Without Mercy (25 page)

“Oh, no,” Bell said. “I’ve had enough on this one.”

“I’ve got a fortune in the contingency fund in the safe in my study. I’ll call in a company Falcon, we land at Archbury. A couple of days should do it. I’ll give you twenty-five thousand pounds in advance, another twenty-five when we get back.”

And as usual, greed won the day. “Two days?” Bell said. “And I want the fifty in advance.”

“All right.” Ashimov didn’t even argue.

“Well, phone Igor Levin, set it up and let’s see the color of your money.”

After Volkov’s call, Levin had been waiting to hear from Drumore Place, had been wondering how to handle Ashimov when he was contacted, which he was in his suite at the Dorchester.

Ashimov said, “We’ve had problems in Moscow.”

Levin had decided on the direct approach. “I know all about the whole bloody mess.”

“God, if I could get my hands on Dillon,” Ashimov said.

“Well, you can’t, old stick. So, Volkov’s told you to come home, is that it?”

“Yes!”

“We all know what that means.”

“I’m coming over,” Ashimov said, and his desperation was plain. “If we could find where they have Zubin and his mother, I could deal with them.”

“Get them back to Russia, you mean? I think it’s too late for that.”

“They can end up in the Thames as far as I’m concerned,” Ashimov exploded. “Just find out where they are. Dammit, you’ve got all the resources of the GRU—find out! I’ll be flying into Archbury.”

“Alone?”

“No, Bell has agreed to accompany me.”

“Out of loyalty or for money?”

“Money, of course.”

“Always the best way. I’ll see what I can do.”

He sat there, thinking about it. There had been a disturbing edge of madness about Ashimov, but maybe there always had been. Still, he had a certain duty in this matter, so he found his coat, called for his Mercedes and drove to the Russian Embassy in Kensington.

In his office, Luhzkov sat and listened as Levin made certain demands.

“But this is really asking too much, Igor. You ask for full cooperation from us at every level. How can I agree to it when I don’t even know what is so urgent that you request this?”

Levin produced his mobile, made a call and said, “It’s good to speak to you, General. I’m having problems with Colonel Luhzkov at the London Embassy. He questions the importance of my mission.” He listened, then passed the phone across. “General Volkov would appreciate a word.”

Volkov said, “You’ve got a good record, Luhzkov, you’re a fine officer. I’m amazed at your attitude in this matter. I’m sure Levin misheard. Ask him to speak to me again.”

Luhzkov did, already trembling. Levin listened, then said, “Of course, General.”

He took the Putin warrant from his pocket and laid it before the Colonel. Luhzkov read it, remembering when Levin had first shown it to him in the pub, and Volkov said, “Would you dispute an order from your President, Colonel?”

“Of course not, General, anything I can do, anything.”

“This is a matter of the highest state security, Colonel. Captain Levin acts not only with my total authority, as head of the GRU, but under direct order from the President himself.”

“I understand, General.” Luhzkov was in deep water and he realized it.

“In this matter, Captain Levin has total control. I’ve already spoken to the Ambassador. Until the present emergency is solved, Captain Levin is in charge and will be offered every assistance.”

“Anything I can do, you may rely on me, General.”

He handed the phone to Levin, his face very pale. Levin said, “Look, General, I don’t know what you expect all this to achieve, but I’ll do what Ashimov wants. You do realize he’s a madman, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not.”

“Actually, that’s what I’m relying on.”

Volkov switched off and Levin put the mobile in his pocket. “The first thing you do, Luhzkov, is speak to Ferguson and ask for any news he has of the whereabouts of Major Greta Novikova. You will tell him you have information that she’s being held at Holland Park. As a diplomatic attaché at our Embassy, she is entitled to diplomatic immunity and the right to be returned to Russia.”

“Can this be true?”

“For God’s sake, Boris, get real. The days of shepherd’s pie and beer at the pub are long gone. Do it!”

“As you say.”

“I do say. You also make it clear to all GRU personnel in the Embassy that I’m in charge. Anything I want, I get. Men, equipment, whatever.”

“Of course.”

“As long as we know where we are.” Levin smiled. “I’d better go and get on with it.”

