by Jack Higgins
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, but George has his left arm broken. We were hurled into a grass verge and crashed against a wall. I called the police on my mobile, and they were there in no time.”
“And the truck?”
“Oh, he crashed farther on. They found the wreck, but the driver had cleared off. The police sergeant who’s been dealing with me says the truck was stolen from somewhere in London. George is going to be in hospital for a while. A terrible thing at his age.”
“And you are coming to Dover Street to stay at the house with me?”
“That’s sweet of you, Harry, but I’ve got seminars, and there’s my book.”
“To hell with your seminars, and you can work on your book at Dover Street.”
“Harry, what’s happening?”
Dillon cut in. “Monica, my love, listen to the man. It’s no coincidence what’s happened to you. Bad things have been happening to all of us. We need you safe and among friends.”
Her voice was quiet. “What’s going on, Sean?”
“I’ll explain when I pick you up,” Miller said. “We should be there in round two hours. Go straight back to your rooms, pack, and don’t go out again.”
“If you say so, Harry.”
The line cleared, and everyone was silent for a moment. Miller said, “Sorry, General, I must go.”
“Of course you must, so get moving.”
Miller went out fast, and Roper said, “Open warfare. They certainly mean business, whoever they are. Do you think there’s an IRA touch to this?”
Dillon nodded. “Since the Peace Process, the IRA hands have fanned out, looking to make money,” he said. “We’ve dealt with plenty of them in the past, desperate for work, who’ve offered their skills to various countries in the Russian Federation, worked with the PLO, Hamas, Hezbollah. Then there was Kosovo and Chechnya.”
“Iraq,” Roper said. “Plenty of money to be made there, one way or another, for the kind of men who were members of the Provisional IRA, with all their military skills.”
“Which is exactly the kind of thing I was doing for years, until the General here made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Dillon shook his head. “That’s what this all smells like to me—IRA for hire. I’ll take myself off to Kilburn and see what I can find out.”
“Would you care for some company?” Billy said.
“Why not? What about you, Harry?”
Salter got up. “You go with Dillon, Billy. I’ll take your Alfa and get back to the Dark Man and see how Ruby’s coping with the cleaning.”
He went out, and Ferguson said, “On your way, then, you two, I’m going to have a word with Clancy at the White House, then I’ll visit our Russian friends in Belsize Park.” He turned to Roper. “Whenever you’re ready, Major, call Clancy on his personal line.”
Clancy answered at once, nine o’clock on a Washington morning. “General, how are things?”
“They’ve moved at some speed, but, before I fill you in, how is Blake?”
“What would you expect from an old Vietnam hand? He’s being airlifted in a Medical Corps helicopter to a hospital in Washington this afternoon.”
“Give him our best. Let me tell you what’s happened now.”
Which he did, and Clancy was horrified. “This is incredible. Whoever these people are, they certainly don’t take prisoners. Everything that’s already happened, and now the attempted arson attack on the Dark Man and the assault on Monica Starling, shows we’re up against truly ruthless people. And I take your point about who could be next.”
“Exactly. Alexander Kurbsky, his aunt Svetlana, and their friend, Katya Zorin. Kurbsky’s a marked man. He’s still posing as a leukemia victim on chemotherapy, and the change in his physical appearance is remarkable, but if the Russians get wind of his location, that won’t hold them for long.”
Kurbsky had originally been sent in by the GRU to penetrate British intelligence, but once he’d found out how his bosses had duped him about his sister he’d had a change of heart. In particular, he’d saved Blake Johnson’s ass when he’d been kidnapped in London, and then he and Bounine had saved the Vice President’s life from a crazed Luzhkov.
“As I recall,” said Clancy, “there was a Presidential promise of asylum in the U.S. if Kurbsky ever wanted it. I’m sure that would be honored, if you think it’s a good idea.”
“What would you suggest?”
“We have a list of facilities, but Heron Island off the Florida coast would be perfect. The Secret Service use it only for the most special cases. A hundred percent security, the staff vetted in every possible way, decent climate, and the house I’m thinking of is spectacular.”
“How soon could you arrange all this?”
“Twenty-four hours. I assume you’ll handle your end. It may not be forever, General, but I can promise they’ll be safe on Heron Island. With luck, we’ll take care of the threat between us in a few weeks, and then we can think again.”
“Thank you, old friend,” Ferguson told him. “I’ll be back to you.”
Roper had, of course, heard everything. “Sounds good. Are you going up to see them now?”
“Yes, I think so. One less problem if they agree,” and Ferguson went out.
His Daimler was back and, with it, Martin, his usual driver, and they drove to Belsize Park. Ferguson, going through everything that had happened, still had not found a solution when Martin parked in the mews beside Chamber Court at the side entrance of the high stone wall. Ferguson announced himself to the intercom, and the gate buzzed and swung open.
The garden was beautiful—rhododendron bushes, cypress trees, plane trees, more bushes surrounding a lovely curving lawn. As he advanced towards the conservatory, Bounine stepped out of the bushes, wearing overalls, holding a baseball bat menacingly in his hand.
