Without Mercy

by Jack Higgins

  “Thank you,” came the murmur, and Mary Killane pushed the trolley out.

  In the staff room, she didn’t change out of her uniform, simply pulled on a raincoat, got her handbag from her locker and went out. As she reached the entrance foyer, Maggie Duncan emerged from her office.

  “Another shift over, Mary.”

  “That’s right, Matron.”

  “Have you given any thought to what I said? We’d like to have you with us full-time. Agency work is no way to live.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “You do that. Is the Superintendent all right?”

  “I’ve seen to her.”

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  Mary Killane hurried across the car park, speaking into her mobile at the same time. “It’s done.”

  “Good girl,” Dermot Fitzgerald replied. “I’ll be with you as arranged.”

  She hurried on, excited now, turned a corner and moved along a dark road, a small bridge at the end crossing a canal. There was only a single old-fashioned gas lamp giving any light, but she felt no fear. There was a footfall behind her, and she turned to see him emerging out of the shadows, a smile on his face.

  “Jesus, Dermot, we’ll have to move it if we’re to get to the airport in time for the Dublin plane.”

  He kissed her on the cheek lightly. “Don’t fret. Everything’s fine. You’re sure you gave her the pills?”

  “Absolutely. They kick in in half an hour, but it will be quite a while before anyone twigs there’s something wrong. It’s her heart they’ve been worried about anyway.”

  “Excellent. You’ve done an amazing job. Pity it has to end this way.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said, bewildered.

  His right hand came out of the pocket of his reefer coat clutching a silenced Colt.38 pistol. He rammed it into her, fired twice and pushed with his left hand so that she went backward over the rail into the canal below.

  He walked to the end of the street and the lights of a Mercedes switched on. He got into the passenger seat and Igor Levin said, “That’s it, then?”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  “Your bag is in the back. I’ll drop you at Heathrow.”

  “Ibiza next stop.” Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. “I can’t wait to get in the water.”

  At Rosedene, Hannah Bernstein sighed gently and stopped breathing. The alarm sounded, a jarring, ugly sound. A young probationer nurse was nearest and got to her first, followed by Maggie Duncan, then Bellamy. Within seconds, the entire crash team was swinging into action, not that it did any kind of good. They finally switched off. Maggie was crying, Bellamy’s face was bleak.

  “Time of death, five thirty-five. Agreed, Matron?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Strange the turns of life,” he said. “So many people loved her, yet at the end not one of them was here.” He shook his head. “I’d better make some phone calls. I’m not looking forward to that.”

  “Especially Dillon.”

  “All of them, really.”

  The Gulfstream was an hour late due to bad headwinds. It was just descending into the lights of Farley Field when Ferguson got the call. He listened, his face grave.

  “I’m desperately sorry. Have you spoken to everybody?”

  “Yes.”

  “How awful for her father and grandfather. And Dillon? How was he?”

  “I don’t think he could take it in. He was at the Dark Man with Roper and the others. He passed the phone to Roper and apparently rushed out. Roper said he and the Salters would go after him. He’s probably gone to Rosedene.”

  “You know her religion will have an impact here. I’m not sure they’ll allow an autopsy. Find out, would you? Thank you, Doctor, and we’ll talk again.”

  Ferguson sat there, face grave as the Gulfstream rolled to a halt, then told Blake the bad news.

  Blake was shocked. “How terrible.” He raised the inevitable question. “You mentioned an autopsy?”

  “That’s not certain. Generally, they’re not allowed. The Jewish body is considered sacred, and the corpse must be buried within twenty-four hours. However, if it can be argued that an autopsy could save another life, for instance by helping to apprehend a killer and prevent him killing again, then there are exceptions. You’d need an expert rabbi to determine that.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “Particularly as she worked for me under the Official Secrets Act.”

  They disembarked, and as they walked toward the small terminal, Ferguson’s Daimler drew up and Dillon got out from behind the wheel. He leaned against the Daimler and lit a Marlboro. His face was curiously expressionless.

  “Blake, Charles. Good flight? Thought I’d come myself.”

  Ferguson said, “I’m damn sorry, Sean, damn sorry.”

  “You’ll be sorry yourself when you hear my news. Get in and we’ll move out.”

  They did, sitting in the rear while Dillon drove. “What have you got for me, then?” Ferguson asked.

  “The last person to see Hannah alive was a Dublin girl, an agency nurse named Mary Killane. Maggie Duncan spoke to her when she finished her shift. Half an hour later, the alarm went off in Hannah’s room and she died in spite of the crash team.”

  “What’s your point, Sean?” Ferguson was gentle.

  “An hour and a half ago, a man walking his dog by the canal some ten minutes from Rosedene found a dead woman half-in, half-out of the water. Her handbag was still caught around one wrist. It was Mary Killane.”

  “My God,” Blake said. “That’s a strange coincidence. And you know I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Especially with two bullets in her,” Dillon told him. “George Langley’s going to do the autopsy tonight. He’s at the scene of the crime now.”

  They traveled in silence for a while, and it was Blake who said, “It smells to high heaven. Hannah dies, and then someone wastes the last nurse to deal with her.”

  “And somehow a dead Belov is walking around in Siberia,” Ferguson said. “I’ve got an uneasy feeling they’re all related.”

  “But like Billy said earlier,” Dillon told him, “if there’s one certainty in the matter, it’s that Belov is dead.”

  “And what if he isn’t?” Blake put in.

  “I know what I did.”

  “Maybe something else happened, something you weren’t aware of.”

  “In your dreams,” Dillon told him.

  “Maybe. But I’ll tell you what I think. I was with the FBI for a long time, and any good cop will tell you that experience tells you to go with your instincts. And my instincts tell me that everything is linked to what happened at Drumore Place. That’s where we’ve got to begin.”

  And he was right, of course.

  DRUMORE PLACE DUBLIN MOSCOW

  3

  Three weeks earlier, Sean Dillon and Billy Salter were at Drumore Place, that great house that was Josef Belov’s pride and joy, engaged in a desperate firefight while the villagers kept their heads down inside their cottages.

  At the Royal George, Patrick Ryan had the shutters up while his mother, who was the cook at Drumore Place, and old Hamilton, the butler, cowered in the kitchen, where Ryan joined them.

  “Mother Mary, it’s just like the old days,” she moaned.

  “Sure, and they never went away,” he told her, which was true, for this was still Provisional IRA country to the core. He splashed whiskey into three glasses. “Get that down you and shut up. It’s none of our affair. The nearest police are twenty miles up the coast. One sergeant and three men, and they’d drive the other way if they knew. God save the good work.” He swallowed his whiskey down and crossed himself as sporadic shooting continued.

  There was silence for a while and then they heard a boat engine start in to life down in the harbor. It increased in power, and Ryan hurried through the bar, opened the door and peered out. It had left the tiny harbor and moved beyond the po
int when the explosion took place. There was a momentary ball of fire, and as it cleared, he saw the boat half under the water, the stern raised, and it looked as if someone was scrambling over, but he could not be certain for a cloud passed over the moon.

  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.