The Wolf at the Door

by Jack Higgins

  “Will I do?” he asked as Miller walked in the door.

  “In that outfit, Putin is going to think the undertaker’s come for him.”

  “Away with you. You hardly ever see old Vladimir wearing anything but a black suit. It’s his personal statement.”

  “The hard man, you mean? Never mind that now. We need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  Miller put his right foot on the edge of the bathtub, eased up the leg of his slacks, and removed the ankle holder.

  “What the hell is that for?” Dillon said. “I’d like to remind you it’s the United Nations we’re going to. You wouldn’t have got inside the door wearing that.”

  “True, but I never intended to try. On the other hand, a walk in Central Park is quite another matter, it seems, so it’s a good thing I was carrying.”

  As always with Dillon, it was as if a shadow passed across his face that in the briefest of moments changed his entire personality.

  “Tell me.”

  Miller did, brief and succinct, because of the soldier in him, and, when he was finished, he took out the wallet he’d taken from his assailant and offered it.

  “A folded computer photo of me, no credit cards, a Social Security card, plus a driver’s license in the name of Frank Barry, with an address in Brooklyn. I doubt any of it is genuine, but there you are. I need a shower and a fresh shirt, and we’re short on time.”

  He cleared off to his own bedroom, and Dillon took the items from the wallet and unfolded the computer photo. It showed Miller walking on a relatively crowded pavement, one half of a truck in view and, behind it, the side of a London cab. Now, where had that come from? A long way from Central Park.

  Dillon went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, thinking of Frank Barry, the hit man. Poor bastard, he hadn’t known what he was up against. Miller was hardly your usual politician. He’d served in the British Army during some of the worst years of the Irish Troubles, for some of that time an apparent deskman in the Intelligence Corps. But Dillon knew the truth. Miller had long ago decided that summary justice was the only way to fight terrorism. Since the death of his wife, the victim of a terrorist attack aimed at Miller himself, he had grown even more ruthless.

  Dillon folded the computer photo and tried to slide it back into the wallet. It refused to go because there was something there. He fiddled about and managed to pull out a card that was rather ornate, gold around the edges, with a sentiment inscribed in curling type. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.

  Miller came in, ready to go. “What have you got there?”

  “Something you missed in the wallet.” The card was creased and obviously old, and Dillon held it to his nose. “Candles, incense, and the holy water.”

  “What in hell do you mean?” Miller held out his hand, and examined the card.

  “So Barry is a Catholic, so what?”

  “Such cards are very rare. They go back in history to Michael Collins, the Easter Rising. The card begs the Virgin to pray for ‘we who are ourselves alone.’ The Irish for ‘ourselves alone’ is Sinn Fein.”

  Miller stared at the card, frowning. “And you think that’s significant?”

  “Maybe not, but Barry is an Irish name, and you told me that after you shot him he said, ‘They didn’t say it would be like this.’ ”

  “That’s true, but he claimed he didn’t know who’d hired him, even when I threatened to put one through his other knee.”

  Dillon shrugged. “Maybe he lied in spite of the pain.” He took the card from Miller’s fingers and replaced it in the wallet.

  Miller said, “Are you saying there could be a smell of IRA here?”

  Dillon smiled. “I suppose anything is possible in the worst of all possible worlds. You were right not to kill him, though. He’ll stick like glue to the story of being the victim of a mugging. He wouldn’t want the police to think anything else.”

  “And the IRA connection?”

  “If there was one, it’s done them no good at all.” He put the wallet in his inside pocket. “An intriguing present for Roper when we get back to London. Now can we get moving? Putin awaits us.”

  At the UN that evening, there was no sign of Blake Johnson, which surprised Dillon because Blake had said he’d be there, but maybe he’d decided he just had better things to do. Vladimir Putin said nothing that he had not said before. The usual warning that if the U.S. went ahead with a missile defense system, the Russians would have to deploy in kind, and implying that the Russian invasion of Georgia was a warning shot. Delving deep into history, he warned the U.S. about overconfidence in its military might. “Rome may have destroyed Carthage, but eventually it was destroyed by barbarians.”

