by Jack Higgins
His luck ran out in 2004. Always take care in the Balkans, Malik used to say, they kill each other at the drop of a hat. That was certainly true enough for Kosovo. Its Muslim citizens hated Serbs beyond anything else in the world and wanted independence.
Daniel had brokered three previous deals in Kosovo, for the Muslims had plenty of money to spend on arms, supplied by sympathizers in the oil-rich Gulf States. A Bulgarian agent named Kovac made the arrangements, and they were simple enough. All Daniel needed in the wild backcountry was a smuggler who knew the forest area and a suitable old Land Rover.
The driver's name was Mahmud, and he didn't speak, instead concentrating on his driving on the narrow mud tracks of the forest, a rifle at his feet. He was about fifty, unshaven, and with a walleye. Daniel had met him on one previous occasion and remembered that he'd been surprised at how good his English was, and Mahmud had explained that at nineteen he had gone to England, to Manchester, where his uncle lived.
"How far to this Lamu place?"
"Not long now," Mahmud said.
"I saw you a year ago. How are things now? Do the Serbs still raid the villages?"
"Sure they do. They rape our women, kill the children."
"Burn the mosques?
"All those things, and sometimes the Russians come."
Daniel frowned. "I hadn't heard that. The Russians aren't supposed to be here. The United Nations wouldn't sanction it."
Mahmud shrugged. "They stay round here in the border country, special soldiers they call Spetsnaz."
Daniel sat there thinking about it and wondering what the Russian game was. That they were strong supporters of the Serbs was a given, so their presence in this Muslim part of Kosovo gave him pause for thought.
"Lamu, now, just up ahead." Mahmud pointed to a crossing of tracks where the trees thinned out, and there was a sudden engine roar as a large armored vehicle plowed through small trees from the right and braked to a halt. It was a Russian storm cruiser. Daniel recognized it at once.
"We've got trouble," he said as two armed men in uniform leapt out.
Mahmud picked up his rifle and scrambled out, firing a wild shot, then turning to run and was immediately shot down.
The soldiers walked forward slowly, weapons ready. Beyond them, several more had emerged from the storm cruiser and stood watching. Daniel opened the door and got out.
He'd picked up enough Russian over the years to understand it when one of the soldiers said, "Who are you?"
So he responded as a reflex, pulling the Browning from his pocket and shooting both of them in the heart, double-tapping, first one and then the other.
As he turned to run into the forest, there were cries of dismay from the other soldiers and a fusillade of shots as they ran forward. He was hit in the right thigh, he was aware of that, and then the left shoulder. He went down, and they were on him in seconds, boots swinging.
And then somebody shouted-a voice of real authority, he knew that-and then there was only the blackness.
He came to on a bed in a room with a beaded ceiling, feeling no pain, only a general numbness. He was heavily bandaged, and a man was sitting at his bedside in a high-back chair, smoking a cigarette. He wore combat fatigues with the tabs of a full colonel, and, when he spoke, his English was excellent.
"So you return from the dead, I think, Mr. Holley?" He smiled and held up Daniel's passport. "What an interesting man you are, but then I've heard of you before. In fact, many times over the years."
"Who are you, Spetsnaz?" Daniel croaked.
"The unit I'm with is, but I'm Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU. Both of the men you shot have died."
"They usually do."
"My men wanted to kill you, but we can't have that. I'm sure you have a fascinating story to tell. The unit paramedic has patched you up, and we'll be returning to our base in Bulgaria, where you can have proper treatment. People like Kovac are seldom trustworthy, I find."
"My own fault," Daniel said. "I've taken the pitcher to the well too often. What happens now? A short trial in Moscow?"
"Oh, we don't do that these days. Very counterproductive. Moscow, certainly, but I fear it likely to be the Lubyanka. Not the death sentence. It is unfortunate that you killed those two men, but your death would be such a waste. I'm sure you tell a good story, and I look forward to hearing it. Sleep now."
