Without Mercy (27 page)

Ferguson said, “You’ve got it wrong. Major Novikova is my prisoner. She is not here of her own free will.”

Ashimov stepped forward at once and smacked the butt of his AK into the side of Ferguson’s neck. The General went down with a groan, falling against Harry, who tried to catch him, leaning over, and Ashimov gave him the same as Ferguson in the back of the neck.

Max Zubin held his mother close. Billy and Dillon stood there, hands behind the neck, Greta between them, trembling a little.

Ashimov said, “So, shaking with fear, are you?” She shook her head. “You should. You’re a disgrace to your uniform.”

“You disgrace my country by your very existence, you animal.”

He struck her backhanded across the face, sending her staggering into Dillon, who caught her. Ashimov said, “A traitor to her country, Captain Levin.” There was a strange formality to the way he spoke. “You may have the honor of executing her.”

There was a stunned silence. Bella said, “You take me back to the Gulag. Many people like you in charge there. No better than Nazis.”

“Shut up, old woman, your turn will come.” He looked at Levin. “I gave you an order. Shoot Major Novikova.”

There was a pause while everyone waited. Levin had raised the Walther slightly, but now he said, “Sorry I can’t oblige, but I don’t think I want to do that.”

His hand came up fast, but not fast enough, as Ashimov fired two rounds slamming into Levin’s chest, sending him out on the terrace to go backward over the hardwood rail and down into the river below.

Dillon pushed Greta to one side, his hand went under his jacket at the rear, the Walther came up smoothly and he shot Ashimov in the forehead twice. Billy, on one knee, had reached for the Colt .25 in his ankle holster and caught Bell with a heart shot. The Irishman went backward, involuntarily firing at the ceiling for a moment.

Greta ran out to the terrace rail and peered down into the dark. “My God, Igor.”

Dillon put an arm around her. “It’s a tidal river, the Thames. What goes in goes out one way or the other. At the end, he just couldn’t do it. We all have choices.”

Behind them they heard Ferguson on the phone. “Ferguson here. I’ve got two disposals for you. Most immediate.” He gave the address.

Greta said, “What does he mean, disposal?”

“We have access to a private crematorium in North London. The corpse goes in for thirty minutes. What’s left is six pounds of gray ash.”

“And Ferguson can do that?”

“Ferguson can do anything.”

Harry said, “I feel well-used. The bastard could certainly dish it out.” He poured champagne down and swallowed it. “Come on, everybody. Another drink, then we’ll see you home.”

Ferguson said to Bella and Zubin, “I think you’ll find this is the end of the affair.”

“A short run,” Bella said. “And thank God for it.”

The lift returned and Billy got out. “I found the security guard, Tony Small, in the back of reception. No serious damage, just a sore head. I told him it was a mob thing. Five hundred quid will keep him happy.”

“We’ll get you good people back home,” Ferguson said. “I’ll leave you and Billy to handle the disposal people, Harry.”

“We’ll be in touch, General.”

Sometime earlier, Levin had drifted out of the Thames close to a ladder that took him up to the wharf. Rounds blocked by a bulletproof vest often knock the recipient unconscious, but not in Levin’s case. The ice-cold waters of the Thames had taken care of that. He reached in his shirt, pulled out Ashimov’s two rounds, then hurried to where he had left the Mercedes, got in and drove away.

Half an hour later, at the Dorchester, where he had arrived soaked to the skin, he showered, changed clothes and packed. He had various phone numbers from GRU records, and one of them was the Holland Park safe house. He phoned and a man answered.

“Who is this?”

“Would that be Major Roper?”

“And who would you be?”

“Igor Levin. Are you aware of what happened at the penthouse?”

“Of course. I was told Ashimov blew you away.”

“Over a railing and a rather steep fall into the Thames. Tell Dillon there’s nothing like a titanium vest. I survived, got back to the Dorchester, where my condition probably surprised the doorman, but being the best hotel in London they were able to cope. Just tell me. What happened after Ashimov shot me?”

Roper told him in a few short sentences. “It’s all taken care of. Ashimov and the ex–Chief of Staff of the IRA are, as we speak, being turned into six pounds each of gray ash. The Zubins have survived, so have Ferguson and Harry, though a little damaged.”

“I was surprised to see Greta there.”

“Only as a guest.”