“It’s General Ferguson, you idiot.” Kurbsky emerged from the trees, a sad, gaunt figure, with the skull and the haunted face of someone on chemotherapy, although, in his case, he took drugs to make him look that way.
“What’s up?” Ferguson asked.
“We’ve had an intruder,” Kurbsky said. “Yesterday, after supper, we were going to watch television with the ladies. I stepped out of the conservatory to have a smoke and thought I heard something over by the garage, so I went to investigate. Someone jumped me, a man in a bomber jacket and jeans. He was closer to the garage than me and made the security lights come on.”
“What happened?”
“He pulled a flick-knife and sprung the blade, so I smacked him about a bit. He was on the ground after I took the knife, so I relieved him of his wallet, and I moved over to the garage security lights to inspect it. Bounine came out on the terrace and called, which distracted me. The guy scrambled up, ran like hell, and got over the wall.”
“Were the ladies alarmed?”
“Obviously. The security alarms sound inside the house. But they were easily reassured. Russian women are tough as nails.”
“The wallet, were the contents interesting?”
“Not particularly. Fifty-four pounds, a Social Security card, and a credit card, all in the name of Matthew Cochran.”
“Did he live in Kilburn?”
“No. Close, though. Camden Town. Sixty Lower Church Street.”
“And that’s it? Nothing like: ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone’?”
“The prayer card,” Bounine said to Kurbsky. “You forgot that.”
Kurbsky frowned, and said, “Why, is it important?”
“It means you are all in great danger. Let’s find the ladies, and I’ll spell it out for you,” and he led the way along to the terrace and the conservatory.
In the Victorian conservatory, crammed with plants, there was silence when Ferguson finished talking. Kurbsky had produced Cochran’s wallet and taken out the prayer card, which lay on a small iron table beside it.
Svetlana Kelly, Kurbsky�
��s aunt, sat in a wicker chair. Katya Zorin, Svetlana’s partner, a handsome forty-year-old with cropped hair, who was an artist and theater scene designer, sat close to her, holding the older woman’s right hand.
“These are terrible things you tell us, General. Such violence is too much to bear.”
“But it must be faced, my dear. The prayer card was involved with all these attacks I’ve just discussed, except for the business involving Monica Starling. It’s hardly a coincidence, and, when I come here, I find this.” He picked up the prayer card and held it high. “I repeat, you are in great danger if you stay here, or stay in London for that matter. I think you should take the Americans’ offer of sanctuary.”
“To leave my home is a terrible prospect. All my beautiful things. The world is so untrustworthy these days.” Svetlana was distressed.
Ferguson threw down the card. “You’ve heard the full story. Blake is in the hospital badly wounded, four of the cardholders are violently dead, the attempt to burn down Salter’s pub could have killed everybody in it.” He turned to Kurbsky. “Please, Alex, just go, and take them with you, and leave us to hunt down whoever is behind this.”
Kurbsky bent down and kissed Svetlana on the head. “He’s right, babushka, my decision. We go, and we go tonight, is this not so, General?”
“You’ll take the Gulfstream from Farley Field. Nobody will know you have gone.”
She was weeping now, and Katya kissed her on the cheek. “All will be well, my love. Alexander is right. We must go.”
Ferguson said, “I’ll make a deal with you, Svetlana. It’s important for Alex to go if there are strange and wicked people stirring, but you needn’t worry about your paintings or your antiques. I’ll arrange for a caretaker to live here and take care of them, all right? Now I must go.”
Kurbsky walked to the gate with him. Ferguson opened it, and turned. “It really is the smart move until we get to the bottom of all this.”
Kurbsky said, “I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that I’ve never been very good at running away.”
“On this occasion, you must think of the women. I’ll see you off from Farley. Roper will be in touch to confirm the timing.”
As Martin got out of the Daimler, Ferguson said, “I’ll sit beside you.” Martin got the door open, it started to rain, and Ferguson scrambled inside. The big man slid behind the wheel and drove away.
“Thank God, that’s sorted,” Ferguson said.
“Things looking a bit better, General?” Martin inquired.
“Not really,” Ferguson said. “Actually, the road ahead looks pretty bloody stony, but there it is.” He leaned back, called Roper, and filled him in. “So the intruder at Belsize Park definitely makes their departure a top priority.”
“I’ll organize it at once. And that man Kurbsky tangled with—Matthew Cochran, wasn’t it? Camden Town, Sixty Lower Church Street. We should check on him, too.”
“You’re right. See to it.”
When Roper made the call, Dillon and Billy were in a bar on Camden High Street. Dillon had suggested a luncheon sandwich, but the truth was, he was thinking ahead, about what was waiting for him in Kilburn. Billy suspected that Dillon needed a drink and went along with the suggestion, though Billy never drank. He was a bit alarmed, though, when the Irishman downed his second large Bushmills. Then Roper called.
Dillon obviously couldn’t put it on speaker in the pub, so he listened, then said, “Okay, we’ll handle it. We’re in Camden High Street now.” He relayed to Billy what Roper had just told him. “We’ll go and look this guy Cochran up. Do you know the address?”
