The Wolf at the Door

by Jack Higgins

  “God knows,” Miller said. There were few things Henry Frankel didn’t know about, but Boris Luzhkov ending up dead in the Thames was one of them.

  “The boss is in, and he’s expecting this, so I’ll deliver it now. He said you’re to wait, so help yourself. Coffee, all kinds of tea, juices. We’ve got a miracle machine now. Just press the right button.”

  Which Miller did and also glanced at the Times. Frankel was in and out several times, but it was thirty-five minutes before he came over to him and smiled.

  “Everything on the go this morning, but he’ll see you now.” Miller followed him. Frankel opened the door of the office and stood to one side.

  “Come in, Harry.” The PM was behind his desk. “Take a chair. First-class report.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister. Putin didn’t say anything he hasn’t said before, but he does have this dangerous gift of sounding quite reasonable.”

  “As I know, to my cost, but I must tell you that I’ve had Charles Ferguson on the phone. A terrible business, this incident with his car and the death of the driver.”

  “I don’t know what the General has told you, Prime Minister, but it now seems certain that the driver was party to the whole affair. It would seem likely that the device, whatever it was, exploded prematurely, unfortunately for him. General Ferguson is handling the matter as if it was an accident, not a bomb, so there should be no problem with the media.”

  “Yes, that’s the last thing we need. Ferguson’s also filled me in on the unfortunate business on Long Island, and on your own brush with death in Central Park.” He sighed. “Trouble follows you everywhere I send you—Kosovo, Washington, Lebanon. You always end up shooting someone. You are the most irregular Member of Parliament I have ever known.”

  “Hardly my fault, Prime Minister, when you send me to places where people are liable to do a bit of shooting themselves.”

  “A valid point. All those years in the Intelligence Corps dealing with the wild men of Ulster made you spectacularly good at violent solutions. Your decision to leave the army on your father’s death and put yourself up for his seat in Parliament has proved most fortuitous, although it would have been slightly more convenient if we’d both been members of the same political party.”

  “Well, you can’t have everything,” Miller said.

  “I’m aware of that. No one in the Cabinet has any kind of military experience whatsoever, which is why I broke the rules and made you an under-secretary of state. You can be, on occasion, a thoroughly ruthless bastard, and there are times when that’s something that’s needed.”

  “But I am attached to you, Prime Minister, and that makes all the difference.”

  “Flattery gets you nowhere, Miller. I’m due in the House soon, so you’ve got fifteen minutes to explain this whole damn mess and what you and Ferguson intend to do about it.”

  Which Miller did, rapidly and fluently, covering everything. “That’s it, I think.”

  “And quite enough. Prayer cards, killings, a bombing, and, to top all that, this suggestion of an IRA link. That can’t be possible. I’ve enough on my plate with all these banks failing, plus the worst recession in years. I know there are a few crackpot organizations out there still demanding a United Ireland, but enough is enough. Sort it, Harry, sort it—and quickly.”

  He stood up, the door opened behind Miller as he rose, and Henry Frankel ushered him out.

  “How do you know when people are leaving?” Dillon asked. “Are you a magician or something?”

  “Absolutely, love. Take care.” Miller went out, calling Arthur on his mobile.

  “As soon as you like, and we’ll make it Holland Park.”

  Dillon, after a shower and change, went to the canteen, where he discovered Roper, hair still damp, sitting in his wheelchair in a blue tracksuit, enjoying breakfast and immensely cheerful. Ferguson was sitting opposite, enjoying scrambled eggs.

  “There you are, you devil, what went on in New York, then? You were supposed to be his minder. It’s a miracle he was wearing that ankle holster.”

  “Which I knew nothing about.”

  Maggie Hall entered with scrambled eggs, and withdrew.

  “Diplomatic immunity covered us when we landed in the Gulfstream, obviously, but he couldn’t have worn it to the UN.”

  “Probably just a whim,” Ferguson said. “There’s no question of him going into Parliament with it, but I suspect he does in other places in London.” He glanced at Dillon. “Do you agree?”

