Without Mercy

by Jack Higgins

  “No, for God’s sake.”

  “Not you, you fool.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he knew Josef Belov is dead and that doesn’t suit me or those involved with me in Moscow. Listen here. You know Liam Bell, an old friend, I think.”

  Ryan was astonished. “Of course. I was in the same cell at the Maze Prison with him.”

  “I’ve spoken to him in Dublin. He’ll be here within hours with a crew. He’ll take over everything Kelly was responsible for, and he’ll take care of this lot.” He stirred McGuire with his foot. “They’ll do a satisfactory disposal job.”

  “I see.”

  “He’ll expect you to fit in, you know.”

  “I could do that,” Ryan said slowly.

  “I want you to be my eyes and ears. I’ll make your fortune, Patrick, put the Royal George in your name. Would you like that?”

  Ryan’s face lit up. “That would be grand.”

  “One thing. Nobody, not even Liam Bell, must know that Belov went down on that boat. It was just Tod Murphy as far as Bell knows.”

  Ryan took a deep breath. “Right, I’m your man.”

  “Good. McGuire should have some keys in his pocket. Get them, would you?”

  Ryan fished them out.

  “Excellent.” They walked through to the hall and Greta came down the great stairs in a fawn coat and black trouser suit, a traveling bag slung over one shoulder. “You look better, a lot better. Let’s get moving. I’ll be in touch, Patrick.”

  They went out and Ryan waited. He heard one of the cars start up outside and then move off.

  It was very quiet, too quiet, but he’d taken a step on the kind of journey from which there was no going back.

  The convent looked more like a country house than anything else, but inside it was a very different story. The nuns were a nursing order, the Little Sisters of Pity, and Belov had put a great deal of money into the place, a couple of operating theaters, all sorts of medical facilities. The result was a facility that was of great benefit to the local farming community, and a further enhancement of the Belov name.

  The Mother Superior, Sister Teresa, was a general surgeon. She saw Greta at once in reception, gave her a cursory check and frowned. “You have been in the wars. What happened?”

  Ashimov said quietly, “She was in an accident.”

  Greta, improvising, said, “It was so stupid. I was on a fishing boat moored in the harbor, and I slipped stepping over the stern and fell.”

  “Several feet. That’s not good.”

  “I fell into water. Such a fool.”

  “Well, your head’s going to need a stitch or two, and I think we’ll give you a quick scan.”

  “Do we have time for all that?” Greta asked Ashimov.

  “You can come and watch through the surgery window, but not if you smoke,” Sister Teresa said, and led Greta out.

  Ashimov went outside to think things over and he did smoke. In fact, he smoked several, going back over events. He should have been dead, but he wasn’t, thanks to Belov’s gift of the titanium vest. Ferguson would have been behind it, because of what happened to Bernstein, the Salters and Dillon, always Dillon. Now Belov was dead. He thought of their years together in Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, and this was what it had come to. Well, they would all pay, he’d see to that.

  His coded mobile rang and he answered. It was Volkov. “The plane should be with you in about thirty minutes. Has anything else happened?”

  Ashimov told him of Greta’s astonishing escape.

  “That’s good news. She could be of great use.”

  “Liam Bell is organizing things in Dublin as we speak. I’ve taken steps to ensure that he isn’t aware of what really happened. To Belov, I mean. There’s only one man left who knows, besides myself.”

  “And who would that be?” Ashimov told him. “Let’s hope your judgment proves sound. I’ll see you soon.”

  Ashimov lit another cigarette. Volkov was one of the few men who impressed him. A man of mystery way beyond the reach of any Russian government organization. He smiled slightly. He was like Ferguson, in a way. Yes, a Russian Ferguson responsible only to the President.

  He threw the cigarette away as a plane roared overhead, obviously coming in to land at the runway Belov had ordered to be laid at the development there. As he went back into reception, Mother Teresa returned with Greta.

