The wolf at the door sd-17

by Jack Higgins

  "Well, Murphy went on secondment to Londonderry in January for six months to be a priest with them at the Little Sisters of Pity's St. Mary's Priory. Read it."

  Which Dillon did. He shook his head. "I never realized that. I'd stopped going to church, and I was finished at RADA by then. Kilburn was pretty working class, so I was used to keeping my head down about being an actor."

  "So you lost touch with him. But I've got a report he sent to his bishop, telling him how bad it was in the war zone and how impressed he'd been with the priory as a nursing home and the efforts of the nuns to help the sick and needy against the odds. His intention was to have a hospice called Hope of Mary, and he intended to recruit nuns from the Little Sisters of Pity. This would cost money, but the bishop responded to his enthusiasm. Murphy registered a charitable trust, called Requiem, and the church agreed to buy a suitable house on mortgage for him on the condition he was responsible for raising the operating costs."

  "And he has, presumably?"

  "In spades. See the photo of him here in full regalia, another when he was made Monsignor. He proved irresistible to many businessmen and a sensation in the city. The hospice is paid off, including all improvements, and they've started ones in West Belfast, Dublin, and now one in the Bronx in New York."

  "That's a hell of a lot of money, when you look at it. A hell of an achievement. I wonder where it came from?"

  "He certainly seems to have the golden touch."

  "And where does Caitlin figure in all this?"

  "Her mother worked at the housekeeping post at the presbytery till she was seventy. At that time, Caitlin just carried on, obviously by arrangement with Murphy, helping out but still teaching. When her mother got cancer, she packed in her job to nurse her, becoming more and more involved with Hope of Mary. The old lady died over a year ago, and Caitlin is still doing her job, but twins it with being executive director at the hospice."

  "Fascinating stuff. What else have you got?"

  "Costello-cum-Docherty, who tried to torch the Dark Man. Inspector Parkinson recognized him as a petty thief and drunk named Fergus Costello who'd apparently gotten religion over twenty years ago at a refuge for drunks and down-and-outs in Wapping High Street. It was interfaith, but Parkinson spoke of a charismatic priest who turned up there on occasion. So guess who it was?"

  "Oh, I'm at the stage where I'm prepared to believe anything you say. But why the fake Irish passport?"

  "I don't know. He had a prison record as Costello, maybe he wanted to start fresh."

  "He must have known the right people. The passport was an absolute ringer. But our Irish connection falls down when we consider Henry Pool, doesn't it? I know his wife was from Cork, but his father was a cockney soldier, as I recall, so badly wounded in April 1945 in Germany he was immediately discharged and went to live in Kilburn with his wife, who produced Henry in 1946."

  "Poor old Ernest, he died of a stroke two years later. But I've discovered an Irish connection that wasn't immediately apparent. His wife, Mary Kennedy? Her father was killed by the highly irregular British police force known as the Black and Tans."

  "God help us," Dillon said. "The scum of the trenches. They'd frighten the Devil himself."

  "So when we consider Pool and the life he led at the beck and call of an embittered old woman who probably blamed him for being half English and drummed guilt into him every day of his life, I suppose you could say he'd be capable of leaving a bomb in the back of an English general's limousine."

  "I take your point. But Pool was the driver."

  "Yes, but Ferguson did say Pool appeared to be running away." Dillon sighed. "A hell of a tragedy it would have been, Charles Ferguson's sainted mother being from Cork herself."

  "Actually, I did know that, but they say there are round eight million people of some sort of Irish extraction in the English population."

  "Exactly," Dillon said. "More than there are in Ireland itself." He shook his head. "So where does it all lead?"

  "God knows," Roper replied, and then Ferguson walked in.

  "There you are," Dillon said. "When do we get going for Farley?"

  "We don't," Ferguson said. "I decided a little extra security was called for, so I did a little sleight of hand. I apologize for not telling you, but I figured the fewer people who knew, the better. Svetlana, Katya, Alexander, and Bounine were all picked up by an emergency ambulance from the Royal Marsden Hospital, transferred to an anonymous people carrier, and delivered to RAF Biggin Hill in North London. They took off about twenty minutes ago. So that's that. Now, I've contacted Miller and the Salters and suggested that they join us to go over the new information. I asked Monica, too, but she's not feeling too good. She took a bit of a battering, remember. She thought she'd have an early night."

