Without Mercy

by Jack Higgins

He handed her his Codex Four. “I’m sure you know his number. Give him a call. Tell him what you think of him. After all, he dumped you at Khufra.”

  She sat looking at him, then shook her head. “What would be the point?”

  “I’d like to know if he is there. I’d like to know if Ashimov is still there. I want them, and don’t kid yourself, I intend to have them. Dead or alive, it makes no odds to me.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “If you won’t join in, we’ll go and find out for ourselves. Dillon, young Billy here. Come to think of it, I’ll go.”

  Billy said, “Not another bleeding beach drop.”

  “Any approach from a plane would alert them,” Ferguson said. “No, we’ll do what we’ve done before. A passage by night, Billy. Oban to the Irish coast. It will do me good, a little rough weather and sea air. Does it suit you gentlemen?”

  Dillon was smiling, Billy shrugged and Harry said, “Only if I can come, too.”

  Ferguson said, “That’s it, then.” He smiled at Greta. “You, my love, will be left in limbo with Major Roper at Holland Park.”

  “That’s actually illegal,” she said.

  “Well, I could just as easily have you deported via the Russian Ambassador, direct to Moscow. I don’t think it would do your career plans much good, do you?”

  “My God, you’re just as bad as they are.”

  “True. It’s the nature of the game we all play, and in my own way, I’m sure I’m just as unforgiving as General Volkov. You see, there’s one unfortunate thing about this whole wretched business which won’t go away.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein.”

  There was a moment of terrible silence, as if a chill had touched everyone there.

  Dillon’s face was white, skin stretched, the eyes dark holes. It was as if Death had come to meet them. Strangely, it was Billy who spoke in a gentle voice.

  “She was a special lady. She deserved better.”

  There was nothing Greta could say, and Ferguson sighed. “You could have joined the team, Major. You blew it. So, we’ll leave you in limbo.”

  Levin sat in the Royal George as rain swept in from the sea, finished his fish pie and ordered another vodka from Patrick Ryan, who had only half a left ear: a row of surgical clips holding it together, the whole lot glistening with surgical spray.

  “When did you say he’d be back?” he asked Ryan, referring to Ashimov.

  “Two, maybe three. He and Liam Bell went down to Dublin. I heard them talking. It was something to do with the Russian Embassy.”

  There was a roaring overhead. Levin said, “That sounds like an approach to Ballykelly.”

  “It could be.”

  He went off to the kitchen, and a moment later, Levin’s phone rang. Ashimov said, “I’m still at the Embassy in Dublin awaiting orders, God knows why, but I’ve news for you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Volkov wants you in London. They’re sending a Falcon.”

  “I think it’s just flown in.”

  “You’re to report to Luhzkov and await orders.”

  “Have you any idea why?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Is it safe, for God’s sake?”

  “Of course it is. You’re a commercial attaché at the Embassy, Ferguson can’t touch you. It would cause a diplomatic incident, and they wouldn’t like that at the moment.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions, just do as you’re told.”

  He switched off, Levin sighed, went behind the bar, found a glass and reached for the vodka. The door burst open in a gust of rain and wind, and Liam Bell swept in with one of his men, Connor.

  “There you are. How was Ibiza?”

  “Hardly noticed. Algeria was crap.”

  “Give me one of those.”

  Levin dosed it out and one for Connor. “So you’ve come back alone? I’ve just had Ashimov on the phone from Dublin.”

  “He was closeted with the Ambassador, all highly bloody secret and not for the ears of a peasant like me. Told me he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow and sent me packing.”

  “And me thinking you were such good friends.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.” Bell grabbed the vodka bottle and poured another.

  “I couldn’t if I tried.”

  He walked round the bar, and Connor, a brawny individual, grabbed him by the jacket. “Don’t you talk to Mr. Bell like that, you Russian prick.”

  “Actually, my grandmother on my mother’s side came from Cork.” Levin tossed the vodka in his glass into Connor’s eyes and head-butted him, sending him back against the bar.

