by Jack Higgins
Holley allowed his anger to show. "Damn you, Josef, I should never have told you about her."
"You told me many things, Daniel, it was part of our agreement."
"This is ridiculous. I visited her only once, Lermov, in November 1995. That's fourteen years ago. She could be dead, for all I know."
"She is alive and well, living and working exactly where she was then." Lermov smiled. "I had Major Ivan Chelek at the London Embassy make inquiries."
Holley said, "He went to the church, I suppose?"
"Something like that. He said she was a very attractive lady."
"She would be about fifty now," Holley said.
"Chelek said you could take ten years off that."
Holley suddenly got up. "I don't know about you two, but I need a drink. I can't get my head round this."
He turned to the door, Ivanov barred his way for a moment but Lermov nodded, so Holley pulled it open and went out.
Ivanov said, "He doesn't seem keen."
"He'll come round. We've talked so many times over the years, I feel I know him." He shrugged. "At least, as much as one can ever hope to understand another human being."
"Forgive me, Colonel, but I'm a cynic," Ivanov told him. "I often experience considerable difficulty in knowing myself."
"I admire your honesty. Tell me something: how often have you killed?"
"I was too young for Afghanistan and the First Chechen War, but I was bloodied in the Second. I was twenty when I went to that. Field intelligence, not infantry, but it was a desperate, bloody business. The Chechens were barbarians of the first order, imported Muslims from all over the place to serve with them. You couldn't drive anywhere without being ambushed."
"Yes, I saw some of that myself," Lermov said, "and know exactly what you mean. Daniel Holley's experience has been different. His killing has been close and personal. Back in Kosovo when my Spetsnaz boys got him, he double-tapped the two men he killed on the instant, no hesitation."
"I wonder how many times he did that on his travels?" Ivanov said. "It stands to reason that as an arms salesman, he kept rough company."
"Exactly." Lermov stood up. "Let's see how he's getting on."
They found Holley sitting in the bar, a glass of beer in front of him and a large whiskey. Lermov said, "I thought you had no money."
"I told the barman I was waiting for you. Have a seat."
Lermov waved to the barman and sat down.
Holley raised the beer and drank, not stopping until the glass was empty. He finished with a sigh, and said in English, "As they'd say in Leeds, that were grand." He reached for the glass of whiskey and tossed it down. "And that were even better."
"Would you like another one?" Lermov asked.
"Not really. It'd be nice to have a rugby match to go with it. But this is Moscow, not Leeds, and Russia, not Yorkshire, so let's get down to brass tacks."
"And what would that be?"
"Why do you think a woman I spoke to fourteen years ago will still be waiting and still interested in a cause long gone?"
"But that's what sleepers do, Daniel, they're always the chosen ones, the believers, and they wait, no matter how long it takes, even if they're never needed at all."
"A gloomy prospect," Holley said.
"And let me remind you what Caitlin Daly did back in 1991-the bombs she and her cell set off in London. The general panic, confusion, and fear she caused lasted for months. A considerable victory."
Holley said, "I know all that. Anyway, there's not just her to consider. What about the men in her cell? Alive or dead, who knows? I can't even remember their names."
"I can help you there. I have a fax all the way from your old partner in Algiers, Hamid Malik. I got in touch with him when you fell into my hands five years ago. He's proved a valuable asset to us," Lermov told him.
"You clever sod," Holley said. He waved to the barman.
"Yes, I am, aren't I? Anyway, he had the original correspondence from your cousin Liam, and I have all the names."
"It means nothing. Even if these men are still round, there's no way of knowing if they feel the same way about dear old Ireland."
"True, but I've given the list to Chelek, and he'll trace them."
"You said you didn't want any obvious Russian involvement in this business."
"Absolutely right, but it'll save you time, and, once you get there, it'll all be in your hands. It'll also be of assistance to Caitlin Daly if she has lost touch, but you won't know that until you've seen her."
