Without Mercy (24 page)

“They’re photos from the top of the piano. I’ve spent the time taking them out of their frames. My whole life is in those photos, Max. I even have one with Stalin, God rot him.”

“All right. We can get you new frames in London.” He picked up the suitcase, pulled her out and slammed the door. “Let’s get out of here.” As they went down the stairs, he called Roper. “I have my mother, we’re on our way.”

At Holland Park, Roper immediately relayed the call to Dillon, who called to Lacey, “They’re coming.”

The snow was falling quite heavily now. Lacey pulled the raincoat over his shoulders, concealing his uniform, put his cap underneath, went down the steps and crossed toward the reception area. Behind him, a small tanker drove up to start the process of refueling the Citation X. Dillon dodged in a doorway, took out the cap, adjusted it, then opened the raincoat so it simply dropped from his shoulders, revealing his GRU uniform. He went to the glass doors at the entrance to reception. Lacey was at the desk, doing paperwork with a young man in a dark green uniform and fur hat.

Dillon stood watching, looking quite striking in his uniform, lit a cigarette and turned to see what was obviously the Embassy limousine come round the corner and park by the Airstairs door. A chauffeur got out, bringing what looked like mail sacks with him, and Billy appeared in the door with similar sacks and an exchange took place. The limousine drove away.

In Zubin’s suite at the Excelsior, Kurbsky had managed to wriggle across to the door with great difficulty. The CS gas hadn’t done him any good and the tape on his mouth was half-choking him, but lying on his back, he started kicking his bound feet at the door, and after a while, it had an effect. A room service waiter appeared and found him.

Zubin drove up to the gate entrance of the VIP lot at the Belov Complex and turned in. The guard on duty came out of the hut.

“Papers.”

“On the windshield, man, can’t you see? This is a Belov International limousine and I’m Josef Belov.”

“I still need to see your papers, even if you are Mr. Big.”

Zubin took out the silenced Colt and shot the guard between the eyes. He jumped out, dragged the man into the hut out of sight, got back into the limousine and drove around to the side of reception. The Citation X with its RAF rondels was plain to see.

“Come on, Mama, take your last walk on Russian soil.”

They started forward, her hand on his arm while he carried the suitcase, but as they passed reception, a voice called, “Where are you going?”

He turned and found a young man in a green uniform and fur hat standing on the steps.

“I’m Josef Belov,” he bellowed. “Surely you recognize me?”

The young man peered at him. “Good God, yes. I saw you on television, but where are you going?”

Dillon moved out of the shadows, resplendent in that chilling GRU uniform. “Young man, this is an official matter. Come with me and I’ll explain. I’m Captain Levin.”

The youth was totally intimidated. “Of course, sir.”

From the plane, Billy called, “Come on, Dil—uh, Igor.” Dillon nodded to Zubin. “Carry on, Mr. Belov,” and he turned and took the youth inside, guiding him into an office at the back of the reception area, where he promptly took out his pistol and stunned him with a violent blow.

The engines had fired up in the Citation X, Zubin and his mother inside, Billy standing in the entrance. Dillon ran for the steps and scrambled up, and the door closed. There was chatter from the cockpit, and they moved forward through the falling snow, the runway lights gleaming.

“Just like bleeding Christmas,” Billy said, and turned to Zubin and Bella. “Belt up, we’re on our way.”

Dillon looked at his watch. “Seven-thirty, dead on time. That’s the RAF for you.”

They climbed quickly to forty thousand feet. Kurbsky’s frantic phone message to Volkov made no impact for quite some time for, after all, no one knew exactly what was going on. The youth at reception was unconscious for twenty minutes, and it was only with his report on Belov’s presence, and the discovery of the body of the gate guard, that Volkov made any sense of it at all.

By then, of course, it was far too late, as Lacey had predicted. The extreme speed of the Citation X had taken them out of Russian airspace in thirty minutes and they were well on their way.

At Holland Park, Roper had listened to Dillon and now turned to Ferguson and Harry. “They’ve actually done it.” Ferguson said, “You’re certain they’re out of harm’s way?”

“They’re just over German airspace now and winging into French.”

“You going to call the Prime Minister?” Harry asked.

“No, I think I’ll leave the champagne until they land at Farley Field.” Ferguson shook his head. “Who in the hell would have believed it?”

“I tell you what,” Harry said. “Vladimir Putin isn’t going to be pleased. Where does this leave his bleeding Belov Protocol?”

And to that, of course, there was no answer.

In the plane, they all sat back, and Billy opened the icebox and found a bottle of champagne. “Somebody had faith,” he said, and got it open.

Drinking, Bella Zubin said, “It’s like an impossible dream.”

“Thanks to Dillon here and Mr. Salter,” her son said.

“So what do you think they’ll do?” Dillon asked.

“About the protocol? I don’t know. But I can tell you one thing. Putin’s about to give a royal reaming to that bastard Volkov.”

“And Volkov will get straight on the phone to Drumore Place and put the boot into Yuri Ashimov, and that, Billy, I’d like to see.”

Dillon turned to Bella. “When I was seventeen, I was a student at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. You were appearing at the Old Vic in The Three Sisters with Olivier. You came to RADA and lectured. You said Chekhov should always be played on a London stage. I’ve never forgotten you.”

“My God, an actor,” Bella said. “All my life . . .” and Dillon kissed her on the cheek.

LONDON

Chapter 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, we’ll soon put that right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And then what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

“At your orders, General.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Ashimov poured it all out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose that’s possible.”

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