  Liam Bell reached under his armpit, and Levin had his Walther out and under his chin in a second.

  “I wouldn’t – I really wouldn’t. They’ve sent a plane for me. I’m needed in London.” He patted Bell on the face. “Try and be good while I’m away.”

  Lacey and Parry delivered Ferguson and his party to the RAF Air Sea Rescue Base at Oban on the west coast of Scotland, where they were picked up by a couple of RAF sergeants who took them by Land Rover to Oban itself.

  One of them said, “That’s the Highlander, two hundred yards out. The inflatable at the jetty is yours. I know it doesn’t seem much, sir, but it’s got twin screws, a depth sounder, radar, automatic steering. It just looks bad because it’s meant to.”

  “I get the point, Sergeant.” Ferguson smiled. “Actually, we’re old friends.”

  “Safe journey back.”

  “I don’t care what he says.” Harry shook his head. “It looks like a bummer to me.”

  “I agree it doesn’t look like it’s nosing into the marina at Monte Carlo, but I suspect it will suit our purposes adequately,” Ferguson said. “Now let’s get our gear on board.”

  A great deal of Oban seemed to be enveloped in a blanket of mist, and rain swept in. In the distance, clouds swallowed the mountaintops and bay and Kerrera, and there was heavy weather as waves dashed across the Firth of Lorn.

  “I’ve said it before,” Billy moaned. “What a bloody place. It rains all the time, it’s cold…”

  “Nonsense.” Ferguson patted his shoulder. “Some of the finest views in the Highlands here. Now let’s stow our gear and think about food.”

  Ferguson, everything stowed, went up on deck and found Dillon in the wheelhouse with Harry and Billy. He was taking weaponry from the Quartermaster’s bag and passing pistols across.

  “One for you, Charles.”

  He gave him a Walther, then dropped a flap beside the instrument panel, disclosing some clips screwed into place. He put a Walther in one, a Browning with a twenty-round clip in the other, and pushed the flap back into place.

  “Just so you all know they’re there. Now, what was it you said about food?”

  They crossed to the jetty in the inflatable, found a nearby pub that offered a log fire, a variety of drinks and a venison pie, which they all sampled. Later, back on the Highlander, they sat under the canvas awning over the stern, rain pouring off, and except for Billy, drank whiskey and smoked, and Dillon turned on the deck lights, for that early darkness of the far north was closing in on them.

  “So what’s the plan?” Ferguson asked.

  “What would you like to happen?” Dillon asked.

  “I’d like us to slip in out of the night like young Lord Nelson on a culling-out expedition.”

  “And do what?”

  “Get our hands on Ashimov and Levin or, to be honest and it was a perfect world, shoot the bastards. Do you think that’s too much to expect?”

  “Not if we leave at six, hit the Irish coast early in the morning under cover of darkness, drape the Highlander with nets to look like a fishing boat. That way we can close in on shore and land.”

  “We’ve one big advantage,” Billy said. “Dillon and me know Drumore Place, know what we’re getting into.”

  There was
a pause. Ferguson said, “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Just that you and Harry stay on the boat,” Dillon said, “and no arguments. We need somebody on board anyway to handle it if we have to make a quick getaway.”

  “He’s right,” Harry said. “I mean, we’d be just lumbering around, wouldn’t we?”

  “I know, Harry, I, too, hate getting old.” Ferguson nodded. “The ball’s in your court, Sean.”

  Dillon shook his head. “There you go, calling me by my first name again.”

  They left at six, Dillon at the wheel and Ferguson joined him. It was still dark, wind stirring. “What’s the forecast?” Ferguson asked.

  “Four to five when we hit the open sea.” Dillon took out a cigarette one-handed and flicked his Zippo. “I love this.”

  “So do I. Remember I told you how I tried to make up for a lost love by sailing the Atlantic run single-handed, Portsmouth by Long Island?”

  “I remember what lost you your love. The woman couldn’t marry a man who’d take out five IRA men in Derry who’d tried to assassinate him.”