  “Five stitches, I’m afraid, but I’m good at embroidery. No fracture, but considerable bruising. You must take care, my dear.”

  “My thanks,” Ashimov told her. “But we must go. That was our plane landing.”

  “Glad to have been of help. Give my regards to Mr. Belov.”

  “I certainly will.”

  He took Greta’s elbow and led her to the car. “Are you all right?” he said as he helped her in.

  The patch on the side of her forehead was neat enough, and she touched it. “I had a local anesthetic. I feel tired more than anything else.”

  He got behind the wheel. “You can sleep on the plane. Moscow next stop.”

  March in Moscow was much as to be expected. The snow had seemed to be on the verge of clearing, but was back again when they landed, a light powdering only, but crisp and cold. A limousine was waiting, a Mercedes, and they drove away instantly to the Belov International townhouse, a place of some splendor, but they had barely settled in when Volkov called.

  “I need to see you at once. Bring the Major with you.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “The Kremlin, of course.”

  Ashimov switched off and turned to Greta. “How are you feeling?” She’d slept like a log on the plane. “Any better?”

  “It was worse in Chechnya. Not too good in Iraq, either, come to think of it.” She smiled. “I’ll be fine, Yuri.”

  “So you feel up to a visit to the Kremlin?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “My, but we are moving in dangerous waters. How exciting.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Snow was falling lightly as they drove through the streets, past the massive entrance to the Kremlin, moving through side streets, until they emerged at an obscure entrance at the back. They were passed through a series of checkpoints manned by uniformed guards, but never once questioned, simply waved through at each one until they reached a small courtyard behind high railings and halted at steps leading up to an archway. They went up, the door opened and a hard young man in an excellent suit appeared.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Major Ashimov.” He inclined his head to Greta. “Major.”

  “We’ve met before?” Ashimov asked.

  “Chechnya, some years ago, but I was a very junior officer. You wouldn’t remember. My name is Igor Levin. This way, if you please. General Volkov is waiting.”

  He led the way through gloomy corridors and back stairs, finally opening a door leading to a much larger and more ornate corridor. There were gilt mirrors, portraits from another age, fine carpeting.

  “I must say, this is beautiful.”

  “I imagine that Tsar Nicholas thought so, too,” Levin said.

  They came to an ornate door, where a burly individual, again in an excellent suit, was seated in a high chair. A machine pistol was on a small table beside him. He didn’t stand and didn’t speak.

  “We like to be prepared for any eventuality,” Levin said.

  “Even in here?” Greta said.

  “Especially in here.” He opened a door and ushered them in without announcement and stood at the back of the room, which was quite stunning, very French. Its paneled walls were beautifully painted with formal scenes of the seventeenth century, and there were portraits of the same period, a magnificent fireplace with a real fire, or so it appeared, an exquisite mirror above it. Chairs and a settee decorated the room, but the really striking thing was the huge desk in the center and the man who sat behind it. He had looked up as they entered and was nothing like Greta had expected. He was perhaps sixty, hair decidedly t
hinning, wearing wire spectacles of an old-fashioned type, a neat suit in navy blue, a dark tie. He could have been the manager of an insurance office, this man who, according to what Ashimov had told her, wielded such power. When he spoke, his voice was not much more than a whisper.

  “My dear Ashimov, so you made it in one piece again?”

  “My luck is good, Comrade.”

  “I’m never too sure whether you should call me that any longer.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  Volkov stood up, came round the desk and shook hands with Greta. “Your luck is also good, Major.”

  “Yes, Comrade.

  There was a power to him, she realized that now, and as he continued to hold her hand, it flowed through her. “More than luck, I think. I believe in God, you see, like my blessed mother before me. Everything is for a purpose.” He patted her hand. “But I am a poor host, and for a beautiful and brave young Russian woman who has gone through the ordeal you have, there is only one remedy. The finest vodka we have.” He said to Levin, “Igor, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course not, Comrade General.”

