The Wolf at the Door

by Jack Higgins

  “I must admit that sounds Yorkshire enough. You are presumably using an encrypted phone?”

  “A British Codex.”

  “Give me your number.” Holley did. “Now we are truly linked like brothers. Just as in the old days.” Malik laughed. “Stay well, my friend, and stay close.”

  The following day, Ivanov took Holley to GUM, a store which seemed to be able to supply every human need, and, as the clothes had to support Holley’s role as a prosperous businessman, he went for top of the range in everything, somewhat to Ivanov’s alarm.

  “The prices here are shocking.”

  “You’ve got the card Lermov gave you, so who’s counting?” He got an excellent suitcase, a black single-breasted suit, a navy blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, four shirts, two pairs of black shoes, underwear, a collegiate-looking striped tie, and a black raincoat that Ivanov said was outrageously expensive but had a reinforced inside pocket lined with soft leather in which to carry a concealed pistol.

  “You’re sure that’s it?” Ivanov asked as he produced the card and paid.

  “Why didn’t you get something for yourself while we’re here?” Holley asked.

  “That would be dishonorable,” Ivanov said as they walked out, and then he smiled. “Besides, better to wait. The pound was down again in the paper this morning. Much cheaper to shop in London.”

  “A sensible point of view.” They were walking towards the limousine. “Obviously, I haven’t fired any kind of weapon recently. Is there a firing range at headquarters?” Holley asked.

  “In the cellars. I’ll arrange it, but I shouldn’t imagine you’ll have a problem.”

  “You’re right, of course, but it would be sensible to test myself,” Holley said as they drove away.

  The firing range was the same as such places the world over. The sergeant in charge was named Lisin, a hard old soldier favoring cropped hair and a GRU tracksuit. There was a bad scar on his left cheek that could only have been caused by a narrow miss—“the kiss of a bullet,” as the old-timers put it.

  It was a gloomy sort of place, the cellar, the bare lights at the far end picking the target figures out of the darkness, six of them side-by-side.

  “Here you are again, then, Captain Ivanov, still wanting to try your luck?”

  “That’s it, Sergeant,” Ivanov told him cheerfully. “What have you got for us today?”

  “It’s good for you to handle the enemy’s preferred choices. There’s a Glock here, if anybody fancies it. A Beretta, much used by the American Army in Vietnam. And this Browning Hi Power that’s been round in the British Army for years, still the weapon of choice with many members of the SAS.”

  Ivanov hesitated, a door creaked open behind, and Holley glanced over his shoulder and saw Lermov and Chekhov come in. He turned back to Ivanov.

  “Of course, the Glock takes some beating, but the other two have certainly proved themselves over the years.” He turned, smiled easily at Lisin, who frowned, suddenly wary.

  Lermov said, “Show us how it’s done, Sergeant.”

  “A pleasure, sir.” Lisin picked up the Glock, assessed the position, and fired from left to right, deliberately, shooting the first three targets in the heart. He put the safety on and turned to Ivanov. “Three totally dead men, and that’s the point, sir, isn’t it?” He held the Glock out. “Would you like to have a go? There’s still plenty of rounds in it.”

  Ivanov took the Glock, holding it two-handed, turned and fired quickly at the other three targets. He caught the edge of the heart in the fourth target, the fifth under the ribs, and the sixth in the top edge of the heart.

  “Not doing too well today, are we, sir?” Lisin said, a slight smile on his face, and Ivanov was shamed.

  Lermov said, “We all have our off days, Peter.”

  Lisin took the Glock and fired at the three targets again in the same deliberate way, shooting each one in the center of the heart. He emptied the weapon, and turned to Holley.

  “Would you like to have a go, sir? If so, I’ll put up fresh targets.”

  “No need,” Holley told him. “I’ve never been in love with a Glock, and the Beretta is a fine weapon, but the Browning has a history to it.” He turned, holding the weapon against his right thigh, then his hand swung up, firing single-handed in an oddly old-fashioned way, starting with one and ending with six, shooting each target between the eyes. He ejected the magazine and pulled off his sound mufflers and placed the Browning on the table.

