Without Mercy

by Jack Higgins

  “Bad luck, sir.”

  “Sheer carelessness, so it pays to take care. Check everything.” At that precise moment, he was proved right.

  The intercept was one of many relevant to Station Gorky, mainly messages to do with administration, work structure, now and then commands from Volkov himself. Roper was reviewing them, when he stopped, then frowned and reversed the screen listings. The message that had caught his eye referred to transportation for Belov’s flight from Station Gorky, but not to Moscow Airport. Some little distance from it was the Belov Complex, which specialized in private planes, executive jets and the like, even courier aircraft from foreign countries, making their regular pilgrimages in and out with Embassy material.

  The particular message made the point that Colonel Josef Belov’s chauffeur, one Ivan Kurbsky, would meet the plane and transfer the Colonel straight to the Kremlin before Belov moved on to the Excelsior Hotel to his usual suite.

  It hadn’t struck Roper before, the reference to Belov’s old KGB rank, and he went back to the beginning of the traffic from Moscow to Station Gorky. No reference to Max Zubin. Well, of course there wouldn’t be. The whole emphasis was on Belov, even in the most trivial matters.

  Perhaps he was tired, or slightly out of his mind by that stage, but a wild idea had formed in his head. Crazy, obvious and simple. What if everyone dealing with Max Zubin at Station Gorky actually believed he was Josef Belov?

  He turned to Doyle. “See if the Major’s stirring, Sergeant, and ask her if she’d fancy some early breakfast with me, and I’d like you to help me out with her,” and he explained.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Roper poured a whiskey to pull himself together. The implications were obvious. “Right, old son, don’t mess up,” he murmured.

  “You look terrible,” Greta told him.

  “I’ve looked terrible for some years now.”

  She was genuinely sorry and shook her head. “But your diet seems to consist solely of Irish whiskey.”

  “That’s Dillon for you.”

  “I expect so.”

  “And too many cigarettes.”

  “They help calm me down. I get neurological symptoms. Can’t sleep.”

  “And you only eat sandwiches. I haven’t seen you tackle a decent meal.”

  “Well, you will now. I’ve ordered a full English breakfast. I thought you’d like to join me. Start with the tea, Sergeant,” he said to Doyle. “Oh, and pass the morning papers.”

  “Coming up, sir.”

  Doyle picked up the Times and the Daily Mail from a side table and passed them over. Both featured Putin’s visit, also the press release announcing details of the Belov Protocol.

  “My God,” she said, as she looked at the Mail.

  “My God, indeed.” Roper poured another whiskey. “This is purely medicinal, I assure you, but a toast to Russian barefaced cheek.”

  She read the piece quickly and looked up. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, come on, you’ll never get away with it.”

  “That’s what you think. Ashimov passed Max Zubin off in Paris the other year with no trouble. Not only does Zubin really look like Belov, he’s a damn good actor. Ashimov told me he handled it really well. It fooled everybody. French intelligence, the CIA, the Brits.”

  Doyle had come in with a trolley and laid a table by the fire. She carried on talking.

  “If it worked then, it will work now.”

  He wheeled his chair to the table and started on the bacon and eggs. “Come on, eat up, it’ll get cold.”

  She took his advice. “Say, this is good. But you must understand, Roper, we Russians are used to the cold.”

  “Well, you didn’t do too well in the Cold War.”

  He was pushing her now, and she flared. “We did all right. Gave you your share of bloody noses, you and the Americans both. And some you don’t even know about.”

  Doyle brought a bottle across and two glasses. “I’m sorry, Major Novikova. Major Roper told me a vodka usually starts a Russian breakfast. I forgot.”

  “It certainly does, he’s right there.” He poured, she took it down in one go. “Another, Sergeant.” She was on her mettle. “I’ve invented a new breakfast for you English. Vodka and bacon and eggs.”

  “Actually, I’m Irish, Major.” Doyle smiled. “What they call Black Irish.”

