The Killing Ground (22 page)

“I’m not certain, but it must be something, and soon.”

“It needs to be something to make people sit up and take notice,”

Lhuzkov told him. “Physical violence may be old-fashioned, but Stransky and Chekov certainly got the point.”

“A great many people, not only in our line of work but in the criminal underworld, got the message that Harry Salter is back in business.”

“If he ever went away.”

“He’s doing a very clever thing, Boris, and even the police reluctantly approve. The things he does, he does to bad people, unpopular people.”

“Like Russians in London,” Lhuzkov said. “Billionaire oligarchs and foot soldiers in the Mafia. So they got a rough passage. Why should ordinary Londoners care?”

“I’d love to take Salter down,” Volkov said.

“You’d never get near him, just the way you’d never get near Ferguson.”

“I don’t know,” Volkov said. “I’ve always believed if you want to shoot someone, it’s perfectly possible. Look at that idiot who shot President Reagan.”

“Honey, I forgot to duck, he said to his wife.”

“Yes, he had a great sense of humor.”

“For a man intent on destroying Communism and the Soviet Union.”

“Thank you for reminding me. Let me remind you that when Igor Levin was given the job of disposing of that Chechnyan general, he got close enough to cut his throat in the hotel they were using as command headquarters.”

“Yes, Levin was a true artist.”

“Roper, of course, only talked to you so that you would talk to me. I wonder why?”

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“Stirring the pot perhaps.”

And with that, they hung up.

A N D W H O I S H E ringing now? Lhuzkov wondered, and indeed Volkov was already calling Igor Levin. It was eleven o’clock on as wet a morning as Dublin could provide. Levin was at his apartment, with his great view of the Liffey obscured by the gray curtain of rain outside.

Levin answered, always aware that a call on his encoded phone meant someone important, and was surprised to find Volkov on the other end, considering how short a time it had been since the last one.

“General, what a surprise. What can I do for you?”

“I won’t beat about the bush. When I spoke to you from Paris the other day, I told you I wanted you back. I also said I’d spoken to President Putin and he told me to tell you that Russia needs you and that he needs you.”

Levin burst out laughing. “What a load of balls. Who do you want killed?” He laughed again. “There are plenty of killers in Dublin. Shall I find you one?”

Volkov was furious and frustrated. “You Jewish ingrate,” he shouted.

“Only half-Jewish, my mother of blessed memory. And may I remind you that in his time my father was a much-decorated colonel in the Red Army.” He wasn’t seething at the slur, he wasn’t even angry.

“Hey, General, I’ve served Russia well.”

At the other end, Volkov breathed deeply a couple of times and moderated his tone. “My dear Levin, forgive me for what I have said. As for your father, he was indeed a great man. And you’ve just given me an idea.

Excuse me.”

H E H U N G U P and immediately phoned Michael Flynn at Scamrock Security, who was farther along the Liffey, sitting at his desk, dictating to 182

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his secretary, Mary O’Toole, the young woman Popov had been taking out recently.

“Mr. Flynn, it’s Volkov. We need to talk.”

“Certainly. Is it important?”

“Vitally—to both of us.”

“Just a moment,” Flynn said. “Mary, take your tea break. I’ll call you later.”

“Certainly, Mr. Flynn.”

What transpired was unfortunate for Flynn. Mary had received the kind of attention a man in his late fifties may well give a pretty girl in her twenties. As usual, the affair hadn’t lasted, leaving Mary, as girls often will in such cases, feeling aggrieved, especially as she was from a Fenian family and had been proud of her association with a pillar of the original Provisional IRA. Being a security specialist, Flynn had a number of recording devices servicing the room, some operated from the secretary’s office outside. It was only recently that Mary had taken to listening in. She did so now.

“Drumore Place and the Belov International complex. Are you still interested in the security job there?” Volkov asked.

“By God, I am.”

“Then it’s yours. I’ll see your firm gets an official contract. You’ll be responsible for all the security at the house and complex. You’ve heard of Max Chekov’s unfortunate problem in London?”