  Dillon reached down to his right ankle and produced a Colt .25. “All the rage, these days. I wouldn’t be without one.”

  Roper said, “A damn good job he was carrying when he took that walk in the park.”

  Dillon reached for toast and marmalade, and said cheerfully, “Oh, I suspect he’d have thought of something ghastly as an alternative. A man of infinite resource and guile, our Harry.”

  “You can say that again.” He took a piece of Dillon’s toast, and his Codex sounded. It was Billy Salter. “That you, Roper? I’m at the Dark Man. We’ve had a right old business down here. Some geezer tried a little arson in the early hours.”

  Roper waved a hand at the others, and turned his Codex on speaker. “Say again, Billy?”

  “We’d all gone to bed early—Ruby, Harry, me, Joe Baxter, and Sam Hall,” he continued, naming the Salters’ minders. “Joe was still dressed and watching a late-night movie on television when he heard a noise from the bar. He knocked on Sam’s door to alert him, then smelt petrol, so he moved into the bar, turned on the lights, and found this guy emptying a can of petrol all over the place, the till rifled, cash drawers open.”

  “Who was it?”

  “How do I know? They’re just fishing him out of the Thames. He was wearing a black tracksuit and ski mask, Joe said, and he looked like a terrorist from central casting. Joe had his Smith and Wesson with him. He wasn’t keen on firing, in case the petrol ignited, so the guy threw the can at him and legged it. Sam had joined Joe by then, and they went after him.”

  “What happened?”

  “The old Ford van at the end of the wharf? It always has a key in it, not worth stealing. I reckon he’d checked it out previously, because he ran straight for it, was in and driving off, but the wrong way. There was no place to turn, and he simply ran over the edge of the wharf in the dark.”

  “With him in it?”

  “The police are here now. They’ll have a recovery team get the truck later, but a police diver’s been down, and he’s found the guy. He’s gone down again with another diver to try and get him. Harry’s here, and he’d like a word.”

  The unmistakable cockney voice of Billy’s uncle echoed around the canteen. Harry Salter, a gangster for most of his life and now a property millionaire, said, “Well, this is nice, Roper, we could all have been roasted in our beds. What the hell was the bugger playing at? There was a grand in the till. Wasn’t that enough?”

  It was Ferguson who said, “It’s me, Harry, and Dillon’s just back from New York with the strangest story you’ve heard in a long time.” He turned to Roper. “You explain.”

  Which Roper did.

  Standing on Cable Wharf in Wapping near his beloved pub, the Dark Man, Harry said, “Jesus Christ, Roper, this is incredible.”

  “But true, Harry. The guy who shot Blake, the one who attacked Miller, and then the General’s rogue driver last night, all were in possession of the same prayer card.”

  “Tell me again what it says?”

  Roper did. “The police will search your arsonist’s body when they get him up. Billy can use some muscle by flashing his MI5 card. See where it gets you, and call back.”

  Ferguson said, “An interesting one, gentlemen.”

  “What is?” Harry Miller entered at that moment.

  “Well, it goes something like this . . .” Roper began.

  At the end of Cable Wharf were three patrol cars and a medium-sized police truck, the sign on one side reading “Salvage
& Recovery.” There were two divers down there in scuba gear, four uniformed policemen, and an inspector who had turned up and gone to inspect the bar.

  Harry and Billy were standing by watching with Baxter and Hall and Ruby Moon, who was wearing a reefer coat two sizes too large. The inspector emerged from the bar and approached.

  “Nasty business, Mr. Salter. Stinks in there. You’ll have to close for a while. Could have been very nasty if he’d dropped a match.”

  Harry had known him for years. “A real evil bastard, had to be, to do a thing like that. We could have all ended up cooked for breakfast.”

  “Sure you haven’t been annoying anyone lately?”

  “On my life, Parky, those days are long gone. I own most of the developments round here, and my nephew Billy’s got an MI5 warrant card in his pocket.”

  “Yes, I heard they’d taken him on. I was impressed. I’d always understood they wouldn’t accept anyone with a record.”

  “True, Parky, it was the folly of youth, where Billy was concerned, but all wiped clean now.”

