The Wolf at the Door

by Jack Higgins

  In his suite at the Albany Regency, he checked the room safe in the wardrobe in which he had left the Walther and silencer and all his ammunition. Everything was in order, and he took off his jacket and tie, opened his laptop, and tapped in to some of his files, brain-storming in a way. Miller and Blake Johnson were in New York for the Putin appearance at the UN, that was a fact. That Frank Barry and Jack Flynn were in New York, too, seemed fortuitous. To be candid, it was as if it was ordained. Highly trained in weaponry over the years, “too handy with a gun,” Caitlin had said, fleeing to America to avoid the prospect of seven years in jail for armed robbery. A lot could be done with that. He considered it, then thought of his conversation with Max Chekhov about the Belov operation in New York, especially his head of security, Mikhail Potanin. From the sound of him, he’d been Moscow Mafia in his time, which meant he was capable of most things.

  Before any final planning was possible, it was necessary for Caitlin Daly to sound out the cell and see what they thought, but the presence of Barry and Flynn together in New York titillated him. If they took care of Blake Johnson and Harry Miller on Friday . . .

  He clicked on Charles Ferguson and saw that he was at a dinner at the Garrick Club that evening. Then he checked on Monica Starling and saw that she had a faculty dinner with Professor George Dunkley of Corpus Christi College that night at a country hotel called Raintree House. He looked it up and discovered it was six miles out of Cambridge.

  The audacity of what he was thinking appealed to him. He thought some more about it, then sat by the window, looking out at the night and the rooftops of Shepherd’s Market, and called Caitlin Daly on his Codex.

  She was deeply cautious, waiting for something to be said. “It’s Daniel, Caitlin.”

  She laughed, relief in her voice. “Forgive me, I’ll need to get used to this phone. You got back okay, obviously. You didn’t tell me where you’re staying.”

  “A nice, quiet, respectable hotel near Shepherd’s Market.”

  “Ah, Mayfair, I like it there.”

  “I’ll get right to the point. Two of the people on our list, Harry Miller and Blake Johnson, will be in New York on Friday, and I was thinking of your people, Barry and Flynn, who you helped to get out of London when prison was in view. ‘Too handy with a gun,’ you said. How do you think they’d react if you suggested they do the job on Miller and Johnson?”

  “They could be up for it,” she said. “They’ve always been hard men. Lucky to stay out of prison years ago. The head of security at our place in New York has told me he’s sure that, on the side, they’re hoodlums for hire.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I speak to them most weeks. Their membership in the cell still means a great deal to them. I’d be willing to put it to them.”

  “I know it’s too late for you to speak to the other four tonight, but it’s only six in the evening in New York. I’m not trying to put any pressure on you, but time is of the essence. Could you speak to them tonight? No point in me calling, I’m nothing to them.”

  “I was always the leader, Daniel, guiding them as I saw fit. As far as I’m concerned, though, the show of hands has to be one hundred percent and nothing less. I have only four to stand in front of now, and if we are to agree to your plan of campaign against Ferguson and his people, it is logical that I should speak to Barry and Flynn. But I must make one thing clear. If we agree and they don’t, all bets are off.”

  “Yes, I can see that. I can also see that I’m in your hands on this. By the way, I haven’t asked about your weapons status.”

  “We were well supplied with small arms, explosives, bomb-making parts. It was a while ago, of course, but it should all still be under lock and key in a large cupboard in the presbytery wine cellar. I’m going to go now, Daniel, think out my approach and speak to Barry and Flynn. If I’m lucky, I might even find them together. You must be tired. You were, after all, in Moscow this morning. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

  And she was right. Suddenly, he felt bushed. He poured a whiskey for a nightcap, drank it while peering out of the window. So far, so good, but tomorrow was another day. And he went to bed.

  The following day, Chekhov phoned him just after breakfast. “Daniel, my friend, how goes it?”

  “It goes very well. Where are you?”

  “In my apartment. Infinitely preferable to Moscow, I’ll tell you. To look out of my window at Hyde Park warms my heart. I love this city.”