  “Igor,” Volkov told him gently, “I have told you never to use my title publicly.”

  “I am suitably chastened, Comrade General.”

  “Hopeless. Come, we sit by the fire and talk. Igor always seems to see the lighter side of life despite having served in Afghanistan with the KGB at nineteen, then the paratroopers in Chechnya. He was in the GRU when he fell into my hands, and now he’s one of my security guards. Took a bullet for me once.”

  “There’s nothing like KGB training,” said Ashimov.

  “Yes. Now let’s sit by the fire. I’ve things to say.”

  Levin opened a cupboard and produced an ice bucket containing a bottle of vodka and frosted glasses.

  “You will join us, Igor. Just one, though. You must remember your trigger finger.”

  The vodka was sublime and burned its way down. “Excellent,” Volkov told them. “Damn Ferguson and damn the Prime Minister. Another, Igor, and then we’ll get down to business.”

  They sat by the fire and Volkov began. “This is the situation. Since the end of the Iraq war, Belov International has continued to prosper. Since the vote for democracy in Iraq, the prospect is very real of the oil industry there returning to full flow, indeed to achieve a level of production beyond all expectation, and we are in the middle of it. We’re talking a company worth fifteen billion and rising.”

  “That would be staggering,” Greta said.

  “And nothing must be allowed to put such success at risk. In other words, Belov can’t die. Igor will take you to see Max Zubin tonight. We’ll ship him off to Station Gorky to settle him in, let the world know where he is and slip him back when necessary.”

  “Which will totally confuse Ferguson and company in London,” Ashimov said, “Dillon having reported back on a successful mission.”

  “And we mustn’t forget President Cazalet and that Blake Johnson man of his. They always exchange information with their British cousins,” Volkov pointed out.

  Greta said, “But after Dillon’s report, they’ll know the Belov in Siberia is false.”

  “Yes, but Ferguson can’t afford to disclose it – admit that his agents, acting on behalf of the Prime Minister, conducted a slaughter in the Republic of Ireland, a sovereign state. Where a highly important Russian citizen happened to be at the same time.”

  “So it’s a standoff,” Ashimov said. “There’s nothing the Brits can do about it and we keep the world financial markets happy.”

  “There’s more to it than that. This organization that Ferguson runs, the so-called Prime Minister’s Private Army. Such typical British hypocrisy. They’ve been committing murders for years and getting away with it. Dillon’s record speaks for itself. Well, the President thinks we should lance the boil, as it were.”

  “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

  “Yes. Total elimination of Ferguson’s team once and for all. The General himself, his personal assistant, this Superintendent Bernstein, Dillon of course, and these Salter people, the London gangsters who’ve been helping him out during the last few years. While you’re at it, perhaps Cazalet’s man, too, Blake Johnson. Another thorough nuisance.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Ashimov said.

  “It’s a tall order, I know, but already started in a way. That woman Bernstein you ran down in London, she’s in a medical facility Ferguson runs in Saint John’s Wood. It would be a good start to things if you could find some means of easing her on.”

  “As you say, Comrade.” Ashimov wasn’t troubled in the slightest by the thought.

  “Good,” Volkov said. “I leave it all in your capable hands. I’ve left you, Major Novikova, on the books of the London Embassy as a commercial attaché. It will bring you diplomatic immunity, although I’m certain Ferguson won’t make a move against you. At the worst, they could only ask you to leave. Captain Levin will have a similar situation at the Embassy to act as backup. The appropriate documentation is in the file on my desk.” He turned to Ashimov. “I would think it prudent for you not to return to London, if only because Dillon would attempt retribution.”

  “As you say, Comrade.”

  “Igor will take you to see Max Zubin to make certain he knows what is expected of him. Spend the night, then return to Ireland tomorrow. Igor will go with you. I envy you your inevitable success. I don’t think there’s anything more.”

  But there was, for at that very moment a secret door in the wall swung open and President Putin walked in.