  Lisin was dumbfounded. Ivanov stared at Holley in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Because it’s a gift.” Lermov patted Holley on the shoulder. “From God, like all gifts.”

  “From the Devil, is more likely,” Holley said. “I’m going up to the office now.” He walked to the back of the cellar where Chekhov was standing, amazed. “If you can spare the time, Max, I need to talk to you.”

  When Chekhov joined him in the study, he found him sitting at the computer. “Come and look at this,” Holley said.

  Chekhov pulled a chair forward. Bolt Hole was on screen. “Hey, I recognize that, it’s a magazine interview I did. I didn’t realize it was online.”

  “There’s more, several magazine and newspaper stories. I’ll show you.”

  They sat watching for five or ten minutes. Chekhov said, laughing, “Why are people so interested? I’m not a film star.”

  “You’re an oligarch, a billionaire. You’re a curiosity to the English. How did you buy it?”

  “It was advertised for sale in Country Life magazine. I had my driver run me down to West Sussex and fell in love with it i nstantly.”

  “And bought it, just like that?”

  “It’s what we oligarchs do, Daniel. We have so much money, it has no meaning anymore.”

  “Do you often stay there?”

  “Whenever I can. If they’d allowed me the helicopter pad, I would probably have visited more because of the convenience, but they didn’t. If I go down for a while, I take staff from the town house that Belov owns in Mayfair.”

  “So who looks after the place?”

  “I own a cottage a mile and a half down the road on a creek running through the marsh. It’s called Patch End, and a local lady, a widow named Lily White, keeps an eye on Bolt Hole and acts as housekeeper. Her son, Jacob, a local fisherman, looks after my boat, the Mermaid.”

  “And what’s that like?” Holley asked.

  “A bit like a sport fisherman but about twice the size. I like to go for a sail when I’m there.”

  “If the weather’s right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It can be fun, or used to be. I’ve been limited these last couple of years with my leg.”

  “Do you go anyplace else?”

  “I go to the States every couple of months. Belov has a building in New York, and I visit on business.”

  Holley nodded. “Okay, that’s all good to know. Now, when you return to London, make sure it’s by yourself. You shouldn’t be seen with anyone like Lermov or Ivanov. I’ll do the same. I’ll fly business class under an assumed name on a British Airways flight to Heathrow. The only way I will communicate with you is by encrypted mobile. The same rule applies to my dealings with Lermov and Ivanov. I’d advise you to do the same.”

  For a moment, the memory of his brief kidnapping and interrogation at the hands of Charles Ferguson and his people returned to haunt Chekhov, and he had an insane desire to tell Holley all about it, but that would never do. He was, after all, still in Russia. He would just have to travel hopefully.

  “Everything you say makes sense. What happens when we get there, and you speak to this Caitlin Daly woman?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. She might say, ‘You’re out of your head, get away from me or I’ll call a policeman,’ which means the whole thing’s off. Bizarre, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” Max Chekhov said. “I’ll see you later.”

  Soon after, the door clicked, and Ivanov ent
ered with a large envelope, which he emptied on the desk. There was Holley’s original passport, in very good condition, along with another in the name of Daniel Grimshaw, plus a driver’s license.

  “I must say, the forgeries are excellent,” Holley told him.

  “You don’t have a credit card.”

  “I’ll take care of that myself.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me how.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Nor where you’re going to stay.”

  “That’s correct. Now, go tell your boss that I’m ready to go.”

  He went out. Holley found some plastic envelopes, tidied the desk, turned off the computer, and left the office. In his bedroom, he took the purchases he had made at GUM, laid them on the bed neatly, then put his Holley passport in one of the plastic envelopes, zipped it up, and put it in the inside left pocket of the jacket of the black suit. The Grimshaw passport he put in the right inside pocket. He laid out a white shirt and underwear, socks, a pair of shoes, then packed everything else into the suitcase.