“Give Dillon and Billy my respects.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ve got diplomatic immunity. You can’t touch me.”

“And you would be advised to stay out of Russia.”

“Yes, but I have an English passport through my mother, and an Irish one through one of my grandmothers. Not to mention lots of money, Roper. I think I’ll lay low in Dublin for a while. What the hell, you sound like a nice guy, so I’ll give you my mobile number. If Dillon wants me, I’ll make it easy.”

“Cheeky bastard,” but Roper took it.

“Take care, though for a man in a wheelchair you do well. Tell Greta not to be stupid.”

The line went dead.

Roper sat there, smiling, then reached for the whiskey bottle and found it empty. He pushed his chair to the drinks cabinet, found a bottle of scotch and opened it. He poured a glass and held it high.

“Well, here’s to you. Good luck.”

A moment later, Ferguson came in with Greta, Dillon and the Zubins.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Ferguson said.

“So I should.” Roper poured another scotch. “I’ve just been talking to a ghost. You know, someone who’s returned from the dead.”

And it was Dillon, with that extraordinary sixth sense, who said, “Igor Levin.”

“He was wearing a bulletproof vest, just like you favor, Sean. Headfirst into the Thames.”

“Thank God,” Bella Zubin said. “He was always a lovely boy, wasn’t he, Max?”

“Well, that’s one way of describing him,” her son told her.

Greta was unable to stop smiling. “He’s himself alone, that one.”

“And he said to tell Greta not to be stupid.”

She stopped smiling and shrugged. Ferguson said, “He’s right, except that diplomatic immunity would send him home.”

“He is half English.”

“Volkov would crucify him.”

“I’m not so sure. He’ll go from Archbury, there’s a Falcon there. I’ve checked. Are you going to stop him?”

“Irish citizen. What would be the point?” He turned to Dillon. “What do you think?”

“Well, we not only know where he is, he’s left his mobile number.”

“Exactly.” Ferguson smiled. “Damn his eyes, I like the bastard. Who knows what the future holds?”

Igor Levin waited on the High Street beside Kensington Palace Gardens. It was raining heavily, the Russian Embassy up there. The end of something, in a way.

The phone rang and Volkov said, “God, what a bloody mess. I don’t blame you. Ashimov’s insane, I should have realized that years ago. I’ve heard you’ve decided to flee to Dublin. That’s the smart move, but there’s part of you that’s still a sentimentalist. Taking Chomsky and Popov with you, I understand.”

“Yes, they’re very good. But then, so were Ferguson’s people.”

“Dillon—I wish he was available. Brutal, resourceful. And that language thing he has. Very useful.”

“And the Zubins?”

“Forget them. Ferguson will always have them guarded. Putin’ll just have to get ahold of Belov International another way. He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him, so we’re all just laying low. Heads are going to roll, so I’m going to make damn sure one of them isn’t mine.” He sighed. “Take care, Igor.” And he switched off.

A moment or so later, Chomsky and Popov said good-bye to the Embassy of the Russian Federation, came down Kensington Palace Gardens, each with a couple of suitcases. They loaded up the Mercedes and Levin got out to help. They were as excited as schoolboys.

Levin said, “You drive, Chomsky, and you sit with him, Popov. I’ll spread myself in the back. Your passports are all in order, I trust.”

“Ah, yes, Captain,” Chomsky said. “I thought we might as well go the whole hog and take two each from the files, English and Irish.”

“They’re excellent, sir,” Popov said. “Stamps on all the pages. We’ve been to places I haven’t been, if you follow me.”

“Oh, I do,” Levin said. “Put Archbury into the road-finder, Chomsky, and follow the instructions.”

“Will there be the chance of trouble, sir?”

“I doubt it. But let’s not take any chances—let’s move.”

He took out his Russian cigarettes, selected one, pinched the tube and lit it. Then he produced a couple of miniature bottles of vodka from his pocket, which he’d taken from the bar in his room at the Dorchester. There was a shelf in the Mercedes, water in plastic bottles and plastic tumblers. He filled one of them with the contents of the two vodka miniatures.

It had been a long day, a hard day, but here he was, against all the odds. He drank some of the vodka. Volkov had been extraordinarily well informed about his plans, and Levin, looking at the two young men in front, wondered which one it was, Chomsky or Popov. It had to be one of them, the information had been too fresh.