  They all leaped to their feet, for it was an astonishing moment. Putin wore a tracksuit, a towel around his neck.

  “You must excuse me, Comrades. Affairs of state got in the way of my hour in the gym this morning, so I’ve been making up for it. Good to see you again, Major Ashimov. You must be feeling like a cat at the moment, a tomcat, naturally.”

  “Very much so, Comrade President.”

  Putin turned to Greta. “Major Novikova.” He offered his hand. “I hear good things about you, even if you are GRU.”

  It was his little joke, a reference to the intense rivalry between the KGB, to which he had once belonged, and GRU Military Intelligence.

  Greta said, “It would have been an honor to have served under you.”

  “Yes, well, in Afghanistan, this one did.” He tapped Ashimov on the shoulder. “And Captain Levin, the boy wonder.” He swiveled to look at Volkov. “All of us served, in good times and in bad – served Russia and each other. I expect nothing less from you in this present matter.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Ashimov said, “It would be our honor.”

  Putin nodded, turned to Volkov and handed him an envelope. “There is what you asked for. Read it.”

  Volkov opened the envelope and took out a document, which he unfolded.

  “Aloud, please.”

  “From the Office of the President of the Russian Federation at the Kremlin. The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way demanded. Signed, Vladimir Putin.”

  “It may help, it may not. It’s in your hands now.” Putin stepped behind the secret door and it swung noiselessly back into place. It was as if he had never been.

  Volkov replaced the letter in the envelope and gave it to Ashimov. “Such power. You must guard it well. Now, on your way.”

  He turned, opened the secret door and disappeared as completely as had his master.

  “So there we are,” Ashimov said. “What happens now?”

  “I’m taking you out,” Igor said. “There’s a very acceptable nightclub called the Green Parrot. It’s owned by the Mafia, but they know me.”

  “There is a purpose to this, I presume?”

  “You want to see Max Zubin perform, don’t you?”

  On the way to the club, it was Greta who said, “We’re being followed.”

  “Good for
you, but it’s all right. They’re my people. They’ll arrange Zubin’s onward transportation to Station Gorky.”

  “I don’t understand,” Greta said. “If Zubin is so important, why is he allowed to have so free a life? To perform in public and so on?”

  “Because of his mother,” Ashimov told her. “Bella Zubin.”

  Greta was astounded. “The actress?”

  “The great actress,” Ashimov said. “One of Russia’s finest. Unfortunately, she dabbled too much in politics and was sent to the Gulag.”

  “I thought she was dead.”

  “No, very much alive at eighty-five and living in a comfortable condominium by the river. Her son would not wish to see her returned to a more uncomfortable situation. That’s why we could trust him not to make a run for it when he was playing Belov in Paris the other year.”

  Greta shook her head. “I remember seeing her play the Queen in Hamlet when I was a little girl. She was wonderful.”

  “It’s a hard life, Greta,” Ashimov said, “but some things are more important.”

  The Green Parrot was up a side street in an old brownstone house, a neon sign advertising the fact over an arched doorway. Levin parked outside and the doorman stepped out.

  “You can’t park there. Clear off.”

  The other limousine pulled in behind them and three men in black leather coats got out. The doorman took one look and hurriedly backed off.

  “Sorry, Comrades.” He opened the door behind him, the three men went in first and Levin, Ashimov and Greta followed.

  The club was small, curiously old-fashioned, a little like some joint in one of those cinema noir, black-and-white thrillers from the Hollywood of the forties. The headwaiter even wore a white tuxedo as if doing an impersonation of Rick in Casablanca. He turned, saw Levin and his party, and his face fell.

  The tables were crowded, but one of Levin’s men brushed past the headwaiter as he came forward, ignored the bearded man at the microphone who seemed to have the audience in stitches with his humor, and leaned down to a table of five people in the front, three women, two men. Whatever he said was enough. They vacated the table at once and moved away.