“If you go back, you’ll disappear from sight forever. Stalin may have died a long time ago, but nothing changes, Greta.”
She went out slowly, Doyle following.
Ashimov flew over from Ballykelly, rising up through heavy rain. He found the vodka and sat there drinking. “Bloody country, it rains nearly every day. I’ll be glad to get out of it.”
“To Russia? Lousy weather, I should have thought, at this time of the year. Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Bell said.
“Of what?”
“Oh, our line of work. Years of putting yourself on the line, dodgy passports like today, lies.”
Ashimov swallowed more vodka. “I loved it, worked my way up from being a private soldier. They’d have made me a colonel for sure this year. I was still officially GRU, though I was responsible for all Belov’s security. You know the good work I did with the KGB in the old days working for the Irish Cause.”
“I can’t deny that.”
“And then Ferguson and Dillon came on the scene, always Dillon. This business with Zubin has ruined my life.”
“And you think knocking off Zubin and his mother will put you back on Volkov’s good books?”
“I’d be even better if it could be Ferguson and Dillon. I’d like to see them both rot in hell.”
In spite of being obviously drunk, he had another, and Bell, on the other side of the aisle, picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it, already regretting his involvement. But times were hard. It wasn’t the old days any longer, with a pistol in your pocket and a song in your heart for the glorious Cause. Fifty thousand pounds. He’d just have to put up with this madman. After all, it was only two days.
Chomsky hadn’t told Levin the exact truth about Popov, his man in the boat at Hangman’s Wharf, for like Levin himself, Popov’s mother had been English. She had died of cancer while Popov served in Chechnya. The truth was she’d had a younger sister living in Islington, so Popov’s posting to the London Embassy had presented him with an aunt and a ready-made extended family. His English was not only excellent, as Chomsky had said, it was perfect, which proved more than useful on his assignment at Hangman’s Wharf, for nobody doubted he was English.
He ventured into the pub, had meat-and-potato pie, beer, even recognized Harry Salter and Billy from the photos he’d been shown. Outside working on the boat at the wharf, he’d noticed them walking down to the warehouse development and going in. He’d taken a walk that way, read the notice board outside extolling the virtues of Salter Developments.
There was a small exhibition in the foyer, plans on display, leaflets declaring how special the apartments were and, most special of all, the penthouse. At that end of the wharf, the development continued, rising straight up from the Thames, a row of balconies sixty feet high, and what had originally been some sort of cargo gates.
A man in a security uniform wandered out of the entrance. He smiled. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“You can say that again.”
“Do you live round here?”
“Only on a temporary basis. I’m doing one of the boats up along the wharf there. Just a paint job, really. Charley Black.”
He held out his hand, the man shook it.
“Tony Small. I’ve not been here long myself.”
“Might see you in the pub later.”
“Could be.”
Levin’s boys followed various vehicles out of Holland Park, sometimes cross-matching Ferguson from Cavendish Place or the other way round, Dillon in his Mini Cooper, the Salters, particularly Billy, visiting a number of times and occasionally the trail leading to the Ministry of Defence.
There was a breakthrough when Billy, in his uncle’s Aston, left Holland Park with the Zubins. The man in the Telecom manhole alerted his colleague on a security firm Suzuki, who followed them all over Mayfair and the West End visiting twelve properties, eventually returning to Holland Park.
“House-hunting, Captain,” the false security man told him. “Sometimes there was a For Rent or a For Sale board.”
“And sometimes not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The real estate agent’s boards, what was the name?”
“Salter Enterprises.”
“And afterwards, they returned to Holland Park?”
“No, sir, they stopped at Hangman’s Wharf. There’s a Salter warehouse development there. They went in and had a look. Came out an hour later. It’s close to the Dark Man.”
“Did they go in the pub?”
“No. Billy Salter took them straight back to Holland Park.”
“Interesting,” Levin said to Chomsky. “Contact Popov and tell him to find out what he can about this development on the wharf.”
Popov worked away at painting his boat by the wharf, and in the later part of the afternoon saw the security man, Tony Small, emerge from the development and walk along to the Dark Man. Popov left his work and went across to the pub. It had just started to rain.
Small was seated in a corner booth, eating a Cornish pasty, a beer at his elbow, and reading the London Evening Standard. Popov got a beer and turned and smiled.
“Hello, again.”
Small looked up. “Oh, it’s you. How’s it going?”
“Just started to rain. Won’t help the painting. Can I join you?”
“Why not?”
Popov sat on the other side of the table. “I was really impressed with that place where you work. Somebody told me that this Salter company owns this pub.”
“They own more than that, mate. Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, own just about everything you can see from here along the riverbank.”
“Is that so?”
“Millions in development. Restaurants, gambling, you name it, they’re into it. It’s strictly legal, but it wasn’t always like that. King of the river, Harry. I should know, I spent five years with the river police. Nobody messed with Harry Salter.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I can’t believe you’re working here in Wapping and don’t realize who he is.”
“No, I’m from West Sussex,” Popov said. “Had a real estate agency in Chichester. I got a nice offer to take me over from a national company. Good money, so I took it.” Sticking with the truth, he went on, “My old aunt lives in Islington. I’m staying with her and I’m doing the boat up for a friend of hers while I consider my options.”
“Oh, I see.” Small finished his beer and waved to the bar. “Two more.” He then went on to fill in Popov with details of the wicked past of the Salters.
“My God,” Popov said when he’d finished. “And now he’s finished a place like your development. Must be making a fortune.”
“He will be when he’s sold them. It’s all being talked up in the trade. He’s going to do that for a month, then kind of explode on the market. They’re all nice, the apartments, but I tell you what – you should see the penthouse. It’s fantastic. Great views of the Thames all the way down.”
“God, I’d love to see that,” Popov said. “I mean, having been in the business.” He finished his beer. “Fancy a scotch?”
“Well, that’s very nice of you. How can I refuse?”
By the time he’d accepted two large ones, mellowed by alcohol, he said, “I should be getting back. Tell you what, come and have a look.”
Which Popov did and saw everything. The two private elevators at the front, two more at the rear, the glorious penthouse spread across the top of the building, beautifully furnished, the old cargo gates jutting out over the river like terraces. It was all very impressive.
“This is wonderful,” he said.
“It’s going to cost somebody a packet.”
“I thought I saw someone going in earlier,” Popov said.
“Yes, you did. Billy Salter was showing a couple round, a middle-aged guy and an old lady. She was ecstatic about it. He’s invited them round for drinks at six-thirty.”