by Jack Higgins
At Station Gorky, Max Zubin sat in his room and talked to his mother. He did that a lot and was allowed unlimited time. After all, security were listening to the conversations. Her cheerful, tough humor kept him relatively sane, but all her conversations ended in the same way.
“When am I going to see you?”
“I can’t say.”
“Well, Josef Belov has ultimate power, people listen to his orders.”
“But I’m just a poor Jewish actor, Mama, and I don’t even get Actors Guild minimum. Sure, there are hints I might be making a move, that’s all I can say. God bless.”
Three miles off Drumore, the Highlander drifted under automatic pilot while they gathered in the saloon and sorted out the weaponry. Dillon and Billy wore black Special Forces overalls and flak jackets, balaclava helmets rolled up at the moment but ready for the right sinister effect later. A Walther each in a shoulder holster, an AK47 in the silenced mode.
Ferguson and Harry wore flak jackets and each had an AK to hand. There was a chart open on the table showing the general approach to Drumore.
“With the nets up, we’ll look like any other fishing boat,” Dillon said. “Lay offshore beyond the point. We’ll go in the dinghy, it’s got silencers on the outboard. Tie up on the west side of the jetty and proceed to the house.”
“Could work like a Swiss watch,” Billy said.
“Or the kind you buy off a stall at Camden Market,” Harry grumbled.
“Well, we’ll see.” Ferguson smiled. “It’s good to smell powder again. Let’s get on with it. I’ll tell Roper it’s all systems go.”
At Holland Park, Roper listened. “So, approximately thirty minutes?”
“I’d say so.”
“Excellent. I’ll stand by.”
He lit a cigarette and sat in the shadowed room, watching his screens, his inputs to the Russian Embassy in London, his scanning of what was happening with Belov International, Ashimov, Levin, the names of all involved parties, waiting for what might come up – anything. A dirty night for it, and he waited.
Dillon and Billy went over the rail to the dinghy. Billy pushed the starter button on the engine, and it rumbled into life, a gentle, pulsating sound, not much noise to it at all. They coasted in on the west side of the jetty, beached and moved away fast, sinister figures in the darkness.
There was a light at the bar windows of the Royal George. Dillon put a finger to his lips and he and Billy approached cautiously and peered in. Connor, Derry, Gibson and Ryan were sitting round a table by the log fire, playing cards.
The curtain was half-drawn, the window two or three inches open, and Dillon eased it back and heard Ryan say, “I’ll make some bacon sandwiches and tea. Derry and Gibson, take a walk round for a quick check.”
“Ah, Jesus, Mr. Ryan, do we have to?”
“That’s Liam Bell’s orders and that’s what you’ll do. Now, be off with you.”
Dillon and Billy hurried away, following the winding path they remembered so well all the way up to Drumore Place. There was the luxuriant garden, summerhouses, the huge terrace, French windows, light glowing dimly here and there.
“Somebody’s up early,” Billy murmured.
“Well, let’s take a look,” and Dillon raised his night glasses. At that moment, a French window opened and Walsh and Kelly stepped out, Liam Bell behind.
“Just check the garden,” he said, and turned back.
“Come on,” Dillon said to Billy, and moved forward.
At Holland Park, Roper was still at his computers. To a man so badly damaged, sleep does not come easily and he frequently worked all night, a diet of whiskey and sandwiches keeping him going. There was a sudden stirring on his screens as a tracer element analyzed not photos, but staff day records at Russian embassies around the world, and there was Major Yuri Ashimov, overnighting at the Dublin Embassy. It was just as interesting to find out that Captain Igor Levin was back on staff at the London Embassy and resident there. He called Ferguson at once on his Codex Four, and Ferguson, in the wheelhouse with Harry, was horrified.
“Things are in motion, they’re on the job now and too late to abort. If I ring Dillon on his Codex, it could be exactly at the wrong moment.”
“It’s your call, General. No Ashimov, no Levin there, just the good old IRA.”