  “God, I can never understand this. Why do you Irish always fight for the English? You should hate them.”

  “Not really, Major.” He slipped another vodka in her empty glass. “I mean, they’re a bit like your mother-in-law. An inconvenience when she calls.”

  She fell about laughing and finished the third vodka. “Your mother-in-law? I like that. Do you like it?” she asked Roper.

  He pushed his plate away. “If you do, but enough of this chat. I’m telling you, this Belov Protocol will never work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too many people know what happened to the real Belov, know about Zubin, I mean, everybody who worked with him at Station Gorky.”

  She exploded, almost in fury. “Are you stupid or something? Don’t you understand? To everyone at Station Gorky, Max Zubin is Josef Belov.”

  There was a moment’s stillness, and Roper said, “Is that really true?”

  “But of course. Only a handful of us know the truth – Ashimov, me, General Volkov, and through him, the President.”

  “And we do.”

  “Because Dillon pressed a button and killed Belov.”

  “So when you present Zubin at Station Gorky…”

  “He’s got to be Belov.” She shook her head. “Surely you can see that? Even his chauffeur in Moscow thinks he’s Belov. People accept. And what can you do?” She held her glass up to Doyle. He refilled it obediently.

  “Is Ferguson going to stand up at the Dorchester and say, ‘Excuse me, this isn’t Josef Belov, we assassinated him with American connivance’?” She took the vodka down. “I think not.”

  “An amazing situation,” Roper said. “When you think of it, he could be Josef Belov for the rest of his life.”

  “I don’t understand.” She was befuddled with too much vodka now.

  “It’s just an interesting point. You know, the appearance of things and people believing in it.” He smiled. “Anyway, I’ve got work to do. Take Major Novikova back to her quarters, Sergeant.”

  She got up, staggered a little and leaned on the table. “What was all this about? What were you after?”

  “I’d go back to bed if I were you. Greta, have another sleep.”

  She staggered slightly and Doyle caught her. “Steady now, miss, just come along with me.”

  Roper lit a cigarette and thought about it, then turned back to the computers. The last message on his screen was the one about transportation to the Belov Complex, where his chauffeur, Ivan Kurbsky, would meet the plane and convey him to the Kremlin before the Excelsior Hotel. That would be for Volkov to give him a final briefing.

  He sat there brooding, thinking of every aspect, and it all started to come together, make sense. He thought about it some more and phoned Ferguson and found him still at home at Cavendish Place.

  “I need to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “How would you like to make the Belov Protocol into a total balls-up? How would you like to leave the Russians with nothing but egg on their faces?”

  “Tell me more.”

  Which Roper proceeded to do.

  When he was finished, Ferguson said, “Totally mad and also quite brilliant. It could be absurdly simple.”

  “The old Swiss watch syndrome. If it all worked.”

  “All right, what do you want?”

  “A meeting with you at the soonest with me, Dillon, Billy, Squadron Leader Lacey and Parry.”

  “Is there anything I should know before we meet?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a few requests.” He went through them. “There are a number of things I can sort out via my computers.
I’ll take care of those aspects. Can we meet in, say, two hours?”

  “Absolutely. Holland Park?”

  “I think so. It’s useful if we need to refer back to computer information.”

  “Of course. There is one thing I’ve got to say.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Max Zubin – it would all depend on his willingness to play ball.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that.”

  Roper switched off and went back to his screens.

  At Holland Park, Roper was doing the briefing. “This whole thing hinges on some sort of contact being made at the Dorchester with Max Zubin. It seems obvious to me that he’ll return to Moscow still playing his role for the sake of his mother. That means the day after tomorrow, he’ll be seen on the world stage signing the Belov Protocol. The only way to prevent that would be to get Zubin out of Moscow with his mother.”

  “And how do we do that?” Billy asked.

  Roper turned to Lacey. “You know the Belov Complex in Moscow?”