  It was no more than half an hour later that the Salters arrived in the Alfa, and, as they walked in, the gate opened again behind them, and Fox delivered Miller, who followed them in to the computer room, where they found Ferguson, Roper, and Dillon talking quietly.

  "So what is all this?" Harry Salter demanded. "What about Kurbsky and the ladies?"

  "Departed some time ago, and, if you'll all sit down, I'll explain the circumstances."

  He repeated what he'd told the others, emphasizing that what had alarmed him was the intruder at Belsize Park. "He was not an ordinary thief bent on burglary, we know that because of the prayer card. Kurbsky's makeover was very effective, so I'm inclined to believe that he wasn't the target. Cochran was probably intent on obtaining what information he could from the women. How he learned about them, I don't know, but that's why I felt we had to take extra precautions."

  "I agree," Dillon said. "The Russians were behind the plot for Kurbsky's original false defection. Since then, they haven't heard a word from him or Luzhkov or Yuri Bounine. It must be making someone very angry indeed."

  "And angry enough to do something about it?" Ferguson said. "So you think it is the GRU seeking revenge if they can't find answers?"

  "It's the GRU I've always worried about, because Russian military intelligence is as good as it gets." Roper nodded. "There are six of us sitting here, and four have experienced serious attempts to kill them. Blake and Monica make six."

  Miller said, "You and Dillon must feel left out."

  "Well, it would be difficult to get at me here in my wheelchair, but I'm always ready." He produced a Walther from the side pocket of his chair and turned to Dillon. "Why they're leaving Sean alone, I don't know."

  "I've already told you," Dillon said. "If I hadn't gone to New York at the last minute, it could have been different."

  "So that's it, the bleeding Russians again," Harry Salter said.

  "What are we going to do about it?"

  "Hold on, there's something I'd like you to see first," Ferguson said. "Dillon and Billy visited Kilburn earlier in the afternoon to explore the Irish connection."

  "And where's this taking us?" Harry Salter asked.

  "To a hospice known as Hope of Mary, which has a website, if you can believe it, featuring a familiar prayer card. It has an executive director, Caitlin Daly, a charity called Requiem behind it, and a priest responsible for the whole package called Monsignor James Murphy. Roper's prepared a very interesting fact file, so watch and learn."

  As they pulled chairs forward and Roper adjusted his equipment, Harry Salter said in a low voice to Dillon, "Waste of time, all this. There's got to be more to it than Kilburn."

  "You think so?"

  "Of course I do." He sat down. "Shooting Blake on Long Island, bombing the General's car in London, all these other things-this is major stuff, and it takes organization. I think you're absolutely right, Dillon. It's the GRU getting their own back for Kurbsky, and I bet they've been planning it ever since he scarpered."

  And he was absolutely right.

  IN THE BEGINNING

  THE KREMLIN

  5

  Two weeks before Prime Minister Vladimir Putin's appearance at the UN an
d the events surrounding it, Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU had been enjoying a six months' leave of absence to work on a book on international terrorism, a subject on which he held a formidable reputation in Russian security circles. Lermov had had scholarly leanings as a younger man, but he came from a military family-his father had been an infantry general, in his time-and so in spite of Lermov's undoubted promise, the army it had to be.

  His wife had died at forty from breast cancer, he was childless, and his parents were both dead, leaving him with nothing to do but devote himself to his duty. A basic knowledge of Arabic had, on three occasions, led to covert operations, and his actions during them had left no doubt of his courage, with the decorations to prove it.

  He was sitting at a desk in the university library now, auburn hair falling over his forehead, steel-rimmed glasses on his nose, an air of weariness with life in general about him, when a young GRU captain tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  "I regret to disturb you, Colonel, but I've orders to take you to the Kremlin? I have a car waiting outside."

  "The Kremlin?" Lermov didn't understand. "What on earth for?"

  "The Prime Minister wishes to see you."

  Lermov was shocked, and said the first thing that came into his head. "But I'm on leave."

  The young Captain smiled slightly. "It would appear not, Colonel."