  “Did Lermov say good-bye nicely?”

  “Frankly, I think he’s more interested in his trip to New York than in your enterprise at the moment. I believe he takes it as a sign of great favor from the Prime Minister.”

  “You surprise me. I would have imagined him above that sort of thing.”

  “I’m a true cynic in such matters. People like Lermov, men of huge brain and much learning, often express contempt for the grace-and-favor aspect of success until it’s offered to them. I suppose he would love to be a general, if you see my point. Of course, what would really seal it for him would be your success with the business at hand. Can you tell me what’s happening?”

  Holley had no reason not to. “I went to church, in a manner of speaking, and saw the lady in question. She embraces the idea of activating her cell, listened to what I told her of Ferguson and company, and damned them all. She can’t stop hating the British, Max. Her father was killed in front of her when she was ten, her mother raped.”

  “It sounds like something out of a Bosnian nightmare,” Chekhov said. “What do the members of the cell say?”

  “I’m waiting to hear. The only problem is that two of them had to clear off to New York with the law breathing down their necks.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, everything obviously depends upon what her people decide, but, if it’s favorable, I think I’m going to need your help.”

  “In what way?” Chekhov asked.

  Holley explained about Barry and Flynn, and when he was finished Chekhov said, “Where would I come in?”

  “The way I see it, one of them will hit Blake Johnson in Quogue and the other take Miller in New York. This guy you employ at Belov . . . Potanin, I think his name was?”

  “Mikhail Potanin. What about him?”

  “The impression you gave me was that he was capable of anything. I’d like him to monitor Barry and Flynn. Don’t even try to say no, Max. I know the way you oligarchs rose to power, and it was on the backs of a lot of men like Potanin.”

  “So who’s arguing? Let’s see first if Barry and Flynn agree, and, if so, I’ll put it in Potanin’s lap.”

  “I’ll be in touch the moment I hear. Is Ivanov in?”

  “Making himself at home. He’ll have all week to make his move until Lermov gets in at the weekend. He’s too eager, that boy.”

  Half an hour later, Caitlin called. “How are you?” she asked. “Did you have a good night?”

  “More to the point, did you?”

  “Daniel, they went for it hook, line, and sinker. Flynn lives in Greenwich Village, but Barry has a staff flat at the Refuge. I called him first, and Flynn was with him. Barry put the telephone on speaker, and I was able to discuss it with both of them. They admitted to having done contract work in the past.”

  “There’s an old Yorkshire saying: ‘I don’t mind a thief as long as he’s an honest thief.’ From the sound of them, they’ll do for me. The Refuge where Barry has staff quarters, I take it they have computer facilities?”

  “Of course.”

  “Look up Harry Miller online and you’ll find a photo of him walking along a London street. Send Barry a copy. While I have you, you can give me their addresses and mobile numbers.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I can’t do everything through you, Caitlin, it’ll just be too cumbersome and ineffective. Besides, I’ve just arranged for someone to monitor them and see to their general welfare. He’ll make sure they’re all rig
ht.”

  She did as he asked, and he wrote the information down. “When is your meeting?”

  “Six tonight.”

  “Do you want me there?”

  “Not really, Daniel. I’ve been their leader for so long, and the cell is a tight unit psychologically. I think it would be better if you told me what you wanted them to do, and I’ll pass it on.”

  “Fine. I’ll allocate the tasks and get a taxi up to the church later this afternoon to give them to you. That means if they do say yes, you can tell them what’s expected of them. If they say no, then simply put the stuff in your office shredder. I’ll phone you when I’m on the way.”

  “Daniel, are you sure?”

  “Time is going to be very tight. Friday will be a big day and night both here and in New York. If you’re going to get anywhere with them, remind them of their years of serving the cause, appeal to their patriotism. Ferguson and his people are the enemy. You’ve got to sell it.”

  “I will, Daniel.”