Not that it mattered. That was for another time. He examined the rest of his vodka and considered toasting Greta Novikova, but what would have been the point? He swallowed it down and sat back.

Chapter 15

The following morning, it was March weather, rain driving in across the Thames at Hangman’s Wharf. Dillon sat at the corner booth in the Dark Man with Harry and Billy and they all ate breakfast.

Harry went through the food with gusto in spite of the brace around his neck. “God,” he said, “that was good.”

“How are you feeling?” Dillon asked.

“Well, that Ashimov bastard is finally dead, so I’m feeling good. I like the Zubins, so I’m feeling good about that, too. What about you?”

“You know what they say. Just another day at the office.”

“You think Ferguson was right to let Levin off the hook?”

“Why not? He can pull him in when it suits him.”

“What do you think, Billy?” Harry asked.

“That he could just as easily be pulled in by his own people.” Billy shrugged. “It’s like the Cold War’s starting all over again.”

Dillon’s mobile rang. He answered and found Roper at the other end. “Listen, Sean, I’ve had Ferguson on. He’s got a job for you.”

“What kind of a job?”

“Involving Novikova.”

“Fire away.” Roper did. Afterward, Dillon said, “Harry, can I borrow the Bentley?”

“No, you can’t, it’s still being repaired. You can have the Aston Martin, though. What’s the gig?”

“Ferguson’s releasing Novikova. He wants her delivered to the Russian Embassy.”

“Well, that’s a turn-up,” Harry said.

Dillon turned to Billy. “You can drive.”

“Suits me.”

Dillon looked out as rain pelted the windows. “Never rains but it pours. See you later, Harry,” and he made for the door.

Driving down Wapping High Street, Billy said, “What’s the old man up to?”

“Being Ferguson”—Dillon lit a cigarette—“the game, Billy, the game. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“Not really. I was a two-bit gangster. Okay, I worked for my uncle, and had plenty of money to throw away, but then there was that first time we got involved with you—you, that old bastard Ferguson, Hannah . . .” He swerved slightly, braking a little. “Sorry, Dillon, I can’t believe I said that.”

And Dillon said, “Said what? You mentioned an old and loving friend. Always in our hearts, Billy.”

They turned into the Holland Park safe house. “I’m with you, Dillon, you know that. Whatever it takes, whatever turns up.”

“Oh, to be young,” said Dillon gloomily. “Come on, let’s go and get Greta.”

At his screens, Roper seemed cheerful enough. “I’ve had our sources in Dublin confirm the arrival of the Belov Falcon. Chomsky and Popov are Englishmen with funny names, according to their passports.”

“Well, that’s been going on a few hundred years,” Dillon told him.

“And Levin is Jewish enough to have been around since Oliver Cromwell,” said Roper. “What are they up to?”

“God knows. We’ll hear soon enough.”

“You think so?”

“I’ve been at this game for years. I know so,” said Dillon, smiling.

“What about madam?”

At that moment Doyle walked in, carrying her suitcase, and Greta followed, wearing the black trouser suit and duster coat.

“So what’s all this?”

“Ferguson wants us to drop you at the Russian Embassy,” Dillon told her.

“I see.”

“He seems to think you don’t see things his way.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, there you are, then.”

“I’d remind you,” Roper put in, “that the last time Igor Levin spoke to me, he said to tell Greta not to be stupid. I’d say he’s an expert at not being stupid.”

“An expert on what suits Igor Levin.”

Dillon said, “All right, we’re wasting time here. Take her suitcase to the Aston Martin, Doyle, we’ll join you.”

Roper said, “Last chance, Greta, or are you really going to be stupid?”

“To hell with it—to hell with all of you.” She walked out like a ship under sail.

Driving through the London streets, Dillon sitting beside Billy, Greta leaned back, looking from side to side, her face serious. Dillon didn’t say a word, and Billy seemed to take his cue from him.

The rain hammered down on lots of traffic, London traffic, and she appeared restless, ill at ease. They were hemmed in by cars for a while.

She said, “Christ, look at it. Do people have to live like this?”

Billy said, “It was snowing in Moscow when I was there the other night. It was a bloody sight colder than this.”

“But not as cold as it would be in Siberia,” Dillon said.

The Aston moved down the High Street and turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and was moving toward the embassy, when she suddenly slammed a hand down on Billy’s left shoulder.