Without Mercy

by Jack Higgins

  It was small, comfortably furnished, the door giving access to the living room of Zubin’s suite locked. Dillon slipped in an earpiece and listened. There was a sound of movement, but no voices.

  He took off his coat, then removed a small suitcase from the wardrobe and pulled out a white waiter’s coat, which he put on. On the sideboard tray, champagne stood ready in an ice bucket with two glasses. He took a deep breath, picked up the tray and went out. Just a few yards down the corridor was all it took. He paused at the door, then pressed the bell.

  It opened surprisingly quickly, and there stood Zubin in shirtsleeves adjusting his black tie.

  “Champagne, sir?” Dillon asked.

  “I don’t think I ordered that,” Zubin said.

  “It’s on the house, sir, Dorchester champagne.”

  “Okay, bring it in, but don’t open it.”

  He turned away into the living room and Dillon put the tray on the table. “I’d better open it just in case somebody comes,” he said in fluent and rapid Russian.

  Strangely, Zubin didn’t look alarmed, but there was an instant frown. “What in the hell is this?”

  “Nobody here is what they seem. My name is Sean Dillon and I work for British intelligence. You’re Max Zubin pretending to be Josef Belov, and not liking it very much. However, they have your mother in Moscow, so you have to play ball, you have to go back to her.”

  Zubin adjusted his tie and reached for his jacket. “If any of this were true, what could I do about it?”

  “Go back tomorrow, you’d have to do that, then we’d bring you out, you and your mother.”

  “You could do that?”

  “Yes. I’ll explain after dinner.”

  “I’m not doing dinner. From what I know, I’ll be back up here at around nine to nine-thirty.”

  “I’ve got the room next door. We’ll talk later. If you’re on your own, knock on the door.” He’d finished uncorking and pouring a glass. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

  Zubin took the glass. “I was a paratrooper in Chechnya. You sound like the real thing. Unless they’re employing raving lunatics here who start off with an Irish accent and move into fluent Russian.”

  The doorbell sounded.

  “Shower stall,” Dillon whispered. “I know these suites.”

  He moved into the small hall bathroom, left the door partly open and stepped into the shower.

  Outside, Zubin opened the door. “Ah, Levin, there you are. Are they ready for me?” He was obviously in his Belov role, voice measured.

  “No need to take that tone with me,” Levin said. “Now, remember the cameras. Be nice and forbidding, so people will feel it better not to speak to you.”

  “I could frighten them to death. I can do an excellent Hamlet’s father. He was a ghost, you know.”

  “Come on, it’s showtime.”

  The door closed, Dillon waited, then went out and returned next door.

  Round the bend at the far end of the corridor, Levin and Zubin waited for the lift. “You’re feeling good?” Levin said.

  “Of course. I always do on an opening night,” and the lift doors parted and he and Levin joined four other people.

  Inside himself, Zubin felt only tremendous excitement. Could it be true, could he really confound all of them, bring the whole house of cards tottering down? Well, as far as he was concerned, it wouldn’t be from want of trying.

  When Dillon returned, Ferguson had joined Billy. “You look excited,” he said. “How did it go?”

  “Couldn’t have been better.” He told them what had happened. “The important thing is he isn’t doing the dinner. That gives me a great chance of accessing him from the room next door later and really laying it on the line.”

  “The Putin plane is leaving at eleven from Northolt. The Citation X perhaps an hour later. The courier flight will be logged in and out again, all perfectly legitimate.” He handed Dillon an envelope. “Times and so forth, the whole schedule. Discuss it with him, then destroy it.”

  “Of course.”

  There was a sudden disturbance at the far end of the room, a great deal of clapping as Putin moved through the crowd, the Prime Minister taking another section.

  “He’s there,” Dillon said, “moving close to the President, Levin behind him.”

  There was Zubin, pausing while the TV cameras did their work and press cameras flashed, turning closer to the President so they were tied together, as it were. The President nodded to him and moved on, and Zubin walked into the crowd, Levin behind him, pausing to greet people who spoke to him. Finally, he accepted a glass of champagne and stood by the wall, as if holding court, a number of guests obviously hanging on to his every word, and Levin was checking his watch.