"Don't you mean if I see her?" Holley asked, and drank his new beer down.
"No, I mean when you see her, so make your decision now."
"To arrange the deaths of ten people, one of them a woman, isn't what I planned to do when I got up this morning."
"You mean, when you got up in your cell at the Lubyanka, where Captain Ivanov will certainly return you if I order him to. And then I'll give him another order."
"To do what?"
"To get your head shaved, your belongings packed and ready for the early-morning flight to Station Gorky."
There was a pregnant moment, and Ivanov looked wary. Holley said, "So in the end, Josef, you're just as bad a bastard as the rest of us."
"I've no intention of having my head served up on a plate at the Kremlin."
"I can see that, you're not the John the Baptist type. So you want me to play public executioner again?"
"I suppose I do."
"And can the hawk fly away to freedom afterwards?"
"I should imagine that is exactly what he would do if this matter was resolved to our mutual satisfaction."
"Excellent." Holley tossed his whiskey down. "If you'd said yes, I wouldn't have believed you anyway." He got up. "Right, I don't know what you are doing about my accommodation, but I presume I can use the office, so I'm going to go up now and knock out some sort of plan of action."
"A room will be arranged for you," Lermov told him. "But the office is yours. You may use my authority to extract any information you like from the GRU computers."
"And this Max Chekhov who's on his way from London? I know we're supposed to keep the Russian influence out of things, but he's floating along on a sea of money, booze, and women. I bet he could be useful."
He went out, and Lermov said, "So, Peter, are you disappointed again?"
"No," Ivanov said. "I think he's a thoroughly dangerous man."
"I know, and he looks so agreeable. Let's have another vodka on it." There was snow mixed with sleet in the evening darkness as the Falcon carrying Max Chekhov landed at the Belov International private-aircraft facility close to the main Moscow airport. When the plane pulled in to the entrance of the terminal building and Chekhov came down the steps, Lermov was waiting for him in full uniform, fur hat, and fur collar. He saluted, giving Chekhov his title, one soldier to another.
"Major Chekhov… Josef Lermov."
"Kind of you to meet me, Colonel."
"A pleasure but also a duty. The Prime Minister is waiting for you now."
For a moment, Chekhov was terrified again and fought to control his shaking. He stumbled slightly, mounting the icy steps leading into the terminal, his walking stick sliding.
Lermov caught him and laughed. "Take care. I wouldn't want you to fall and break a leg. The Prime Minister doesn't permit excuses."
"That is my experience of him, too."
They reached the limousine, a porter following with Chekhov's bags, and found Ivanov waiting. Lermov made the introductions, then he and Chekhov sat in the rear and Ivanov got behind the wheel and drove away.
The snow was falling lightly now, and it was really rather peaceful. Chekhov said, "It's a great pleasure to meet you. You name is certainly familiar to me. Could I ask what this all is about?"
"General Charles Ferguson."
Chekhov's sudden anger blotted out any fears he was going through at that moment. "That bastard! I'm half crippled, as you may have noticed, and it's all his fault
. A shotgun blast in one knee-cap delivered by gangsters in his employ."
"Yes, I'd heard something of the sort. Well, the Prime Minister's had enough. He's entrusted me with the task of doing something about it. He wants them finished off."
With his rather unique experience of the ways of General Charles Ferguson and company, Chekhov had reservations about Lermov's prospects but felt it politic to offer only enthusiasm. And he was relieved to hear that they didn't seem to know anything about his other past history with them. This could work out nicely.
"I will tell you, Colonel, and with all my heart, I would like nothing better than to see those swine wiped off the face of the earth."
"Then we must do our best to oblige you."
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the same office where Lermov had met Putin before, the one that belonged to General Volkov, once head of the GRU. As they waited, Chekhov said, "A great man, Volkov, did you know him?"
"Not intimately."
"Disappeared off the face of the earth. I wonder what became of him?"