He went out, clicking off the light. Daniel lay there, trying to make sense of it all, but his brain was befuddled by morphine. It was over, that was all he could think of, after all these years it was over, and he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.
MOSCOW
9
A hell of a story," Ivanov said when Lermov was finished.
"He's been in the Lubyanka five years now. I did his first interrogation when we got back from the Kosovo mission, which was a highly illegal affair anyway, so he couldn't be put on trial in any public sense."
"Which explains him serving life imprisonment at the Lubyanka?" Ivanov said.
"Exactly. For the good of the State, rubber-stamped in some office."
"So he just sits there in his cell going slowly mad?"
Lermov shook his head. "I've kept watch over him. When we first got down to business, I pointed out that the usual prospect for a man like him would be a transfer to Station Gorky, where all he could expect was treatment of a kind that would shorten his life considerably. On the other hand, if he cooperated with me, he could enjoy privileged-prisoner status at the Lubyanka, his own cell and a job in the library."
"And he proved sensible?" Ivanov said. "But, then, who wouldn't?"
"No, it was more complicated than that. You could say he was just being sensible, a pragmatist, but I soon discovered it was subtler. I never had the slightest difficulty in getting answers to my questions from him."
"That's extraordinary," Ivanov said. "But why?"
"I'll tell you later. I have to speak with the governor of the Lubyanka. I'm going to get him transferred here to my authority."
"And what do you want me to do?" Ivanov asked.
"Make sure Max Chekhov gets here soon."
In London, Max Chekhov was in his apartment in Park Lane, standing in front of a mirror in his dressing room and adjusting his bow tie, when his mobile sounded.
"Who is it?" he asked in English.
The answer came in Russian and used his old army rank. "Major Chekhov?"
"Yes."
"Captain Peter Ivanov calling from GRU headquarters in Moscow on behalf of Colonel Josef Lermov."
Chekhov was immediately wary, for, as an old military hand with connections at the highest level of government, he knew the name Lermov was one to take seriously.
"What is this about?" he demanded. "I'm due at the Royal Opera House in a couple of hours to see Carmen."
"Well, I'm afraid she'll have to wait," Ivanov told him. "Your presence is requested in Moscow. By the Prime Minister, no less."
Chekhov was shocked and also immediately worried. "Why? What's this about?"
"You'll find out soon enough. There's a plane waiting for you at Berkley Down. I suggest you don't keep the Prime Minister waiting."
He clicked off, and Chekhov called Major Ivan Chelek at the Embassy and, when he answered, told him what had happened.
"Have you any idea what's going on, Ivan?"
"I can't say, Max. I do know that Putin's appointed Josef Lermov as Head of Station here. He's also given him the task of solving the Kurbsky riddle. I've been helping the investigation at this end as much as I could."
"And what have you found?"
"That's not for me to say, Max. If I were you, I wouldn't linger."
He switched off, and Chekhov unfastened his bow tie and started to unbutton his dress shirt, angry, but frightened as well. What the hell did Putin want him for?
The reason for his unease was a dark secret. Sometime before, Charles Ferguson had ordered his kidnapping by the Salters, and Chekhov had ended up at the Holland Park safe hou
se. Chekhov was not a brave man, and he had spilled the beans about various matters to earn his release.
If it ever got out at the Kremlin, he was not only finished, he was a dead man. On the other hand, Ferguson had never approached him again. Maybe nobody knew? With a sinking sense of dread, Chekhov began to dress appropriately for winter in Moscow.
Ivanov found Lermov in the bar, vodkas waiting in a bucket of crushed ice. The Colonel toasted him. "How did it go with Chekhov?"
Ivanov took his vodka down in a single gulp, and told him. "I got the impression the summons worried him," he said.
"The mention of Putin's name worries a lot of people." Lermov swallowed another vodka.
"What about you?"
"Daniel Holley, you mean? I spoke to the governor at the Lubyanka, and faxed him a copy of the Putin letter. Holley is on his way here."
"You were going to tell me more about his interrogation."