  “I bet that isn’t in the script,” Ferguson said.

  “He’s an actor,” Dillon said. “Can’t resist making the most of his role. I was one myself.”

  “Yes, we do know about that,” Ferguson said. “The one person who appears to be missing is Volkov.”

  “Not any longer,” Dillon said, as Volkov moved through the crowd, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and pausing beside Putin and handing him one. He murmured something to Putin and they turned and looked across at Ferguson, Dillon and Billy. And then Putin did a strange thing. He raised his glass toward them, and Ferguson raised his.

  “Old adversaries from the Cold War, a long time ago,” he said.

  A voice echoed over the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”

  Volkov moved across to Zubin and Levin and spoke to them, and Levin nodded, touched Zubin on the arm and they made for the door. Those going on to the dinner flooded out. Quite a number who obviously were not stood around finishing their drinks.

  Ferguson said, “I’ll get off home and leave you to it. Good luck upstairs and let me know instantly how it’s gone.”

  He walked away and Dillon said, “Let’s get on with it, Billy. We’ll take the stairs.”

  They made it to the room with no trouble, went in quietly and Dillon tried the earpiece again and put his head to the door. There was a murmur of voices.

  “Levin must still be with him,” Dillon said, as he checked his watch. “Just after nine. We’ll have to wait.”

  “For as long as it takes.”

  Billy lay on the bed, head pillowed on his hands. Dillon sat on the dressing table chair. At half past nine, he checked and still heard voices. Not long after, there was the sound of laughter and then silence and then there were two distinct knocks on the door.

  Zubin stood there, undoing his black tie. “Ah, Mr. Dillon. Who’s your friend?”

  “Salter,” Billy said. “I look after him when he can’t look after himself.”

  “Sorry I’m late, as it were,” Zubin said. “My security man was talking over old times. We were paratroopers together in Chechnya. Not exactly cheek to cheek. I was a captain in those days, he was a lieutenant. Big hero.”

  “We know him well,” Billy said.

  “How well?”

  “Traded shots,” Dillon told him. “Are we coming in?”

  “Of course. Levin’s okay in a strange way. He can’t take things seriously. He’s an actor.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Billy said. “Your new friend here went to RADA.”

  Zubin positively glowed. “My goodness, I am impressed.”

  “Well, don’t be,” Dillon told him. “I was waylaid by the IRA and took to the Theater of the Street, and a bloody awful role it was. Now let’s get serious. Do you feel like going for it?”

  “By God, I do. I’ve been trapped, forced into another man’s skin, my moves monitored, my life. I’m a puppet. Volkov pulls my strings, I jump. I’m fifty years of age. Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life this way?”

  “I shouldn’t imagine so.”

  “But I’ve got no choice. In Paris the other year, I couldn’t make a break for it because of my mother. I can’t try an
d drop out of things here in London because of my mother. They use her, I know that, but Volkov also knows I would never let her down. You talked earlier of my return to Moscow and you bringing both of us out. Can this be possible?”

  “It could be, but how would your mother feel about it?”

  Zubin poured a little champagne. “For both our sakes and to get us out of this situation, she would come.”

  “Excellent. Read this.” Dillon gave him Ferguson’s letter and poured himself a glass of champagne as well.

  Zubin finished and handed him the letter back. “Yes, I understand.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “One of my strengths is my ability to retain lines.”

  “Right. I’ll just go over it again with you. You return to Moscow on Putin’s plane tomorrow. Is Levin going with you?”

  “No, he stays here. I’m in Volkov’s hands. I’m put up at my usual hotel, the Excelsior, and the day after tomorrow, I sign the Belov Protocol at the Kremlin.”

  “No, you don’t, that’s why our timing is so crucial. You leave in Putin’s plane, and the Royal Air Force courier plane, the Citation X, follows an hour, perhaps two, later. It lands with legitimate documents for the British Embassy, receives legitimate documents for the return journey, which is logged out of Belov Complex at seven-thirty, Russian time. You know Belov Complex?”

