Without Mercy (21 page)

He sat there brooding, thinking of every aspect, and it all started to come together, make sense. He thought about it some more and phoned Ferguson and found him still at home at Cavendish Place.

“I need to see you.”

“Why?”

“How would you like to make the Belov Protocol into a total balls-up? How would you like to leave the Russians with nothing but egg on their faces?”

“Tell me more.”

Which Roper proceeded to do.

When he was finished, Ferguson said, “Totally mad and also quite brilliant. It could be absurdly simple.”

“The old Swiss watch syndrome. If it all worked.”

“All right, what do you want?”

“A meeting with you at the soonest with me, Dillon, Billy, Squadron Leader Lacey and Parry.”

“Is there anything I should know before we meet?”

“Yes, I’ve got a few requests.” He went through them. “There are a number of things I can sort out via my computers. I’ll take care of those aspects. Can we meet in, say, two hours?”

“Absolutely. Holland Park?”

“I think so. It’s useful if we need to refer back to computer information.”

“Of course. There is one thing I’ve got to say.”

“And what’s that?”

“Max Zubin—it would all depend on his willingness to play ball.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.”

Roper switched off and went back to his screens.

At Holland Park, Roper was doing the briefing. “This whole thing hinges on some sort of contact being made at the Dorchester with Max Zubin. It seems obvious to me that he’ll return to Moscow still playing his role for the sake of his mother. That means the day after tomorrow, he’ll be seen on the world stage signing the Belov Protocol. The only way to prevent that would be to get Zubin out of Moscow with his mother.”

“And how do we do that?” Billy asked.

Roper turned to Lacey. “You know the Belov Complex in Moscow?”

“Of course. We’ve been there a few times. It’s close to the main airport, handles private traffic, executive aircraft and courier planes. We’ve done it for the Embassy run a few times.”

“So if the great Josef Belov turned up there with his mother and had a walk around, how do you think he’d be treated?”

“With fear and great respect. I know Russia.”

“And if they ended up on your courier plane and you got out of there fast, how long would it take you to leave Russian airspace?”

“If I was given the Citation X, half an hour at the most. Since the demise of Concorde, it’s arguably the fastest commercial plane in the world.”

“So you’d be out of it, in effect, probably before they’d even had a chance to scramble another aircraft to see what you were up to?”

“With any kind of luck, yes.”

“If you volunteer for this, you’d be in uniform, RAF rondels on the plane and so on, everything to confuse the issue.”

“That’s good, sir, and by the way, we do volunteer.”

“My God,” Billy said, “it could work. It’s so bleeding simple.”

“Which only leaves us with the problem of getting Max Zubin to agree,” Roper said.

“I’d say you’ve already worked that out.” Dillon smiled.

“There’s plenty of security at the hotel, both Russian and British. You, Billy, have your identification, so that’s all right. The fact that you speak Russian, Sean, could be useful. You could growl your head off at any unfortunate room service waiter as much as you want and carry your copy of the Putin warrant just in case, to confuse any Russian security people.”

“But meeting Zubin will be difficult.”

“Not at all. He’s been given one of those magnificent park suites on the fifth floor as befits his status as Josef Belov. There is a small bedroom with separate bathroom next to it, double doors in between, which are kept locked unless it’s booked, to provide a second bedroom for the suite.”

“And this one isn’t?”

“Well, it was, but I canceled and then fiddled the computer to make it look as if it’s still occupied. I recall when you got into Levin’s room, you had a house key like staff use.”

“Still do.”

“As regards Levin, he’s with the Russian Embassy party and Boris Luhzkov. I suppose they know we won’t lift Levin.”

“What would be the point?” Ferguson said. “And they can’t lay a finger on us. I’m going and you two can join me,” he said to Dillon and Billy. He turned to Lacey. “You’d better get on with arranging the courier flight out of Farley. You have full authority.”

“Certainly, sir.”

They all got up, and Roper said, “I was thinking, Dillon, take an extra Codex Four. If this idea works and Zubin agrees, it will give him a link with you.”

“Good thinking.”

“Well, let’s get on with it, the game’s afoot,” Ferguson said.

At the Russian Embassy, Boris Luhzkov was in his office when Igor Levin went in. “I got your message. What’s up?” “Nothing, just a thousand and one things to do.”