  "Of course. Then if I may retrieve my greatcoat and briefcase from the cloakroom, I am at the Prime Minister's orders."

  Twenty minutes later, after a drive through miserable weather, the Captain at the wheel, early winter at its worst, sleet and rain, he was delivered to the rear of the Kremlin. The Captain, whose name was Ivanov, knocked on a small postern door, which was opened by an armed soldier who said nothing and stood to one side as the Captain brushed past him and led the way along numerous corridors until they reached one with an armed guard sitting on a chair with a machine pistol on his lap. The Captain opened a door into an unexpectedly grand room furnished in the French style of the seventeenth century, painted walls and fine paintings.

  "This is rather remarkable, I must say," Lermov commented.

  "It was the office of General Volkov," the Captain said. "Special Security Adviser to the Prime Minister. Unfortunately, no longer with us."

  "I had the pleasure of knowing him. His death will make him sorely missed by all in the GRU."

  There was a sideboard with drinks of most kinds available, and a fine desk close to the fireplace with a DVD on it, a TV in the corner.

  "The information on the DVD is classified on a strictly eyes-only basis. The Prime Minister's orders are that you should watch it, and take on board all the facts. When you feel you know what you're talking about, press the button on the desk. He will discuss the matter with you then."

  "Do you know what's on it?"

  "I helped put it together, Colonel."

  "What's it about? Just tell me briefly." Peter Ivanov hesitated, and Lermov said, "Humor me, Captain."

  "All right. To put it like the Americans would, there's been a 'turf war' going on in London for the past four or five years, and our people have not been doing very well."

  "The opposition being British intelligence?"

  "An elite group known as the Prime Minister's private army." He quickly ran down its members for Lermov and gave him a precis of the bloody history of the past few years.

  "All leading up to the current state of play and the disappearance of Kurbsky, Luzhkov, and Major Yuri Bounine. But there's more on the DVD. Judge for yourself."

  "I will." Lermov moved to the sideboard and, as Ivanov left, helped himself to vodka, then sat down to watch. Ivanov had been right, there was a great more detail, and it was a good thirty-five minutes before it finished.

  He pressed the button on the desk, and it was surprising how quickly the door in the paneled wall opened and Vladimir Putin himself entered. He was wearing an excellent black suit, a white shirt, and a conservative striped silk tie.

  "Prime Minister," Lermov said. "It's an honor to be here."

  "I'm a great admirer of yours, Colonel. You have a remarkable mind. Now, sit and tell me what you think. I haven't got long, I'm meeting the French Ambassador."

  "This feud with Charles Ferguson's people in London, it's better than a movie, though the body count has been appalling on our side. Then this whole thing with Kurbsky. He arrives in London-and then, three days later, he vanishes. Two days later, Colonel Luzhkov and Major Bounine disappeared."

  "Five days for the whole thing. Quite a puzzle." Putin stood up.

  "And what would you like me to do about it, Prime Minister?"

  "Solve it for me. The Ministry of Arts has put out a story that Kurbsky is somewhere in the depths of the country working on a novel in private. Likewise, the word on Luzhkov and Bounine is that they have been withdrawn from London to work on secret assignments at GRU headquarters."

  "Which means London will need a new Head of Station."

  "That's you," Putin said. "I authorized your appointment this morning. Your colleagues will envy you. But you're not there to enjoy yourself, Lermov. You're there to find out what the hell has been going on, and that's not all. I also expect you to find a way of ridding ourselves of the curse of Ferguson and company-permanently."

  "I'll do my best," Lermov told him.

  "I expect you to do better than that. I expect you to give me exactly what I'm asking for. But there is no need for you to go to London straightaway. Take your time, use our resources, learn the enemy."

  "Of course," Lermov said.

  "I've arranged for Ivanov to assist you. He's clever, but also quite ruthless and ambitious, so watch him. If you find him satisfactory, you can take him to London with you." He took an envelope from his pocket. "I think you'll find this of great assistance. Use it well." He opened the door in the paneling and was gone.

  Lermov opened the envelope, took out the letter, and read it. From the Office of the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation at the Kremlin. The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist Colonel Josef Lermov in any way demanded. Signed, Vladimir Putin.

