The Wolf at the Door

by Jack Higgins

  “Tell me.”

  “The business at Quogue, Ivan Bulganin was observing from a clump of trees. He saw Flynn shoot Johnson as the boat came in, but Johnson managed to shoot him in return. Flynn went into the water. Bulganin couldn’t do anything about it except get the hell out of there, and, as he left, he heard the sound of emergency vehicles arriving.”

  “And Frank Barry?”

  “Miller left the Plaza to go for a walk in Central Park. Barry followed him, and Potanin stalked them. Barry tried to jump Miller, and Miller had what looked like an ankle holster. He shot Barry in the knee and walked away. Potanin couldn’t risk any involvement and cleared off.”

  “Christ, what a bloody cock-up.”

  “I haven’t finished. Barry called in on his mobile from Mercy Hospital. He told Potanin he’d better get him out or else.”

  “And what did Potanin do?”

  “Sent Bulganin round dressed as a doctor and stuck a hypo in him. Some nurse arrived, he punched her and got clean away.”

  “A total disaster,” Holley said.

  “It could have been worse. Barry’s dead, and Bulganin made sure to pocket his mobile. There’s no connection to Belov, or to us.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Have you informed Lermov?”

  “Not yet, but I obviously must. He’s at a late dinner at the UN.”

  “Hardly a good time.”

  “I understand he’s coming back to London tonight.”

  “Yes. He won’t want to confront Putin with this kind of news, but you should tell him, if only to cover yourself,” Holley said.

  “And Ivanov?”

  “He’ll find out anyway.”

  “What about the woman? Has she called? Do you know how things are going here?”

  “I told her I’d contact her in the morning, but I meant a more civilized hour than this.”

  “Well, I think you should tell her about New York as soon as possible.”

  “You’re right, I suppose. I’ll call you back. In the old days, they sometimes killed messengers who delivered bad news.” Holley’s laugh had a certain grimness to it.

  “Not nice, Daniel, not nice at all. You’ll put me off my breakfast.”

  Holley got out of bed, put on a robe, then went and sat in an easy chair beside a window that overlooked the terrace and called her. She answered almost instantly.

  “Is it you, Daniel?”

  “Yes, Caitlin.”

  She seemed to hesitate, then carried on. “Is there news from New York yet?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I came over from the presbytery. There’s no one round in the church at this time of the morning. I’ve locked myself in the sacristy.”

  “Sitting down, I hope, because I’ve had my friend Chekhov on with news from his security people in New York, and bad news it is.”

  “Go on,” she said in a strangely calm voice.

  So he told her.

  When he was finished, she said wearily, “Well, God wasn’t on our side, that’s for sure.”

  “What happened in London?” Holley said. “Tell me the worst.”

  “Ferguson and Pool and the limousine. A premature explosion before they got in. Pool had a remote control, so he must have mishandled it, and he was closer to the Amara, so he was killed and Ferguson was simply blown over. Hardly singed, let alone killed.”

  “And the Salters?”

  “I drove Docherty down there myself and hung round to see how he got on. He seemed to get in the pub all right, but after a while there was a disturbance, and he came running out with somebody after him. He got in that old van you mentioned, started up, and drove straight along the jetty into the Thames. I don’t know what went wrong. He must have panicked. I got out of there fast and came back here.”

  “A total failure. Barry and Flynn dead in New York, Pool dead, Docherty very probably. What happened to Cochran?” Holley asked.

  “I think we may have struck gold there. He got in the garden and was disturbed by a man who beat him up pretty thoroughly. He said he looked like some ghoul in a horror movie.”

  “The chemotherapy man,” Holley told her. “I walked past the house yesterday, to check it out from the outside, and saw him emerge from a side entrance.”

  “Another man, Cochran said, came out of the house on the terrace and called: ‘Are you all right, Alex?’ ”

  “Alexander Kurbsky, it has to be, and the other guy would be Yuri Bounine. What happened?”

  “This Alex relieved Cochran of his wallet. He was distracted by the arrival of his friend, so Cochran managed to run for it, scrambled over the wall, and got away. He also heard women’s voices, and one did call out: ‘Alexander, are you well?’ ”

  “That’s it,” Holley said.

  “Not quite, Daniel.” She was silent for a moment. “We even lost when I lied to you.”

  In a way, he knew what was coming, and said, “Spit it out.”

  “Monica Starling.” She took a deep breath and told him. “So there you are, and God’s curse on me for what I did. She’s all right, though.”

  “And how in the hell would you know?”

  “Murray dumped the truck into a tree farther along and went back through the wood along the side of the road. He watched police and ambulance at the scene. There was an old boy with her who’d been bandaged up, but she seemed fine.”

  “No thanks to you,” Holley told her.

  “So what happens now?” she asked wearily. “I suppose the Russians will be interested to know that Kurbsky is alive and kicking, if that weird-looking man really is him.”

  “I’d stake my life on it. I think this strange appearance is just a very clever disguise. If you look at photos of Alexander Kurbsky, he’s a long-haired, bearded cavalier of a man, a swagger to him. It was an absolutely brilliant idea on the part of whoever thought it up to disguise him as the exact opposite.”

