Without Mercy (4 page)

Hamilton appeared beside him and the old lady. “What is it?”

“Some sort of explosion on the Kathleen. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw someone. I’m going to check.”

“You’ll need some help. Get some of the men.”

“Don’t be daft. They’ll all stay close to home this night.”

He hurried out to his old Land Rover, got behind the wheel and drove away, down through the village, following the narrow road toward the point, no more than five minutes away, got out and ran toward the top of the steps leading down to the small beach below. It was very dark down there, only the waves dashing in, and then the cloud moved away and the moon shone through and he saw something, head and shoulders perhaps, and started down.

Greta Novikova had been standing in the stern of the Kathleen, Belov and Tod Murphy in the wheelhouse, when the explosion took place in the engine room. The two men didn’t stand a chance, but the force of the blast, a great wind, drove her across the stern rail as the shattered boat lifted and then dove down to its last resting place. She plunged headfirst into the water, lucky enough to slide to one side and miss the propellers. She went under, and surfaced, turning as the sea swallowed the Kathleen. An undertow sucked at her as if greedy to take her with it, and frightened and dazed, she screamed and kicked out toward the cliffs of the point.

There was a trench in the seabed at that place, fully fifty fathoms deep, so that as the Kathleen descended rapidly, there was turbulence on the surface, waves driving toward the small beach, increasing in force and taking her with them.

In the moonlight, she saw Ryan plunging knee-deep in the water to reach for her. She cried out, he grabbed, waist-deep in water, pulling her close.

“I’ve got you.” He waded onto the beach, pulling her behind him. He held her close as she gasped for air. “Who was with you?”

“Belov . . . Tod Murphy.”

“And Kelly and the others?”

“There was a shoot-out at Drumore Place. I don’t know. You must take me there.”

“Jesus, woman, you’re in no fit state to go anywhere. There’s blood on your face. You must have taken a hell of a battering.”

“I must find out what’s happened to Major Ashimov. I must.”

And it was Kelly he was worried about. After all, if Kelly was still around, there was the IRA to consider.

He patted her shoulder. “I’ve got the Land Rover at the top of the steps. I’ll take you now.”

Yuri Ashimov knew none of this, for he was unconscious, facedown at Drumore Place, not dead, in spite of the two bullets Billy Salter had pumped into him, thanks to the nylon-and-titanium vest he’d been wearing beneath his shirt. An invention of the Wilkinson Sword Company, it was efficient enough to block even a .44 bullet. On the other hand, the shock to the cardiovascular system usually caused unconsciousness for a while.

Lying there, he stirred and groaned, moved a little and pulled himself up. He shook his head to clear it, remembering firing his pistol at Dillon, knocking the AK from his hands, thinking he’d got the bastard and then the shot catching his shoulder, spinning him round, and his last memory, Billy Salter’s face as he’d fired the heart shot. There was a chair nearby; he reached for it, pulled himself up and sat down. He heard a footfall and one of Kelly’s men, Toby McGuire, appeared in the archway.

“What happened to you?” Ashimov asked harshly.

“I was waiting in the summerhouse. Somebody jumped me. Knocked me out with a rifle stock.”

“Where is everybody?”

“Kelly’s dead and O’Neill. I was up and around when Dillon and the other guy came out on the terrace. I kept out of the way, but I heard what they were saying.”

“And what was that?”

Toby McGuire took a deep, shuddering breath and told him about the Kathleen and what had happened.

Ashimov sat there thinking about it. “So that’s what he said about Major Novikova? If she wasn’t willing to take the risks, she shouldn’t have joined?”

“That was it. Then he said to this guy Billy, ‘I expect our day will come.’ ”

“Oh, it will.” Ashimov nodded. “You can count on it. So they went?”

“He said he had all the keys to the cars in the courtyard. Two hours to Belfast and then home, that’s what he said.”

“Right.” Ashimov rose, picked up his pistol from the floor and put it in his waistband.

McGuire said, “What happens now? It’s a right mess.”

“Yes, it is. But we made some contingency plans, we’ll be all right. The main thing is that you’re still on board. Is that understood?”

McGuire looked baffled. “Right, Major.”

“It isn’t so much what I say, it’s what the man in Dublin says. The Provisional IRA will take care of the cleanup here. There’ll be a new team to take over from Kelly and you’ll be a part of it.”