  “Of course. I landed there from Station Gorky.”

  “The timing has been chosen because it’s dark. We’ll make a quick getaway, and with the extraordinary speed of this plane, we should be out of Russian airspace in thirty minutes.”

  “You say ‘we’?”

  “Yes. Two pilots, RAF naturally. Billy here will wear the uniform of an RAF sergeant as steward. I will wear the uniform of a GRU captain, one Igor Levin, complete with paratrooper wings, medals, the lot. You won’t be the only one acting.”

  “And you’d do this, you’d take this chance? My God, if it went wrong, you’d be shot or sent to the Gulag.”

  “True, but the simplicity of the whole thing is in its favor. I’ll ask you one more time. Will your mother do it? She’ll be walking out of her apartment with nothing. All the mementos of a remarkable life gone.”

  “She’ll do it for me, and I’ll do it for her.”

  “Good. There’s something not mentioned in Ferguson’s letter.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Once in London, there’s your future to think of. Our computer expert has been able to access Belov International bank deposits in London, using your authority. You are, after all, Josef Belov.”

  “How much?” Zubin asked.

  “Twenty million didn’t seem unreasonable. I mean, property prices have gone up in the city.”

  Zubin smiled. “I think you could say that will be perfectly satisfactory.”

  Billy took two things from his pocket, a Colt.25 and a Codex Four. “The gun is for obvious emergencies and is silenced. The mobile was specially manufactured for our purposes. It doesn’t look like much, but it can go anywhere, do anything; it’s waterproof and the battery lasts a year. It’s programmed. You press the red button and you’re through to a guy named Roper. He’ll contact us on your behalf. There are one or two extras in the briefcase, just in case.”

  “It is simple.” Zubin shook his head. “If everything works, it really would be very simple.”

  “At all times, remember you are Josef Belov. In a way, Volkov’s created a Frankenstein’s monster. Only a few important people know your real identity. To everyone else, you’re the great man.”

  “I suppose that’s right.”

  “Ferguson was telling me that during the Second World War, SOE had someone very like you who impersonated Field Marshal Erwin Rommel on a mission to Jersey in the German-occupied Channel Islands. It was said that what helped him most was discovering that everyone who met him believed he was Rommel, but more importantly, he himself discovered that to be Rommel was to be all-powerful. People automatically obeyed him. You might be surprised how effective that could be.”

  “I’ll try to remember it.”

  “You’ve been seen on British television already tonight. During the next few hours, it’ll be the same for the USA, Europe and the Russian Federation. When you get off the plane in Moscow, you’ll be a star on the level of the President. Everyone will recognize you.”

  Zubin took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “A short run, if we’re lucky.”

  “And a quick transfer to the West End,” Billy said.

  “Yes, I can see that. I can also see that you gentlemen are putting yourselves in harm’s way by accompanying me on this affair.”

  “Well, that’s the name of the game.” Billy shook hands.

  Zubin said, “You’re not an actor, too, Mr. Salter?”

  “No, I’m a gangster,” Billy told him.

  “Good God,” Zubin said.

  Dillon said, “Good-bye, Mr. Zubin. We will see you in Moscow tomorrow night.”

  “You sound certain.”

  “I am. I’ll tell your mother why when I’m on that plane with her, leaving Moscow. Come on, Billy.”

  They went out. Dillon locked the connecting doors. “The bedclothes,” he said.

  Billy rumpled them and the pillows.

  “Just in case a maid looks in,” Dillon said, and opened the door. The corridor was silent. “Come on,” he whispered, and they went down the back stairs beside the lift. They stood on the steps in Park Lane, sheltering from hard, driving rain for a few moments, and tried to flag down a cab.

  There were still a few people around from the function, limousines drawing up to collect passengers, and, of all people, Igor Levin emerged and stood on the steps, took out a box of cigarettes and saw them.

  “Still here, you two?” He selected a cigarette and offered them. “Russian.”

