by Jack Higgins
They got in and drove away. Dillon said, “You’ve noticed the Opel sedan trailing us?”
“Absolutely. Don’t forget to find out who it is.”
Ferguson dropped him off. Hannah was not pleased, and Dillon leaned down to her through the open window. “Keep the faith, love.”
“Well, you keep your fists in your pockets.”
The rain increased, and Dillon glanced at the Opel and decided to leave it alone. He went inside the mosque and followed a sign that said OFFICE.
In the Opel, Greta Novikova called Ashimov on his mobile. “They were all at this Major Roper’s place in Regency Square – Ferguson, Bernstein and Dillon. They’ve now dropped Dillon at Queen Street. Why?”
“I should imagine because Mrs. Morgan has met an untimely accident and Mr. Dillon is about to speak to Selim about it.”
“What do you mean, accident?”
“Her wheelchair appears to have deposited her in the Thames. These things happen. Stay there and follow Dillon when he comes out.”
Dillon found the office, knocked and walked in. There was no one at reception, so he tried the next door and found his quarry working at a desk.
“Dr. Ali Selim?”
Selim recognized him at once from a computer photo Ashimov had left him.
He managed a smile. “Can I help?”
Dillon decided to let it all hang out. “Oh, I think so, me ould son.” He lit a cigarette.
“Not in here. It is an affront,” Selim told him.
“I know, a terrible vice, but we all have them. I can see you know who I am, your face twitched, but then a guy like Ashimov would be right on the ball about me and my friends. We have a video of the two of you, by the way. That would go down big at the House of Commons, don’t you think? And I notice his girlfriend, Greta Novikova, is outside.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, in broad terms you do, and I could fill in the rest for you. Henry Morgan walks up a Manhattan street in the rain and disappears into oblivion, his mother goes off the jetty in Chandler Street and into the Thames. A very unfortunate family.”
Selim’s face turned pale.
“Get out of here. I’ll call the police.”
“Oh, I don’t think you will, not with Ashimov on your back.” Dillon dropped his cigarette in a half-filled cup of coffee by Selim’s right hand. “Say your prayers, son, you’re going to need them. Oh, and good luck with the Wrath of Allah.”
It was a long shot, but the shock on Selim’s face was obvious.
Dillon went out and paused on the pavement, looking across. Greta Novikova was taking a photo, and she was badly caught out when he crossed the street quickly, opened the passenger door and got in.
“Now, look here…,” she started to say.
“Oh, cut it out, girl dear. I know who you are and you know who I am.” He produced a packet of Marlboros and took two out. “I bet you smoke, too. Most Russians do.”
“Bastard,” she said. But she almost looked amused.
He lit the cigarettes and passed her one. “Let’s go.”
“Go? Where to exactly?”
“My place in Stable Mews. Don’t pretend you don’t know where that is.”
She drove away, half smiling. “I bet Selim was messing himself in there.”
“Something like that. I told him we know about Ashimov and you, and who knows? Perhaps Ashimov’s boss, the mysterious Josef Belov.”
“You’re playing with fire, Dillon,” she said. “I’d be very careful.”
“Oh, I always am.”
She paused at the end of Stable Mews. “Can I go now?”
“Of course – unless you’d like to have dinner with me.”
“The great Sean Dillon with a romantic side? I doubt it. Besides, you’ve chosen a bad night. I have a function at the Dorchester ballroom this evening on behalf of the Russian Embassy.”
Dillon got out and leaned in. “Oh, I’m sure I could gain admission.”
She drove back to the embassy, turning over this strange man in her mind, and phoned Ashimov to tell him what had happened. “I’ve got a crazy idea he could turn up tonight.”
“So he’s challenging us, is he? Well, we’ll challenge back. I’ll go with you. Pick me up at seven.”
After she hung up, she went into her computer, into her secret GRU files, accessed Dillon and was breathless at what she discovered. This was the man who’d been responsible for the mortar bomb attack on Downing Street in ninety-one? A feared enforcer for the IRA for years, a killer many times over… once an actor at the National Theatre? She read, fascinated.
