Without Mercy (19 page)

“What makes him tick?”

“Ah, the game, Harry, and there’s always the danger that in the end, instead of you playing the game, the game is playing you. Anyway, that’s enough of that. I think I’ll have a little shuteye and then I’ll take over from Dillon.”

At the Royal George in Drumore, trade was brisk. In the corner booth, Liam Bell sat with Walsh, Kelly, Magee, a walking stick beside him, a relic of Blake Johnson’s bullet in the thigh.

“Walking wounded.” Kelly nudged Magee.

“Well, this one’s no better,” Magee said, as Ryan appeared from the kitchen. “Are you sure you can still hear, Patrick?”

Ryan put down the tray of ale he was carrying. “Stuff you, Magee, would you like to buy your own?”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, he was a desperate kind of a fella, that Johnson.”

“Shut up,” Bell said. “And drink up. I want some of you at the house. Walsh, Kelly, Magee.” He turned to three young men at the next table. They were new recruits, Connor, Derry and Gibson. “You stay down here overnight with Ryan and mind what he tells you.”

They were young, arrogant and had their AK47s on the bench beside them. “We will that, Mr. Bell.”

“And keep your mobiles on at all times. Now go to the kitchen for your supper, then Ryan will work a rota for you, taking turns checking the harbor.”

After they had gone, Ryan said, “Are you expecting trouble, Liam?”

“Christ knows what to expect in the present situation. Ashimov’s staying over in Dublin. There’s something up, but I don’t know what. Levin’s been called to London.”

“Jesus, but he needs taking down a peg,” Ryan said.

“Don’t be stupid, man, it was Connor who got taken down in two seconds flat. You avoid contact with Levin at all times. He was a paratrooper in Chechnya, medals, the lot. Anyway, drink up and we’ll move up to the house. Mrs. Ryan’s left us a nice supper in the kitchen.”

There was quite a sea running, and cold spray stung Ferguson’s face as he moved along the heaving deck and opened the wheelhouse door. Sean Dillon was standing at the wheel, his face disembodied in the compass light.

“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”

“I’ll take over.” Ferguson brushed past and took over the wheel. He increased speed, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and the waves grew rougher.

“Go on, get below and find something to eat. I’ll be fine.”

It was dark, very dark, and yet there was a slight phosphorescence from the sea now and then. At one stage there was the gleam from a lighthouse in the distance, but as they plowed on, except for the occasional red and green lights of a ship, they might as well have been alone in a dark world.

At Holland Park, Roper was seated at the computers eating a sandwich, when there was a knock at the door and Sergeant Doyle looked in.

“I’ve got Major Novikova, sir. She asked to speak to you.”

“Fine, show her in, Sergeant.”

She brushed past Doyle, dressed in a padded dressing gown. “What is it?” Roper asked.

“I’m bored, tired of being locked up with two bloodhounds taking shifts seated outside my door. How long will this go on for?” She sat down, and Doyle leaned against the wall.

“As long as Ferguson wants. He could hold you indefinitely under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.”

“What if I want to be sent home?”

“They don’t know you’re here.” He smiled.

She said, “At last that frozen face of yours has cracked.” He stopped smiling. She threw up her hands. “I can’t believe I said that. It was a car bomb, wasn’t it?”

“IRA, one of many.”

“And you can work with Dillon?”

“Sean was never a bomb man.” He lit a cigarette and offered her one. “You’d be better off going back to bed.”

Her mobile was on the desk close to his hand, and now, for the first time, it sounded. Roper switched it on, held it to his ear. There was a hint of breathing. He offered it to her, she shook her head.

He smiled, put it to his ear again and said, “Major Novikova’s residence.”

The caller disconnected. Roper moved into the emergence pattern on his computer, knowing it would be a waste of time, and it was.

“A coded instrument and a good one. Impossible to trace.”

“Of course.”

“I’d go back to bed and consider your options, Major. He’s a very reasonable man, the General, with people who are reasonable with him.”

“As you English would say, what a load of cobblers,” and she got up and walked out, followed by Doyle.

Roper thought about calling Ferguson and telling him about it, but decided against it. He couldn’t even tell the general area the call had come from, so there wasn’t much to tell. He wondered how they were getting on and went back to work.

At Station Gorky, Max Zubin sat in his room and talked to his mother. He did that a lot and was allowed unlimited time. After all, security were listening to the conversations. Her cheerful, tough humor kept him relatively sane, but all her conversations ended in the same way.