  “I could see you were a gentleman.” Dillon pinched the cardboard expertly and accepted the light offered. He inhaled. “Excellent.”

  Levin said, “Only the best.”

  “Back to Moscow for you, old son?”

  “How could I leave you two on the loose?” A black Mercedes turned in. Levin opened the main door, sat beside the driver and was driven away.

  “Now, there’s a happy man,” Billy said, and at that moment, in response to his raised hand, a cab swerved in.

  Afterward, they sat with Ferguson by the fire at his apartment in Cavendish Place and discussed the evening. Ferguson was particularly interested in the incident with Levin.

  “Why do you think they’re keeping him on here?” Dillon asked.

  “It suits Volkov. He’s smart, clever, ruthless. Doesn’t fit the mold of your usual agent.”

  “I reckon it’s more than that,” Billy said. “He’s getting at you, General. It’s like reminding you that there’s nothing you can do about Levin.”

  “You could well be right, young Billy. I’ll outplay him on that one, of course.”

  “How?”

  “By you two bringing Max Zubin and his mother out of Russia.” He stood up. “I’ll see you off at Farley tomorrow. You’d better move on. You’ll need a good night’s sleep.”

  Outside, another taxi. As it swerved in, Billy said, “We’ll drop you at your place first.”

  “No, you won’t,” Dillon said. “You haven’t told Harry about this caper, have you?” he asked.

  “No,” Billy said. “He’d blow his top. I mean, we’ve done enough in the past, bad things, hard things, but this? One false move in Moscow, Dillon, and it’s curtains. They’ll swallow us whole.”

  They got in the back of the cab. Dillon said, “You’re right. It could go as smoothly as silk…”

  “Or we might end up in deep shit.”

  “Well, if you’re worried,” Dillon said, “maybe it doesn’t need the two of us.”

  “Oh, no, you go, I go. I won’t have it any other way.”

  It was late, but there were still a few people in the saloon bar of the Da
rk Man. Harry was seated in his usual spot in the corner booth, Baxter and Hall hanging around.

  Dillon said, “Other end of the bar, you two. Billy needs to talk to Harry. It’s family.” They looked surprised, but went. “Okay, tell him.” Dillon went to the bar and ordered a large Bushmills.

  He drank it down and ordered another, then went back to the booth. Harry looked pale and angry.

  “This is bleeding enough. It’s insane.”

  “No, it’s important, Harry, it’s of world importance. I just thought you should know.” He patted Billy on the shoulder and swallowed his Bushmills. “See you at Farley at eleven o’clock, Billy.”

  He gave Harry a look, turned and went out. At the door, he stood in the porch buttoning his coat against the rain. Harry came up behind him, Joe Baxter at his shoulder.

  “Did you want a word?”

  “We’ll leave at ten-thirty tomorrow.”

  “You said eleven.”

  “Yes, well, we all make mistakes. He’s a good kid.”

  “So you’re a sentimentalist at heart.” Harry shook his hand. “Take him home, Joe,” and he went back inside.

  MOSCOW

  13

  In the Putin plane, things weren’t organized the way Air Force One was for the American President. On that famous plane, there was a certain relaxation, a constant coming and going of staff. Even the members of the press on board could circulate to a degree.

  No, conditions on the Russian President’s plane were stricter, more regimented. On the other hand, Zubin didn’t find himself sitting at the back with the rabble, as they were known in Russian political circles. After all, he was Josef Belov, which secured him three vacant seats, and, following whispered instructions, he sat in the third one next to a window and blanked off from people.

  Rising up out of London, he wasn’t as excited as he’d been the previous evening, but calm and serious, considering the situation. There had been no security check at RAF Northolt, but it had been obvious that there wouldn’t be, not for VIPs, so the Colt.25 they’d given him and the Codex Four mobile were at the bottom of his briefcase. He’d also discovered a couple of pairs of plastic handcuffs, a street map of central Moscow, his route from the Excelsior to his mother’s apartment clearly marked and onward to the Belov Complex, a spray can of CS gas and some night glasses.