I put the fear of God into Selim,” Dillon told Ferguson on the phone.
“I thought you would. What’s your verdict?”
“Well, the obvious thing is that he didn’t deny any of it – Morgan, Ashimov, the Novikova woman, the lot.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? By the way, Blake’s been in touch. He’s taken all that stuff I gave him on the Muslim situation in the UK and gone straight back to Washington.”
“What a shame. I’d hoped to take him to the Dorchester tonight. The Russian Embassy’s got a function on in the ballroom. Get me a security pass, Charles, Novikova’s going to be there. Perhaps Ashimov will be with her. I’d like to run with it.”
“Only if you run with me, you rogue. We’ll go together.”
“Cocktails at seven, Charles, not black tie. The embassy’s trying to make friends and influence people – and I understand that there might be a surprise guest or two.”
“Are you referring to the fact that when President Putin finished at the European Union’s Paris conference this morning, he decided to divert his plane to RAF Northolt for a chat with the Prime Minister this afternoon? And that he’s not due to depart until late tonight?”
“And how would you be knowing that?”
“Because I’ve been notified of his flight plan out of Northolt to Moscow. It’s what they pay me for, dear boy.”
“So I’ll meet you there?”
“And the Superintendent, too, I think. Dress things up a little. And do me a favor.”
“Yours to command.”
“Wear one of your better suits. We mustn’t let the side down. This should be interesting. I knew Putin rather well in the bad old days, you know, when he was a colonel in the KGB.”
“I bet you exchanged shots across the Berlin Wall.”
“Something like that. Meet us at the Dorchester as you say, at seven.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
In the ballroom at the Dorchester, the great and the good mingled with politicians and civil servants, and waiters passed through the crowd with trays loaded with vodka and the finest champagne, as the Russian Embassy did its best to impress. Yuri Ashimov and Greta stood by a pillar, drinking iced vodka.
“It’ll be a hell of a shock for these people when Putin appears with the Prime Minister,” Greta said.
“It’ll be an even bigger one for you when Belov appears.”
“Belov?” She was bewildered. “But why?”
“Because Putin wanted him. Out of all the oil magnates, Josef, my love, is the one the President trusts. They go back a long way.” He reached for another vodka as a waiter passed. “I spoke to him a couple of hours ago. Brought him up to speed on the Henry Morgan affair.”
“Does Putin know about that?”
“Of course not. There are limits. Josef was philosophical about it, but he wasn’t happy about Ferguson and his friends.”
“What do we do if Dillon turns up?”
“I hope he does. I have a friend named Harker, Charlie Harker. A crook of the first water, dabbles in everything from protection to drugs to women. Such people have their uses.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“I mentioned Dillon and gave him a photo. Harker has arranged for two or three of his men to, shall we say, pay special attention to him if he does show up.”
Gr
eta said, “I’ve checked on Dillon, Yuri. He’s hell on wheels.”
“Well, so am I, my love.”
“But it isn’t you who’ll be doing it. That’s what worries me.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see what happens. Because there he is.”
At the same moment, a voice echoed over a microphone as the Russian ambassador called for attention.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I had intended a few words at this moment, but someone far more important has arrived – and with a very special guest.”
He gestured and, through the side door, President Putin appeared, the British Prime Minister at his side. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause. The two men stopped for a moment, acknowledging the crowd, then moved on, pausing to shake hands here and there. They were followed by several men, obviously security, but not all.
“The man on the left,” Ferguson said. “Black suit, steel-rimmed glasses, cropped hair. Josef Belov. Now, what’s he up to?”
Belov looked to be around sixty, his face very calm, giving nothing away. Putin paused for a moment and listened as Belov whispered, “The man standing over there with the woman and the small man with very fair hair, his name is Ferguson. He runs the Prime Minister’s private intelligence outfit.”