"Yes, I was. When I told you that I had no difficulty getting answers to my questions, you sounded a little disappointed. It was as if you expected more from him."
"You could be right, I suppose," Ivanov admitted.
"It took me a long time and many interviews to really get to the truth about him. He told me his secrets, but it wasn't because he was afraid of the threat of Station Gorky."
"What is he afraid of, then?" Ivanov asked.
"Nothing." Lermov shrugged. "He is a nihilist."
"And what would that be?"
"A common philosophy in tsarist times. A nihilist is someone who believes that nothing has any value-in his case, that nothing has any value anymore."
"I'm not sure I follow," Ivanov said.
"The rape and murder of Rosaleen Coogan, and his execution of the four men responsible-I think it completely changed him. I don't think he's been able to take anything seriously since then. To him, it's all a violent game, in a way."
"And you think that's the way he sees it?"
"Yes, I do." Lermov took off his glasses and pinched his nose. "And if he doesn't care about anything, that includes himself."
"Come in, Dr. Freud."
Lermov's mobile sounded, and he answered it, listened, and nodded. "We'll see you in two minutes." He gave Ivanov a brief smile. "Holley is at the main entrance. I'll leave you to do the honors. Just bring him up to the office, and we won't need a guard."
As Ivanov approached, he saw a man in a black tracksuit standing between two prison guards and chatting with them. To Ivanov's surprise, he didn't have the shaved head of a prisoner, which was privilege indeed. His dark brown hair was reasonably long, with no sign of gray in spite of his age. He looked fit and well in the tracksuit. His good, strong face wore a slight smile, the smile of a man who couldn't take anything too seriously.
"Mr. Holley, I'm Peter Ivanov." The two guards put their heels together, and Ivanov signed for him.
"God bless, lads," Holley told them in very acceptable Russian. "Don't do anything I would." They went away smiling, and he turned to Ivanov. "What happens now?"
"I take you to Colonel Lermov. I've been working with him on this case by order of the Prime Minister."
"I am impressed." Ivanov led the way, and Holley said, "You'll know all about me, then?"
"You could say that."
"So you'll know what dear old Josef wants with me?"
"Of course I do, but I think he'll prefer to tell you himself. This way." He gestured up the stairs to the walkway and followed Holley up.
Lermov was standing beside the old tea lady, and she was filling a glass for him.
"Just in time, Josef," Holley said. "I'll join you."
"Another for my friend, babushka," Lermov told her. "You look good, Daniel. They've been treating you well, I think."
"Six months since you last saw me," Holley said. "I've been promoted. Looking after the accounts in the general supply office. A corrupt lot, the staff in there. Thieves and chancers. Most of them merited a cell themselves."
"Yes, the governor told me how pleased he was. Didn't want to part with you."
Holley sipped the tea the old lady had given him. "And is he going to part with me? How can he? Who says so?"
Lermov took the letter from his pocket and unfolded it. "Captain Ivanov and I have several copies between us. It's proved to be an open sesame everywhere we've shown it."
Holley held it in one hand and studied it, still sipping his tea. "Well, it would, wouldn't it? Vladimir bloody Putin himself." He handed the letter back. "Your chum here dismissed the guards. What was that all about?"
"We don't need them," Ivanov told him. "What are you going to do, Daniel, suddenly make a run for it? Where would you go?"
"Daniel, now, is it?" Holley said. "We are getting friendly." He switched to English, and the Yorkshire accent was obvious. "I'll say it again, Josef, what goes on?"
Lermov answered him in English. "It's a miracle you're here at all, Daniel. Five years ago, when you killed two of my men in Kosovo, the rest wanted to execute you. I kept you alive, with two bullets in you, for moral reasons, then discovered we'd captured someone very special indeed."
"Someone worth saving," Holley said.
"Absolutely-an open window on terrorism and the death business. Over twenty years of hard experience. You were beyond price, and the knowledge I've gained from our many talks has been i nvaluable."