“No, but the Sat Nav will,” Billy said. “So let’s move it.”
They twisted and turned through a number of side streets, finally reaching one called Church. There was no number 60, and beyond the street was a vast site, obviously cleared for building. There was a convenience store on the corner called Patel’s, freshly painted, incongruous against the old decaying houses.
“Wait for me,” Dillon said, and got out of the Cooper.
The store was crammed with just about everything you would ever need, and the stocky Indian in traditional clothes was welcoming. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I was looking for an address—60 Lower Church Street.”
“Ah, long gone. Many streets were knocked down last year, and Lower Church Street was one of them. They are to build flats.”
“I was looking for a man named Matthew Cochran who used that address.”
“But I remember number 60 well, it was a lodging house.”
“Thanks very much.” Dillon returned to the Cooper.
“No joy there. Lower Church Street was knocked down last year, and the address was just a lodging house. Let’s move on.”
Like many areas of London, Kilburn was changing, new apartment blocks here and there, but much of it was still what it had always been: streets of terrace houses dating from Victorian and Edwardian times, even rows of back-to-back houses. It was the favored Irish quarter of London and always had been.
“It always reminds me of Northern Ireland, this place. We just passed a pub called the Green Tinker, so that’s Catholic, and we’re coming up to the Royal George, which has got to be Protestant. Just like Belfast, when you think about it,” Billy said.
“Nothing’s changed,” Dillon told him. He thought back again, to his mother dying when he was born, his father raising him with the help of relatives, mainly from her family, until, in need of work, his father moved to London and took him with him. Dillon was twelve years old, and they did very well together right here in Kilburn. His father made decent money because he was a cabinet-maker, the highest kind of carpenter. He was never short of work. Dillon went to a top Catholic grammar school, which led him to a scholarship at RADA at sixteen, onstage with the National Theatre at nineteen—and then came his father’s death, and nothing was ever the same again.
Billy said, “Where did you live? Near here?”
“Lodge Lane, a Victorian back-to-back. He opened up the attic, my father did, put a bathroom in. A little palace by the time he had finished with it.”
“Do you ever go back?”
“Nothing to go back to. The fella who tried to incinerate you, Costello/Docherty? His address was Point Street. We’ll take a look.”
“Will you still know your way?”
“Like the back of my hand, Billy, so just follow what I tell you.”
Which Billy did, ending up in a street of terrace houses, doors opening to the pavement. There were cars of one kind or another parked here and there, but it was remarkably quiet.
“This is going back a few years,” Billy said as they drew up.
The door of number 5 was interesting for two reasons. First, there was yellow scene-of-crime police tape across it, forbidding entrance. Second, a formal black mourning wreath hung from the door knocker.
“Interesting,” Dillon said, and got out, and Billy followed. The curtain twitched at the window of the next house. “Let’s have words. Knock them up.” Billy did.
The door opened, and a young woman in jeans and a smock, holding a baby, appeared. “What is it?” she asked with what Dillon easily recognized as a Derry accent.
Billy flashed his MI5 warrant card. “Police. We’re just checking that everything’s okay.”
“Your lot have been and gone hours ago. They explained that Docherty had been killed in a car accident. I don’t know why they’ve sealed the door.”
“To stop anyone getting in.”
“He lived on his own, kept himself to himself.”
“What, not even a girlfriend?”
“I never even saw him with a boyfriend, though he was of that persuasion if you ask me.”
Dillon turned on his Belfast accent. “Is that a fact, girl dear? But one friend, surely, to leave that mourning wreath?”
She warmed to him at once. “Ah, that’s Caitlin Daly, for you. A heart of gold, that woman, and goodness itself.”
/> “Well, God bless her for that,” Dillon told her. “A fine child you’ve got there.”
“Why, thank you.” She was beaming now.
They got in the Cooper, and Billy drove away. “You don’t half turn it on when it suits you.”
“Fifteen Green Street, now. Just follow my directions.”
Billy did as he was told. “What’s the point? We know Pool lived on his own. I thought you wanted to go and look up the local priest?”
“We’ll get to that, so just do as I say,” and Dillon gave him his directions.
The houses in Green Street were substantial: Edwardian and semi-detached, with a small garden in front and a narrow path around the side leading to a rear garden.
“This is better,” Billy said. “No garages, though.”
“People who lived here in 1900 had no need for garages.”
Dillon opened a gate and walked up to the front door through the garden, followed by Billy. The door was exactly the same as the one in Point Street, with the police tape across it and the black mourning wreath hanging from the knocker.
“Caitlin Daly again, it would appear.”
The door of the adjacent house was within touching distance over the hedge. It opened now, and a white-haired lady peered out. Dillon turned on the charm again, this time pulling out his own warrant card.
“Police,” he told her. “Just checking that all is well.”
The woman was very old, he could see that, and obviously distressed. “Such a tragedy. The police sergeant this morning told me he died in a terrible crash somewhere in central London. I can’t understand it. I’ve driven with him, and he was so careful. A professional chauffeur.”
“Yes, it’s very sad,” Dillon told her.