  “That’s a good one,” Miller murmured.

  “I know,” Dillon said. “Though I don’t know if equating Russia with the barbarians is really a good idea for him.”

  Putin then moved on to Britain, turning to look at the British Ambassador to the UN as if addressing him personally. Britain was guilty of granting asylum to some who had been traitors to the Russian people. London had become a launching pad to fight Russia. In the end, it seemed impossible to have normal relations anymore. And on and on.

  Many people sitting there obviously agreed with him, and there was applause. The British Ambassador answered robustly, pointing out that the British Security Service had identified Russia as a menace to national safety, the third-most-serious threat facing the country, after Al Qaeda terrorism and Iranian nuclear proliferation.

  At the champagne reception afterwards, Miller said, “The trouble is, Vladimir Putin is dangerously capable. Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, not to mention his career with the KGB.”

  “I agree.” Dillon nodded. “But, in a way, the most significant thing about him is that he’s a patriot. He believes what he says. That’s what makes him the most dangerous of all.” He nodded towards the Russian delegation, who were hanging on Putin’s every word as he spoke to a Hamas representative. “Anyone of special interest over there?”

  “Actually, there is,” Miller said. “The scholarly looking man with the rather weary face and auburn hair.”

  “Gray suit, about fifty?”

  “Colonel Josef Lermov, new Head of Station for the GRU at the London Embassy. At least, that’s the whisper Ferguson’s heard. He only told me yesterday and pulled out Lermov’s photo.”

  “I see,” Dillon said. “So they’ve given up on finding his predecessor, dear old Boris Luzhkov?”

  “It seems so.”

  “It’s hardly likely they would have succeeded, considering he went into the Thames with a bullet between the eyes. Ferguson had the disposal team fish him out the same day,” Dillon told him.

  “Ashes to ashes?” Miller said.

  “If he couldn’t take the consequences, he shouldn’t have joined. Lermov is coming this way.”

  Lermov was. Even his smile seemed weary. “Major Miller, I believe? Josef Lermov.” He turned to Dillon and held out his hand.

  “So nice to meet you, Mr. Dillon.”

  “How flattering to be recognized,” Dillon told him.

  “Oh, your reputation precedes you.”

  Miller smiled. “How’s Luzhkov? Still on holiday?”

  Lermov gave no sign of being fazed. “I understand he is in Moscow being considered for a new post as we speak.”

  “What a shame,” Dillon said. “He loved London. He must regret leaving after all those years.”

  “Time to move on,” Lermov told him.

  “And his number two man, Major Yuri Bounine? Was it time for him to move on?” A loaded question from Miller if ever there was one, considering that said Yuri Bounine, having defected, was being held by Ferguson in a secure location in London.

  Lermov said patiently, “He is on special assignment, that is all I can say. I can only speak for my own situation in London and not for Moscow. You spent enough
time serving in British Army intelligence to know what I mean.”

  “Oh, I do.” Miller beckoned to a waiter. “Now join us in a glass of champagne, Josef? We could celebrate your London appointment.”

  “Most kind of you.” A brief smile flickered, as if he was amused at Miller’s familiarity.

  Dillon said, “It isn’t vodka, but it will do to take along.” He raised his glass. “To Vladimir Putin. That was quite a speech.”

  “You think so?” Lermov said.

  “A bit of a genius, if you look at it,” Dillon said.

  Miller smiled. “Definitely a man to keep your eye on.”

  Lermov said, “Your friend, Blake Johnson, I expected him to be here, too. I wonder what’s happened to him? Ah, well, I suppose he’s moved on also.” He smiled that odd smile and walked away.