  “An old story, my boy. Is there any chance you could let me take over?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Dillon went out, and Ferguson checked his instruments and took the Highlander through the harbor entrance in a long sweeping current to the Firth.

  The swell started to move beneath, the masthead light began to roll rhythmically from side to side. Through the gloom, he could see the red-and-green navigation lights of a steamer. He steadied at twelve knots and plunged forward, feeling better than he’d done for years.

  In London earlier in the afternoon, Levin had reported to Luhzkov at the Embassy.

  “So, what’s all the fuss about?”

  “I’ve no idea. I had a Most Secret from Volkov, saying to hold you here.”

  “You mean physically?”

  “Of course not. Hold you available.”

  “And you don’t know why?”

  “No.

  Levin said, “Well, Boris, you have my number. I’m staying at the Dorchester, so you’ll have no trouble finding me.”

  Later, sitting in the corner of the Piano Bar, indulging in a pasta salad and champagne, Levin was approached by Guiliano, the manager.

  “So, we could have a little excitement around here,” Guiliano said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A fellow countryman of yours.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Putin. He’s going to attend some EU conference in Paris, but there’s a whisper he’ll look in here on his way back.”

  “You mean visit London?”

  “No, visit here, the Dorchester. He’d be in good company. We’ve had every President in Europe stay at this hotel.”

  He went to attend another customer. Levin lit a cigarette and sat there thinking about it. Maybe that was it, maybe his presence was needed in some way. It was a crazy world where international intelligence organizations could have their secrets and yet those secrets were readily available on the Grand Hotel circuit. You had to laugh, and he waved to the waiter to pour him another glass of champagne and toasted himself.

  “To you, Igor,” he murmured. “The only sane man in a world gone mad.”

  Having said that, it occurred to him that under the circumstances it might be sensible to book out of the hotel until he’d seen the way things worked out, which meant staff quarters at the Embassy for a while. How dreary, but there was no help for it.

  11

  Later, on the Highlander, Dillon took over and Ferguson went and sat in the saloon with Harry Salter. There was no sign of Billy. Harry said, “He’s taken a couple of pills and gone for a lie-down in the aft cabin. The old seasickness really gets to him.”

  “Join me in a large scotch,” Ferguson said. “Finest remedy I know for seasickness.”

  They savored it for a while, then Harry said, “What do you think our chances are? I mean, are we daft or just a couple of old geezers sticking two fingers up at the world?”

  “Never old, Harry, old is a state of mind. The present expedition isn’t particularly crazy. We slip in under cover of darkness, Dillon and Billy visit Drumore Place, lift Ashimov and Levin, bring them down to the Highlander at gunpoint and away. Could go very well.”

  “And it could go very badly.” Harry shook his head. “Why are we here right now with the sea rising, as far as I can tell somewhere off the Isle of Man.”

  Ferguson poured him more whiskey. “Maybe it is something to do with getting old, maybe we’re trying to show we can still cut it.”

  “That makes sense for you and me, but what about Billy? I mean, he’s rich, got everything he wants.”

  “Maybe that’s not the way he sees it,” Ferguson said. “He’s got everything and he’s got nothing, or that’s how it seems.”

  “Dillon’s not too badly off when it comes to cash,” Harry said.

  “From his mercenary days.” Ferguson shrugged. “People paid highly for his services. The whispers are true, Harry, he really did arrange the mortar attack on John Major and the war cabinet in ’ninety-one during the first Iraq war.”

  “The IRA?”

  “No, an Iraqi billionaire paid him big-time.”

  “The bastard.”

  “He’s never played favorites, our Sean. In the old days, he’d be working for the PLO one minute and the Israelis the next.”

  “What makes him tick?”

  “Ah, the game, Harry, and there’s always the danger that in the end, instead of you playing the game, the game is playing you. Anyway, that’s enough of that. I think I’ll have a little shuteye and then I’ll take over from Dillon.”