“God, I don’t have much choice, do I?” and Ferguson called Dillon, who unfortunately was otherwise engaged.
As Dillon and Billy had started up to the terrace, Bell turned the terrace lights on from inside the library, revealing Dillon and Billy moving forward.
Walsh called out, “Intruders, Mr. Bell,” and fired his AK47. Billy ducked behind the balustrade and knocked Walsh down. Kelly turned, stumbled and had Dillon all over him. Dillon pulled up his hood.
Kelly said, “Christ, it’s you, Dillon.”
“So it is, and I’ll kill you stone dead if you don’t answer my question. Ashimov and Levin, where are they?”
“Ashimov’s in Dublin, due back later today. Levin flew in to Ballykelly from Ibiza and out again to London.” He was terrified. “I swear to God, Sean.”
“And where would Liam Bell be?”
“Getting the hell out of here, if he’s got any sense.”
As he said that, there was the sound of a car starting up and driving away. “There the bastard goes,” Billy said.
Dillon called up Ferguson. “The whole thing’s gone sour, Charles. We’re on our way back. Come and get us.” He said to Kelly, “I keep my word. Run for it.”
Which Kelly did, pausing to watch them go, then calling through to Patrick Ryan at the Royal George.
“You’ve got bad trouble coming your way,” he said, but Ryan already knew, for earlier Derry and Gibson, patrolling the harbor, had discovered the dinghy and the outboard still warm, on the west side of the jetty.
“Well, I don’t know whose this is, but it’s soon taken care of.” Derry pulled out a pistol, putting three holes in it.
Offshore, Ferguson heard and said to Harry, “We’re going in.”
“I’m with you,” Harry said, and went out on deck, his AK ready.
They went in quickly to the harbor, and Dillon and Billy coming down the hill path came under fire from Ryan and Connor. Dillon hit Connor with two shots, Ryan ducked down and caught Billy in the middle of his flak jacket with a lucky shot that knocked him over. Dillon hauled him up and they continued, running headlong down the path toward the jetty and the beach. Derry and Gibson started to fire up at them caught on the exposed path, and the Highlander roared in out of the darkness. Harry fired in sustained bursts at the two men on the beach by the dinghy, as Dillon and Billy burst onto the jetty. As the Highlander bounced off the jetty, they scrambled over the rail.
Derry was down, and Ferguson, at the wheel, dropped the flap and pulled out the Browning with the twenty-round clip and sprayed the beach as they swerved away, knocking down Gibson as well before they were swallowed up by darkness.
Later, on automatic pilot, they sat in the saloon and drank whiskey. “Well, that was brisk,” Harry said.
“And a bleeding waste of time.” Billy shook his head. “We couldn’t even get Liam Bell.”
“At the time, there was no way of knowing Ashimov was overnighting in Dublin, Levin in London. It was just bad luck, and Major Novikova wouldn’t cooperate.”
“The thing that really interests me is Levin being sent to London,” Dillon said. “I’d like to know why.” He got up. “We’ll have to give him some special attention when we get back. Anyway, I’ll take the wheel. The rest of you can get some sleep.”
The sky was streaked with light, and way over on his left the Isle of Man was apparent in spite of the rain. It could have been worse, Dillon told himself. At least he and Billy had walked away from it, thanks to Harry and Ferguson. It was the enemy who’d suffered. The thing was, what happened now? He lit a cigarette, his Codex Four went. It was Roper.
“You and Billy are in one piece obviously.”
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“Just about. Liam Bell did a runner at the house, his boys gave us a hard time. Ferguson and Harry were wonderful. Bell’s short three, maybe four men, so we did some good.”
“You certainly did.”
“The thing is, what happens now?”
“Oh, that’s easy. President Vladimir Putin visits the European Union’s Paris conference tomorrow, then he intends to divert to London, have a chat with the Prime Minister, stay at the Dorchester and fly back to Moscow in the morning.”