  “You must have friends in high places these days, Billy.”

  “Oh, I do, Inspector,” Billy said. “And here’s my warrant to prove it.” He offered it. “As you know, I’m involved in cases where the highest security and the welfare of the nation is involved—so I’d like to check the identity of the man who’s being hauled up at this moment. It could explain the severity of his intentions.”

  “Are you saying you could have been his target?”

  “It’s possible,” Billy said, and at that moment an ambulance rolled up, two paramedics emerged, opened the rear door, and pulled out a stretcher, which they took forward to where the four policemen were hauling up the drowned man in a sling.

  Water poured from the man as they laid him down on the stretcher, and one of the paramedics removed the balaclava, revealing the unshaven face, handsome enough, eyes closed in death, dark hair with silver streaks in it.

  “Good God, I know this one,” Parky said. “He used to live round here when I was a young constable. Bagged him coming out of a booze shop he’d broken into on Wapping High Street. Costello, Fergus Costello. He went down the steps for two years. Petty criminal, when he got out. Irish bloke, drunk and disorderly, that kind of thing, always getting arrested.”

  “Can you remember what happened to him?” Billy asked.

  “Not really, it’s so long ago.” They watched as a police officer went through the dead man’s pockets, producing a bunch of skeleton keys, a folded flick-knife, and a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, which they handed to Parky.

  “He certainly meant business.”

  A passport came next, which turned out to be Irish. “See, I was right,” Parky said, but frowned when he opened it. “John Docherty, and there’s a Dublin address.” He shook his head and handed the passport to Billy. “Even though he’s dead, you can see from the photo it’s the same man.”

  “You’re right.” Billy gave it to Harry. “Must be a forgery. Let’s see what’s in the wallet.”

  Parky went to his car, opened the wallet, and took out the wet contents—a driver’s license, a Social Security card, and a credit card. “All in the name of John Docherty, and an address in Point Street, Kilburn.”

  “So he was living under a false name,” Harry said.

  Parky nodded. “You know, I remember now, it’s all coming back. He used to get in a lot of trouble over the drink, and then there was a refuge opened, run by Catholics. They used to get visits from a priest, who had a big influence on the boozers there. I can’t remember his name, but, as I recall, Costello stopped getting into trouble and started churchgoing, and then he cleared off.”

  The officer who had been searching the pockets said, “There’s this, sir, tucked away.”

  He offered the damp card, and Parky examined it. “I’ve seen something like this before. It’s a prayer card.”

  Billy took it from him and read it aloud. “‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’”

  Harry said, “But what the hell does it mean?”

  Parky smiled. “I told you he’d turned to religion, didn’t I, so I was right.”

  “You certainly were,” Billy said. “I’ll hang on to this and the passport. You can keep the rest.”

  3

  They met in the computer room at Holland Park, all of them, Ferguson presiding, and Harry Salter was a very angry man indeed.

  “I mean, what in the hell is going on?”

  “It’s simple, Harry,” said Dillon. “You’ve been targeted, you and Billy, just like Blake Johnson, General Ferguson, and Major Miller. Maybe somebody thinks it’s payback time.”

  “All very well,” Harry pointed out. “But that bastard Costello or Docherty, or whatever he called himself, was prepared to torch the pub, just to get at Billy and me.”

  “Whoever these people are, they’re highly organized and totally ruthless. The would-be assassin in Central Park, Frank Barry, called somebody and told them where he was. The instant response was an executioner.”

  “Exactly,” Miller put in. “And one professional enough to remember to snatch Barry’s mobile before departing, so details of that call couldn’t be traced.”

  “I’ve spoken to Clancy Smith, brought him up to speed, including the arson attack on the pub,” Roper said. “His people have established that Flynn’s passport was an extremely good forgery, as was his driver’s license and Social Security card.”

  “So there’s no way of checking if he had a police record?” Ferguson put in.

