“And a quick transfer to the West End,” Billy said.
“Yes, I can see that. I can also see that you gentlemen are putting yourselves in harm’s way by accompanying me on this affair.”
“Well, that’s the name of the game.” Billy shook hands.
Zubin said, “You’re not an actor, too, Mr. Salter?”
“No, I’m a gangster,” Billy told him.
“Good God,” Zubin said.
Dillon said, “Good-bye, Mr. Zubin. We will see you in Moscow tomorrow night.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am. I’ll tell your mother why when I’m on that plane with her, leaving Moscow. Come on, Billy.”
They went out. Dillon locked the connecting doors. “The bedclothes,” he said.
Billy rumpled them and the pillows.
“Just in case a maid looks in,” Dillon said, and opened the door. The corridor was silent. “Come on,” he whispered, and they went down the back stairs beside the lift. They stood on the steps in Park Lane, sheltering from hard, driving rain for a few moments, and tried to flag down a cab.
There were still a few people around from the function, limousines drawing up to collect passengers, and, of all people, Igor Levin emerged and stood on the steps, took out a box of cigarettes and saw them.
“Still here, you two?” He selected a cigarette and offered them. “Russian.”
“I could see you were a gentleman.” Dillon pinched the cardboard expertly and accepted the light offered. He inhaled. “Excellent.”
Levin said, “Only the best.”
“Back to Moscow for you, old son?”
“How could I leave you two on the loose?” A black Mercedes turned in. Levin opened the main door, sat beside the driver and was driven away.
“Now, there’s a happy man,” Billy said, and at that moment, in response to his raised hand, a cab swerved in.
Afterward, they sat with Ferguson by the fire at his apartment in Cavendish Place and discussed the evening. Ferguson was particularly interested in the incident with Levin.
“Why do you think they’re keeping him on here?” Dillon asked.
“It suits Volkov. He’s smart, clever, ruthless. Doesn’t fit the mold of your usual agent.”
“I reckon it’s more than that,” Billy said. “He’s getting at you, General. It’s like reminding you that there’s nothing you can do about Levin.”
“You could well be right, young Billy. I’ll outplay him on that one, of course.”
“How?”
“By you two bringing Max Zubin and his mother out of Russia.” He stood up. “I’ll see you off at Farley tomorrow. You’d better move on. You’ll need a good night’s sleep.”
Outside, another taxi. As it swerved in, Billy said, “We’ll drop you at your place first.”
“No, you won’t,” Dillon said. “You haven’t told Harry about this caper, have you?” he asked.
“No,” Billy said. “He’d blow his top. I mean, we’ve done enough in the past, bad things, hard things, but this? One false move in Moscow, Dillon, and it’s curtains. They’ll swallow us whole.”
They got in the back of the cab. Dillon said, “You’re right. It could go as smoothly as silk…”
“Or we might end up in deep shit.”
“Well, if you’re worried,” Dillon said, “maybe it doesn’t need the two of us.”
“Oh, no, you go, I go. I won’t have it any other way.”
It was late, but there were still a few people in the saloon bar of the Dark Man. Harry was seated in his usual spot in the corner booth, Baxter and Hall hanging around.
Dillon said, “Other end of the bar, you two. Billy needs to talk to Harry. It’s family.” They looked surprised, but went. “Okay, tell him.” Dillon went to the bar and ordered a large Bushmills.
He drank it down and ordered another, then went back to the booth. Harry looked pale and angry.
“This is bleeding enough. It’s insane.”
“No, it’s important, Harry, it’s of world importance. I just thought you should know.” He patted Billy on the shoulder and swallowed his Bushmills. “See you at Farley at eleven o’clock, Billy.”
He gave Harry a look, turned and went out. At the door, he stood in the porch buttoning his coat against the rain. Harry came up behind him, Joe Baxter at his shoulder.
“Did you want a word?”
“We’ll leave at ten-thirty tomorrow.”
“You said eleven.”
“Yes, well, we all make mistakes. He’s a good kid.”
“So you’re a sentimentalist at heart.” Harry shook his hand. “Take him home, Joe,” and he went back inside.
MOSCOW
13
In the Putin plane, things weren’t organized the way Air Force One was for the American President. On that famous plane, there was a certain relaxation, a constant coming and going of staff. Even the members of the press on board could circulate to a degree.
No, conditions on the Russian President’s plane were stricter, more regimented. On the other hand, Zubin didn’t find himself sitting at the back with the rabble, as they were known in Russian political circles. After all, he was Josef Belov, which secured him three vacant seats, and, following whispered instructions, he sat in the third one next to a window and blanked off from people.
Rising up out of London, he wasn’t as excited as he’d been the previous evening, but calm and serious, considering the situation. There had been no security check at RAF Northolt, but it had been obvious that there wouldn’t be, not for VIPs, so the Colt.25 they’d given him and the Codex Four mobile were at the bottom of his briefcase. He’d also discovered a couple of pairs of plastic handcuffs, a street map of central Moscow, his route from the Excelsior to his mother’s apartment clearly marked and onward to the Belov Complex, a spray can of CS gas and some night glasses.
It was mad, the whole idea that it could be got away with, but the other future was too awful to contemplate. He was staring into space thinking about it when someone sat beside him. He turned and found it was Volkov.
“Yes, General,” he said. “How can I be of service?”
“Oh, you already have.” Volkov was in a jovial mood and took two vodkas from a passing waiter and gave Zubin one.
“A fine performance. The President is very pleased with you, and tomorrow at the Kremlin will be your biggest performance ever. Signing the Belov Protocol in front of the world’s cameras. The President will decorate you. Hero of the Soviet Union.”
“Ah, I thought we’d done away with that?”
“Well, something similar.”
“May I see my mother?” Zubin held his breath and hoped, but Volkov was in high good humor.
“You may order your chauffeur to take you to your mother’s apartment on the way to the Excelsior when we get in, but fifteen minutes only, Zubin, at least for now.” He waved for two more vodkas and passed one over. “Everything’s worked out perfectly. You’ve been splashed all over Russian television in the company of the President and the British Prime Minister in London. It’s made you quite a star, and news of the Belov Protocol with ordinary people has done even more. It’s made you a hero.” He smiled jovially and tossed down his vodka. “A great triumph for us all.”
He got up and walked away and Zubin sat there, trying to take it all in, then leaned back in his seat and wondered what Dillon was up to.
Dillon arrived at Farley the following morning, rain driving in. He parked the Mini Cooper, got out, a raincoat over his shoulders, and ran across to the operations room under the control tower, the rain heavy. The Citation X stood a few yards away, its RAF rondels proud, and as Dillon went up the steps, Squadron Leader Lacey emerged from behind some bushes, wearing a flying jacket, standard uniform underneath, medals clear, his Air Force Cross well on display.
“You look good,” Dillon said.