weekend on Long Island and in New York City:
On Presidential business at the United Nations.
And the first day of Blake’s holiday was February 6th, a Friday.

Miller & Johnson.
Holley smiled.

A
fter a while, Ivanov entered the office, a bag in one hand. He opened it and produced two mobile phones with their chargers.

Holley examined one. “It looks good, small, light.”

“It’s called a Codex, produced by British intelligence. To be honest, we’ve simply stolen it and manufactured it for ourselves. It’s totally encrypted. The number for each one is on the sticker on the back. You just peel it off.”

“Excellent.”

“And I’ve gone round to records and found your passport. I’m having the forgery section bring the passport up-to-date with a few entry stamps, as you wanted, and they’re creating a new one for Daniel Grimshaw.” He held up a small camera. “So don’t smile, please, just look solemn.”

He took what he wanted, and Lermov came along the walkway and opened the door. “What’s all this?”

“Forgery, need a passport photo,” Ivanov told him.

“I see. Chekhov’s gone to bed. I think we all should.”

“One more thing,” Holley said. “I need some clothes.”

“I suppose we could find something suitable enough for flying in the Falcon—” Ivanov began, and Holley cut him off.

“Don’t be stupid. I am not flying in the Falcon. British intelligence monitors your planes in and out of the country. I can’t afford to be seen anywhere near you, and, to be frank about it, neither can Chekhov. He shouldn’t be observed getting off a Russian flight in the company of important GRU people. It’s too political a statement.”

Lermov nodded. “You’re right, of course. I see you have the mobiles you wanted. We have them now, too, so we can keep in touch at all times. Ivanov will take you shopping for clothes tomorrow.”

“But what guarantee do we have that, once out of our sight, he won’t do a runner, Colonel?” Ivanov demanded.

“Don’t be silly, where would he go?”

Ivanov went out, and Lermov turned and smiled. “So it’s coming together for you, you think?”

“I think so. I know how the game should proceed, the moves the players would be required to make, but until I have spoken to Caitlin Daly and checked whether her cell has survived I can give you no assurance of anything.”

“I understand. When do you want to leave?”

“The sooner, the better. The day after tomorrow, if possible, certainly no longer than the day after that.”

“I’ll leave you now, to make your call.”

He opened the door and paused as Holley said, “And which call would that be?”

“Daniel, as the Americans say, ‘You can’t kid a kidder.’ You haven’t asked for mad money to survive on, for accommodation while you’re in London, or, most important of all, for weaponry. This can only mean you have a source in mind, someone with an encrypted mobile like you have now. Amazing things, mobiles. Within two minutes, you can be talking to someone anywhere in the world. Algiers, for instance.”

“You wily old fox,” Holley told him.

“It’s been said before. I’ll leave you to it.”

 

 

 

In the old Moorish house
on the hill overlooking the harbor of Algiers, Hamid Malik lay on the bed in his bedroom, the windows open to the night air, the light wind stirring the fragrance from the garden below. He was reading a day-old copy of the
Financial Times
and wondering what the world was coming to. And then his mobile sounded.

“Who is this?” he asked in Arabic.

Holley replied in English, thickening his Yorkshire accent. “It’s me, you daft bastard. I can’t remember the exact words, but somewhere in the Bible it says: ‘For this my son was dead, and is alive again.’ ”

Malik, bursting with emotion, replied in Arabic, “Praise be to Allah. I have always known what happened to you in Kosovo long ago. A man named Lermov got in touch with me.”

“So I understand. He tells me you’ve been a valuable asset.”

“Purely business. Arms for Somalia, or wherever the Russians are stirring up trouble.”

“So the death business is booming?”

“As always, partner. So when can I see you back in Algiers?”

“I’m not sure. There’s a rather unusual mess in London that the Russians want me to clear up.”

“Blood in the streets, you mean?” Malik groaned. “Daniel, you are closer than a brother to me. When does it end?”

“As Allah wills, old friend,” Holley said. “There’s a debt to pay here if I’m to be set free.”

“I see.” Malik thought about it for a moment. “What if you went ahead with this venture, got to London, and simply disappeared? This would be easy for me to arrange. You know I have blood relatives living in England. Connections of every kind in the Islamic world.”