  Careful and meticulous, as always, but he liked things to be right, and it meant that he was ready to go and everything else was in his head.

  He went downstairs and found Lermov in the bar with Chekhov. As usual, they were drinking vodka. “Everything in order?” Lermov inquired.

  “I think you could say that.” Holly waved to the barman. “A large scotch over here.”

  Ivanov came in with an envelope in his hand. “As you ordered, Colonel.”

  The barman brought the scotch, Lermov opened the envelope and took out an airline ticket. He examined it, then pushed it over. “Ten o’clock in the morning, Daniel, business class, British Airways to London, just as you wanted.”

  Holley examined it. “Excellent. The only thing missing is a few euros for expenses and a taxi from Heathrow to downtown at the other end. A thousand should do it.”

  “I would have thought five hundred would be ample.” He smiled at Holley. “After all, as I understand it, you have your own banking arrangements in place. Meantime, the Prime Minister has asked me to join his party in New York—he’s giving a speech to the UN on Friday. I’ll fly to London after that. Captain Ivanov will leave in the Embassy mail plane tomorrow and assist Major Chelek.” His slight, weary smile was for all of them. “I think we know where we are with this business, gentlemen.”

  Chekhov tried to look eager. “The ‘game’s afoot,’ isn’t that what the English say? That writer, Conan Doyle?”

  “Shakespeare, actually,” Daniel told him. “But we’ll only have a game at all if Caitlin Daly decides to join us.”

  “Well, let’s travel hopefully,” Lermov said, and got up. “I need you in my office, Peter, we have much to do.”

  “Before you go, let’s get one thing straight,” Holley said. “As they say in the theater, it’s ‘my gig’ over there, and what I say goes. Max takes his orders from me.”

  Ivanov was going to say something, but Lermov shut him up. “Of course, Daniel.”

  They went out. Daniel knocked back his scotch, and Chekhov said, “Let me get you another.”

  “Why not? But just the one.” Chekhov called to the barman, and Daniel said, “Your staff at Belov International in New York, are they mostly Russian?”

  “No. The New York branch was an American firm when Belov took it over years ago. But we do have many Russians there. And as you must know, the Moscow Mafia extends not only to London but also New York.”

  “And you employ such people?”

  “On the security side of things. They can be very useful. Our head of security at the Belov building is one such man. Mikhail Potanin.”

  “Who is, I suppose, capable of most things?”

  “Let’s say he’s very reliable. One has to be practical. Sometimes in business, people must be persuaded to see reason.”

  “That must be very reassuring for poor put-upon businessmen like yourself.” Holley got up to go.

  Chekhov said, “So it will be just the voice on the phone over there. You will keep me informed, won’t you?”

  “As much as I feel necessary. You’ve got to trust me, Max. After all, I’ve got to trust you. Lermov will want to know everything I say to you, so try juggling with that. But remember what we agreed. I’m in charge over there. You take your orders from me.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m better for you in every way, Max, better than Lermov, believe me. So be sensible.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Max managed to sound indignant.

  “Because you couldn’t have become a millionaire without being a devious bastard. Play straight with me.” Holly smiled. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  In his bedroom, he called Malik in Algiers. “Everything set?”

  “Yes. Selim remembers you well from the old days and looks forward to meeting you. The Albany Regency is one he uses regularly himself for overseas agents visiting him, and he’s booked you a suite. It’s all on the firm. And he uses an encrypted mobile himself. I’ll give you the number.”

  He did, and Holley wrote it down. “I won’t call him now, but you could confirm my arrival. Tell him I don’t want to be picked up. I’ll get a taxi at Heathrow.”

  “I’ll let him know. Stay in touch, and may Allah protect you, my brother.”