“I know very well who he is, we’re old adversaries from the Cold War. What is he to you?”
“No friend.”
“Josef,” Putin said, “I don’t know what you get up to these days and I don’t want to know. You are useful to the State. Your billions, and your importance to the oil industry from Iraq to southern Arabia, speaks for itself. However, no one is indispensable, so I’d advise you to be discreet.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Belov faded away and Putin moved on, the crowd parting. He reached Ferguson and smiled.
“It’s good to meet old friends. General Ferguson now. I like that. You at last outrank me.”
“I believe so, Colonel.”
Putin smiled and held out his hand, which Ferguson took. “I’m glad you remembered.”
“That we swapped shots?”
Putin shrugged. “A long time ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
Putin turned to walk away, then paused and turned back, his face enigmatic. “And Charles?”
“Sir?”
“I’d take care if I were you – great care.”
“Oh, I will, sir, you may depend on it.”
Putin moved on.
Hannah said, “What was all that about, sir? It was as if he was warning you.”
“Yes, Superintendent. I do believe he was. Now where’s Belov gone?”
“Over by the bar with Ashimov and Greta Novikova,” Dillon pointed out.
“Well, let’s join them.” Ferguson smiled. “Could be interesting.”
“They’re coming,” Ashimov said. “Perhaps you’d better go.”
“Why on earth should I?” Belov said. “This champagne is so good, I’d like another glass. Don’t let’s pretend with them. I doubt if they will.” He turned and smiled. “General Ferguson. A long-overdue pleasure.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Ferguson said. “I think you know who my friends are, I certainly know yours.” He nodded to Greta. “A pleasure, Major,” took her hand and kissed it. “Mind you, the GRU always had style.” He turned to Ashimov. “Unlike the KGB.”
Ashimov didn’t react, and it was Belov who said, “Which would include me, General. There is an English phrase about people in glass houses throwing stones, isn’t there? Especially when you have a man like Mr. Dillon at your side, although you, Superintendent, are a credit to Scotland Yard.” He emptied his glass, toasting her. “Shall we all have another?”
“An excellent idea,” Ferguson said. “I see we have no secrets.”
“Especially about you,” Dillon said. “And especially about Henry Morgan in Manhattan, and his mother’s unfortunate accident.” A waiter passed, and they all took glasses of champagne from his tray. “The only thing that confuses me is what one of the richest men in the world would be doing with a bruiser like Ashimov here and a loser like Ali Selim.”
“Ah, you don’t understand the bigger picture, Dillon,” Ferguson said. “Money isn’t everything. You’re a good case in point. You’re rich, but-”
“But he likes to play the game,” Belov said.
“Exactly. Being wealthy is like having everything and nothing at the same time, and a man needs more. I remember interrogating a man named Luhzkov years ago. He lectured in economics at London University. A deep-cover agent for the KGB. He often spoke with sincere admiration of a Colonel Belov who headed Department Three of the KGB. Belov’s main task was to create chaos in the Western world – chaos, fear and uncertainty, until the cracks showed and governments toppled.”
Belov seemed to stay very calm, though his lips tightened, as did his grip on the champagne glass, and it was Dillon who said, “Just as in Iraq.” He shook his head. “All those wonderful oil fields up for grabs, and since Saddam ended up in a cell, who knows where they’ll end up?”
Belov put his glass on the bar. “I’ve heard enough stupidity for one evening. We’ll be moving on.”
He nodded to Ashimov and Greta and walked away, moving out through the entrance and pausing. Ashimov waved for the limousine.
“I’m sorry, Josef.”
“Then do something about it. I have hugely important matters in hand. Our future in Iraq and southern Arabia are on the line. Where Ferguson and his people are concerned, I give you a free hand.”
“I’ve something special lined up for Dillon tonight.”
“Good. Just get on with it.” Ashimov held the door open for him. Belov got in and put the window down. “I’ll be at the Rashid house on South Audley Street for the next three days, then I’m flying to the castle.”
