Jack Higgins: The wolf at the door

Selim bustled out wearing his black duster coat. "I could tell by your voice that you are a different man. Am I correct?"

"Yes, I have to admit I'm much relieved."

"Excellent. Five minutes to go for the eight o'clock show at the Curzon. They're showing Alain Delon and Belmondo in Borsalino."

"Gangsters again?" Holley said.

"Of course, and why not? Hurry, my boy. We'll just make it."

The film was as stunning as it had been the first time Holley had seen it, decades ago. Later at Al Bustan, they discussed it. "More than any other filmmakers, the French have portrayed the romance of the gangster, have been able to make him a genuine antihero, and there is a certain nobility to such characters," Selim said.

Holley shook his head, "You've been reading too many film magazines, Selim. The one thing that all such films have in common is the ending. Your antihero, usually on his back in some street, a gun in his hand, in the act of dying if not already dead. Where's the nobility in that?"

"But this is not always so, Daniel. You, my boy, are still here despite all the odds, the samurai for real."

"But consider the price, Selim. Has it been worth it? I think not." He got up and reached for his coat. "I'll see you in the morning."

He went out into the narrow street, turning up his collar against the rain, lighter now but still there. He felt a strange content, probably because of the way the problem with Caitlin Daly had resolved itself, and was reasonably satisfied with the way things were going. He assumed that Harry Miller had already departed for New York. What he didn't know was that the Gulfstream carried an additional passenger, one Sean Dillon, who had persuaded Ferguson at the last minute that he should go.

For the moment, all Holley wanted was sleep, for tomorrow would be one of the most important days in his life, and, arriving back at the hotel, he went straight up to his room and turned in.

He had the dream again, if anything more intense than ever, Rosaleen with him an even shorter time, leaving him quite quickly, assuring him that she would return but never doing so. There was the same sense of panic as he ran through those narrow streets and towering buildings in the black-and-white world. This time, it wasn't just the feeling of loss where she was concerned, it was experiencing the sensation that he was the only person in that dark world, and for the first time he struggled and came awake.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, aware that he was totally alone and always would be, that was his eternal truth and something he'd better face, so he got up, showered and shaved, put on his ankle holster, just in case, and went across to Shepherd's Market.

Selim insisted on making scrambled eggs and toast for them, and Holley sat there in the kitchen watching him cooking. It was absolutely delicious, and he said so, and Selim beamed happily.

"If I learned one great thing from the English when I was at Oxford, it was the art of making perfect scrambled eggs on toast, for it is a great art. Did you know that Ian Fleming is said to have virtually lived on scrambled eggs? He once said in an interview that he could eat them at any time, day or night."

"Selim, you're a good friend, and I know what you're doing. You're trying to take my mind off things, and, yes, I need that. If things go right, they'll start happening in the late afternoon New York time. The other things will happen here late tonight. I am on standby, if you like. It's other people who will actually go to war. The woman that was proving difficult? She is actually in charge of what's happening. I planned things, it's as simple as that. While others go into action, I have to stand back and wait for the result."

"And if it does not produce the expected success, one supposes Mister Big at the Kremlin gets to blame you?"

"So what do I do? The day stretches ahead."

"Care to return to my favorite spa? I could phone Martha and book us in overnight."

Holley was going to say no and then thought, Oh, why not? He could get the verdict there as well as anyplace else. And should the news turn out to be bad-well, he was really going to need that massage. At the club, things were very much as they had been before, even the weather was the same, late-winter cold and miserable rain. Sitting in the lounge bar at four o'clock in the afternoon on his own after a strenuous round in the gym, Holley received his first voice from the outside world. A call from Chekhov.

"Where are you?" he demanded.

"None of your business," Holley told him. "I'm staying out of the way, that's all you need to know. Everything is in place, so I've stepped back, leaving Caitlin Daly to strut her stuff as cell leader."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"She's earned her spurs, Max. Everyone knows what they've got to do. Ferguson, the Salters, Kurbsky, New York-it's all out of my hands now."

"You seem to have skipped Monica Starling," Chekhov said.

"Because I've taken her off the agenda."

"A sudden attack of conscience?"

"I have no difficulty killing on behalf of a woman, as you well know. But I've never actually killed one, and I don't intend to start now."

"And Caitlin Daly must have hated that."

"How did you know?"

"Think Red Brigade, or go back further, to the French Revolution. She'd have helped female aristocrats up the steps to the guillotine with a smile on her face."

"I think you're being a little hard there, Max. What's the boy wonder up to?"

"They've sewn up his ear. It's covered by a substantial dressing and surgical tape, so you can't see how much damage has been done, but it must be considerable."

"I meant it to be."

"I'm surprised he isn't still in his bed in the sick bay, but he's up and round and glaring at everyone like the Devil himself. I saw him in the canteen with Kerimov, who has dressing taped across his left hand and wears a black sling. It's the only time I've visited the Embassy in the past few days."

"Not that you'd tell me, but has he said anything about me?" Daniel asked.

"As I said, I stick to the plan and stay away from the Embassy as much as possible, which was the order. He hasn't phoned me since the confrontation. But, Daniel, this is why I phoned you-I wanted to let you know that Lermov's been in touch."

"When was this?"

"An hour or so ago. He's arrived in New York. He asked after Ivanov and suggested I should call you."

"Concerned about my welfare, no doubt?" Holley laughed.

"Keeping tabs on me, more like. He spoke to me yesterday just before they left Moscow. Asked me to stop shooting people and inquired about how things were going, but I assume he would know anyway because I've kept you informed. It did occur to me that you might have passed it along to him."

"But, my dear Daniel, what is one to do?"

"That's for you to decide. Survival's the name of the game where you're concerned, I can see that, and I don't hold it against you. You can't harm me because I don't trust you for a minute, Max, not even for a little bit."

"Now, that's hard, Daniel," Chekhov told him.

"Yes, isn't it?"

Daniel cut him off, and Selim appeared in a robe. "Just checking. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Get back to work," Holley told him. "You've got to think of those pounds."

He waited for the next call, but it was an hour before it came. Lermov said, "I won't ask you where you are. A man of secrets, I think. Is everything still in place?"

"Absolutely. I'm standing back while Caitlin Daly savors her hour of glory."

"No problems, then?"

"One change of plan. I decided to abort the attack on Monica Starling."

"Yes, I heard about that. Did it cause any problem?"

"It wasn't well received, but it's my decision."

"Very noble of you. So now we wait. I wish you luck, Daniel. If you can bring this off, it will be the coup of a lifetime."