“When am I going to see you?”

“I can’t say.”

“Well, Josef Belov has ultimate power, people listen to his orders.”

“But I’m just a poor Jewish actor, Mama, and I don’t even get Actors Guild minimum. Sure, there are hints I might be making a move, that’s all I can say. God bless.”

Three miles off Drumore, the Highlander drifted under automatic pilot while they gathered in the saloon and sorted out the weaponry. Dillon and Billy wore black Special Forces overalls and flak jackets, balaclava helmets rolled up at the moment but ready for the right sinister effect later. A Walther each in a shoulder holster, an AK47 in the silenced mode.

Ferguson and Harry wore flak jackets and each had an AK to hand. There was a chart open on the table showing the general approach to Drumore.

“With the nets up, we’ll look like any other fishing boat,” Dillon said. “Lay offshore beyond the point. We’ll go in the dinghy, it’s got silencers on the outboard. Tie up on the west side of the jetty and proceed to the house.”

“Could work like a Swiss watch,” Billy said.

“Or the kind you buy off a stall at Camden Market,” Harry grumbled.

“Well, we’ll see.” Ferguson smiled. “It’s good to smell powder again. Let’s get on with it. I’ll tell Roper it’s all systems go.”

At Holland Park, Roper listened. “So, approximately thirty minutes?”

“I’d say so.”

“Excellent. I’ll stand by.”

He lit a cigarette and sat in the shadowed room, watching his screens, his inputs to the Russian Embassy in London, his scanning of what was happening with Belov International, Ashimov, Levin, the names of all involved parties, waiting for what might come up—anything. A dirty night for it, and he waited.

Dillon and Billy went over the rail to the dinghy. Billy pushed the starter button on the engine, and it rumbled into life, a gentle, pulsating sound, not much noise to it at all. They coasted in on the west side of the jetty, beached and moved away fast, sinister figures in the darkness.

There was a light at the bar windows of the Royal George. Dillon put a finger to his lips and he and Billy approached cautiously and peered in. Connor, Derry, Gibson and Ryan were sitting round a table by the log fire, playing cards.

The curtain was half-drawn, the window two or three inches open, and Dillon eased it back and heard Ryan say, “I’ll make some bacon sandwiches and tea. Derry and Gibson, take a walk round for a quick check.”

“Ah, Jesus, Mr. Ryan, do we have to?”

“That’s Liam Bell’s orders and that’s what you’ll do. Now, be off with you.”

Dillon and Billy hurried away, following the winding path they remembered so well all the way up to Drumore Place. There was the luxuriant garden, summerhouses, the huge terrace, French windows, light glowing dimly here and there.

“Somebody’s up early,” Billy murmured.

“Well, let’s take a look,” and Dillon raised his night glasses. At that moment, a French window opened and Walsh and Kelly stepped out, Liam Bell behind.

“Just check the garden,” he said, and turned back.

“Come on,” Dillon said to Billy, and moved forward.

At Holland Park, Roper was still at his computers. To a man so badly damaged, sleep does not come easily and he frequently worked all night, a diet of whiskey and sandwiches keeping him going. There was a sudden stirring on his screens as a tracer element analyzed not photos, but staff day records at Russian embassies around the world, and there was Major Yuri Ashimov, overnighting at the Dublin Embassy. It was just as interesting to find out that Captain Igor Levin was back on staff at the London Embassy and resident there. He called Ferguson at once on his Codex Four, and Ferguson, in the wheelhouse with Harry, was horrified.

“Things are in motion, they’re on the job now and too late to abort. If I ring Dillon on his Codex, it could be exactly at the wrong moment.”

“It’s your call, General. No Ashimov, no Levin there, just the good old IRA.”

“God, I don’t have much choice, do I?” and Ferguson called Dillon, who unfortunately was otherwise engaged.

As Dillon and Billy had started up to the terrace, Bell turned the terrace lights on from inside the library, revealing Dillon and Billy moving forward.

Walsh called out, “Intruders, Mr. Bell,” and fired his AK47. Billy ducked behind the balustrade and knocked Walsh down. Kelly turned, stumbled and had Dillon all over him. Dillon pulled up his hood.

Kelly said, “Christ, it’s you, Dillon.”

“So it is, and I’ll kill you stone dead if you don’t answer my question. Ashimov and Levin, where are they?”