  The door opened, and Ivanov entered. "I hope things went well?"

  "I think you could say that." Lermov offered him the letter, which Ivanov read.

  "You are in favor, Colonel."

  "I've also just been appointed Head of Station for London." Lermov plucked the letter from Ivanov's hand, put it back in the envelope, and slipped it into a breast pocket.

  "The Prime Minister has given me quite straightforward orders," he continued. "I am to solve the mystery of Kurbsky, Luzhkov, and Bounine."

  "Is that all?" Ivanov's smile was slightly mocking.

  "No, he also expects me to come up with a way of ridding us of what he terms the curse of Ferguson."

  "Oh, dear." Ivanov sighed. "Based on past history, I'd say that will prove difficult."

  "Apparently. Meanwhile, I'm going to go over everything again, all the information we have. I'll need a hotel as close as possible to GRU headquarters."

  "There's an old hotel called the Astoria close by, which was taken over especially to accommodate GRU personnel. I'm already billeted there. The limousine we came in is allocated to you. I'm yours to command."

  "Yes, so the Prime Minister said. He also said if you prove satisfactory, I can take you to London. Would you like that?"

  "Like it?" Ivanov's eyes sparkled. "Colonel, five years ago, the GRU sent me there supposedly as a student on a six-months total immersion course in English for foreigners. It was a pure pleasure. I'd be happy to return."

  "Well, let's get started," Lermov said.

  The Astoria was acceptable, far better than most army accommodation. There were individual bedrooms with showers that worked, dull but functional. What had been the restaurant was more like a canteen now and run by the military, and the food was simple and sustaining, as you would expect it to be. In Lermov's
case, he had an excellent goulash with a glass of a rough red wine to wash it down. He sat there, thinking about things over a second glass, and Ivanov appeared.

  "Did you want lunch?" Lermov asked.

  "I grabbed a couple of sandwiches and went up to headquarters. I've booked us an office for privacy-the main records department is about the size of a cathedral and just as public. Every file there ever was, lines of computers, poor sods in uniform hunched over. It looks like some Stalinist movie."

  "God forbid," Lermov said, and stood up. "Let's get going and see what we can do."

  Ivanov had been right about the central research hall, but it was surprisingly quiet-disciplined, really-the occasional voice in the distance, a constant low hum from the machines. The office was fine, two desks, each with a computer.

  "Most of the data obviously is on computer these days," Ivanov said. "Even the old stuff has been transferred, but we can explore original documents if we want, it's still stored elsewhere. Now, where do we start?"

  "I'm interested by the speed at which events moved. Kurbsky arrives in London, he's received at Holland Park, and then he's out on the street, walking round and speaking to Bounine. Twenty-four hours after that, he's in Mayfair and shooting some Chechnyan named Basayev with whom he's apparently had history. He calls Bounine afterwards, tells him what he's done, and says he's returning to Holland Park. Bounine tells Luzhkov and Luzhkov tells Putin. And then Kurbsky vanishes, and, two days later, so do Luzhkov and Bounine." Lermov stood, concentrating. "You have a look at all the traffic to and from the London Embassy, starting with the Thursday Kurbsky was received and the few days after. Transcripts of every kind. If a conversation looks odd or interesting, listen to the recording."

  "And you?"

  "I'm going to find out more about Kurbsky."

  He switched on his computer and went quickly through Kurbsky's life. In January 1989, Kurbsky, aged nineteen, had been staying in London with his aunt Svetlana, a famous Russian actress and defector, when news came of student riots in Moscow, blood on the streets and many dead, amongst them his sister, Tania Kurbsky. Their father, a KGB colonel, had used his influence to have her buried in Minsky Park military cemetery to cover his shame. Apparently too late for her funeral, Alexander Kurbsky's response had been to join the paratroopers in the ranks and go to Afghanistan and then Chechnya, and then Iraq. He'd excelled. Then, Boris Luzhkov had recruited him for his mission to penetrate British intelligence. His bait? That Tania Kurbsky wasn't dead at all but sentenced to life in the worst gulag in Siberia, Station Gorky. If Kurbsky cooperated, his sister would go free.