  As he sat going over a mental progress report, he realized the one issue he hadn’t done anything about was the Kurbsky mystery. He looked at his watch. He had time for just a quick look. He left the hotel quickly, hailed the first cab he saw, and told the driver to take him to Belsize Park. He soon found Chamber Court, the residence of Kurbsky’s aunt, Svetlana. It was a substantial detached property, early Victorian from the look of it. There was a front gate and a side gate, each with an intercom, but you couldn’t see through the gates, and the walls were high, and it looked like an electronic security system ran along the top.

  He kept on walking at a steady pace, aware that he was very probably on camera, and then a strange thing happened. The side gate opened, and a man in overalls emerged. He was completely bald, his cheeks hollow, the eyes sunken and staring. Obviously, someone on chemotherapy. It seemed cruel to think it, but he looked like a walking ghoul.

  The poor sod, Holley thought, as Alexander Kurbsky ignored him and went into the corner shop on the other side of the road.

  Holley kept going and found Abbey Road, increasing his pace and turning up his collar as it started to rain lightly. According to the files, Kurbsky’s aunt lived in the house with her companion, Katya Zorin, British born but of Russian extraction. When the original plan had been put in place, Kurbsky had told Luzhkov that his aunt was to be left alone, that he would not visit her because he didn’t want her in any way to be involved with the plot that had brought her nephew to London. In all the material Holley had studied, there had been no indication that anyone connected with the GRU had made any attempt to check the situation. Could Chamber Court have been housing Kurbsky all along, perhaps under Ferguson’s protection? It was an intriguing thought, just as intriguing as the poor wretch he had just seen. Possibly an odd-job man of some sort.

  He continued along Abbey Road, caught a cab at Swiss Cottage, and told the driver to take him to the Albany Regency. There was work to be done.

  He sat drawing up the specific plans of action for Caitlin Daly. The number one target was Ferguson. He had that dinner at the Garrick Club, and Henry Pool was the obvious choice there. Pool had been in the private-hire business for several years, and his luxury Amara limousine was already preapproved by the Ministry. It was up to him to discover a way of being Ferguson’s driver on Friday night. One of the small explosive devices Caitlin had hidden in the wine cellar would suffice to do the job, aided by an electronic remote control or possibly a pencil timer.

  Miller and Johnson in New York were down to Barry and Flynn.

  The Salters—he was helped there by the fact that, unusually for such a successful pub, it closed at eleven o’clock, and its comparative isolation would mean it would take time for emergency services to get there. An arson attack after midnight. He wrote down the name John Docherty, and suggested he proceed on foot so that the noise of a vehicle at that time in the early hours would not be noticed in the pub. He mentioned that an old Ford van parked outside the shed had a key in the ignition.

  Monica Starling. She would leave Corpus Christi College at seven o’clock and drive six miles to the Raintree House. A photo from Holley’s laptop was printed, and he assigned the task to Patrick Murray, the long-distance truck driver. It shouldn’t be hard to run Monica Starling’s vehicle off a country road.

  Finally, Alexander Kurbsky. Something was not right about Chamber Court, he felt it instinctively, and the strange inhuman being he’d seen coming out of the side gate didn’t seem right either. So that task he suggested for Matthew Cochran. Cochran would have to get over that wall to discover if it was tenanted only by the two women or not.

  He produced each task on a separate sheet and put them together in an envelope with no address on it, as a precaution, and his mobile sounded. He answered.

  “It’s me, Ivanov, I’m calling from the Embassy. What’s happening?”

  “I’ve been busy, that’s what’s happening. I really haven’t got time to talk now.”

  “Don’t give me that. I’m in charge of you until Colonel Lermov gets here on Saturday. I’ve spoken to Chekhov. He tells me you’ve contacted the Daly woman and she’s interested, but what’s all this about New York?”

  Holley was angry and bitterly regretted having been so open with Chekhov. “None of your business, sunshine. Don’t interfere. If you screw things up, I’ll kill you, I swear it.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me. Now, be a good boy. You know the rules. We never meet, I’m in charge, and I keep you informed on the telephone.”