  At the Royal George in Drumore, trade was brisk. In the corner booth, Liam Bell sat with Walsh, Kelly, Magee, a walking stick beside him, a relic of Blake Johnson’s bullet in the thigh.

  “Walking wounded.” Kelly nudged Magee.

  “Well, this one’s no better,” Magee said, as Ryan appeared from the kitchen. “Are you sure you can still hear, Patrick?”

  Ryan put down the tray of ale he was carrying. “Stuff you, Magee, would you like to buy your own?”

  “Well, you’ve got to admit, he was a desperate kind of a fella, that Johnson.”

  “Shut up,” Bell said. “And drink up. I want some of you at the house. Walsh, Kelly, Magee.” He turned to three young men at the next table. They were new recruits, Connor, Derry and Gibson. “You stay down here overnight with Ryan and mind what he tells you.”

  They were young, arrogant and had their AK47s on the bench beside them. “We will that, Mr. Bell.”

  “And keep your mobiles on at all times. Now go to the kitchen for your supper, then Ryan will work a rota for you, taking turns checking the harbor.”

  After they had gone, Ryan said, “Are you expecting trouble, Liam?”

  “Christ knows what to expect in the present situation. Ashimov’s staying over in Dublin. There’s something up, but I don’t know what. Levin’s been called to London.”

  “Jesus, but he needs taking down a peg,” Ryan said.

  “Don’t be stupid, man, it was Connor who got taken down in two seconds flat. You avoid contact with Levin at all times. He was a paratrooper in Chechnya, medals, the lot. Anyway, drink up and we’ll move up to the house. Mrs. Ryan’s left us a nice supper in the kitchen.”

  There was quite a sea running, and cold spray stung Ferguson’s face as he moved along the heaving deck and opened the wheelhouse door. Sean Dillon was standing at the wheel, his face disembodied in the compass light.

  “It’ll get worse before it gets better.”

  “I’ll take over.” Ferguson brushed past and took over the wheel. He increased speed, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and the waves grew rougher.

  “Go on, get below and find something to eat. I’ll be fine.”

  It was dark, very dark, and yet there was a slight phosphorescence from the sea now an
d then. At one stage there was the gleam from a lighthouse in the distance, but as they plowed on, except for the occasional red and green lights of a ship, they might as well have been alone in a dark world.

  At Holland Park, Roper was seated at the computers eating a sandwich, when there was a knock at the door and Sergeant Doyle looked in.

  “I’ve got Major Novikova, sir. She asked to speak to you.”

  “Fine, show her in, Sergeant.”

  She brushed past Doyle, dressed in a padded dressing gown. “What is it?” Roper asked.

  “I’m bored, tired of being locked up with two bloodhounds taking shifts seated outside my door. How long will this go on for?” She sat down, and Doyle leaned against the wall.

  “As long as Ferguson wants. He could hold you indefinitely under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.”

  “What if I want to be sent home?”

  “They don’t know you’re here.” He smiled.

  She said, “At last that frozen face of yours has cracked.” He stopped smiling. She threw up her hands. “I can’t believe I said that. It was a car bomb, wasn’t it?”

  “IRA, one of many.”

  “And you can work with Dillon?”

  “Sean was never a bomb man.” He lit a cigarette and offered her one. “You’d be better off going back to bed.”

  Her mobile was on the desk close to his hand, and now, for the first time, it sounded. Roper switched it on, held it to his ear. There was a hint of breathing. He offered it to her, she shook her head.

  He smiled, put it to his ear again and said, “Major Novikova’s residence.”

  The caller disconnected. Roper moved into the emergence pattern on his computer, knowing it would be a waste of time, and it was.

  “A coded instrument and a good one. Impossible to trace.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d go back to bed and consider your options, Major. He’s a very reasonable man, the General, with people who are reasonable with him.”

  “As you English would say, what a load of cobblers,” and she got up and walked out, followed by Doyle.

  Roper thought about calling Ferguson and telling him about it, but decided against it. He couldn’t even tell the general area the call had come from, so there wasn’t much to tell. He wondered how they were getting on and went back to work.