“What for?”
“Oh, a remarkable story of greed, corruption and politics, which has only unfolded within the past hour on my screens. I’ve tried Ferguson, but he isn’t replying.”
“Flat on his back below, they all are.”
“Not surprising. How far to Oban?”
“I’d have said two hours, but there’s quite a sea running. It’s going to get worse. You could do me a favor and alert Lacey and Parry.”
“Will do. I’ll leave the juiciest details of the Putin visit until I see you, except to say he’ll have an interesting guest with him at the Dorchester – Josef Belov.”
Dillon was stunned. “How can that be?” and then he saw it. “Max Zubin’s going to do Belov again in London?”
“Something like that. We’ll talk again.”
Dillon thought about it, then put the boat on automatic pilot and went below to tell Ferguson the extraordinary news.
In Moscow at the Kremlin, Max Zubin, bundled out of bed at Station Gorky, ordered to be dressed and ready in an hour, then flown at what had seemed like express speed, stood in front of Volkov’s desk.
“You have a wonderful opportunity to serve your country. Your finest hour. You will visit Paris as part of the President’s entourage, travel to London to perform the same service at the Dorchester Hotel, and then return to Moscow.”
“But what is the service I perform, Comrade?”
“Just your role as Josef Belov. There will even be appearances on television. I’m sure you’ll do very well.”
“Yes, but in the theater we’re expected to know our lines.”
“That’s really very good. There’s a press release here. Have a quick look.”
Zubin scanned it and handed it back. “I see.”
“So now you know what it’s about if anyone talks to you, but we’ll keep conversation to a minimum. Just remember you are Josef Belov.”
“Except to my captors.”
“Don’t be silly, those who guard you at Station Gorky call you Belov because that’s who they think you are. Of course, your controller listening to your phone calls knows.”
“Can I see my mother while I’m here?”
“If you introduce yourself as a friend. After all, you couldn’t possibly be her son, if you follow me. You were bearded – that’s who Mikhail, her chauffeur, knew.”
Zubin shook his head. “So my driver, Ivan Kurbsky, thinks I’m the real Belov?”
“Of course.”
“I’m just like the King in The Prisoner of Zenda.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry, I got confused. May I go?”
“Right now.”
Zubin got out fast, and was escorted to his limousine. He gave Ivan, the driver, his mother’s address and sat back, brooding. When they reached the destination, Zubin put on his sternest voice.
“You will wait here. I am visiting a friend. One hour and then we go to the hotel.”
It was his mother who answered the door, and her face lit up. “How handsome you look,” and she drew him in.
“Where’s Sonia?”
“Very ill. She’s gone to stay with her sister. Come and sit down. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“I didn’t know myself. Things are moving very fast.”
She gave him a vodka and sat beside him, holding his hand. “So tell me about it.”
“My performance, Mama?” He swallowed the vodka. “The greatest of my life.” He handed her his glass. “Give me another.”
Sitting in Roper’s computer room at Holland Park, they were all there. Ferguson said, “Any trouble with the girl?”
“Not particularly. She thinks she’s being held illegally, of course.”
“Tough luck. After some of the stunts she’s pulled, she’s lucky not to be in a cell. Now let’s get down to it. What’s going on?”
“Before I start, can I ask you if the Prime Minister knows about the playacting over Belov?”
“Yes, President Cazalet discussed it with him. It’s one of those things where they prefer not to know officially, if you follow me, but I keep him informed. Anyway, what’s it all about?”
“Putin has a meeting in Paris with the EU, then he visits London, spends a night at the Dorchester – trade delegation stuff – then dinner with the Prime Minister.”
“Go on.”
“Lurking amongst his staff will be one Josef Belov.”
“What’s the purpose of his presence?”
“To be seen, to have him on television close to Putin, with any luck close to the Prime Minister. He won’t have a lot to say, if anything. They’ll keep tight control.”
“Any interviews?”