"Happy to have been of service, but I didn't have much of a choice about that, did I?"
"Station Gorky?" Lermov shook his head. "At least be honest with yourself. You had a choice of a better option and took it. Whatever else you are, you're no martyr, Daniel, and shall I tell you why? You have to believe to be a martyr. You, my friend, don't believe in anything."
Daniel Holley changed, something dark passing on his face like a shadow over the sun, an elemental force there that had Ivanov reaching for the flap of his holstered pistol, and then Holley actually laughed.
"You want to know something, Josef? I think you might well be right. What happens now?"
Lermov nodded to Ivanov, who said to Holley in English, "You and I will go into the office opposite, where I'll show you a DVD and offer you certain files on the computer-"
"Some of which is information gained from you from our conversations over the years," Lermov cut in.
"-Then we'll have a look at a situation that is giving us trouble, and we'll see what suggestions you might make to rectify the matter," Ivanov finished.
"That's what you were always good at, Daniel, isn't that so? Analyzing the situation, assessing the risk? You're a master at that sort of thing," Lermov said.
"If that's supposed to make me feel good, you're wasting your time. What is the point of this exercise, Josef?"
"Your sentence, Daniel. You've done five years so far, you're forty-nine and look forty on a bad day. But as the years roll on, that won't last. Maybe we can do something about that."
"Your logic is irrefutable." Holley turned to Ivanov. "So let's go into the damn office and see what you've got."
"I'll leave you to it," Lermov told him, and went along to the walkway to where the old tea lady had pushed her trolley, when Holley's mood turned black.
"Tea, Colonel?"
"No, babushka, I need vodka… a lot of vodka."
"The one with the accent? He's a little mad, I think."
"Aren't we all, babushka?" Lermov told her, and went down the stairs.
But instead of the bar, he went to his room, sat at a desk by the window, got out the manuscript of the book he was working on, and read through the current chapter, which had been cut off in midsentence by a tap on the shoulder by Ivanov in the university library. It was good stuff, but it was unfinished, there was no ending, but, then, there seldom was in his business, the life he'd chosen instead of a calm and scholarly career in the academic world. It suddenly struck him that he'd never really had a choice. He glanced at the final page of the chapter, then closed the manuscript with a kind of finality and put it in his briefcase.
"So what next?" he asked himself softly, and the knock on the door answered him.
Holley wore a cord around his neck, a red-and-gold security tag dangling from it of the kind worn only by senior staff members.
Lermov pointed to it. "What's this?" he asked Ivanov.
"I thought people might wonder who he was when he's walking round."
"You know, like going to the lavatory or down to the bar, Josef," Holley told him.
He pulled a chair forward, sat opposite Lermov, and Ivanov leaned against the door. Lermov said, "So you've gone through everything, Daniel?"
"Absolutely. You don't seem to have missed much, you and the boy wonder here."
"So what do you think?"
"About the fact that the boss man wants Charles Ferguson and his people eliminated and doesn't care how you do it?"
"Yes," Lermov replied calmly.
"Well, I like his advice about that Moscow Mafia hit man. It's almost flattering. I've been called many things, but Mafia has never been one of them."
"Get on with it."
"All right. If we take Ferguson's immediate clan, that means Roper, Dillon, Miller and his sister, the two Salters, and Blake Johnson. Eight in all," Holley said.
"Don't forget Kurbsky and Bounine," Ivanov put in.
"Silly me," Holley said. "I was forgetting the greatest novelist Russia's produced in modern times, a possible Nobel Prize winner. So ten in all."
"So it would appear. Peter joked that all we needed was a dinner party and a bomb under the table."
Holley glanced at Ivanov. "It's the real world we're talking about here." He turned back to Lermov. "So the man in the Kremlin wants no hint of any Russian influence in this whole affair?"
"If possible."
"So if there was a hint of PIRA about what takes place, that would be just the thing?" Daniel asked.
"Exactly." Lermov leaned forward. "I was thinking of Caitlin Daly."