“Bad news travels fast. We know how to handle that sort of thing in Dublin. A damn shame.”

“I’m taking over. Frankly, I’m wondering if you might be the one I am looking for to take over all the security services for Belov International.”

Flynn couldn’t believe it. “By God, I’m your man, General.”

“You are, of course, able to recruit old comrades from your days in the Provisional IRA?”

“You mean you’re after mercenaries?”

“Call them what you like. Men who are used to the gun and won’t

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flinch at using it. Don’t let’s beat about the bush. You know exactly what I am and I know what you were. Say I had work for you in London.

Would you be able to provide suitable people?”

“To do what?”

“There’s a General Charles Ferguson who heads a special intelligence unit and is a great thorn in my side. I know you’re already familiar with some of his associates, like Sean Dillon and Harry and Billy Salter.”

“I’ve known Ferguson for nearly thirty years. Dillon as well, though differently in those days. A good comrade, but if he got in my way now, I’d shoot him without hesitation. Where is all this leading?”

“Would you accept contracts on Ferguson and on Harry Salter, who is responsible for what happened to Chekov?” Volkov asked.

“Absolutely. Believe me, there are old IRA hands in London who can still do the business, bomb or bullet. The Irish quarter, Kilburn, never goes away. You want sleepers working in the city or in publishing or on some newspapers? I can supply them. The Muslims think they invented it—they only discovered it. When do you want it sorted?”

“Tonight would be fine.”

“Good God.”

“But not absolutely necessary. There is one thing you could do as soon as you like. Kill someone in Dublin. He’s an ex-agent of mine called Igor Levin. Your man Popov was his sergeant. I should warn you, he’s a highly dangerous man.”

“We eat dangerous men for breakfast.”

“Terms to be agreed in all cases.”

“Levin will be my gift to you, General, this very day.”

“I expected nothing less. We’ll do great things together.”

Flynn hadn’t been so excited in years. He spoke on the intercom to Popov and called him in. Mary watched the Russian brush past her, face flushed, and continued to listen.

“I’m taking over all security services at Belov International, so you’ll be working for General Volkov again. He’s in charge of things now. Max Chekov had an unfortunate accident.”

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“That’s marvelous, the General, I mean. Is there any way I can be of help?”

“You can help right now. This friend of yours, Igor Levin?”

“Ah, yes, we worked together in the GRU.”

“I’d like to have words with him. It’s a confidential matter. I might be able to throw a bit of work his way.”

“I don’t know about that. I should tell you he’s quite rich. A bit difficult.”

“Well, you know what they say in the Mafia: I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

Popov agreed reluctantly. “What do I do?”

“Tell him I’d like to see him on business. Take him down to Riley’s Bar in Crown Street by the river. It’ll be closed, but just knock on the door and tell him I’ll be waiting. Have him there and you clear off. Say you’ll be at the café at the end of the street. Call him now. Go, use your mobile. I’ll see you later. I’ve things to do.” Popov gone, he murmured into his own mobile, “That you, Riley? I’m sending a disposal. Deal with him. The usual people will pick the body up.”

A L O N E I N T H E C O M P U T E R R O O M , Flynn called the Green Tinker, a good Fenian pub in Kilburn in Irish Lane run by Jimmy Nolan and his cousin Patrick Kelly, both comrades from the old days who’d served time with Flynn in the Maze Prison. He enjoyed a businesslike chat with Jimmy, which was received with great enthusiasm.

“Ah, we know that bastard Ferguson from the old days in Belfast, Dillon too, though what the hell he’s doing mixed up with bowsers like Ferguson I’ll never know. Salter’s your average gangster. He probably started off sticking up grocery stores as a kid, then graduated to a gun in his pocket and thought he was a big man. People like that are criminals, Michael, not like us at all.”

“I’m just tapping some photos and background info into your computer. There you are. Call me when you come up with something.

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There’s real money in this. A hundred thousand pounds, my word on it. Don’t screw up, Jimmy.”