  “Exactly,” Roper carried on. “His address in Greenwich Village is a one-room apartment, sparsely furnished, basic belongings, not much more than clothes. An old lady on the same floor said he was polite and kept to himself. She’d no idea what he did for a living, and was surprised to hear he had an American passport, as she’d always thought he was Irish. She’s a Catholic herself and often saw him at Mass at the local church.”

  Miller said, “Interesting that Costello-cum-Docherty has a forged Irish passport, too, and his religion had been the saving of him, according to Inspector Parkinson.”

  “A passport which claims he was born in Dublin, yet we know from his other identity documents that his address is in Point Street, Kilburn,” Dillon said.

  “And Henry Pool from Green Street, Kilburn,” Ferguson said. “Too many connections here. This would appear to be a carefully mounted campaign.”

  “Another point worth remembering,” Roper said. “I’ve processed the computer photo of Major Miller that was in Barry’s wallet.” His fingers worked the keys, and the photo came on screen. “Just a crowded street, but that’s definitely the side of a London black cab at the edge of the pavement. The photo was definitely taken in London, I’d say.”

  “Careful preparation beforehand by someone who knew I was going to New York,” Miller said.

  “Yes, and remember that Blake was only visiting his place on Long Island because he was going to the UN.” Roper shook his head. “It’s scary stuff, when you think about it.”

  Salter said, “But nobody had a go at you, Dillon, when you were in New York. Why not?”

  “Because I wasn’t supposed to be there. It was only decided at the last moment that I should join Harry.”

  “Nobody has had a go at me either,” Roper told him. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not going to.”

  “Exactly,” Ferguson said. “Which raises the point again—what in the hell is this all about?”

  “Let’s face it,” Billy said. “We’ve been up against a lot of very bad people in our day. Al Qaeda, a wide range of Islamic terrorists, Hamas, Hezbollah. We’ve been in Lebanon, Hazar, Bosnia, Kosovo. And you older guys talk about the Cold War. But the Cold War is back, it seems to me, so we can add in the Russians.”

  “Which adds up to a lot of enemies,” Dillon put in. “Lermov, who’ll be the new Head of Station for the GRU here,
was at the UN reception with Putin, and we were talking to him. Baited him, really. Asked after Boris Luzhkov, and was told he was in Moscow being considered for a new post.”

  “Six pounds of gray ash, that bastard,” Billy said.

  “And when I asked after Yuri Bounine, he said he’d been given another assignment.”

  “He knew something,” Miller said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, if he knows that Bounine is guarding Alex Kurbsky at his aunt Svetlana’s house in Belsize Park, we’re in trouble,” Ferguson told him.

  They were all silent at the mention of the famous Russian writer whose defection had caused so much mayhem recently but of whom they’d all become unaccountably fond.

  Dillon said, “We’re going to have to do something, General. They could be in harm’s way.”

  “I’m aware of that, Dillon,” Ferguson snapped. “But you could widen the circle to include a lot of people who’ve been involved with us.” He turned to Miller. “What about your sister, Major? She helped us out in that business involving the IRA in County Louth last year. She even shot one of them.”

  Miller’s sister, Lady Monica Starling, an archaeologist and Cambridge don, had indeed proved her mettle—and, in the process, had become as close a friend to Dillon as a woman could.

  Miller frowned and turned to Dillon. “He’s got a point, Sean, we should speak to her.”

  Roper said, “If the rest of you can shut up for a moment, I’ll get her on the line.” He was answered at once. She sounded fraught, her voice echoing through the speakers.

  “Who is this?”

  “No need to bite my head off, darling,” said Miller. “It’s your big brother.”

  “It’s so good to hear from you, Harry, I was going to call. I thought you and Sean were still in New York.”

  “What’s happened? Where are you?”

  “I’m at the hospital here in Cambridge.”

  “For God’s sake, tell me, Monica.”

  “There was a faculty party at a hotel outside Cambridge last night. Dear old Professor George Dunkley was desperate to go. I volunteered to drive him there so he could enjoy his port and so on. Six miles out into the countryside, a bloody great truck started to follow us and just stayed on our tail. It didn’t matter what I did, it wouldn’t go away, and then, when we came to a wider section of the road, it came alongside and swerved into us.”