  “Of course. We’ve been there a few times. It’s close to the main airport, handles private traffic, executive aircraft and courier planes. We’ve done it for the Embassy run a few times.”

  “So if the great Josef Belov turned up there with his mother and had a walk around, how do you think he’d be treated?”

  “With fear and great respect. I know Russia.”

  “And if they ended up on your courier plane and you got out of there fast, how long would it take you to leave Russian airspace?”

  “If I was given the Citation X, half an hour at the most. Since the demise of Concorde, it’s arguably the fastest commercial plane in the world.”

  “So you’d be out of it, in effect, probably before they’d even had a chance to scramble another aircraft to see what you were up to?”

  “With any kind of luck, yes.”

  “If you volunteer for this, you’d be in uniform, RAF rondels on the plane and so on, everything to confuse the issue.”

  “That’s good, sir, and by the way, we do volunteer.”

  “My God,” Billy said, “it could work. It’s so bleeding simple.”

  “Which only leaves us with the problem of getting Max Zubin to agree,” Roper said.

  “I’d say you’ve already worked that out.” Dillon smiled.

  “There’s plenty of security at the hotel, both Russian and British. You, Billy, have your identification, so that’s all right. The fact that you speak Russian, Sean, could be useful. You could growl your head off at any unfortunate room service waiter as much as you want and carry your copy of the Putin warrant just in case, to confuse any Russian security people.”

  “But meeting Zubin will be difficult.”

  “Not at all. He’s been given one of those magnificent park suites on the fifth floor as befits his status as Josef Belov. There is a small bedroom with separate bathroom next to it, double doors in between, which are kept locked unless it’s booked, to provide a second bedroom for the suite.”

  “And this one isn’t?”

  “Well, it was, but I canceled and then fiddled the computer to make it look as if it’s still occupied. I recall when you got into Levin’s room, you had a house key like staff use.”

  “Still do.”

  “As regards Levin, he’s with the Russian Embassy party and Boris Luhzkov. I suppose they know we won’t lift Levin.”

  “What would be the point?” Ferguson said. “And they can’t lay a finger on us. I’m going and you two can join me,” he said to Dillon and Billy. He turned to Lacey. “You’d better get on with arranging the courier flight out of Farley. You have full authority.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  They all got up, and Roper said, “I was thinking, Dillon, take an extra Codex Four. If this idea works and Zubin agrees, it will give him a link with you.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Well, let’s get on with it, the game’s afoot,” Ferguson said.

  At the Russian Embassy, Boris Luhzkov was in his office when Igor Levin went in. “I got your message. What’s up?” “Nothing, just a thousand and one things to do.”

  “You worry too much.” Levin lit a cigarette and sat on the window seat.

  Luhzkov said, “It’s all right for you, the big war hero, used to running around at the Kremlin.”

  “Luhzkov, what can I do for you?”

  “Volkov insists on your presence tonight so you can make yourself useful.”

  “I’m not exactly persona grata to our British friends these days. You’re sure Charles Ferguson won’t try to have me picked up once I’m on the street?”

  “Look, Igor, I don’t know what you’ve been mixed up in, and I don’t want to know. You work for Volkov, carry the Putin warrant, that’s enough for me. One thing I do know. You’ve got diplomatic immunity. If the Brits want you for anything, all they can do is send you home. Now go along to the Dorchester and check how our security people are getting on.”

  “On the instant, boss.”

  “Always the clown, Igor.” Luhzkov shook his head. “Greta Novikova is still gainfully employed, I trust?”

  “I wouldn’t ask, Boris, I really wouldn’t.”

  When Ferguson was admitted to Number Ten Downing Street, a waiting aide took him upstairs past the pictures of every past Prime Minister and along the corridor.

  “Five minutes only, General. He’s due at Northolt to greet Putin, but he did want a word with you.”

  He opened the door, Ferguson went in and there was the Prime Minister behind his desk. “Sit down, General.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister.”

  “I just want to reassure myself about certain, shall we say, unfortunate aspects of present events. Things are in order at the Dorchester, I take it?”