L E V I N G O T T H E C A L L that changed everything from Mary O’Toole before Popov arrived at his apartment. She was determined to do what was right. Yes, Flynn had used her, but it wasn’t just that. From a fiercely Irish Republican family, her father shot dead by British paratroopers when she was seven years of age, she was proud of her connection with the IRA, and Flynn, whom she had worshipped in the past when he was chief of staff, had let her down spectacularly. So, she phoned Igor Levin, whom she had met a time or two when she was with Popov, told him what had happened and what she could remember.

Levin was not only grateful, he believed her. He immediately phoned Chomsky and found him in his car in the city center and told him everything.

“Are you going to go? You’re being set up, that’s obvious. And this stuff she’s told you about Dillon, the Salters, Ferguson—this is serious business,” Chomsky told him.

“As we who served in Afghanistan and Chechnya know, Sergeant, and isn’t it great? I’ve been sitting on my backside too long.” The bell went for the front door. “Sounds like Popov now,” Levin said.

“I’m in my car only five minutes away. I’ll crash the party.”

Levin opened the door and expressed surprise on seeing Popov and listened to his story with simulated interest. “I wonder what he wants?

Maybe it’s something to do with a job in the firm.”

Popov said, “I told him I didn’t think you’d be interested. I mean, you know, not with your money.”

“Come in, let me finish dressing.” Levin led the way into the sitting room. “Get yourself a drink.”

He went into his bedroom, found a tie and tweed jacket, then went to his desk, standing in the bow window with the river view, opened a drawer, felt in the back and produced first one Walther, then two, both 186

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with silencers. He put one in each pocket and went back to the sitting room as the doorbell rang again, and opened the door to Chomsky, who stood there in his raincoat. Levin slipped a Walther into one of Chomsky’s pockets.

“Hello, there, you’ve just caught us. Popov and I have to meet a man called Riley—Riley’s Bar, Crown Street.”

“I was just passing, so I thought I’d check to see if you were free for lunch.”

Popov looked put out. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be good,” Levin told him. “We can talk over old times after I’m finished with Flynn,” and he took his arm and led him out. They got in the car and Chomsky drove away. “We think I might be getting a job offer. Security work,” Levin said.

They were already down by the river, turned into a maze of streets with what looked like old warehouses lining them and came to Crown Street. Chomsky parked behind a truck. There wasn’t much choice.

“The café must be at the other end,” Levin said.

“I’m supposed to wait down there,” Popov protested.

“But we’d miss you,” Levin told him. “And here we are.”

There was a wooden door, paint peeling, shutters at the windows, a narrow alley down one side. Chomsky said, “Excuse me.” He disappeared down it.

Levin said, “Go on, open the door.”

Popov said, in a panic, “It’s locked.”

“No, it isn’t.” Levin turned the knob, opened the door and pushed Popov in.

Halfway along the alley, Chomsky found a door, opened it into a kitchen with a table, chairs, another door. He pushed it gently. Farther along at the bottom of some stairs, a man in blue overalls was holding a silenced pistol and looking toward a green curtain at the far end. There was the sound of a voice and the man fired twice, a dull thud each time.

Popov came through the curtain headlong and fell on his face.

Chomsky shot the man in the left shoulder, spinning him around,

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then shot him in the heart and he went down. He jerked twice, then went still.

Levin checked Popov. “Our old friend seems to be dead.”

“No old friend of mine. This bastard’s had it, too. What do we do?”

“Unfortunately, shootings are common occurrence in Dublin these days. People think because of old IRA hands who can’t get out of the habit. So this, alas, will be just two more. Off we go, nice and steady up the street, and away.”

It was absolutely pouring. They got in the car, and Chomsky drove off. “Now what?”

“Back to my house to pick up a few things and dispose of the weapons.”

“Why?”

“Well, we can’t take them to London. I mean, the security people don’t like that these days, even if you fly in privately.”

“Is that what we’re going to do?”

“I’d say so. There’s a flying club I know at Killane, executive planes, just right for millionaires like me. We’ll call at your place, too. Don’t forget your passport,” and he leaned back.