  At Mercy Hospital on the Upper East Side, the man known as Frank Barry lay in a room on the fifth floor, where he had been prepped to get the bullet out of his knee. His eyes were closed, and he was hooked up to everything in sight, the only sounds electronic beepings. A young intern entered, dressed for the operating room, a nurse behind him. He raised the sheet over Barry’s left knee and shuddered.

  “Christ, that’s as bad as I’ve seen. This guy’s going to be crippled.” Barry didn’t move. “He’s been thoroughly prepped, I take it.”

  “The anesthetist on this one is Dr. Hale. The guy was in such agony, he was begging for mercy. Mind you, I caught him making a phone call earlier in spite of the pain, so I confiscated it. It’s on the side there. He said his name is Frank Barry and he lives in the Village. Mugged in Central Park.”

  “Just when I thought it was safe to go there,” Hale said. “The police have been notified?”

  “Nobody’s turned up yet, but they’ve been told he’s going into the OR, so I suppose they think they can take their time.”

  “Okay,” the intern said. “Twenty minutes.” He went out, and the nurse followed him.

  It was quiet in the corridor. The man who emerged from the elevator at the far end wore green scrubs, a skullcap, and a surgical mask. He took his time, checking the names on doors almost casually, found what he was looking for, and went in.

  Barry was out, there was no doubt about that, as the man produced a hypo from his pocket, ready charged, exposed the needle, and injected its contents in Barry’s left arm. The man stood there, looking down for a moment, noticed Barry’s mobile phone on the bedside table, picked it up, and turned to dump the hypo in the wastebasket. The door suddently opened, and the nurse came in.

  She was immediately alarmed. “Who are you? What are you doing?”

  He dropped the hypo in the bin and punched her brutally, knocking her to the floor. He went out, hurried along the corridor, and, as an alarm sounded behind him, didn’t bother with the elevator but took the stairs, plunging down fast, finally reaching the basement parking garage. A few moments later, he was driving out.

  Upstairs, of course, it was pandemonium on the fifth floor with the discovery of the unconscious nurse, but it would be some time before she would be able to explain what had happened. The only certainty was that the man known as Frank Barry was dead.

  It was just before midnight in London when Major Giles Roper, of the bomb-scarred face, sitting at his computer at the Holland Park safe house, got the phone call from Ferguson.

  “Little late for you, General.”

  “Never mind that. Some bugger just tried to blow me up after I’d been to that do at the Garrick.”

  Roper turned his wheelchair to the drinks table, poured a large scotch, and said, “Tell me.”

  Which Ferguson did, the whole affair, including the death of Pool. “I’m at Rosedene now,” he said, naming the very private hospital he had created for his people in London, a place of absolute total privacy and security, headed by the finest general surgeon in London. “Bellamy’s insisting on checking me thoroughly. I was knocked over by the blast.”

  “You’ve been lucky,” Roper said ruefully. “And I’m the expert.”

  “But not Pool.”

  “From what you’ve told me, there’s a story with him that bears investigation.”

  “You could be right. He wasn’t my usual man, and the Cabinet Office uses hired-car companies when it’s under pressure. I’ve told the antiterrorism people at Scotland Yard to play it down as much as possible. Fault in the car, petrol explosion, that kind of thing. Don’t want the press leaping in and implying Muslim bombs.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “Well, we don’t want another public panic. Bellamy’s had Pool’s body brought here, and George Langley will do the postmortem. I’ll stay till he’s done.”

  After hanging up, Roper sat there thinking about it, and Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, came in. “Still at it, Major? What am I going to do with you?”

  “That was General Ferguson. He was going to his car when it blew up. The driver’s dead.”

  “My God,” Doyle said softly. “Takes you back to Ireland in the Troubles. Like someone’s walked over my grave.” He shivered. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Sustenance, Tony, that’s what I need. Get me a bacon sandwich. I’d better get in touch with Miller and Dillon in New York.”

  “Christ, they’ll go berserk, those two.”

  He went out. Roper poured another whiskey, then phoned Miller on his Codex.

