Without Mercy (26 page)

There was a small exhibition in the foyer, plans on display, leaflets declaring how special the apartments were and, most special of all, the penthouse. At that end of the wharf, the development continued, rising straight up from the Thames, a row of balconies sixty feet high, and what had originally been some sort of cargo gates.

A man in a security uniform wandered out of the entrance. He smiled. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“You can say that again.”

“Do you live round here?”

“Only on a temporary basis. I’m doing one of the boats up along the wharf there. Just a paint job, really. Charley Black.”

He held out his hand, the man shook it.

“Tony Small. I’ve not been here long myself.”

“Might see you in the pub later.”

“Could be.”

Levin’s boys followed various vehicles out of Holland Park, sometimes cross-matching Ferguson from Cavendish Place or the other way round, Dillon in his Mini Cooper, the Salters, particularly Billy, visiting a number of times and occasionally the trail leading to the Ministry of Defence.

There was a breakthrough when Billy, in his uncle’s Aston, left Holland Park with the Zubins. The man in the Telecom manhole alerted his colleague on a security firm Suzuki, who followed them all over Mayfair and the West End visiting twelve properties, eventually returning to Holland Park.

“House-hunting, Captain,” the false security man told him. “Sometimes there was a For Rent or a For Sale board.”

“And sometimes not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The real estate agent’s boards, what was the name?”

“Salter Enterprises.”

“And afterwards, they returned to Holland Park?”

“No, sir, they stopped at Hangman’s Wharf. There’s a Salter warehouse development there. They went in and had a look. Came out an hour later. It’s close to the Dark Man.”

“Did they go in the pub?”

“No. Billy Salter took them straight back to Holland Park.”

“Interesting,” Levin said to Chomsky. “Contact Popov and tell him to find out what he can about this development on the wharf.”

Popov worked away at painting his boat by the wharf, and in the later part of the afternoon saw the security man, Tony Small, emerge from the development and walk along to the Dark Man. Popov left his work and went across to the pub. It had just started to rain.

Small was seated in a corner booth, eating a Cornish pasty, a beer at his elbow, and reading the London Evening Standard. Popov got a beer and turned and smiled.

“Hello, again.”

Small looked up. “Oh, it’s you. How’s it going?”

“Just started to rain. Won’t help the painting. Can I join you?”

“Why not?”

Popov sat on the other side of the table. “I was really impressed with that place where you work. Somebody told me that this Salter company owns this pub.”

“They own more than that, mate. Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, own just about everything you can see from here along the riverbank.”

“Is that so?”

“Millions in development. Restaurants, gambling, you name it, they’re into it. It’s strictly legal, but it wasn’t always like that. King of the river, Harry. I should know, I spent five years with the river police. Nobody messed with Harry Salter.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe you’re working here in Wapping and don’t realize who he is.”

“No, I’m from West Sussex,” Popov said. “Had a real estate agency in Chichester. I got a nice offer to take me over from a national company. Good money, so I took it.” Sticking with the truth, he went on, “My old aunt lives in Islington. I’m staying with her and I’m doing the boat up for a friend of hers while I consider my options.”

“Oh, I see.” Small finished his beer and waved to the bar. “Two more.” He then went on to fill in Popov with details of the wicked past of the Salters.

“My God,” Popov said when he’d finished. “And now he’s finished a place like your development. Must be making a fortune.”

“He will be when he’s sold them. It’s all being talked up in the trade. He’s going to do that for a month, then kind of explode on the market. They’re all nice, the apartments, but I tell you what—you should see the penthouse. It’s fantastic. Great views of the Thames all the way down.”

“God, I’d love to see that,” Popov said. “I mean, having been in the business.” He finished his beer. “Fancy a scotch?”

“Well, that’s very nice of you. How can I refuse?”

By the time he’d accepted two large ones, mellowed by alcohol, he said, “I should be getting back. Tell you what, come and have a look.”

Which Popov did and saw everything. The two private elevators at the front, two more at the rear, the glorious penthouse spread across the top of the building, beautifully furnished, the old cargo gates jutting out over the river like terraces. It was all very impressive.

“This is wonderful,” he said.

“It’s going to cost somebody a packet.”

“I thought I saw someone going in earlier,” Popov said.

