The Wolf at the Door

by Jack Higgins

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  IN THE BEGINNING - THE KREMLIN

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  DANIEL HOLLEY - HIS STORY

  Chapter 8

  MOSCOW

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  LONDON

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  END GAME

  Chapter 14

  ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS

  A Darker Place

  Rough Justice

  The Killing Ground

  Without Mercy

  Dark Justice

  Bad Company

  Midnight Runner

  Keys of Hell

  Edge of Danger

  Day of Reckoning

  Pay the Devil

  The White House Connection

  Flight of Eagles

  The President’s Daughter

  Year of the Tiger

  Drink with the Devil

  Angel of Death

  Sheba

  On Dangerous Ground

  Thunder Point

  Eye of the Storm

  The Eagle Has Flown

  Cold Harbor

  Memories of a Dance-Hall Romeo

  A Season in Hell

  Night of the Fox

  Confessional

  Exocet

  Touch the Devil

  Luciano’s Luck

  Solo

  Day of Judgment

  Storm Warning

  The Last Place God Made

  A Prayer for the Dying

  The Eagle Has Landed

  The Run to Morning

  Dillinger

  To Catch a King

  The Valhalla Exchange

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

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  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Copyright © 2010 by Harry Patterson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Higgins, Jack, date.

  The wolf at the door / Jack Higgins.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17156-1

  1. Dillon, Sean (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Ferguson, Charles (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  3. Secret Service—Fiction. 4. Assassins—Fiction. 5. England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6058.I343W

  823’.914—dc22

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Linda Van

  with my sincere thanks . . .

  The Wolf at the door is your greatest

  Danger and not only in Winter.

  —RUSSIAN PROVERB

  1

  At fifty-eight, his black hair flecked with gray, Blake Johnson still had a kind of rugged charm, the air of a man capable of looking after himself. He certainly didn’t look old enough to have served in the Marines in Vietnam, though he had, with considerable honor and the medals to prove it. Johnson was personal security adviser to the President, and had been so for more years than he cared to remember. Presidents came and Presidents went, but he went on forever, or so it seemed, Blake thought ruefully, as he stood in the wheelhouse of a sport fisherman named Lively Jane, on the late afternoon it all began. He peered through the window at Long Island, a light rain blowing against the glass. It was almost six. He’d have to hurry.

  He had a beach house in Quogue, supposedly for holidays, which hardly ever came, and this time looked to be no different. Vladimir Putin, Prime Minister of the Russian Federation, was speaking at the United Nations in New York, and the President wanted him to attend and report in, not only on the speech but on the general attitude of the Russian delegation.

  The British Prime Minister wasn’t coming either, but, interestingly, he’d sent his personal troubleshooter, Harry Miller, to the speech, presumably to do the same thing Blake was doing. With him was Sean Dillon, once a feared enforcer with the Provisional IRA, now a security adviser himself, and a friend to Blake in good times and bad.

  Dillon & Miller. Blake smiled. Dillon would have said it sounded like a cabaret act. He throttled back and coasted in between the boats, so that the Lively Jane nudged against the pier.

  A man was on the pier in a yellow oilskin coat, the hood pulled up against the rain, which was driving down now. Blake emerged from the wheelhouse and picked up the line to throw it.

  “Can you give me a hand? Catch the line and tie her up, and I’ll switch off.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll be needing that engine to drop you into the Sound,” the man in the hood said.

  His hand came out of his right pocket holding a Beretta, and Blake, his senses sharpened by years of hard living, was already hurling himself over the rail, aware of the muffled sound of the silenced weapon fired twice and a burning sensation in his right shoulder, and then he was diving down into twenty feet of murky water.

  He swam under the boat, his back scraping the keel, and surfaced on the other side, as she drifted, the engine still throbbing. He saw the man at the stern, leaning over the rail and emptying the Beretta into the water, then ejecting the magazine and taking another from his pocket.

  Blake heaved himself over and scrambled into the wheelhouse. There was a flap under the instrument panel and it opened at his touch. Held by two clips inside was a short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38, and he was holding it as he turned.

  The man in the hood was frantically shoving the magazine up the butt of the Beretta. Blake said, “Don’t be stupid. It’s over.”

  Not that it did any good. “Fug you!” the man said, and his hand came up, and Blake shot him between the eyes, knocking him back into the water.