  2

  Miller and Dillon were walking back to their limousine outside the UN, discussing where to go for dinner, when Miller took the call. He listened, his face grim, then said, “Tell Dillon.”

  He handed his Codex over, and Dillon listened, his face darkening. “You’re sure the old sod’s okay?”

  “So it would appear. Not the driver, though. Something fishy there, I think.”

  “Then you’d better investigate.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, Harry’s in charge. I’m just his minder.”

  “As if he needs one.”

  “Certainly not on this trip. He went for a walk in Central Park, and some bastard had a go.”

  “Mugged him, you mean?”

  “Not sure. There could have been a bit more to it than that.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Which Dillon did, and afterwards Roper said, “Very strange, especially the prayer card. You’ve got a point, Sean, I’ll check it online. Okay, talk things over and let me know what you decide.”

  Dillon handed the Codex back. “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s go back to the hotel and talk.”

  But just as soon as they got back to the Plaza and reached the suite, the room telephone sounded. It was Clancy Smith.

  “I heard you were in town.”

  “Good to hear from you,” Dillon said, and put the phone on speaker.

  “Not this time, Sean. I believe you and Major Miller were expecting to see Blake?”

  “We certainly were. He missed quite a speech.”

  “He’s in a hospital on Long Island, suffering from a gunshot wound. I’m with him now, but he’s just had surgery so he’s not exactly in top shape. The police recovered the body of his assailant, a man named Jack Flynn.”

  “An Irish name,” Dillon said, his voice grim.

  “We’ve recovered his Social Security card and driver’s license, and an American passport, and they look kosher to me. Place of birth: New York. We’ll check to see if he’s got a record, which I expect he has. Something’s odd about all this. Blake rambled a lot to the receiving doctor and said the guy started to fire at him the moment he got on the boat. He seemed intent on killing him from the word go.”

  “I see.” Dillon frowned. “Anything else? Anything about this Flynn character that would help with his background?”

  “Not really,” Clancy said. “Except for one thing. He appears to have been of a religious turn of mind. There was a sort of prayer card in his wallet.”

  Dillon
said, “‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone’?”

  “How in hell do you know that?” Clancy was truly shocked.

  “The Irish for ‘ourselves alone’ is Sinn Fein, Clancy.”

  “Are you saying this has got something to do with the IRA?”

  “Clancy, this is Miller,” the Major interrupted. “Early evening before we left for the UN, I took a walk in Central Park. I was carrying a Colt .25 in an ankle holster, and good job I was.”

  “Okay,” Clancy said. “Tell me the worst.”

  Miller did. “I could have killed this Barry guy, but I didn’t. It seemed unlikely he’d want to make a police case out of it. It was only later, when Dillon was looking at the computer photo of me Barry had in his wallet, that he discovered the prayer card. It seemed like a curio, but, now that we have two of them, it gets more interesting.”

  “It sure does,” Clancy said. “I’ll make careful inquiries with the NYPD and find out where this Barry guy ended up, then move him so we can get some answers. I can assure you that you will be kept out of it, Major.”

  “Well, that eases my mind,” Miller told him. “You seem on top of your game, Clancy.”

  “I’d better get moving. When are you returning to London?”

  “Sooner than we’d expected,” Miller said. “Because we’ve got more news for you. Just after eleven o’clock London time, General Ferguson was leaving a function to go home, and his car blew up.”

  Clancy was horrified. “What happened to him?”

  “He was blown over by the blast as he walked towards the limousine. They’ve been checking him out at Rosedene, and he seems all right.”

  “Unfortunately, the driver was killed. I think he was closer to the car, and the bomb went off prematurely,” Dillon said. “Ferguson’s going to play the whole thing down as some sort of engine failure leading to the explosion. No talk of bombs.”

  “Well, that makes sense. I can see where he’s going. But for this to happen to Charles Ferguson, on top of everything else tonight, is hardly a coincidence.”