by Jack Higgins
Moon was in such a panic, he told him. “Moon – George Moon.”
“Who sent you?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t seen him before in my life.”
He pulled away, turned to run, and Roper shot him in the right thigh. He hit the pavement, writhing. Roper said, “Remember this – somebody tried to mug you and it went wrong. That would be a good line if you want to stay out of court when the police come.”
“Yes,” Moon babbled. “Yes.”
Roper went down the square, taking out his mobile and dialing 999. “Ambulance needed in Regency Square. Two men down. Looks like a shooting.” The operator asked for his name, but he switched off and called Dillon.
“Sean, I’ve had a spot of bother.” He explained what had happened. “I’ll wait for you in the Italian restaurant at the end of the square.”
“I’ll call Billy and we’ll be with you soon, and I’ll notify Ferguson. I don’t like the sound of this. First Hannah, now you. I think you’d be better off in the Holland Park safe house.”
Ruby was upstairs at the Harvest Moon when the bell sounded at the alley door. She went down, opened it and Levin smiled at her.
“We need to talk.” He moved in and followed her upstairs.
She led the way into Moon’s office and turned. “What is this?”
“Moon and Harold made a big mistake. You’ll be hearing from them quite soon. They are, as we speak, seeking treatment in the accident and emergency department of some third-rate National Health hospital.”
“I’ve just heard. Had a phone call from the hospital. It said they’d been mugged by a black street gang. Is it bad?”
“Gunshot wounds to the legs and so richly deserved, just like the IRA. I’ve never seen such incompetents. The story about being mugged does two things. It keeps them out of court and it doesn’t involve the people I work for. If it did, George and Harold would be dead in the near future, one way or the other.”
“So what do you want here?”
“Two thousand, Ruby?”
“You’ve got cheek.”
“It’s the principle of the thing. I’ll do you a favor. Give me a thousand and you can tell Moon I came back and took it all. A thousand for you.”
She thought about it, then went and unlocked a cabinet at the end of a bookcase, took out a packet of banknotes and tossed it to him.
“He’s my husband, you know.”
“Then I’m sorry for you.”
“It’s not as bad as you think. He swings the other way.” She smiled. “I’d get out of here if I were you. I’ll be getting callers.”
He turned to the door, turned again and tossed the thousand pounds on the desk. “Oh, what the hell. Tell him I took the lot,” and he went downstairs and moved back along the alley to his limousine.
Dillon and Billy arrived with a People Carrier, loaded Roper inside and a number of personal effects he needed, and took him to the Holland Park safe house. This had happened before in times of stress. Because of this, Ferguson had had all the right computers and technical equipment installed to suit Roper’s special needs.
So, Roper was settled in and the Military Police sergeant on duty, Doyle, said, “General Ferguson will be along soon, Mr. Dillon. There’s a message from Special Branch. It seems George Moon and Harold Parker insist they were mugged by two men at pistol point and they can’t identify them because it was dark, it was raining and they were black.”
“Black, my arse,” Billy said. “I’ve known Moon for years. He’s a slimy toad. There’s more to this, Dillon.”
“So let’s go and find out what it is. We’ll be back later,” he said to Roper, and went out.
At St. Michael’s, Dillon and Billy found Moon and Harold under sedation and awaiting surgery. Billy flashed his new warrant card from Ferguson and forced his way in. It was amazing the power it made him feel. Moon and Harold were waiting in a side ward.
“It’s me, George, Billy Salter.”
“What in the hell do you want?”
“Mr. Dillon here and I are working for the Intelligence Service.”
“Fuck off, Billy. They wouldn’t employ a thief like you.”
“Now you’re upsetting me, George. No big black’s shooting you and Harold.”
“Well, the police are happy. That takes care of it.”
“Unfortunately, the guy who stiffed you, George, the guy you were trying to do away with, is a very good friend of ours, so we know what you were up to. Who put you up to it?”