“Yes, you did. Billy Salter was showing a couple round, a middle-aged guy and an old lady. She was ecstatic about it. He’s invited them round for drinks at six-thirty.”

“It’ll be dark then,” Popov said.

“Not too dark for champagne and caviar. He’s having it brought round from the pub.”

“God, the rich know how to live.” Popov shook his head. “Thanks, Tony. I’d better get back and see if the weather allows me to continue working.”

He hurried back to the boat, eager to get his mobile out and tell Chomsky everything.

Levin, sitting with Chomsky, said, “So the Salters have invited the Zubins round to this penthouse. Why?”

“To discuss moving them in for a while?”

“Exactly. So, who else would be invited? Put your lawyer’s mind to that.”

“Ferguson and Dillon. That’s probably it.”

“They might have their minders.”

“I don’t think so. It’s only a hundred yards from the pub, and Harry, the gangster, might like to play the gracious host. I’d say he’ll have the goodies delivered beforehand, everything laid out nicely, low lights, soft music.”

“He could also have a couple of hoods prowling around, armed to the teeth.”

“So I could be wrong.”

Levin’s mobile went. It was Ashimov. “We’re at the Tangier.”

“You’ve told the Falcon to wait at Archbury?”

“Yes, but why?”

“My dear Yuri, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s never to leave anything to chance. You never know when you’re going to need to get out of somewhere in a hurry.”

“Never mind that. What’s happening?”

“I’ll call you back.”

Igor Levin lit a Russian cigarette and offered one to Chomsky, who said, “You’re having second thoughts.” It was a statement, not a question.

Levin said, “He’s an oaf, that one. He’s also a murderous bastard.”

“And Max Zubin was a paratrooper in Chechnya, and so were you.”

“True. I’m also an officer of the GRU who’s supposed to obey orders and serve his country.”

“As a lawyer, I could argue that what you’re obeying are General Volkov’s orders, which might not be what actually is right for your country.”

“Yes, I take your point. We could argue this one until the crack of doom. Book a Mercedes, draw me two AK47s from the gun room and put them in the trunk. I’ll deal with Ashimov.”

He was angry, felt pushed, but there it was, so he phoned Ashimov and said, “There you are. I know where they’ll be at six-thirty. I’ll take you there. Look for me,” and he switched off and said to Chomsky, “There are some wonderful English passports in GRU files. If I were you, I’d fill one in.”

At Holland Park, Ferguson was talking to Roper when Dillon walked in. “Good, I’m glad you could make it,” Ferguson said. “Harry’s putting himself out. Caviar, champagne. I can’t persuade this one to join us.”

“I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep in three days,” Roper said. “I’m winding down. If you want an extra guest, take Greta Novikova. She actually met them in Moscow, had breakfast with them this morning. They like her.”

“An interesting idea,” Ferguson said, and turned to Doyle. “Tell the major we’re taking her out, Sergeant, for some champagne and caviar.”

Doyle said, “I would say she won’t be able to resist, sir,” and he went out.

Roper poured a scotch. “I hope you’re carrying, Sean.”

“Always do. Why?”

“Because I still have the feeling this is not over yet.”

“To be frank, I’ve been thinking that, too.”

Dillon slipped a hand under the back of his jacket and touched the butt of the Walther in the back of his waistband.

Greta appeared fifteen minutes later in a black suit and a duster coat. “What’s this?” she asked Ferguson. “Are you trying to soften me up?”

“Not at all. It’s a social occasion, my dear, to take you out of yourself. We won’t be needing you, Sergeant, so let’s be off,” and he took her out through the door, his hand under her elbow.

At the Hotel Tangier, Levin called Ashimov’s suite, told him he was in the bar, got himself a vodka and sat in the corner. It was early evening, so no one was in the bar itself, two or three people in the lounge area. After a while, Ashimov and Bell arrived.

Ashimov was tanked up, eyes glittering. “What’s going on?”

“Keep your voice down,” Levin said. “Unless you want half the hotel to know our business.”

“How dare you speak to me like that? I’m your commanding officer.”

“I act under direct orders from General Volkov. That’s the only reason I’m assisting in this matter at all. I’ll take you where you want to go, but before we do, I’ll explain, as far as I know, the situation we’ll find there.”