  “I could be spending the rest of my life in the Lubyanka or even Station Gorky. Now I’ve been offered a chance to earn my way out of it. I’d say the hand of God has got something to do with that. Take care, Malik.”

  He lay back on the bed, pillowed his head, and stared up at the ceiling, taking a very deep breath, his stomach churning.

  “Now it begins,” he said softly. “Now it begins.”

  LONDON

  11

  It was just after two-thirty the following afternoon when Holley’s taxi drew up outside the Albany Regency just off Curzon Street. Stormy weather had caused the flight from Moscow to take longer than usual, but he was here in Mayfair and London in the rain. He had changed the euros Ivanov had given him for sterling, paid the cabdriver generously, and went up the steps to the entrance, where a doorman in a top hat and green frock coat greeted him and a young uniformed porter relieved him of his suitcase.

  He found the hotel pretty much as he had remembered it. Slightly old-fashioned, which was its charm, but maintained well, and expensive enough to ensure that the clientele was respectable.

  His reservation was waiting, and all Holley had to do was sign the reservation form and produce his passport for identification purposes. The Russians had used the same date and place of birth as on his real passport but hadn’t put his mother and her address in Leeds on the next-of-kin page. There would have been no point. During one of his sessions with Lermov during his second year of confinement, the Colonel had told him his mother had died. It was a bad memory and one he preferred to forget.

  The young porter accompanied him to the fifth floor and showed him to the suite, which was pleasant and functional, with a sliding window to a small balcony with a good view of Curzon Street and Shepherd’s Market. Holley tipped the boy, unpacked quickly, and put his things away. He noticed himself in the full-length mirror when he opened the wardrobe. The black suit, the striped tie, and white shirt made him look exactly right. Banker or lawyer, businessman or accountant. Eminently respectable.

  There was a small refrigerator next to the television. He opened it and selected a double-vodka miniature, poured it into a plastic cup, added a little tonic water, and toasted himself in the mirror.

  “Here we go, off to bloody war again, old lad.” He drank it down and went out.

  Shepherd’s Market had always been one of his favorite places in London. The narrow streets, the pubs, the restaurants, and the shops selling everything from paintings and prints to antiques. “Selim Malik” was painted in gold above the door of one such shop, a narrow window on each side, one offering a triangle of truly remarkable Buddhas and the other an exquisite Bokhara silk rug. T
he door was shut, but there was an intercom beside it, and Holley pressed a button, confident he was on camera.

  Which proved true, because before he could open his mouth a voice said in Arabic, “Praise be to Allah.”

  A moment later, the door opened, and he was pulled inside to a tight embrace. “Daniel, it is you. Six years since I’ve seen you, and you look good.”

  “Older, Selim, older, but you never change.”

  Selim was small, perhaps five-five, with long, curling hair that had once been black but was now silvery gray and swept behind the ears, no mustache but a fringe of beard, and a dark olive face. He had good-humored eyes that lit up his personality when he was happy, as he was now. He wore a velvet jacket from another age, a ruffled shirt, and baggy velvet trousers.

  “Everything is change, Daniel. I was sixty-five this year, imagine that. Come into my study and have a glass of champagne with me to celebrate.”

  “So you’re still that kind of Arab?”

  “Allah is merciful. You’ve booked in at the hotel? Everything is taken care of? I have a running account there. They’re very good.”

  The study was partly rococo and partly Victorian, with overstuffed chairs and two enormous sofas and an Axminster carpet that must have cost a fortune. A large round table in beaten brass was almost at floor level, and a bottle of Cristal champagne in an ice bucket sat upon it, with seventeenth-century Venetian goblets to drink it with.

  “Sit down,” he urged. “And you do the honors. I’ll be back.” He went out, and Daniel thumbed off the cork and poured. Selim returned with a black bag and a laptop, which he put on the table. “A present for you. But let’s have a drink first.”

  He drank it straight down and poured another. “Allah be praised to see you out of that terrible prison. You must feel like Edmond Dantès escaping from the Château d’If.”