  “Fuck you, you bastard.”

  “Why, Peter, I didn’t know you cared.”

  Holley switched off. He might have known. That was the trouble with the military, always wanting to show what big stuff they were, always stealing the good work some junior officer had produced and passing it off as their own.

  He pulled on his raincoat, stuffed the large envelope in a plastic bag, and went out in search of a cab.

  It was late afternoon now, shadows drawing in, and close to five. He was just in time. It would give her a chance to look at his plans. He called her from the High Street in Kilburn.

  “I’m here. You don’t need to spend time with me. I’ll just pass you the envelope.”

  “Wait for me in the church. I’ll walk from the presbytery and come in through the back door.”

  He did as he was told, pushed the great front entrance open and ventured in. There were five or six people over on the right waiting by the confessional boxes. He stood at the back, and she appeared outside the sacristy and waved, and he went to join her.

  She pulled him in, took the envelope, and opened it. “I’ll give it a quick read.” She finished the sheets in five minutes and put them back in the envelope. “It all seems to make sense. I’m sure Pool can sort something out with the car. He once told me he’s very well in with the Ministry. It’s a starting point anyway.”

  “Good.”

  “What about Roper and Dillon? I don’t see them here.”

  “We haven’t got enough manpower at the moment. But we can take them soon. For Roper, I thought we’d blow up the Holland Park safe house. The man in the wheelchair never seems to leave it these days.”

  “And Dillon?”

  “I’ll shoot him. He’s a loner, which simplifies things. Someone alone in the street on a rainy night, someone behind . . .” He smiled, and she took a step back.

  “Someone walked over my grave when you said that.”

  “Not you, Caitlin, not for years. Call me when you’re ready.”

  He went out and straight up the aisle, opened the door wide, and started down the path. Peter Ivanov, dressed in a trench coat and trilby, stepped out of a monumental archway and faced him.

  Holley stood there looking at him. “So you knew about the church and where it was even when we were in Moscow. You’re not supposed to interfere, Ivanov. You’ll ruin everything.”

  “Come with me,” Ivanov told him. “We’re
going to have a little discussion. I wouldn’t argue with Sergeant Kerimov here. He doesn’t like it, and he’s bigger than you.”

  Holley walked towards the car, where Kerimov, large and lumpen, stood on the other side waiting to get behind the wheel. He looked formidable. “Come on, get in.” Ivanov opened the front passenger door. “I’ll sit behind you.”

  Kerimov was smiling when he eased behind the wheel. Holley leaned down as if to sit on the passenger seat, pulled the Colt from his ankle holster, and shot Kerimov through the back of the left hand. He cried out, tried reaching for his gun with his right hand, and Holley rapped him across the head. Kerimov slumped across the wheel.

  “Oh, dear, you’ll have to get him in the backseat and drive him somewhere. Better not make it an emergency room. They call the police to a gunshot wound. Of course, there’s always the medical facility at the Embassy,” Holley said.

  “God damn you,” Ivanov told him.

  “Next time, I’ll kill you, remember that. Especially if I find you’ve come back here and interfered with Caitlin Daly.”

  He walked briskly away and left them to it.

  12

  On the way back, he reviewed the situation. He wasn’t bothered in the slightest by what he had just done. Ivanov could hardly call in the law. All he could do was haul the wretched Kerimov back to the Embassy’s sick bay. Lermov would have to hear about what had happened, of course, but it was obvious that Ivanov had broken the rules they’d all agreed on. What would Lermov make of that? Not very much, Holley concluded. He’d probably tell Ivanov to stop being an ass. Holley had made his point, drawn a line in the sand, and that was that.

  He got out at the hotel but didn’t go in. There wasn’t much he could do right now, waiting on news of the meeting and which way things would swing. He also needed to give Chekhov the addresses and phone numbers of Barry and Flynn so Chekhov could speak to Potanin and get things up and running, but there was the same problem there. Frustrated, he went along to Shepherd’s Market to visit Selim.