Jack Higgins - The wolf at the door

He went downstairs and found Lermov in the bar with Chekhov. As usual, they were drinking vodka. "Everything in order?" Lermov inquired.

"I think you could say that." Holly waved to the barman. "A large scotch over here."

Ivanov came in with an envelope in his hand. "As you ordered, Colonel."

The barman brought the scotch, Lermov opened the envelope and took out an airline ticket. He examined it, then pushed it over. "Ten o'clock in the morning, Daniel, business class, British Airways to London, just as you wanted."

Holley examined it. "Excellent. The only thing missing is a few euros for expenses and a taxi from Heathrow to downtown at the other end. A thousand should do it."

"I would have thought five hundred would be ample." He smiled at Holley. "After all, as I understand it, you have your own banking arrangements in place. Meantime, the Prime Minister has asked me to join his party in New York-he's giving a speech to the UN on Friday. I'll fly to London after that. Captain Ivanov will leave in the Embassy mail plane tomorrow and assist Major Chelek." His slight, weary smile was for all of them. "I think we know where we are with this business, gentlemen."

Chekhov tried to look eager. "The 'game's afoot,' isn't that what the English say? That writer, Conan Doyle?"

"Shakespeare, actually," Daniel told him. "But we'll only have a game at all if Caitlin Daly decides to join us."

"Well, let's travel hopefully," Lermov said, and got up. "I need you in my office, Peter, we have much to do."

"Before you go, let's get one thing straight," Holley said. "As they say in the theater, it's 'my gig' over there, and what I say goes. Max takes his orders from me."

Ivanov was going to say something, but Lermov shut him up. "Of course, Daniel."

They went out. Daniel knocked back his scotch, and Chekhov said, "Let me get you another."

"Why not? But just the one." Chekhov called to the barman, and Daniel said, "Your staff at Belov International in New York, are they mostly Russian?"

"No. The New York branch was an American firm when Belov took it over years ago. But we do have many Russians there. And as you must know, the Moscow Mafia extends not only to London but also New York."

"And you employ such people?"

"On the security side of things. They can be very useful. Our head of security at the Belov building is one such man. Mikhail Potanin."

"Who is, I suppose, capable of most things?"

"Let's say he's very reliable. One has to be practical. Sometimes in business, people must be persuaded to see reason."

"That must be very reassuring for poor put-upon businessmen like yourself." Holley got up to go.

Chekhov said, "So it will be just the voice on the phone over there. You will keep me informed, won't you?"

"As much as I feel necessary. You've got to trust me, Max. After all, I've got to trust you. Lermov will want to know everything I say to you, so try juggling with that. But remember what we agreed. I'm in charge over there. You take your orders from me."

"Of course."

"I'm better for you in every way, Max, better than Lermov, believe me. So be sensible."

"Why wouldn't I?" Max managed to sound indignant.

"Because you couldn't have become a millionaire without being a devious bastard. Play straight with me." Holly smiled. "Or I'll kill you."

In his bedroom, he called Malik in Algiers. "Everything set?"

"Yes. Selim remembers you well from the old days and looks forward to meeting you. The Albany Regency is one he uses regularly himself for overseas agents visiting him, and he's booked you a suite. It's all on the firm. And he uses an encrypted mobile himself. I'll give you the number."

He did, and Holley wrote it down. "I won't call him now, but you could confirm my arrival. Tell him I don't want to be picked up. I'll get a taxi at Heathrow."

"I'll let him know. Stay in touch, and may Allah protect you, my brother."

"I could be spending the rest of my life in the Lubyanka or even Station Gorky. Now I've been offered a chance to earn my way out of it. I'd say the hand of God has got something to do with that. Take care, Malik."

He lay back on the bed, pillowed his head, and stared up at the ceiling, taking a very deep breath, his stomach churning.

"Now it begins," he said softly. "Now it begins."

It was just after two-thirty the following afternoon when Holley's taxi drew up outside the Albany Regency just off Curzon Street. Stormy weather had caused the flight from Moscow to take longer than usual, but he was here in Mayfair and London in the rain. He had changed the euros Ivanov had given him for sterling, paid the cabdriver generously, and went up the steps to the entrance, where a doorman in a top hat and green frock coat greeted him and a young uniformed porter relieved him of his suitcase.

He found the hotel pretty much as he had remembered it. Slightly old-fashioned, which was its charm, but maintained well, and expensive enough to ensure that the clientele was respectable.

His reservation was waiting, and all Holley had to do was sign the reservation form and produce his passport for identification purposes. The Russians had used the same date and place of birth as on his real passport but hadn't put his mother and her address in Leeds on the next-of-kin page. There would have been no point. During one of his sessions with Lermov during his second year of confinement, the Colonel had told him his mother had died. It was a bad memory and one he preferred to forget.

The young porter accompanied him to the fifth floor and showed him to the suite, which was pleasant and functional, with a sliding window to a small balcony with a good view of Curzon Street and Shepherd's Market. Holley tipped the boy, unpacked quickly, and put his things away. He noticed himself in the full-length mirror when he opened the wardrobe. The black suit, the striped tie, and white shirt made him look exactly right. Banker or lawyer, businessman or accountant. Eminently respectable.

There was a small refrigerator next to the television. He opened it and selected a double-vodka miniature, poured it into a plastic cup, added a little tonic water, and toasted himself in the mirror.

"Here we go, off to bloody war again, old lad." He drank it down and went out.

Shepherd's Market had always been one of his favorite places in London. The narrow streets, the pubs, the restaurants, and the shops selling everything from paintings and prints to antiques. "Selim Malik" was painted in gold above the door of one such shop, a narrow window on each side, one offering a triangle of truly remarkable Buddhas and the other an exquisite Bokhara silk rug. The door was shut, but there was an intercom beside it, and Holley pressed a button, confident he was on camera.

Which proved true, because before he could open his mouth a voice said in Arabic, "Praise be to Allah."

A moment later, the door opened, and he was pulled inside to a tight embrace. "Daniel, it is you. Six years since I've seen you, and you look good."

"Older, Selim, older, but you never change."

Selim was small, perhaps five-five, with long, curling hair that had once been black but was now silvery gray and swept behind the ears, no mustache but a fringe of beard, and a dark olive face. He had good-humored eyes that lit up his personality when he was happy, as he was now. He wore a velvet jacket from another age, a ruffled shirt, and baggy velvet trousers.

"Everything is change, Daniel. I was sixty-five this year, imagine that. Come into my study and have a glass of champagne with me to celebrate."

"So you're still that kind of Arab?"

"Allah is merciful. You've booked in at the hotel? Everything is taken care of? I have a running account there. They're very good."