“You worry too much.” Levin lit a cigarette and sat on the window seat.

Luhzkov said, “It’s all right for you, the big war hero, used to running around at the Kremlin.”

“Luhzkov, what can I do for you?”

“Volkov insists on your presence tonight so you can make yourself useful.”

“I’m not exactly persona grata to our British friends these days. You’re sure Charles Ferguson won’t try to have me picked up once I’m on the street?”

“Look, Igor, I don’t know what you’ve been mixed up in, and I don’t want to know. You work for Volkov, carry the Putin warrant, that’s enough for me. One thing I do know. You’ve got diplomatic immunity. If the Brits want you for anything, all they can do is send you home. Now go along to the Dorchester and check how our security people are getting on.”

“On the instant, boss.”

“Always the clown, Igor.” Luhzkov shook his head. “Greta Novikova is still gainfully employed, I trust?”

“I wouldn’t ask, Boris, I really wouldn’t.”

When Ferguson was admitted to Number Ten Downing Street, a waiting aide took him upstairs past the pictures of every past Prime Minister and along the corridor.

“Five minutes only, General. He’s due at Northolt to greet Putin, but he did want a word with you.”

He opened the door, Ferguson went in and there was the Prime Minister behind his desk. “Sit down, General.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister.”

“I just want to reassure myself about certain, shall we say, unfortunate aspects of present events. Things are in order at the Dorchester, I take it?”

“I believe so, but I’m visiting personally after our meeting.”

“Let me be plain, General Ferguson. I know I find it prudent on many occasions where matters of intelligence are concerned to look the other way, but aspects of my meeting today, this Belov Protocol? It can’t be allowed to happen.”

“It won’t, Prime Minister. Everything will be resolved within the next two days to your satisfaction.” He smiled. “Or you can have my resignation.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want that, so I’ll just have to take your word for it. Now I must go. Northolt awaits.”

The door behind was eased open as if by magic and Ferguson was eased out.

When the Daimler picked him up, Dillon and Billy were in the back and Ferguson climbed in. The Daimler pulled away and Dillon said, “Where to?”

“The Dorchester. I want to check security.”

“Did the PM have much to say?”

“In five minutes? Hardly. Of course, he did tell me the Belov Protocol can’t be allowed to happen, and I told him it would be resolved to his satisfaction over the next two days.”

“Charles, your confidence is breathtaking.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Dillon. It’s a sign of my total faith in your ability to achieve miracles.”

Igor Levin made contact with his security colleagues at the hotel. The President, of course, was in the most exclusive suite at the very top of the hotel, members of his entourage on lower floors, Belov on floor five in a park suite. Everything seemed in order, so he went down to the Piano Bar and ordered a vodka in crushed ice, the special way they did it, the Dorchester way, got a couple of newspapers and went and sat by the piano and worked his way through them.

Someone brushed past him to the piano. He didn’t look up, engrossed in what the Times was saying about Putin and Belov. The pianist started to play a song popular with soldiers during the war in Chechnya. Levin remembered it well, they all did, those young soldiers. “Moscow Nights.”

He looked up, and Sean Dillon, seated at the piano, said, “We just wanted to make you feel at home, Igor, my old son, me and Billy here.”

Billy was standing by the piano, arms crossed. “That was quite a gig you played in Khufra, Captain. It was you who knocked off Tomac, we presume?”

“He annoyed me.”

“A right bastard. Screwed up our floatplane. We went in nose first for the deep six.”

Levin stopped smiling. “That was nothing to do with me.” He hesitated. “And Greta was with you in that plane?”

Dillon said, “I held her hand all the way up from the bottom.”

Levin smiled again. “How romantic. She’s well, I trust?”

“In excellent accommodation. Oh, here comes the boss.”

Ferguson came down the steps from the bar. “My dear chap, we keep missing each other. Tried to catch up again at Drumore Place yesterday, but you weren’t at home.”

“And neither was Ashimov. Dublin, I understand.” Dillon shook his head. “Liam Bell did a runner, but we depleted the ranks of the IRA.”

“You must be feeling pleased.” Levin stood up.

Ferguson said, “Don’t go, join us in a drink.”