  “So you’ll pass the information on to the Russians? What would they do? Kidnap him, I suppose?”

  “To do that, they’d have to lay hands on him, and I very much doubt that’s going to happen. Charles Ferguson and his friends have just experienced a personal and very organized series of attacks. They’re not going to take any chances.” Holley shook his head. “Ferguson is going to fear the worst when Kurbsky reports in. He’ll make arrangements to get him and the women out of there and pack them off to somewhere safe and secure. Perhaps out of the country.”

  “Where do you think?”

  “Oh, who the hell knows? They’re very close with the Americans, they’ll probably help. One thing you can be certain about, it will happen today and very quickly.”

  “So what now?”

  “I’ll not run out on you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Just before everything hotted up last night, I had a strange call from a man who asked me if I knew where you were. He said he was a Captain Ivanov.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was up to my eyes with everything. I said I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he laughed in a very nasty way and said maybe he should come and see me. I closed down on him. Who is he?”

  “I told you I had the Russians behind me in this and asked if it bothered you. You said it didn’t and that they were a means to an end. Peter Ivanov is a GRU captain. He’s turned out to be a truly bad man. He doesn’t like me and thinks he should be the one running things, not that there’s much left to run. I’ll deal with him.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the country. I’ll be back in town soon. Look for me, girl. Keep the faith.”

  He sat there, thinking about it. A bloody mess it had turned out to be and still only three o’clock in the morning. Well, no point going back to bed now. He called Selim, who answered groggily.

  “Whoever this is, go away.”

  “It’s me, Selim. Stop fooling round. We need to talk. Meet me downstairs in five minutes.”

  He had actually been sitting in
the lounge for fifteen minutes when Selim emerged, looking rumpled.

  “So tell me what’s so important.”

  Holley did, from the beginning to the shambles it had now become. Selim listened with a kind of awe. “My dear boy, can this be so? It’s better than the midnight movie. What happens now?”

  “Charles Ferguson will move quickly to get Kurbsky and those with him to somewhere safe—and that’s the end of it.”

  “The Big Boss in the Kremlin will be disappointed, and I have a feeling Lermov will feel you’ve let him down.”

  “Well, that’s too bad . . . And if he thinks I’ll go back to the Lubyanka, he can think again.”

  “Fighting talk, that’s what I like to hear. Let’s see if there’s anyone round to give us breakfast, Daniel, and then we’ll get back to town and see what’s happening.”

  END GAME

  14

  Back in London at his hotel, Holley phoned Ivanov in the afternoon. “I presume you’ve heard the bad news?”

  “Chekhov told me as soon as he knew. Not so clever now, Holley, are we? You’ve failed.”

  “I suppose you could put it that way,” Holley told him. “Has Lermov called?”

  “Of course he has and he isn’t pleased. I’d say it’s back to the Lubyanka for you.”

  “It’s a thought, I suppose. When does he get in?”

  “Round midnight, and he’s told me to keep a close eye on you. No use in trying to do a runner.” He was thoroughly worked up, his voice full of venom.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Holley told him. “How can you keep a close eye on me when you don’t even know where I am?”

  “I know where the Daly woman is, though.”

  “That’s true, but I warned you about approaching her and I meant what I said. She’s had enough on her plate.”

  “Yes, more bloody failure, as I understand it. Major Chelek has heard what happened to Charles Ferguson last night. Absolutely bloody nothing. A dead chauffeur wasn’t the point. I understand the Salters’ pub, the Dark Man, is still standing in spite of a suspected arson attack.”

  “True,” Holley said. “And Lady Monica Starling survived the crash with the truck driver who tried to knock her off the road.”

  “A complete failure, that’s the truth of it,” Ivanov said. “And what about Kurbsky? Chekhov told me that you had arranged for one of the cell members to break into Kurbsky’s aunt’s house to find out if he’s been hiding there. What happened about that?”

  Suddenly, in a moment of revelation, Daniel Holley knew that he’d had enough, and that he didn’t really care anymore about Putin being disappointed and Josef Lermov’s career prospects facing severe damage. When it came right down to it, even the threat of a return to the Lubyanka didn’t worry him, because he was going to run, and keep on running, and they could all go to hell.

  What he wasn’t going to do was tell Ivanov that Alexander Kurbsky and Yuri Bounine were hiding in his aunt’s house, almost certainly awaiting a pickup for pastures new, arranged by Charles Ferguson.

  “According to Cochran, the house was empty, everyone gone. That’s all I can say.”

  “Then where are they?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. Maybe Ferguson would know. You could ask him.”

  “Or that Starling bitch,” Ivanov said. “She was more involved with Kurbsky than anyone.”

  “I don’t think you’d get very far asking her, and, as she’s Harry Miller’s sister and Sean Dillon’s lover, I wouldn’t advise you to try. Anyway, I’m telling you again. Stay away from Caitlin Daly.”

  “Go to hell,” Ivanov told him, and clicked off.

  Holley didn’t have to prepare for the possibility of a bad scenario, he knew it was coming. He stripped to the waist and pulled on his bulletproof vest, then dressed again. This time, he backed up the ankle holster and the knife in his left sock with the silenced Walther in the special left-hand breast pocket of his raincoat.