He arranged a command center at the Embassy, with a Sergeant Chomsky in charge of communications. A team of six men followed, with full use of anything needed in the vehicle pool. Suzuki motorcycles figured largely, there was a Telecom van in the garage, and another rather artistic van, emblazoned with signs claiming to belong to a courier service.

Levin assembled Chomsky and the men. “Line up.”

They did and he allowed each man to read the Putin warrant. “Any questions?” he asked. No one said a word. “This is a matter of extreme importance, so nobody questions, nobody argues. If you do, I’ll have you sent to a very unpleasant place. Chomsky?”

“At your orders, Captain.”

“Sergeant Chomsky and I survived Afghanistan and Chechnya. London is far preferable, so we’ve no intention of fucking up here, have we, Sergeant?”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“Good. I’ll issue a list of my requirements. Anything you want, you get.” He smiled. “Except women. Women are your responsibility.”

He walked away from the motor pool. The men laughed nervously. One of them said, “Where’d he get an accent like that? And that suit! What is he, some kind of ponce?”

Chomsky gave him a long look. “I wouldn’t advise you letting him hear you say that. He’d kill you and smile while he’s doing it. Now let’s get to work.”

The safe house at Holland Park was an obvious target. A few yards up the road, Chomsky had a Telecom van parked, a manhole cover up, a man in a yellow jacket and helmet working. He was backed up by a motorcyclist in a side street.

In Cavendish Place outside Ferguson’s apartment, a gardener was working in the central area of the square.

Levin debated about Dillon’s cottage in Stable Mews, but decided against it. More and more, he felt an affinity with Dillon.

He said to Chomsky, “Not Dillon. Anything in the slightest way out of the ordinary near his place, and he’d smell it like a hound dog. I would.”

Chomsky, a law student who’d only joined the army as a conscript, had fed on Afghanistan and Chechnya and found he liked it. He had immersed himself in the files of the whole affair.

“I don’t think they’d put them up in a hotel, sir, so Holland Park makes sense, probably as a temporary measure.”

“And what comes after?”

“God knows. Some sort of house elsewhere. If the Captain will allow me?” He opened a file. “I took the liberty of accessing these gangsters, the Salters. They make the Moscow Mafia look like rubbish. Millionaires many times over.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, Chomsky. I’d forgotten you spent two years training for the law before the army.”

“They own houses and developments all over London, sir. I don’t mean rubbish. First-class stuff in some of the most exclusive squares.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Everything stems from Hangman’s Wharf, sir, the Dark Man. I’ve been and looked. Boats of every kind tie up at the wharf, some people live in them, others work on them. I found one for rent almost opposite the pub. I’ll put Popov in it. His English is excellent. He can spend his time painting the damn boat or whatever. He’ll have a Suzuki. Who knows what might come out of the Dark Man.”

“Excellent,” Levin told him. “They all seem enthusiastic.”

“It’s a little different from that, sir.” Chomsky was almost apologetic. “They like it here, they like life in London. They don’t want to screw up and get sent home.”

“Dear God, what’s the world coming to? Okay, straight to work. I need to know where the Zubins are being held as soon as possible.”

At Holland Park, Max Zubin and his mother were handed over to Sergeant Doyle. “Temporary accommodation, I promise you,” said Ferguson.

After they’d gone upstairs, he went in to Roper. “God, I feel knocked out. I can’t believe it worked.”

“Thanks to Dillon and Billy Salter.” Roper lit a cigarette. “Dillon’s had a death wish for years. I worry that young Billy’s inherited it. Where are they?”

“Dark Man for breakfast.”

“And why aren’t we?”

“Damn you, you’re right,” and Ferguson called to Doyle. “Get the People Carrier out, Sergeant. Hangman’s Wharf for breakfast.”

Ashimov, in the kitchen having breakfast with Bell, answered Levin’s call.

“I’ve got a phony motorcycle cop parked at Holland Park. A big van emerged, carrying Ferguson and Roper. My man followed and guess what? The Dark Man at Wapping. I’d say it’s certain Zubin and his mother were taken to Holland Park.”

“So what now?”

Levin went through the arrangements he had made. “I think we’ve covered most options.”

“I think so, too. I’ve ordered the plane. Bell and I will come over later this morning. We’re staying in some hotel he knows near the Embassy in Kensington. The Tangier. Small and unpretentious.”