“What the hell is this?” Ashimov demanded loudly.

Levin got up and said to Bell, “I’m going out to my Mercedes and I’m going to drive away. If you move fast, you can join me, but not unless this idiot here keeps his mouth shut.”

He walked out, got behind the wheel of the Mercedes, and Bell and Ashimov scrambled in behind. “There are two AK47s in the back of the car,” Levin said. “We’ll be where we’re going in half an hour. Now keep quiet while I explain what I know of the situation. I’m letting you know now, I can’t guarantee who’ll be there other than the Zubins.”

Ashimov was burning. “I’ll have you court-martialed for this.”

Levin pulled in at the curb, leaned back and drove his elbow into Ashimov’s mouth. “Any more, and I’ll kick you out. Now make up your mind.”

Ashimov put a handkerchief to his bloodied mouth, Bell leaned over and patted Levin on the shoulder. “Just take us there and let’s get this thing over with.”

“Then persuade your friend.”

At Hangman’s Wharf, Levin parked by the development, got out and opened the rear compartment. Bell and Ashimov joined him. “There are your weapons.” He turned and waved, and Popov, on the deck of the boat, ran forward through the gathering darkness.

“Yes, Captain.”

“They’re upstairs, are they?” Levin looked up at the lights in the penthouse.

“There was food and booze delivered earlier, when the Salters arrived.”

“No minders?”

“None. A short while ago, a Daimler appeared. The Zubins, Ferguson and Dillon and Major Novikova.”

“Greta? Really? How interesting. Well . . . you’ve done a good job. Now get out of here. Tell Chomsky I’ve said he can do the same for you. He’ll know what I mean.”

Popov cleared off rapidly. Bell said, “Now what?”

“Well, I’ll go and sort the security guard out. Once that’s done I’ll call you.”

He walked in the foyer, lighting a cigarette, and found Tony Small watering potted plants beside a huge fish tank. He turned and smiled. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Not really, old chap.” Levin pulled a silenced Walther from his raincoat pocket and struck him across the side of the head. Small went down like a stone. Levin grasped him by the collar, dragged him behind the reception desk, opened the office door and deposited him inside. Then he locked the door. He turned and whistled, and Ashimov and Bell hastened to join him.

“Over here.” He led the way to the lifts and pressed the right button. “All the way to the sixth floor and there’s your party, Major.”

The open-plan kitchen of the penthouse was ideal for the kind of entertaining Harry had in mind. There was caviar, prawns, salads, Dom Pérignon champagne. Greta, having been warmly received by Bella, busied herself offering caviar on toast while Billy saw to the champagne.

“It’s perfect,” he said to Ferguson. “They’ll be way up over the world here. I mean, look at the views.” He pulled one shutter after another to the side and stepped out on the hardwood terrace and leaned on the rail. “It’s fantastic.” Lights sparkled on a passing boat in the gathering darkness below.

“It certainly is,” Ferguson said, and went back inside. “Bella, Max. Do you think you could put up with staying here for a while?”

“My dear General, who couldn’t?” Bella said.

“First-rate security,” Harry said, as Billy went round topping up the champagne. “Or it will be when we’re up and running properly, you’ll have no worries here. Drink up, folks. To a job well done—to friendship.”

They all joined in the toast, glasses raised, crystal lights illuminating the magnificent vista of the huge penthouse, the shutters opening to the terraces outside, lights from the river below. And at the far end of the entrance corridor, the lift came smoothly to a halt and Igor Levin led the way out, followed by Ashimov and Bell.

Ashimov, his AK held at the ready, brushed Levin to the side roughly. “Where are they? Let me get at them.”

He half-ran along the corridor, Levin went after him, a Walther in his hand and pursued by Bell. There was immediate shock in the party group, but Ashimov fired into the ceiling.

“Hold it—everybody. Just do as you’re told. Hands on heads!”

Levin moved to one side and stood with his back to one of the entrances to the terrace outside. The men hesitated, then did as they were told.

Greta glanced at Levin. “Igor, what a surprise.”

“Not as much as you being here, you traitoress bitch. I should shoot you myself,” Ashimov said.

He held the AK on his hip, covering them. Bell did the same; Levin’s right hand hung at his side, holding the Walther.