“And then Iraq?”
“No, Moscow. I’ve got to keep the President on our side.”
The limousine drove away, and Greta said, “The castle?”
“ Drumore Place. It’s in County Louth in the Irish Republic. His latest acquisition. A couple of hundred acres, and whatever you want a castle to be, that’s what it is. One advantage for him is that the area is a hotbed of Irish nationalism. In that area, the IRA has no idea that the war is over, especially the local commander, one Dermot Kelly.”
“Isn’t that a problem?”
“For Josef with all his wealth? For a man with no love of the British? The locals have embraced him like one of their own. He goes back a long way with Kelly.”
“And you? Do they embrace you as well?”
“Of course. My natural charm.”
She smiled. “Now what?”
“I’ll give you a nice dinner.”
“And Dillon?”
“Oh, he’ll be well taken care of.” He waved for a passing taxi.
5
At the bar at the Dorchester Ballroom, they were finishing the champagne. Hannah said, “You were a bit heavy, sir.”
“Oh, I intended to be. Luhzkov hung himself. Now we all know where we are, which is how I prefer it.”
“You ould devil. What you’re looking for is a reaction,” Dillon said.
“Something like that. I spoke to Roper earlier. Told him to compute a report on Belov. Everything there is. I expect you two to read it thoroughly.”
“Of course, sir,” Hannah said.
“Good. On our way, then.”
They paused at the cloakroom to get coats, and it had started to rain slightly when they went out on the pavement and the Daimler coasted in.
“I’ll drop you off,” Ferguson said.
“Not me, if you don’t mind,” Dillon told him. “I feel like the walk.”
“In the rain, dear boy?” Ferguson opened the door for Hannah. “You’ll have to excuse him, Superintendent. It’s an Irish thing, the rain.”
“Sure, and your sainted mother, being a Cork woman, would have agreed with you.”
“Ta
ke care, you rogue, and stay out of trouble.”
“Always do, General.”
Dillon watched the Daimler drive off, then walked away, his collar up against the rain. He went across the entrance of the hotel and made his way down through Mayfair in the general direction of Shepherd’s Market.
That he was being followed had been obvious since leaving the ballroom. Two men, one in a reefer coat and knitted cap, the other in an anorak and baseball cap. Stupid, really, and they’d stuck out like a sore thumb among the kind of people leaving the Dorchester.
Just before reaching Shepherd’s Market, he paused on a corner to light a cigarette, then turned into a narrow side street of old town houses, fronted by Victorian spiked railings, with steps leading down to basement areas. He quickened his pace, then dashed down a flight of steps and waited in the darkness.
There was a sound of running steps. A voice said, “Where’s he gone, for Christ’s sake?”
Dillon came up the steps and stood behind them, hands in the pockets of his raincoat.
“So there you are, lads,” he said. “I was beginning to give up on you.”
“Why, you little squirt.” The man in the reefer coat turned to his friend. “Leave this to me.”
He took a length of lead pipe from one pocket. Dillon said, “Very old-fashioned.”
“Is that so?”
The man made a sudden rush, arm raised to strike down. Dillon swayed to one side, stamped against the side of one of the man’s knees so that he lurched past him, head down, and Dillon put a foot to his backside and sent him headfirst down the steps to the basement.
The man in the baseball cap took a knife from his pocket and sprang the blade. “You little bastard, I’ll show you.”
“Well, let’s be having you, then.”
The knife swung, Dillon caught hold of the wrist, turned it and the arm like a steel bar, then ran him headfirst into the railings. The man slumped to the pavement, his nose broken, blood on his mouth.
Dillon crouched beside him. “Now then, who sent you?”
“Get stuffed,” the man moaned.
“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.” Dillon was carrying a Walther PPK in his waistband at the rear under his jacket, and now he produced it. “But I’ve got this, and where I come from we find a bullet through the kneecap cures most ills. A crippling experience, mind you.”