Levin could have said that large and ostentatious was the best way to conceal anything, but he let it go.

“I’ll expect to hear from you.”

“I can’t wait.”

Sitting over coffee after breakfast, Ferguson said, “The question is, what do we do with them?”

“What’s wrong with Holland Park?” Billy said.

“Too constrained. I’d like them established somewhere more established.”

“What you want is quiet obscurity for a few weeks until Zubin grows a beard again,” Dillon said.

“Something like that.”

“The money’s there,” Ferguson said. “Plenty to buy a nice place.”

“Yes, but finding what you want takes time,” Billy said. “I like old Bella, she’s a great lady. She deserves the best.” He frowned. “Just a minute, I’ve got an idea, Harry. We’ve got a list of properties a yard long in Mayfair, the West End.”

“Billy, sometimes you get it right,” Harry said. “We’ll come up with something suitable, I’m sure.”

At eleven o’clock on Russian television, with an atmosphere of some solemnity and gloom, it was announced that Josef Belov had collapsed and been rushed to hospital. There was a suspicion of a recurrence of stomach cancer. There had been concern about his health for some time. There was a definite hint that he had made some sort of personal sacrifice as regards the future of Belov International. There was a significant absence of political figures to comment, but footage of Max Zubin at the Dorchester in London with Putin and the British Prime Minister was run and rerun.

The announcement was picked up by the BBC, where at Holland Park, Zubin and his mother saw it. So did Greta Novikova, who immediately demanded Roper. She found him in the computer room.

“What the hell happened?” she asked.

“Well, as usual, Dillon happened, and a few friends.”

Afterward, she sat there shaking her head. “Ashimov will be in serious trouble, Roper. You must understand, he’ll be called home, and I wouldn’t like to think of the price he’ll have to pay. He’ll be blamed for everything.”

“That’s the problem.”

“So, the Zubins are here?”

“On the floor above you.” He glanced at his watch. “They’ll be down for lunch soon. Do you want to join in? After all, you met them in Moscow.”

She got up. “Why not?” She walked to the door, Doyle following, and hesitated. “I love my country, Roper, does that make sense?”

“If you go back, you’ll disappear from sight forever. Stalin may have died a long time ago, but nothing changes, Greta.”

She went out slowly, Doyle following.

Ashimov flew over from Ballykelly, rising up through heavy rain. He found the vodka and sat there drinking. “Bloody country, it rains nearly every day. I’ll be glad to get out of it.”

“To Russia? Lousy weather, I should have thought, at this time of the year. Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Bell said.

“Of what?”

“Oh, our line of work. Years of putting yourself on the line, dodgy passports like today, lies.”

Ashimov swallowed more vodka. “I loved it, worked my way up from being a private soldier. They’d have made me a colonel for sure this year. I was still officially GRU, though I was responsible for all Belov’s security. You know the good work I did with the KGB in the old days working for the Irish Cause.”

“I can’t deny that.”

“And then Ferguson and Dillon came on the scene, always Dillon. This business with Zubin has ruined my life.”

“And you think knocking off Zubin and his mother will put you back on Volkov’s good books?”

“I’d be even better if it could be Ferguson and Dillon. I’d like to see them both rot in hell.”

In spite of being obviously drunk, he had another, and Bell, on the other side of the aisle, picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it, already regretting his involvement. But times were hard. It wasn’t the old days any longer, with a pistol in your pocket and a song in your heart for the glorious Cause. Fifty thousand pounds. He’d just have to put up with this madman. After all, it was only two days.

Chomsky hadn’t told Levin the exact truth about Popov, his man in the boat at Hangman’s Wharf, for like Levin himself, Popov’s mother had been English. She had died of cancer while Popov served in Chechnya. The truth was she’d had a younger sister living in Islington, so Popov’s posting to the London Embassy had presented him with an aunt and a ready-made extended family. His English was not only excellent, as Chomsky had said, it was perfect, which proved more than useful on his assignment at Hangman’s Wharf, for nobody doubted he was English.

He ventured into the pub, had meat-and-potato pie, beer, even recognized Harry Salter and Billy from the photos he’d been shown. Outside working on the boat at the wharf, he’d noticed them walking down to the warehouse development and going in. He’d taken a walk that way, read the notice board outside extolling the virtues of Salter Developments.