“If you say so, Major.”

“I do. Now go to the kitchen and see if you can find some spare keys for the cars.”

“On my way.”

McGuire went out and Ashimov went along to Belov’s study and sat behind the desk with the satellite phone and rang a Moscow number. It was astonishing the clarity of these things, he thought, and also thought of Greta, surprised at how angry he felt.

A voice said in Russian, “Volkov. Who’s this?”

“Ashimov at Drumore. We have a problem.”

“Explain.”

When he was finished, Volkov said, “That’s certainly inconvenient, but our backup plans are in place. You’ll need to come to Moscow for a meeting at once.”

“Of course. Send a jet for me.”

“You’ll make the new arrangements with the IRA?”

“No need—everything’s still set.”

“Excellent. The death of Belov would be very inconvenient to our business plans.”

“Of course.”

“Another performance from Max Zubin would be in order, I think.”

“I agree.”

“On the other hand, the fewer people who know, the better. The locals should not be told that Belov is dead.”

“You mean I should withhold the information from the IRA?”

“That would seem sensible.”

“All right.”

“Good. I’ll arrange the plane. See you soon.”

Ashimov switched off the phone, put it down and that’s when he received the shock of his life. He looked up to find Greta Novikova standing in the doorway, Patrick Ryan’s arm around her, and he was amazed at the feeling of joy that flooded through him. He had never been a man to feel much emotion for anyone and surprised himself by rushing round the desk and embracing her.

“Greta, I can’t believe it. I heard what happened.” He kissed her, then held her at arm’s length. “My God, what happened to you?”

“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said. “What about you?”

“Salter thought he killed me, but I was wearing body armor. Belov? Murphy?”

“Gone,” she said. “It’s a miracle I’m here,” and she explained about the blast.

There was blood on the left side of her head and he examined it. “It’s not too bad, but it might need a couple of stitches. We’ll get that fixed by the good sisters at Saint Mary’s near Ballykelly.”

“The Sisters?” She was bewildered.

“They’re a nursing order. Belov does a lot for them.”

Ryan had gone away and now returned with the kitchen first-aid box. He rummaged in it and produced a large bandage, and Ashimov patched her up. McGuire was hovering in the background. Greta staggered a little and Ashimov caught her.

“Take it easy. I’ll take you upstairs to your room so you can change.”

“What for?”

“We’re going to Moscow. A plane is coming to pick us up.” As he led her out, he said to the other two, “Wait for me.”

In Dublin, Liam Bell sat in the sitting room of his apartment in a warehouse development. He was reading the evening paper, his spectacles giving him the look of a schoolteacher, which, in his youth, he’d been. Many years of dedicated service to the IRA had take him as far as Chief of Staff. He’d resigned a year earlier to nurse his wife through terminal cancer and another had taken his place in the command structure. Now he was bored out of his mind and thirsting for action—any kind of action—and his phone rang and presented him with some.

Ashimov said, “Mr. Bell? Yuri Ashimov. Several years ago, you made a promise that we could call you if needed.”

“You still can.”

“Do you know a man called Sean Dillon?”

“Indeed I do. If that bastard’s on your back, you’ve got trouble.”

“Listen to me. Would you be prepared to move in here with, say, half a dozen IRA men? I’d make it worth your while.”

“I thought you had Dermot Kelly and his boys?”

“Not any longer.”

“What happened?”

Ashimov gave him a version of events that excluded any participation by Belov. “Anyway, a general cleanup is in order. You can rely on Patrick Ryan. He’s a good man.”

“I was two years in the Maze Prison with him. He’s one of our own.” Bell laughed harshly. “What a bastard Dillon is. I’ve had my brushes with him. Anyway, I’ve phone calls to make, recruiting to do. You can leave it with me.”

“And the disposal of the corpses?”

“I’m an expert in that department.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

Ashimov walked through to the terrace and found Ryan and McGuire standing by the body of Kelly.

“Poor old Kelly,” McGuire said. “He never knew what hit him.”

“And that’s a fact.” Ashimov took a silenced pistol from his left-hand pocket and shot McGuire in the side of the head. He went down like a stone, and Patrick Ryan jumped back, hands raised, fear on his face.