“Ashimov’s in Dublin, due back later today. Levin flew in to Ballykelly from Ibiza and out again to London.” He was terrified. “I swear to God, Sean.”

“And where would Liam Bell be?”

“Getting the hell out of here, if he’s got any sense.”

As he said that, there was the sound of a car starting up and driving away. “There the bastard goes,” Billy said.

Dillon called up Ferguson. “The whole thing’s gone sour, Charles. We’re on our way back. Come and get us.” He said to Kelly, “I keep my word. Run for it.”

Which Kelly did, pausing to watch them go, then calling through to Patrick Ryan at the Royal George.

“You’ve got bad trouble coming your way,” he said, but Ryan already knew, for earlier Derry and Gibson, patrolling the harbor, had discovered the dinghy and the outboard still warm, on the west side of the jetty.

“Well, I don’t know whose this is, but it’s soon taken care of.” Derry pulled out a pistol, putting three holes in it.

Offshore, Ferguson heard and said to Harry, “We’re going in.”

“I’m with you,” Harry said, and went out on deck, his AK ready.

They went in quickly to the harbor, and Dillon and Billy coming down the hill path came under fire from Ryan and Connor. Dillon hit Connor with two shots, Ryan ducked down and caught Billy in the middle of his flak jacket with a lucky shot that knocked him over. Dillon hauled him up and they continued, running headlong down the path toward the jetty and the beach. Derry and Gibson started to fire up at them caught on the exposed path, and the Highlander roared in out of the darkness. Harry fired in sustained bursts at the two men on the beach by the dinghy, as Dillon and Billy burst onto the jetty. As the Highlander bounced off the jetty, they scrambled over the rail.

Derry was down, and Ferguson, at the wheel, dropped the flap and pulled out the Browning with the twenty-round clip and sprayed the beach as they swerved away, knocking down Gibson as well before they were swallowed up by darkness.

Later, on automatic pilot, they sat in the saloon and drank whiskey. “Well, that was brisk,” Harry said.

“And a bleeding waste of time.” Billy shook his head. “We couldn’t even get Liam Bell.”

“At the time, there was no way of knowing Ashimov was overnighting in Dublin, Levin in London. It was just bad luck, and Major Novikova wouldn’t cooperate.”

“The thing that really interests me is Levin being sent to London,” Dillon said. “I’d like to know why.” He got up. “We’ll have to give him some special attention when we get back. Anyway, I’ll take the wheel. The rest of you can get some sleep.”

The sky was streaked with light, and way over on his left the Isle of Man was apparent in spite of the rain. It could have been worse, Dillon told himself. At least he and Billy had walked away from it, thanks to Harry and Ferguson. It was the enemy who’d suffered. The thing was, what happened now? He lit a cigarette, his Codex Four went. It was Roper.

“You and Billy are in one piece obviously.”

“Just about. Liam Bell did a runner at the house, his boys gave us a hard time. Ferguson and Harry were wonderful. Bell’s short three, maybe four men, so we did some good.”

“You certainly did.”

“The thing is, what happens now?”

“Oh, that’s easy. President Vladimir Putin visits the European Union’s Paris conference tomorrow, then he intends to divert to London, have a chat with the Prime Minister, stay at the Dorchester and fly back to Moscow in the morning.”

“What for?”

“Oh, a remarkable story of greed, corruption and politics, which has only unfolded within the past hour on my screens. I’ve tried Ferguson, but he isn’t replying.”

“Flat on his back below, they all are.”

“Not surprising. How far to Oban?”

“I’d have said two hours, but there’s quite a sea running. It’s going to get worse. You could do me a favor and alert Lacey and Parry.”

“Will do. I’ll leave the juiciest details of the Putin visit until I see you, except to say he’ll have an interesting guest with him at the Dorchester—Josef Belov.”

Dillon was stunned. “How can that be?” and then he saw it. “Max Zubin’s going to do Belov again in London?”

“Something like that. We’ll talk again.”

Dillon thought about it, then put the boat on automatic pilot and went below to tell Ferguson the extraordinary news.

In Moscow at the Kremlin, Max Zubin, bundled out of bed at Station Gorky, ordered to be dressed and ready in an hour, then flown at what had seemed like express speed, stood in front of Volkov’s desk.

“You have a wonderful opportunity to serve your country. Your finest hour. You will visit Paris as part of the President’s entourage, travel to London to perform the same service at the Dorchester Hotel, and then return to Moscow.”