Jack Higgins: The wolf at the door

"Actually, I already have."

"You're a laugh a minute, Max." Holley switched off and left.

Bob le flambeur was sensationally good and lifted his spirits in spite of the downbeat ending. "Marvelous," he told Selim as they sat in the booth at Al Busten. "They don't make them like that anymore. I didn't get a chance to tell you, by the way: Chekhov called me."

"What happened?"

Holley told him. "A pity the sod didn't die in the back of the Mercedes."

"You have a point. With such a man, one wonders what he could try next. Your big day, whatever it is, is Friday. I presume that after that your problems will be over?"

"It would be a clean break, let's put it that way."

"So what of tomorrow?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. I have one important phone call to make in the morning. The rest is just time filling."

"Then may I suggest an excellent way to spend the whole day. Twenty miles out of town is a spa and country club of which I happen to be a member. An excellent gymnasium, two swimming pools, more health treatments than you would know what to do with. There is even a golf course."

"I don't play golf."

"You can drive round in a cart with some clubs and try?"

"You know something, you're absolutely right," Holley told him, and emptied the champagne bottle into their glasses and toasted him. "And if it's anything like it's been, it'll be a nice day out in the rain."

Which it certainly was, but the day was saved by Selim planning ahead and speaking in the intimate way one would to an old friend, to someone called Martha who was, it seemed, director of activities. The result was that when they arrived at ten-thirty and ran from the Mini Cooper through pouring rain to the front entrance, they were met by an attractive fortyish blonde in white slacks and a blue blazer who had a full program organized for them.

Club tracksuits were supplied. Selim went off for a massage, Holley elected to try the gym, where a muscular young man named Harry put him through a series of weight-training classes and, noting his age from the form he'd filled in, observed that he was in remarkable condition and obviously worked out.

Holley didn't tell him he had until recently been a regular user of the gym facility at the Lubyanka Prison. In any case, when he stripped off his vest, revealing the terrible bruise Ivanov's bullet had made, his explanation-that he'd slipped against the end of a steel bar at a London gym-was received with horror at the lack of professionalism that had allowed such a thing to happen.

He worked his way through a series of weight-lifting exercises and cycles and finally ended up in a sauna for half an hour, then another half hour swimming, and decided he'd had enough. He asked for a fresh tracksuit, went to the lounge bar, ordered a large scotch, and went and lay on a recliner, from which he could look out at the golf course stretching away into an infinity of rain and mist.

He had his Codex in a pocket of the tracksuit, and, when it sounded, he got it out quickly. It was Caitlin Daly. "Where are you?"

"Somewhere in Kent. What have you got for me?"

"The word from Barry is excellent. He tells me that Potanin and the other man, Bulganin, are first-rate. Bulganin and Flynn went to Quogue and sniffed round. There aren't too many people there this time of year, and with the weather, and they located the boat."

"And the Miller hit?"

"Barry said Potanin's provided him with a silenced pistol with hollow-point cartridges. He said Potanin instructed him to wait, identify his target, then shoot him up close, preferably in a crowd situation, and just keep on walking. Nobody sees a thing. Wasn't that the way Mick Collins and his boys operated in Dublin in the old days?"

For the first time, it occurred to Holley that she might be a raving lunatic. "Well, I suppose there is a certain truth to that, but let's hope for Barry's sake something else turns up. You're seeing the cell again tonight?"

"Yes, everyone's ready for action, it's all systems go."

"There's just one change," Holley said, and when Selim appeared in a robe, a towel around his neck, he put a finger to his lips and motioned him to sit.

"What would that be?"

"The woman, Monica Starling. I've decided against it. You can tell Murray his target is aborted."

Her response was immediate. "You can't do that. It was agreed."

"I've changed my mind. I'm not going to be responsible for the killing of a woman, and, if you've a brain in you at all, you'll know why. That's an end of it. My decision."

"You can't do that. I'm cell leader."

"And I'm the commander of the whole bloody plot," Holley told her. "Without me and the Russians, you wouldn't have an operation. Now you've still got one but without the killing of the woman."

Her reluctance was plain in her voice. "If that's the way it has to be."

"Don't mess with me on this, girl." His voice was hard. "I hold the cards here. I can have word sent to Potanin that it's all off, even order him to dispose of Barry and Flynn."

She was obviously shaken. "No, don't do that."

"I'll call round tonight after your six o'clock meeting and confirm this with you face-to-face. I'll be waiting in the back pew."

"All right. I understand."

He switched off his Codex and turned to Selim, who was looking grave. "Not good, I fear, whatever it is. Who is this woman, have I met her?"

"No, and you wouldn't want to. A deeply disturbed individual, but aren't we all? Now, how about some lunch? After all my exertions, I'm absolutely starving."

After lunch, Selim disappeared to indulge in a final massage of some description and an appointment in the hairdressing salon. Holley felt that enough was enough, although there was no doubt that he felt a lot better than when he'd arrived. He was sitting in the lounge bar, thinking about what had happened with Caitlin Daly, when Martha appeared to inform him that the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd arrived had all been valeted and were waiting for him in the allotted cubicle.

He found perfection. Even his tie had been pressed, the shoes shined. He returned to the bar lounge to find Selim still in a robe but with his hair trimmed and looking suspiciously black.

"You've had a dye job," Holley said.

"And you, my friend, look like a whiskey advert. For a man of forty-nine, you look remarkably fit, Daniel. It's not fair."

"Not much in life is," Holley told him. "Let's have a coffee, then you go and change, and I suggest we make tracks."

Selim waved to the barman as Holley's Codex sounded. Lermov said, "There you are, Daniel. Time we talked, I think."

"Where are you?"

"Moscow, but soon to leave for the Prime Minister's plane."

"Well, that's nice for you, so close to the seat of power. But remember Icarus. His wings melted and fell off when he flew too close to the sun."

"Ah, you obviously enjoyed the benefits of a classical education."

"Of a grammar school education, Josef, in my case the Leeds variety. What do you want?"

"Daniel, you mustn't go round shooting people, it won't do."

"So you heard about that? From your pet poodle Chekhov, I suppose!"

"Yes, and I know about the incident when Ivanov turned up at the church and tried to force you into the car. He was wrong."

"Glad you agree. But about yesterday's incident, I would point out he shot me first. I'm only speaking to you now thanks to the genius of the Wilkinson Sword Company, which made my bulletproof vest."

"I accept all that, but you've certainly had your revenge. Half an ear gone."

"Well, let's say he's made his mark in the world. I should imagine he'll look satisfactorily grotesque."

"You're a hard man, Daniel, even harder than I'd imagined."

"What you see is not what you get with me, Josef. You should have realized that just as you should have realized what Peter Ivanov is really like under that pretty uniform. He's broken your specific orders in this matter. We were to be voices on the Codex, that's all. He violated that by showing up at the church and yet again by making Chekhov take him to Bolt Hole. What was that all about?"