“No, for God’s sake.”

“Not you, you fool.”

“But why?”

“Because he knew Josef Belov is dead and that doesn’t suit me or those involved with me in Moscow. Listen here. You know Liam Bell, an old friend, I think.”

Ryan was astonished. “Of course. I was in the same cell at the Maze Prison with him.”

“I’ve spoken to him in Dublin. He’ll be here within hours with a crew. He’ll take over everything Kelly was responsible for, and he’ll take care of this lot.” He stirred McGuire with his foot. “They’ll do a satisfactory disposal job.”

“I see.”

“He’ll expect you to fit in, you know.”

“I could do that,” Ryan said slowly.

“I want you to be my eyes and ears. I’ll make your fortune, Patrick, put the Royal George in your name. Would you like that?”

Ryan’s face lit up. “That would be grand.”

“One thing. Nobody, not even Liam Bell, must know that Belov went down on that boat. It was just Tod Murphy as far as Bell knows.”

Ryan took a deep breath. “Right, I’m your man.”

“Good. McGuire should have some keys in his pocket. Get them, would you?”

Ryan fished them out.

“Excellent.” They walked through to the hall and Greta came down the great stairs in a fawn coat and black trouser suit, a traveling bag slung over one shoulder. “You look better, a lot better. Let’s get moving. I’ll be in touch, Patrick.”

They went out and Ryan waited. He heard one of the cars start up outside and then move off.

It was very quiet, too quiet, but he’d taken a step on the kind of journey from which there was no going back.

The convent looked more like a country house than anything else, but inside it was a very different story. The nuns were a nursing order, the Little Sisters of Pity, and Belov had put a great deal of money into the place, a couple of operating theaters, all sorts of medical facilities. The result was a facility that was of great benefit to the local farming community, and a further enhancement of the Belov name.

The Mother Superior, Sister Teresa, was a general surgeon. She saw Greta at once in reception, gave her a cursory check and frowned. “You have been in the wars. What happened?”

Ashimov said quietly, “She was in an accident.”

Greta, improvising, said, “It was so stupid. I was on a fishing boat moored in the harbor, and I slipped stepping over the stern and fell.”

“Several feet. That’s not good.”

“I fell into water. Such a fool.”

“Well, your head’s going to need a stitch or two, and I think we’ll give you a quick scan.”

“Do we have time for all that?” Greta asked Ashimov.

“You can come and watch through the surgery window, but not if you smoke,” Sister Teresa said, and led Greta out.

Ashimov went outside to think things over and he did smoke. In fact, he smoked several, going back over events. He should have been dead, but he wasn’t, thanks to Belov’s gift of the titanium vest. Ferguson would have been behind it, because of what happened to Bernstein, the Salters and Dillon, always Dillon. Now Belov was dead. He thought of their years together in Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, and this was what it had come to. Well, they would all pay, he’d see to that.

His coded mobile rang and he answered. It was Volkov. “The plane should be with you in about thirty minutes. Has anything else happened?”

Ashimov told him of Greta’s astonishing escape.

“That’s good news. She could be of great use.”

“Liam Bell is organizing things in Dublin as we speak. I’ve taken steps to ensure that he isn’t aware of what really happened. To Belov, I mean. There’s only one man left who knows, besides myself.”

“And who would that be?” Ashimov told him. “Let’s hope your judgment proves sound. I’ll see you soon.”

Ashimov lit another cigarette. Volkov was one of the few men who impressed him. A man of mystery way beyond the reach of any Russian government organization. He smiled slightly. He was like Ferguson, in a way. Yes, a Russian Ferguson responsible only to the President.

He threw the cigarette away as a plane roared overhead, obviously coming in to land at the runway Belov had ordered to be laid at the development there. As he went back into reception, Mother Teresa returned with Greta.

“Five stitches, I’m afraid, but I’m good at embroidery. No fracture, but considerable bruising. You must take care, my dear.”

“My thanks,” Ashimov told her. “But we must go. That was our plane landing.”

“Glad to have been of help. Give my regards to Mr. Belov.”

“I certainly will.”

He took Greta’s elbow and led her to the car. “Are you all right?” he said as he helped her in.

The patch on the side of her forehead was neat enough, and she touched it. “I had a local anesthetic. I feel tired more than anything else.”