  “I believe so, but I’m visiting personally after our meeting.”

  “Let me be plain, General Ferguson. I know I find it prudent on many occasions where matters of intelligence are concerned to look the other way, but aspects of my meeting today, this Belov Protocol? It can’t be allowed to happen.”

  “It won’t, Prime Minister. Everything will be resolved within the next two days to your satisfaction.” He smiled. “Or you can have my resignation.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want that, so I’ll just have to take your word for it. Now I must go. Northolt awaits.”

  The door behind was eased open as if by magic and Ferguson was eased out.

  When the Daimler picked him up, Dillon and Billy were in the back and Ferguson climbed in. The Daimler pulled away and Dillon said, “Where to?”

  “The Dorchester. I want to check security.”

  “Did the PM have much to say?”

  “In five minutes? Hardly. Of course, he did tell me the Belov Protocol can’t be allowed to happen, and I told him it would be resolved to his satisfaction over the next two days.”

  “Charles, your confidence is breathtaking.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Dillon. It’s a sign of my total faith in your ability to achieve miracles.”

  Igor Levin made contact with his security colleagues at the hotel. The President, of course, was in the most exclusive suite at the very top of the hotel, members of his entourage on lower floors, Belov on floor five in a park suite. Everything seemed in order, so he went down to the Piano Bar and ordered a vodka in crushed ice, the special way they did it, the Dorchester way, got a couple of newspapers and went and sat by the piano and worked his way through them.

  Someone brushed past him to the piano. He didn’t look up, engrossed in what the Times was saying about Putin and Belov. The pianist started to play a song popular with soldiers during the war in Chechnya. Levin remembered it well, they all did, those young soldiers. “Moscow Nights.”

  He looked up, and Sean Dillon, seated at the piano, said, “We just wanted to make you feel at home, Igor, my old son, me and Billy here.”

  Billy was standing by the piano, arms crossed. “That was quite a
gig you played in Khufra, Captain. It was you who knocked off Tomac, we presume?”

  “He annoyed me.”

  “A right bastard. Screwed up our floatplane. We went in nose first for the deep six.”

  Levin stopped smiling. “That was nothing to do with me.” He hesitated. “And Greta was with you in that plane?”

  Dillon said, “I held her hand all the way up from the bottom.”

  Levin smiled again. “How romantic. She’s well, I trust?”

  “In excellent accommodation. Oh, here comes the boss.”

  Ferguson came down the steps from the bar. “My dear chap, we keep missing each other. Tried to catch up again at Drumore Place yesterday, but you weren’t at home.”

  “And neither was Ashimov. Dublin, I understand.” Dillon shook his head. “Liam Bell did a runner, but we depleted the ranks of the IRA.”

  “You must be feeling pleased.” Levin stood up.

  Ferguson said, “Don’t go, join us in a drink.”

  Levin smiled. “Now, that would really be too much. I’m sure I’ll see enough of you tonight.”

  He went out. Ferguson said, “Pity, I rather liked him. Still, we can have something while we’re here,” and he waved to Guiliano.

  In the ballroom later that night, all London was there. Politicians by the score, big business, the media, anybody who was anybody and lots of men in black suits, ever watchful as waiters passed through the crowd with trays loaded with champagne, vodka, canapés.

  “They stand out a mile, don’t they?” Billy said to Dillon as they stood by a temporary bar.

  “Who do you mean?”

  “The security men. It’s the black suits.”

  Ferguson was away, glad-handing a few people. Dillon said, “Just because Ferguson made us wear black tie for tonight, don’t let it go to your head. There’s Igor Levin over there. Keep him in view and let him keep you in view. I’m going up now to try and play Roper’s trump card.” He eased out of the crowd by the rear lift, pushed open a side door and ran up the stairs to the fifth floor. The room adjacent to Max Zubin’s suite was just around a bend in the corridor opposite. He produced his passkey and entered.