“I’ll say one thing for old times’ sake, Billy. They could snuff you out like a match, swallow you whole. Now, Harold and me was mugged by two big black men. They had Cockney accents, so they must have been born here.” He raised his voice. “Nurse, I feel terrible.”
Billy said, “You deserve to, you toad. I’ll pay you back.” He nodded to Dillon. “Let’s go.”
Of course, it was another failure he had to report, whichever way you looked at it. In the GRU files, there was quite a list of IRA people like Moon available for employment. It occurred to Levin that reliability was not their strongest feature. The whole affair had been farcical, but it would still look like a failure to Ashimov, never mind Volkov.
The truth was, you could never rely on anybody but yourself, so he drove to Hangman’s Wharf and parked close to the Dark Man, but not for any particular reason. Just thinking about it. There was the Bentley parked there, Harry Salter’s pride and joy, according to his file, and as Levin watched, Joe Baxter came out of the pub, unlocked the door, rummaged around, then went back into the Dark Man. The thing was, he didn’t bother to relock the door.
It was a wild card, crazy, but he might get away with it. Levin opened the glove compartment, found the mini-tool kit, opened it and selected a pair of wire cutters. He moved fast, darting along the pavement, and opened the door of the Bentley, reached inside and released the catch to the bonnet. When it sprang open, he went round, raised it and went to work, slicing at cables, brake fluid already spurting out. The bonnet went down with a thump, and he turned and went back to his Mercedes. There was no point in waiting, it could take forever, but then, as he reached for the key, Harry Salter appeared with Joe Baxter and got into the Bentley. Baxter was driving and switched on. The engine roared. He moved away, tried to turn the Bentley. It glided back and bumped against another car. There was the sound of the engine revving again as it moved away, and he obviously tried to brake. The Bentley proceeded at speed toward the edge of the wharf, ready to go straight into the Thames. At the last moment, it skidded, bounced off a bollard and ended up with the front wheels over the edge of the wharf.
Baxter and Salter managed to extricate themselves. There was much shouting, people poured out of the pub, and Levin drove away laughing. Salter and Baxter should have been choking to death, drowning at the bottom of the Thames. It was unbelievable what had happened. Life was just a farce after all, a comedy, a dark one, but still a comedy.
At the Harvest Moon, Ruby answered the bell at the side door and found Billy Salter, Dillon behind him.
“What do you want, you sod?”
“And I always thought you liked me, Ruby. Just a word. Me and my friend Mr. Dillon would appreciate that. You see, we’ve been to Saint Michael’s, and George and Harold have told the police they were mugged, a racial attack in reverse. They’ve got nothing else to say.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, you see we know who shot them, a friend of ours who was actually attacked by George and Harold in his wheelchair. The thing is, he was armed, Ruby, he’s that kind of man.”
“So?” She still stood there, holding the door.
“George is a hit man, that’s what he’s done for a living for years.”
“So what we’d like to know is who paid him,” Dillon told her.
“I don’t have any idea who he was.” She flinched, aware that she’d been caught out.
“Come on, Ruby, I’ve got a warrant here. We could take you
in.”
“Okay, a guy came, spoke to George. No names, no pack drill, George said. He knew the man’s principals and they were frightening people. I mean, he’d obviously worked for them before.”
“But he didn’t know the man?” Dillon asked.
“No, there was one funny thing, though.”
“What was that?”
“When I was told to get him a drink, George said that considering the gentleman’s antecedents, he’d probably prefer a vodka.”
“So he was Russian?” Dillon said.
“No, a real gent. Drop-dead good-looking, public school voice. He was back here a little while ago. Told me what had happened, but I’d already had the police on.”
“Why did he come back?”
“His money. Two grand. Took the lot,” she lied.
They were still standing in the hallway. Billy glanced up and saw a security camera. “That appears to be on.”
“It is.”
He reached up, switched it off and removed the tape. “Upstairs, Ruby. We’ll have a quick look on your TV.”
