“You’re to report to Luhzkov and await orders.”
“Have you any idea why?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Is it safe, for God’s sake?”
“Of course it is. You’re a commercial attaché at the Embassy, Ferguson can’t touch you. It would cause a diplomatic incident, and they wouldn’t like that at the moment.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask questions, just do as you’re told.”
He switched off, Levin sighed, went behind the bar, found a glass and reached for the vodka. The door burst open in a gust of rain and wind, and Liam Bell swept in with one of his men, Connor.
“There you are. How was Ibiza?”
“Hardly noticed. Algeria was crap.”
“Give me one of those.”
Levin dosed it out and one for Connor. “So you’ve come back alone? I’ve just had Ashimov on the phone from Dublin.”
“He was closeted with the Ambassador, all highly bloody secret and not for the ears of a peasant like me. Told me he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow and sent me packing.”
“And me thinking you were such good friends.”
“Don’t make fun of me.” Bell grabbed the vodka bottle and poured another.
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
He walked round the bar, and Connor, a brawny individual, grabbed him by the jacket. “Don’t you talk to Mr. Bell like that, you Russian prick.”
“Actually, my grandmother on my mother’s side came from Cork.” Levin tossed the vodka in his glass into Connor’s eyes and head-butted him, sending him back against the bar.
Liam Bell reached under his armpit, and Levin had his Walther out and under his chin in a second.
“I wouldn’t – I really wouldn’t. They’ve sent a plane for me. I’m needed in London.” He patted Bell on the face. “Try and be good while I’m away.”
Lacey and Parry delivered Ferguson and his party to the RAF Air Sea Rescue Base at Oban on the west coast of Scotland, where they were picked up by a couple of RAF sergeants who took them by Land Rover to Oban itself.
One of them said, “That’s the Highlander, two hundred yards out. The inflatable at the jetty is yours. I know it doesn’t seem much, sir, but it’s got twin screws, a depth sounder, radar, automatic steering. It just looks bad because it’s meant to.”
“I get the point, Sergeant.” Ferguson smiled. “Actually, we’re old friends.”
“Safe journey back.”
“I don’t care what he says.” Harry shook his head. “It looks like a bummer to me.”
“I agree it doesn’t look like it’s nosing into the marina at Monte Carlo, but I suspect it will suit our purposes adequately,” Ferguson said. “Now let’s get our gear on board.”
A great deal of Oban seemed to be enveloped in a blanket of mist, and rain swept in. In the distance, clouds swallowed the mountaintops and bay and Kerrera, and there was heavy weather as waves dashed across the Firth of Lorn.
“I’ve said it before,” Billy moaned. “What a bloody place. It rains all the time, it’s cold…”
“Nonsense.” Ferguson patted his shoulder. “Some of the finest views in the Highlands here. Now let’s stow our gear and think about food.”
Ferguson, everything stowed, went up on deck and found Dillon in the wheelhouse with Harry and Billy. He was taking weaponry from the Quartermaster’s bag and passing pistols across.
“One for you, Charles.”
He gave him a Walther, then dropped a flap beside the instrument panel, disclosing some clips screwed into place. He put a Walther in one, a Browning with a twenty-round clip in the other, and pushed the flap back into place.
“Just so you all know they’re there. Now, what was it you said about food?”
They crossed to the jetty in the inflatable, found a nearby pub that offered a log fire, a variety of drinks and a venison pie, which they all sampled. Later, back on the Highlander, they sat under the canvas awning over the stern, rain pouring off, and except for Billy, drank whiskey and smoked, and Dillon turned on the deck lights, for that early darkness of the far north was closing in on them.
“So what’s the plan?” Ferguson asked.
“What would you like to happen?” Dillon asked.
“I’d like us to slip in out of the night like young Lord Nelson on a culling-out expedition.”
“And do what?”
“Get our hands on Ashimov and Levin or, to be honest and it was a perfect world, shoot the bastards. Do you think that’s too much to expect?”
“Not if we leave at six, hit the Irish coast early in the morning under cover of darkness, drape the Highlander with nets to look like a fishing boat. That way we can close in on shore and land.”
“We’ve one big advantage,” Billy said. “Dillon and me know Drumore Place, know what we’re getting into.”
There was a pause. Ferguson said, “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Just that you and Harry stay on the boat,” Dillon said, “and no arguments. We need somebody on board anyway to handle it if we have to make a quick getaway.”
“He’s right,” Harry said. “I mean, we’d be just lumbering around, wouldn’t we?”
“I know, Harry, I, too, hate getting old.” Ferguson nodded. “The ball’s in your court, Sean.”
Dillon shook his head. “There you go, calling me by my first name again.”
They left at six, Dillon at the wheel and Ferguson joined him. It was still dark, wind stirring. “What’s the forecast?” Ferguson asked.
“Four to five when we hit the open sea.” Dillon took out a cigarette one-handed and flicked his Zippo. “I love this.”
“So do I. Remember I told you how I tried to make up for a lost love by sailing the Atlantic run single-handed, Portsmouth by Long Island?”
“I remember what lost you your love. The woman couldn’t marry a man who’d take out five IRA men in Derry who’d tried to assassinate him.”
“An old story, my boy. Is there any chance you could let me take over?”
“Be my guest.”
Dillon went out, and Ferguson checked his instruments and took the Highlander through the harbor entrance in a long sweeping current to the Firth.
The swell started to move beneath, the masthead light began to roll rhythmically from side to side. Through the gloom, he could see the red-and-green navigation lights of a steamer. He steadied at twelve knots and plunged forward, feeling better than he’d done for years.
In London earlier in the afternoon, Levin had reported to Luhzkov at the Embassy.
“So, what’s all the fuss about?”
“I’ve no idea. I had a Most Secret from Volkov, saying to hold you here.”
“You mean physically?”
“Of course not. Hold you available.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“No.
Levin said, “Well, Boris, you have my number. I’m staying at the Dorchester, so you’ll have no trouble finding me.”
Later, sitting in the corner of the Piano Bar, indulging in a pasta salad and champagne, Levin was approached by Guiliano, the manager.
“So, we could have a little excitement around here,” Guiliano said.
“What do you mean?”
“A fellow countryman of yours.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Putin. He’s going to attend some EU conference in Paris, but there’s a whisper he’ll look in here on his way back.”
“You mean visit London?”
“No, visit here, the Dorchester. He’d be in good company. We’ve had every President in Europe stay at this hotel.”
He went to attend another customer. Levin lit a cigarette and sat there thinking about it. Maybe that was it, maybe his presence was needed in some way. It was a crazy world where international intelligence organizations could have their secrets and yet those secrets were readily available on the Grand Hotel circuit. You had to laugh, and he waved to the waiter to pour him another glass of champagne and toasted himself.