  It was ve
ry quiet, out of season, nobody around. Even the little café on the pier was closed, so he did the only thing he could, he switched off the engine, went along the deck, and managed to loop a line to one of the pier rings, then went below.

  His shoulder was hurting now, hurting bad. He sat down in the kitchen area and scrambled out his special mobile and called in. The familiar voice answered, the President’s favorite Secret Service man.

  “Clancy Smith.”

  “It’s Blake, Clancy. I just came in to the pier on the Lively Jane, and a guy was waiting with a Beretta.”

  “For God’s sake, Blake, what happened?”

  “I’ve taken a bullet in the shoulder, but I put him over the rail.” He was light-headed now. “Hell, Clancy, there’s nobody here. Closed down for the season.”

  “Just hang in there, I’ll have the police there in no time. Hold on, Blake, hold on. I’ll call you back.”

  Blake reached into a cupboard, pulled the cork on a bottle of very old brandy, and swallowed deeply. “Hold on,” he muttered. “That’s what the man said.” He took another gulp from the bottle, fainted, and slid to the floor.

  At the same time in London, it was an hour before midnight at the Garrick Club, where a dinner for twenty ministers from various Commonwealth countries was drawing to a close. General Charles Ferguson, for his sins, had been asked to deliver a speech on the economic consequences of terrorism in the modern age, and he couldn’t wait to leave.

  The affair had been expected to finish at ten, but it was now eleven, thanks to a certain amount of squabbling during the question-and-answer sessions, and naturally, and to his great annoyance, Ferguson had been involved. He’d had to call his driver on three separate occasions until, at last, the whole sorry business came to an end. He made his escape as fast as possible, found a string of limousines waiting and his not among them. His beloved Daimler had suffered damage and was being refurbished, and the Cabinet Office had provided an Amara and a driver named Pool, who now came forward anxiously.

  “And what’s this?” Ferguson demanded ominously.

  “We kept getting moved on by security. I’m two streets away, in Venable Row.” He had a cockney accent, but with a slight whine to it that Ferguson didn’t like.

  “For God’s sake, man, just lead the way. I want to get home to bed.”

  Pool scuttled away. Ferguson sighed. Poor sod. It wasn’t his fault when you thought of it, but what a bloody evening. As Pool reached the end of the street, a limousine came around the corner and ran through a large puddle, splashing the driver severely. It kept on going, and he shouted after it.

  “Holy Mother of God, you’ve soaked me, you bastards.” His voice was quite different, more Irish than anything else, and he turned to Ferguson and called hurriedly, “Sorry, sir,” and disappeared around the corner.

  “What in the hell is going on?” Ferguson asked softly, and turned into Venable Row. There was some construction going on there, a cleared area and a fence around it with an opening for an entrance, along with a couple of diggers and a work truck. It was dark in there, just a little light in the glare of a streetlight. The silver Amara was parked some yards inside, and Pool was standing beside it.

  “Here we are, sir.”

  Ferguson moved closer, and, as he approached, Pool turned and started to run away, and the Amara blew up, the explosion echoing between the buildings on either side and setting off their fire alarms.

  Ferguson was hurled backwards by the blast, lay there for a moment, then stood up, aware that he was in one piece but that the Amara was burning furiously. The explosion had come from the trunk, and Pool had been closer to the rear of the car. Ferguson lurched towards him, dropped to his knees, and turned Pool over. There was a great deal of blood, and his face was gashed.

  Pool’s eyes opened. Ferguson said, “Steady, old son, you’ll be fine. Help coming.”

  Pool’s voice was very weak. “I messed up. All my fault.”

  “Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “The only person to blame is the bastard who put that bomb in my car.”

  Not that Pool heard him, for he’d already stopped breathing, and Ferguson knelt there, a feeling of total desolation passing through him, aware of the sirens of the police and the emergency services approaching, holding a hand already turning cold.

  “Not your fault, old son,” he said softly. “Not your fault at all.” As he got to his feet, the first police car roared into the street.

  In New York, Harry Miller and Sean Dillon were enjoying a drink in the wood-paneled Oak Bar of the Plaza Hotel, where they were sharing a suite.

  “I like this place,” Dillon said. “The Edwardian splendor of it. They say it was Mark Twain’s home away from home. I had a drink in this very bar on my first trip to New York.” The small Irishman was wearing slacks of black velvet corduroy and a black Armani shirt that seemed to complement the hair, so fair it was almost white. He looked calm and relaxed, with the half smile of a man who couldn’t take the world seriously.