Levin smiled. “Now, that would really be too much. I’m sure I’ll see enough of you tonight.”

He went out. Ferguson said, “Pity, I rather liked him. Still, we can have something while we’re here,” and he waved to Guiliano.

In the ballroom later that night, all London was there. Politicians by the score, big business, the media, anybody who was anybody and lots of men in black suits, ever watchful as waiters passed through the crowd with trays loaded with champagne, vodka, canapés.

“They stand out a mile, don’t they?” Billy said to Dillon as they stood by a temporary bar.

“Who do you mean?”

“The security men. It’s the black suits.”

Ferguson was away, glad-handing a few people. Dillon said, “Just because Ferguson made us wear black tie for tonight, don’t let it go to your head. There’s Igor Levin over there. Keep him in view and let him keep you in view. I’m going up now to try and play Roper’s trump card.” He eased out of the crowd by the rear lift, pushed open a side door and ran up the stairs to the fifth floor. The room adjacent to Max Zubin’s suite was just around a bend in the corridor opposite. He produced his passkey and entered.

It was small, comfortably furnished, the door giving access to the living room of Zubin’s suite locked. Dillon slipped in an earpiece and listened. There was a sound of movement, but no voices.

He took off his coat, then removed a small suitcase from the wardrobe and pulled out a white waiter’s coat, which he put on. On the sideboard tray, champagne stood ready in an ice bucket with two glasses. He took a deep breath, picked up the tray and went out. Just a few yards down the corridor was all it took. He paused at the door, then pressed the bell.

It opened surprisingly quickly, and there stood Zubin in shirtsleeves adjusting his black tie.

“Champagne, sir?” Dillon asked.

“I don’t think I ordered that,” Zubin said.

“It’s on the house, sir, Dorchester champagne.”

“Okay, bring it in, but don’t open it.”

He turned away into the living room and Dillon put the tray on the table. “I’d better open it just in case somebody comes,” he said in fluent and rapid Russian.

Strangely, Zubin didn’t look alarmed, but there was an instant frown. “What in the hell is this?”

“Nobody here is what they seem. My name is Sean Dillon and I work for British intelligence. You’re Max Zubin pretending to be Josef Belov, and not liking it very much. However, they have your mother in Moscow, so you have to play ball, you have to go back to her.”

Zubin adjusted his tie and reached for his jacket. “If any of this were true, what could I do about it?”

“Go back tomorrow, you’d have to do that, then we’d bring you out, you and your mother.”

“You could do that?”

“Yes. I’ll explain after dinner.”

“I’m not doing dinner. From what I know, I’ll be back up here at around nine to nine-thirty.”

“I’ve got the room next door. We’ll talk later. If you’re on your own, knock on the door.” He’d finished uncorking and pouring a glass. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

Zubin took the glass. “I was a paratrooper in Chechnya. You sound like the real thing. Unless they’re employing raving lunatics here who start off with an Irish accent and move into fluent Russian.”

The doorbell sounded.

“Shower stall,” Dillon whispered. “I know these suites.”

He moved into the small hall bathroom, left the door partly open and stepped into the shower.

Outside, Zubin opened the door. “Ah, Levin, there you are. Are they ready for me?” He was obviously in his Belov role, voice measured.

“No need to take that tone with me,” Levin said. “Now, remember the cameras. Be nice and forbidding, so people will feel it better not to speak to you.”

“I could frighten them to death. I can do an excellent Hamlet’s father. He was a ghost, you know.”

“Come on, it’s showtime.”

The door closed, Dillon waited, then went out and returned next door.

Round the bend at the far end of the corridor, Levin and Zubin waited for the lift. “You’re feeling good?” Levin said.

“Of course. I always do on an opening night,” and the lift doors parted and he and Levin joined four other people.

Inside himself, Zubin felt only tremendous excitement. Could it be true, could he really confound all of them, bring the whole house of cards tottering down? Well, as far as he was concerned, it wouldn’t be from want of trying.

When Dillon returned, Ferguson had joined Billy. “You look excited,” he said. “How did it go?”

“Couldn’t have been better.” He told them what had happened. “The important thing is he isn’t doing the dinner. That gives me a great chance of accessing him from the room next door later and really laying it on the line.”