Levin was there, of course, his one mistake, his face quite clear. “We’ll keep this,” Billy told Ruby. “You stay quiet and we’ll stay quiet, okay?”
“Men.” She shook her head. “Piss off, Billy.”
Driving away, Dillon said, “There’s something about our man. It’s as if I know him.”
“Not me,” Billy said. “But the Russian link is cool.”
Dillon’s mobile rang, he answered it, then switched off and turned. “That was Ferguson. He’s at the Holland Park safe house with Roper, and now your uncle.”
“Harry? What in Christ for?”
“Somebody cut the brakes on the Bentley. He and Joe Baxter ended up hanging over the edge of the wharf. It’s a miracle they survived.”
“This is beginning to stink, big-time,” Billy said.
“You don’t have to tell me. Just get us there.”
At the Holland Park safe house, they were all assembled. It was a bad business all round. They’d just run the tape through and found Levin entering the Harvest Moon. They established that he didn’t mean a thing to anyone.
“So where are we?” Dillon asked.
“This is a serious situation,” Ferguson said. “The death of Superintendent Bernstein, followed by what happened to Blake in Drumore and now the attacks on Major Roper and Harry Salter.” He shook his head. “Billy could have been with you, Harry, it could have been both of you.”
“Just wait till I get my hands on them,” Salter said. “Just wait.”
There was silence. Dillon lit a cigarette. “Well, I’d say it’s more than a coincidence that four members of the Prime Minister’s private army have been targeted, Charles. That only leaves you and me. Blake was extra.”
“Exactly, so the sooner we discover the identity of the gentleman on the security tape, the better.”
Dillon said, “Show me a picture of him on your computer.”
“Happy to oblige. There is one thing I wanted to run by you. The name Bell. I’ve come across one. A Liam Bell, once Chief of Staff to the PIRA, in the Maze Prison for some years. Retired some time ago. Lives in Dublin?”
“The schoolteacher?” Dillon said. “That’s what they used to call him. He was retired years ago. I thought he was dead.”
Dillon thought about it some more and said to Ferguson, “If Roper can give Billy the details on Bell, you could send him over in the plane from Farley Field tomorrow. See if he’s around. Is that okay with you, Billy?”
“Sure, but what about you?”
“Things I’d like to check out here. Is that all right, Charles?”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
Miles away in Siberia, in his suite in a hotel on the Station Gorky development, surrounded by snow, Max Zubin spoke to his mother, Bella, in Moscow. She was as vivacious as usual, slightly loud.
“What are they doing to you?”
“Not much. Shaved my beard.”
“I bet you look ten years younger.
“What about you?”
“They treat me well. I have a big black car with a driver. He hangs around downstairs. I can go anywhere. The supermarket, the theater, the Bolshoi.”
“Well, you couldn’t exactly run away. They’ve got me.”
“And they’ve got me, too, so you can’t run away. What’s going to happen, Max?”
“I don’t know. Volkov spoke to me yesterday. He said I might have to turn up in Moscow again and play my part.”
“Well, whatever else you are, you’re a fine actor, my son.”
“From you, that’s the ultimate compliment. I love you, Mama.”
“And I love you, my son. God bless.”
Ferguson spoke to Blake and brought him up to speed. “There’s something going on here and we don’t know what it is.”
Blake said, “The name Bell, I’ve got that right, no question.”
“Well, we’re all on the case now.”
“I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll speak to the President.”
When Blake went into the Oval Office a few minutes later, Cazalet was by the fire, smoking a cigarette, Murchison, his flat-coated retriever, at his feet. The dog was the most intelligent Blake had ever known. He’d often suspected it of talking to the President. On a famous occasion, it had hurled itself at a waiting assassin and saved Cazalet’s life. Clancy, as usual, hovered.
“Well, I’ve said it before, Blake, but you’re a remarkable man. Three members of the Provisional IRA, one dead and two down? Amazing!”
“They were going to give me the deep six off a fishing boat, Mr. President. I decided otherwise.”