  “The IRA must have been generous with their expenses. I presume you were after some wretched informer on the run from Belfast?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was,” Dillon said, still smiling. “Another one?”

  “Why not, but then you’d better get changed. You are, after all, representing the British Government at the UN. I think I’ll stretch my legs while you do.”

  Miller was dressed formally in a navy blue suit, a blue trench coat on the seat beside him. He was a little under six feet, with saturnine gray eyes, dark brown hair, and a scar bisecting his left cheek.

  “God bless Your Honor for reminding me, the simple Irish boy I am. What do you think Putin’s up to?”

  “God knows,” Miller said. “If he thought his presence at the UN was going to force the President and the Prime Minister to attend as well, he’s been sadly misinformed.”

  The waiter provided two more Bushmills whiskeys and departed. Dillon said gloomily, “Sometimes I wonder what the UN is for anymore. Not enough muscle, I suppose.”

  “Well, it has eighteen acres of land alongside the East River, and its own police force, fire department, and post office,” Miller said. “I suppose they’ll have to be content with that.” He swallowed his whiskey, stood up, and pulled on his trench coat. “I’m going across the street for a stroll in Central Park. The Embassy car will be here in an hour.”

  “Better take care. That place can be tricky.”

  “That was then, this is now, Sean. These days, New York is safer than London.”

  “If you say so, Major.” Dillon toasted him. “See you later.”

  Miller accepted the offer of an umbrella from the doorman, crossed to Central Park, and entered. There were few people around in the fading light of late afternoon just before the early evening darkness.

  He realized suddenly that he was alone, except for voices somewhere in the distance, a dog barking hollowly, and then the footfalls of someone running up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A man in a dark green tracksuit, wearing gloves and a knitted cap, came up fast and swerved to one side. He said hello and kept on going, turning through the trees at the end of the path. A moment later, he reappeared, paused to look at Miller, then walked forward.

  Miller dropped his umbrella as if by accident and, under cover of picking it up, reached down and found the Colt .25 in the ankle holder. He straightened up, raised the umbrella again, and turned to go.

  The man called, “Hey, you, we’ve got business to discuss.”

  He ran forward, then slowed, his right hand sliding into a pocket of his tracksuit.

  “And what would that be?” Miller asked.

  “Wallet, cards, mobile phone. In any order you please.” He was up close now, his right hand still in his pocket.

  Miller took two quick steps so that the two of them were good and close, then held the silenced Colt almost touching the man’s left knee and fired. The man cried out, lurching back as Miller pushed him towards a park bench
at the side of the park.

  “Oh, Jesus,” the man cried, and Miller reached in the tracksuit pocket and found a silenced pistol, which he tossed into the bushes.

  “Wallet, cards, mobile phone, wasn’t that what you said?”

  The man had grasped his knee with both hands, blood pumping through. “What have you done to me? They didn’t say it would be like this.”

  “I’ve crippled you, you bastard,” Miller said. “Hollow-point cartridges. Now, speak up, or I’ll give it to you in the other knee as well. Who’s ‘they’?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a free lance. People contact me, I provide a service.”

  “You mean you’re a professional hit man?”

  “That’s it. I got a call. I don’t know who it was. There was a package, I don’t know who from. A photo of you staying at the Plaza, with instructions, and two thousand dollars in hundreds.”

  “And you don’t know who the client was? That’s hard to believe. Why would they trust you?”

  “You mean trust me with the money? That’s the way it works. Take the money and run, and I’d be the target next time. Now, for the love of God, man, help me.”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “In the bank.”

  “Well, there you go,” Miller said. “I’ll keep your wallet and cards and leave you your mobile. Call an ambulance and say you’ve been mugged. No point in trying to involve me. For what you tried to pull, you’d get twenty years in Ossining, or maybe you’ve already done time there? Maybe you’re a three-time loser.”

  “Just fuck off,” the man said.

  “Yes, I thought you’d say that.” Miller turned and walked rapidly away, leaving the man to make his call.

  In the two-bedroom suite they were sharing at the Plaza, Dillon was standing at his bathroom mirror adjusting a tie as black as his shirt. His jacket, like his slacks, was black corduroy, and he reached for it and pulled it on.