"Oh, I think it highly likely that he and his men were murdered by this man Dillon on Ferguson's orders," Lermov told him.
"Good God." Chekhov crossed himself.
"Yes, they fully deserve killing. And the Prime Minister has told me I may rely on you for any help I need."
Before Chekhov could reply, the wall panel opened, and Putin appeared in a tracksuit. "There you are, Chekhov. Good flight? Is your leg improved?"
"Excellent, Prime Minister, really excellent," Chekhov gabbled.
"Has Colonel Lermov explained the task I have given him?"
"Yes, sir, he has," Chekhov managed to say. "I completely agree with everything you have ordered. He may rely on me totally in London."
"Good." Putin turned to Lermov. "How's it going?"
"Very well, Prime Minister. I was inspired by your advice to think Moscow Mafia and how they would handle it."
"And you've come up with an answer."
"A man, Prime Minister, and just the one for the job."
"Don't tell me," Putin said. "Just get on with it, and let the result speak for itself. Good luck."
He moved, the door opened in the paneling, and he was gone. Chekhov heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God. Let's get out of here. Where do we go now?"
"The Astoria, the staff hotel for GRU headquarters. It's not exactly the Dorchester, but you'll be amongst friends."
Chekhov accepted the Astoria with good grace, for an old soldier amongst soldiers again usually fits in. Ivanov helped him settle in, and suggested meeting downstairs in half an hour for a meal.
Chekhov said, "Look, Captain, I was wounded in Afghanistan, so I'm not just a rich fool like some of my fellow oligarchs. Your colonel has told me about your plan, and the Prime Minister's just confirmed it to me."
"Do you have a problem with it?"
"Of course not, those bastards crippled me. But just sit down for ten minutes and tell me exactly what's happening. Would that be asking too much?"
"Not at all," Ivanov said, and told him everything.
Afterwards, he left Chekhov to unpack and went in search of Holley, whom he found in the office, working away on the computer, papers spread around, sometimes making notes by hand.
He sat down for a while, watching him. "I see you still like doing things the old-fashioned way."
"It may seem strange," Holley said, "but I find that no matter how much information I accumulate electronically, I can extract the essence of things with a few brief notes by hand."
"And what are you searching for?" They turned and found Lermov standing in the doorway, Chekhov peering over his shoulder. "Max Chekhov… Daniel Holley."
Holley nodded, and said, "Anything and everything about all the individuals involved in this affair, their comings and goings, their timetables. Take Lady Monica Starling, for instance. I've now got her family home in Essex, her brother's house in Dover Street, her rooms in Cambridge. I've got a full schedule of her lectures and seminars online. And I've got pretty much the same for most of the people on our list, as much as is possible."
"So when do you think you'll be ready?" Lermov asked. "To give Daly a call and tell her the day of reckoning is here?"
"Oh, very soon, I should think. First, I need something from you: encrypted mobiles, one for each of us, and a spare for Caitlin Daly."
Lermov said, "See to that, Peter. Anything else?"
"You'll have my passport on file somewhere. I'd only just renewed it in 'ninety-four when you grabbed me in Kosovo."
"You want to have it back?" Lermov asked.
"It would be nice. And, don't forget, I was always a highly successful businessman in the world's eyes, although a trifle disreputable because of the arms dealing. The darker side of my record has never been in the public domain. I even have a bank deposit in London. If you can find the passport, your people could put a stamp or two in it to fill in the five-year gap." Holley nodded, looking thoughtful. "And while you're at it, prepare another British passport to go with it. Daniel Grimshaw, a good Yorkshire name. I can thicken my accent to go with that."
"Is that all?" Lermov said. "If it is, I suggest we go down for dinner."
Holley shook his head. "I'll join you a bit later. I still need to check a few things about the opposition. I need to know exactly what their schedules are." He smiled. "You said that if you want to assassinate ten people, invite them round to dinner and explode a bomb under the table. Obviously, we can't do that. But assassination victim by victim has its problems also. It's like a warning light to anyone else connected."
