“Oh, but I do know most things. Volkov, for example? What can you tell me about him?”
“I only met him once. He appears to control Belov International for the government. The President joined us, handed over the warrant, told us he expected us to do our duty in this matter. Never mentioned Belov, just left.”
“What’s the point of the exercise?”
“Two, actually. Belov International is so important to the country at the moment, they don’t want the sort of movement on the world financial market that would take place if there was news of Belov’s death.”
“And what’s your second point?”
“Volkov thinks you and your people are a great nuisance and better put out of the way once and for all.”
“Thanks very much,” Billy told her.
“Would you say the President agrees?”
“The President is clever. He hands out a warrant, but it gives not the slightest indication what it’s for.”
“The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way necessary,” Dillon said. “That can mean everything or nothing, but not from Volkov’s point of view.”
“And Ashimov’s been happy to assist him,” Greta said.
There was a pause. Roper said, “So an unhappy Max Zubin still sits there in Station Gorky.”
“Yes, I thought you’d know about him. Well, he’s shaved the beard off. It is an extraordinary resemblance, so they tell me. He posed as Belov once before. Ashimov was there.”
“Yes, we know that.”
“And his mother in Moscow?”
“I’ve met her. Fantastic woman, one of our greatest actresses. She leads an open life. I mean, where would she go with him to think of?”
“And where would he go?” Dillon said.
“Any plans for him to be moved?” Roper asked.
“I believe so. An appearance in Moscow or Paris. I suppose a sight of him would dispel any rumors about Belov, keep things looking normal.”
“Yes, I suppose it would.”
“What about Levin?” Ferguson asked. “Where do you think he’s gone?”
“He had the plane, so he’ll have gone to Ballykelly. Ashimov is there.”
“Really? How interesting.” Ferguson stood up. “I must take that on board. Enough for now. Your hairdresser, after all, he’s top priority. We’ll meet again later.”
At Hangman’s Wharf, there was a magnificent warehouse development. It was Harry’s pride and joy, walking distance from the Dark Man and turned into apartments of total luxury, unique in design.
The ultimate was the penthouse, vast, spread across a huge top floor, reached by two private elevators, one in front, the other at the back. Where the original cargo gates opened, there were now terraces of hardwood jutting twenty feet out over the river, and from the penthouse, it was a seventy-foot drop.
The furnishings were cedar and mahogany, a great desk for Harry Salter in the corner, sofas, sumptuous carpets everywhere, Indian, Chinese, and in the open-plan design, a fabulous kitchen area with graceful hoods taking the fumes away, and Harry’s personal chef, Selim, from the restaurant Harry’s Place. He had energetically supervised the meal, mainly Indonesian, for the Salters, Dillon, Ferguson and Roper. Even Henderson and Doyle, seated at the far end of the bar and keeping a watchful eye on things, had been well taken care of. And there was Greta, of course.
“You’ve been very frank, Major,” Ferguson told her. “Why?”
“Well, to be practical, I suspect you know most of what I told you. I might have done a little filling in, but that’s all. Anyway, what happens now? You can’t arrest me. That would be terribly inconvenient.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Every job you and your people do is a black operation. It never happened, never existed. Dillon and Billy would never dream of going out there under orders and killing everybody on sight, but they do, which leaves me in the clear. So what happens to me?”
“If he sends you back, love, I think old Volkov would either shoot you or send you to the Gulag.” That was Billy.
“Of course, you could claim asylum,” Roper said.
“If I found myself on the pavement, the most you could do is ask Colonel Luhzkov to send me home. I have diplomatic immunity.”
“How boring,” Ferguson said.
“And what a bleeding waste,” Harry put in.
“What if I made you a proposition?” Ferguson said.
“Throw in my lot with you?”
“Oh, no, something much more subtle. What if I gave you a chance to return to the fold, your own people?”
“What, hand me over to Luhzkov? Tell him to fly me out?”
“Much, much better than that. Now listen to me. There’s one thing I suggest you do first, though.”
“And what’s that?”
“First, let me ask you where you think Levin might be.”
She frowned. “Drumore Place, probably.”
He handed her his Codex Four. “I’m sure you know his number. Give him a call. Tell him what you think of him. After all, he dumped you at Khufra.”
She sat looking at him, then shook her head. “What would be the point?”
“I’d like to know if he is there. I’d like to know if Ashimov is still there. I want them, and don’t kid yourself, I intend to have them. Dead or alive, it makes no odds to me.”
“So what does that mean?”
“If you won’t join in, we’ll go and find out for ourselves. Dillon, young Billy here. Come to think of it, I’ll go.”
Billy said, “Not another bleeding beach drop.”
“Any approach from a plane would alert them,” Ferguson said. “No, we’ll do what we’ve done before. A passage by night, Billy. Oban to the Irish coast. It will do me good, a little rough weather and sea air. Does it suit you gentlemen?”
Dillon was smiling, Billy shrugged and Harry said, “Only if I can come, too.”
Ferguson said, “That’s it, then.” He smiled at Greta. “You, my love, will be left in limbo with Major Roper at Holland Park.”
“That’s actually illegal,” she said.
“Well, I could just as easily have you deported via the Russian Ambassador, direct to Moscow. I don’t think it would do your career plans much good, do you?”
“My God, you’re just as bad as they are.”
“True. It’s the nature of the game we all play, and in my own way, I’m sure I’m just as unforgiving as General Volkov. You see, there’s one unfortunate thing about this whole wretched business which won’t go away.”
“And what would that be?”
“Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein.”
There was a moment of terrible silence, as if a chill had touched everyone there.
Dillon’s face was white, skin stretched, the eyes dark holes. It was as if Death had come to meet them. Strangely, it was Billy who spoke in a gentle voice.
“She was a special lady. She deserved better.”
There was nothing Greta could say, and Ferguson sighed. “You could have joined the team, Major. You blew it. So, we’ll leave you in limbo.”
Levin sat in the Royal George as rain swept in from the sea, finished his fish pie and ordered another vodka from Patrick Ryan, who had only half a left ear: a row of surgical clips holding it together, the whole lot glistening with surgical spray.
“When did you say he’d be back?” he asked Ryan, referring to Ashimov.
“Two, maybe three. He and Liam Bell went down to Dublin. I heard them talking. It was something to do with the Russian Embassy.”
There was a roaring overhead. Levin said, “That sounds like an approach to Ballykelly.”
“It could be.”
He went off to the kitchen, and a moment later, Levin’s phone rang. Ashimov said, “I’m still at the Embassy in Dublin awaiting orders, God knows why, but I’ve news for you.”
“And what would that be?”
“Volkov wants you in London. They’re sending a Falcon.”
“I think it’s just flown in.”