  At the shop, Selim let him in, and said, “I see you have your suitcase with you.”

  “At this stage in the game, a fast exit might be in order. I’m returning your laptop.”

  “Bring me up-to-date,” Selim said.

  Holley filled him in. “So there you are, a disaster all round.”

  “The call from Ivanov doesn’t sound good. Do you think he’ll go after Daly?”

  “I’m sure of it, which is why I’m going there now. Lermov’s not due until midnight. Can I borrow the Mini Cooper?”

  “Of course you can. I’ll get the keys.” Selim went out for a moment, then returned and handed them to Holley. “If you have to park it somewhere, leave the keys inside and lock the door. I have spares if it needs to be picked up. What have you planned?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. I’m at the stage where I’m not playing the game, the game’s playing me.”

  “A most interesting position to be in. I await the outcome with bated breath.”

  “Then I’ll be on my way. Obviously, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Please do, dear friend.” Selim embraced him and lightly kissed his cheeks. “Allah protect you.”

  Holley went out into Shepherd’s Market, the door closed behind him. He was alone again.

  He’d just started to drive when his Codex sounded, and he pulled over to the side of the road. It was Chekhov, and his first words were, as usual, “Where are you?”

  “On the road. What do you want?”

  “You spoke to Ivanov, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told him that Cochran found the place empty. You were very lucky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Ivanov has some special new electronic gadget from Major Chelek that knocks out security systems. He and Kerimov got inside Chamber Court a short time ago and found it deserted. Not a soul there.”

  Holley felt immediately cheered. “Ferguson certainly moves fast.”

  “So where do you think they are?”

  “Probably America, Ferguson is owed a lot of favors there, but wherever it is, it will be very, very safe. Ivanov must be going out of his head at that thought.”

  “What about Caitlin Daly?” Chekhov asked. “She must be devastated at the way things have worked out.”

  “That’s one way of describing it.”

  “And Lermov gets in at midnight, I hear,” Chekhov said. “And won’t be pleased.”

  “You can say that again,” Holley told him.

  “What are you going to do, get the hell out of there?”

  “I’d like to, but there’s the woman to consider.”

  Chekhov laughed incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t owe her anything.”

  “Come off it, Max. There she was, living on past glory and her own impossible dream, and she’d still be doing that if I hadn’t turned up and made the dream real again.”

  “Hardly your fault. That was Lermov and Putin at the Kremlin. You didn’t have a choice.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t just run out on her now. I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you later.”

  He started to drive but had to pull over to the side as his Codex alerted him again. It was Caitlin Daly in a panic. Sean Dillon had turned up at the church with Billy Salter. Dillon had gone into the confessional box with Monsignor Murphy. It was all there, and Dillon knew everything, and four dead men already—Henry Pool, John Docherty, Frank Barry, and Jack Flynn—all with the card in their wallets. Ferguson and his people were on to them.

  Holley agreed with her. At this stage, for Dillon to be so close was incredible. The prayer cards hadn’t helped. Out of the six male cell members, five had carried the card. He certainly hadn’t known about that, and he wondered if Caitlin did.

  “There’s no proof, nothing concrete.” He tried to reassure her. “Where are you?”

  “At the church. Monsignor Murphy’s in his study in the presbytery. I’m in the sacristy. It’s the only place where I can be truly alone and
lock the door. I’m scared, Daniel, frightened that Ivanov will make an appearance. I dread that he could be here already.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Yes, I carry a Belgian Leon .25 in my bag.”

  “That’s good, and you know how to use it. I’ll see you quite soon. I’ve got a car. Twenty minutes, with any luck.”

  He did not see what happened, that was the terrible thing. He drove to Kilburn, parked the Mini Cooper some distance from the church, and could see a small crowd of people standing there in the dusk of early evening, an ambulance and two police cars, policemen taking statements. Monsignor James Murphy was in a dark cloak, talking to one officer, and, from the look of him, greatly distressed. There was a medium-sized truck with one front wheel over a curb, a shaken-looking man in a leather jacket leaning against it, obviously the driver.

  Holley stood at the back, and said softly to an old man in a cloth cap standing next to him, “What happened?”

  “A terrible business. Monsignor Murphy’s housekeeper came running down the path and straight out into the road. I saw the whole thing. Quite a few people did. The driver never stood a chance. I don’t know what possessed her.”

  An older woman in front looked back over her shoulder. “I heard her shouting at somebody. She was saying: ‘Get away from me.’ ”

  “And where is she?” Holley asked the man.

  “In the ambulance, but she’s dead. Like I said, the police are taking a lot of statements. It’s a terrible thing, but that poor sod was in no way to blame.” He nodded towards the driver.

  Holley backed slowly away as more people appeared, drawn to the crowd by the drama of it. He turned and walked back to the Mini Cooper and sat behind the wheel for a while. She had been running from Peter Ivanov. That had to be the explanation.

  His anger was very real because he was to blame. He sat there, breathing deeply and gripping the wheel hard, then he called Chekhov. There was no background music, no impression that others were there.