"I can see that, but what's the answer?"
"To hit everybody at once, no matter where they are."
"That would take some planning," Ivanov told him.
"You could say that. So leave me to it. And I'd appreciate the encrypted mobiles at your soonest."
They left, and Holley cut to the news on television. They were talking politics as usual, and there was some fuss about Europe's cry that the Russian Federation was depriving them of gas and oil, turning off the pipelines. They cut to Putin vigorously defending himself, blaming America for interfering in European affairs, castigating Britain for supporting them. It seems there was some meeting of the UN in just a week, and Putin was going there to defend his point of view.
Holley switched off, smiling slightly. "Clever bastard," he said softly. "Daring the President and the Prime Minister to show up and face him. Which, of course, they won't." And then a switch clicked in his head. What was it he had seen? He quickly paged through his notes and-yes, there it was. Harry Miller's Parliamentary diary: 6th February, visit to the United Nations, New York, on behalf of the Prime Minister. It was the date of Putin's intended appearance.
He pushed a bit further and found a booking for Miller at the Plaza Hotel in New York, a place he knew well, looking across Central Park. And there was something else he'd noticed before. What was it, what was it?
And then he had it. His fingers danced over the computer keys again, accessing the White House administrative logs. Yes, Blake Johnson would be spending a three-day weekend on Long Island and in New York City: On Presidential business at the United Nations. And the first day of Blake's holiday was February 6th, a Friday.
Miller amp; Johnson. Holley smiled.
10
After a while, Ivanov entered the office, a bag in one hand. He opened it and produced two mobile phones with their chargers.
Holley examined one. "It looks good, small, light."
"It's called a Codex, produced by British intelligence. To be honest, we've simply stolen it and manufactured it for ourselves. It's totally encrypted. The number for each one is on the sticker on the back. You just peel it off."
"Excellent."
"And I've gone round to records and found your passport. I'm having the forgery section bring the passport up-to-date with a few entry stamps, as you wanted, and they're creating a new one for Daniel Grimshaw." He h
eld up a small camera. "So don't smile, please, just look solemn."
He took what he wanted, and Lermov came along the walkway and opened the door. "What's all this?"
"Forgery, need a passport photo," Ivanov told him.
"I see. Chekhov's gone to bed. I think we all should."
"One more thing," Holley said. "I need some clothes."
"I suppose we could find something suitable enough for flying in the Falcon-" Ivanov began, and Holley cut him off.
"Don't be stupid. I am not flying in the Falcon. British intelligence monitors your planes in and out of the country. I can't afford to be seen anywhere near you, and, to be frank about it, neither can Chekhov. He shouldn't be observed getting off a Russian flight in the company of important GRU people. It's too political a statement."
Lermov nodded. "You're right, of course. I see you have the mobiles you wanted. We have them now, too, so we can keep in touch at all times. Ivanov will take you shopping for clothes tomorrow."
"But what guarantee do we have that, once out of our sight, he won't do a runner, Colonel?" Ivanov demanded.
"Don't be silly, where would he go?"
Ivanov went out, and Lermov turned and smiled. "So it's coming together for you, you think?"
"I think so. I know how the game should proceed, the moves the players would be required to make, but until I have spoken to Caitlin Daly and checked whether her cell has survived I can give you no assurance of anything."
"I understand. When do you want to leave?"
"The sooner, the better. The day after tomorrow, if possible, certainly no longer than the day after that."
"I'll leave you now, to make your call."
He opened the door and paused as Holley said, "And which call would that be?"
"Daniel, as the Americans say, 'You can't kid a kidder.' You haven't asked for mad money to survive on, for accommodation while you're in London, or, most important of all, for weaponry. This can only mean you have a source in mind, someone with an encrypted mobile like you have now. Amazing things, mobiles. Within two minutes, you can be talking to someone anywhere in the world. Algiers, for instance."