Cazalet said, “Clancy, scotch and soda. Can you believe this?”
“Absolutely, Mr. President. If you can get a Navy Cross in Vietnam at twenty-one, that means you can handle yourself.”
“Hell, you did the same thing in ’ninety-one in Iraq,” Blake said. “Mind you, Iraq was pussy.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I might just spill your drink.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t do that to a superior officer, Sergeant Major.”
“Stop the war games, we’ve all been there.” Cazalet toasted Blake. “Ferguson is right. Superintendent Bernstein murdered, you attacked, Major Roper. There seems to be a vendetta against Ferguson’s group. Do you think I should speak to the Prime Minister?”
“There’s not much he can do, Mr. President. I suspect that, as usual, it’s all down to Dillon.”
“Well, good luck to him,” and Cazalet toasted Blake again.
Levin phoned Ashimov at Drumore Place and got Greta first. “How are you doing?” she asked.
“Bloody awful.” He told her what had happened.
“Not so good.”
“Where’s Ashimov?”
“Playing snooker with Bell. He left me the phone. Said he didn’t want to be bothered.”
“Oh, dear, let’s hope Blake Johnson doesn’t appear on the scene again.”
“I wouldn’t mention that if I were you. I’ll transfer you.”
Ashimov said, “So, what’s happening?”
Levin went into detail, finding he was rather enjoying it.
Ashimov said, “This isn’t good, Captain. You disappoint me.”
“Well, the bloody IRA must have disappointed you with their botched job on Bernstein and their total incompetence in the Blake Johnson affair. The idiots I used for Roper were on your list. The Salters’ Bentley was just bad luck.”
“You’re making excuses,” Ashimov roared.
“Take it up with Volkov. I have. When I’ve something to say, I’ll phone. Good-bye.” He put the phone down.
Dillon stayed on with Billy, had a cup of tea in the kitchen while Roper worked away at his computer. They went to check on him when he called out, “Have I got news for you!”
They found him at his computer bank, and on the screen was Igor Levin.
“So, who is he?” Dillon asked.
“A Russian?”
“Oh, a strange hybrid.”
Roper went on to describe Levin in detail.
When he was finished, Dillon said, “So, he’s appointed as a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy. We all know what that means.”
“What?” Billy asked.
“In the old days, KGB,” Roper said. “But our boy is GRU, Russian Military Intelligence. Flew in two days ago. Staying at the Dorchester.”
“He’s what?” Dillon said, and gasped. “Christ, I’ve seen him there in the Piano Bar. He was at the mortuary. He was even at the Dark Man.”
“But the Dorchester?” Billy said. “The Russians must be paying their agents well.”
“No, Billy,” Roper said. “He’s a rich man in his own right.” His fingers danced on the keys. “His father was a military attaché at the London Embassy, his mother English, his grandmother Irish. Is there no end to him?”
“Apparently not,” Dillon said.
“Big war hero, languages. Christ, he went to Westminster School for a few years.”
“A man of parts.” Dillon nodded. “Billy, would you take me round to my place at Stable Mews? I do believe I have a staff passkey for the Dorchester. We’ll pay his suite a visit.”
“Not without me, you won’t,” Roper said. “A hotel as outstanding as the Dorchester doesn’t give out room numbers to anyone. I, on the other hand, can penetrate most systems.” His fingers danced again. “Six-ten,” he said.
“We’ll see you later,” Dillon said, and he and Billy left.
At the hotel, they checked the Piano Bar and had a stroke of real luck. Levin was at a corner table having some sort of pasta and a glass of champagne, listening to a trio playing jazz at the end of the room.
“Move it,” Dillon said, and they hit the lift fast and went upstairs.
The corridor was long, the carpet luxurious. Dillon had the key ready in his hand, pushed it in the electronic lock when they reached 610. The green light came on, the door opened automatically.
“Fast,” Dillon said. “Bedroom, check if the safe in the wardrobe’s in use. I’ll do the sitting room.”