“No, but there will be a press release.”
“What about?”
“The Belov Protocol.”
“And what in the hell is that?”
“Well, excuse me if it sounds like a lecture, but here goes. Some years ago, the old Soviet government was going through economic crisis after crisis, always short of the almighty dollar, so they started selling off government utilities at knockdown prices – oil fields, gas, the wealth of Siberia. The oligarchs came along, men like the robber barons in the old days in the USA, men like Belov. He started with a billion, and the word is he got it from Saddam. In oil alone, his wealth can only be measured in billions.”
“Yes, I know that,” Ferguson said.
“Then, when the Rashid Empire was up for grabs, he took over.”
“So where is this getting us?” Dillon asked.
“To the United Nations Common Policy Division. Belov International has become so enormous, its tentacles reach every developing country in the world. It’s truly global. Can you imagine the effect all that could have if it was controlled by a single government?”
“The Russian Federation?” Ferguson asked.
“Many Russian politicians think it was a mistake to allow the State’s assets to pass into private ownership in the first place. Times have changed, Putin is a hard man, the Russians like strength. Things are getting more like the Cold War every day. Now is the time for a truly magnificent gesture from a Russian hero, Josef Belov. He’ll sign an item called the Belov Protocol, transferring all of Belov International into the hands of the government of the Russian Federation.”
“Just a minute,” Harry said. “If this United Nations outfit was worried about Belov International putting things out of balance, being too powerful, they aren’t going to be too happy about Russia taking over.”
“Neither will the United States nor the UK nor Europe,” Ferguson put in.
Harry said, “When I was young, under the Labor government after the war, we used to nationalize things, didn’t we? Well, this would be something similar. Putting things back into government control.”
“And an incredible boost in power and prestige for Russia,” Ferguson said.
Dillon nodded. “All performed in front of cameras, Max Zubin standing in for Belov.”
“I hope he’s practiced how to do Belov’s signature,” Harry said.
“Oh, that will be taken care of, no problem,” Roper said.
“And the beautiful thing from their point of view is that we can’t stand up and say, ‘That isn’t Josef Belov,’ ” Ferguson said. “Because we blew him up.”
“So there it is.” Roper shook his head. “A wonderful confidence trick. I don’t know about Putin, but Volkov must be laughing up his sleeve.”
“And there’s nothing we can do about it?” Billy asked.
“I’m not so sure.” Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Tomorrow night at the Dorchester, the Russian Embassy’ll have a reception. Putin will be there, the Prime Minister and Josef Belov.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I think we should go. Billy and I got into Igor Levin’s room when he was there. I don’t see why I couldn’t manage the same thing where Max Zubin is concerned.”
“To what purpose?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, but he might have things to say, some personal suggestions.”
“You know, I think you could be right.” Ferguson nodded. “We’ll go. You, me and Billy.”
“Excellent.” Dillon turned to Roper. “You’ve often boasted in the past that if it’s out there in cyberspace, you can find it.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Go through the entire story from the beginning, access all Russian sources, check out who’s going to be at the Dorchester function, what kind of security the Putin delegation will have. Something might be there, lurking in the woodwork. Everything in life has a flaw.”
“Well, if there’s one to this whole affair, I’ll find it.”
12
And work at it Roper did. There wasn’t an aspect of the entire affair that wasn’t covered. All relevant traffic out and in at the Russian Embassy in London, traffic from the Kremlin, dealings with the IRA. It was never-ending.
Another interminable night, then, of sandwiches and whiskey and constant smoking, and Doyle, on the duty shift, bringing innumerable cups of tea.
At five o’clock, Doyle pulled up the blinds. “Dirty morning, raining away.” He turned. “Look, sir, don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit?”
“You always are when you’re looking for the little things, Sergeant, so it pays to take care. I learned that lesson with my last bomb in Londonderry. It was just a Mini car with a shopping bag on the rear seat, so I didn’t treat it seriously.”