Jack Higgins: The wolf at the door

"Satisfied?" Holley asked, still with his right foot on the bench.

"I will be when you're dead," Kerimov said, and he pushed Holley hard so that he fell over. Kerimov kicked him in the side.

"On your feet, you piece of shit, the boss wants a word before I kill you."

Holley found the flick-knife in his left sock, pulled it out as he got up, turned to face Kerimov, pressing the button, and the razor-sharp blade sheared up under the chin into the brain. Kerimov went down hard and kicked for a while, and then was still.

Holley recovered his weapons, wiped the knife, and put the Colt back in the ankle holster. He searched Kerimov briefly and found car keys, which he assumed were for the Mercedes. He started down, the Walther in his left hand. There was no sign of Ivanov. There was a light in the wheelhouse, but it seemed empty. There was soft music playing, a light at the portholes. Perhaps Ivanov was below?

Monica saw him coming and shook her head vigorously, which didn't help at all. He started towards her, a finger to his lips, then took his knife from his right pocket. There was a maniacal laugh behind him, and a bullet caught him squarely in the back and he half turned, and Peter Ivanov was standing up in the wheelhouse.

"Fooled you, you bastard."

Holley dropped the Walther, and Ivanov shot him in the chest, sending him back over the rail into the water. He went down, surfaced, and kicked out into the darkness while Ivanov was still negotiating the companionway to the deck. Holley pulled his way around to the prow, and, at that point, there were a few stone steps up to the jetty. He freed himself from his raincoat and knelt on the bottom step, listening.

"I've killed the bastard, did you see that?" Ivanov was obviously addressing Monica, but then he raised his voice and shouted, "Kerimov, where are you?"

Holley pulled the Colt from the ankle holster, was up the steps in a moment. Monica saw him first and couldn't help reacting. Ivanov swung around in alarm, and Holley said, "This is for Caitlin Daly."

He shot Ivanov between the eyes, the hollow-point cartridge imploding in the brain, instant death, as he went back over the rail.

Holley picked his knife up from the deck and cut Monica's bonds. She tore the tape away and gagged. "God, that hurt. I don't know who the hell you are, but I should warn you there's another one."

"Not anymore. He jumped me up there in the trees. I've taken care of him."

"Permanently?"

"I'd no choice."

"Never mind that. What I'd really like is an explanation. Earlier this evening, I went out to visit a local corner shop in Mayfair when this Mercedes drew up beside me. Before I knew what was happening, they had a bag over my head and forced me into the trunk of the car."

"I should imagine two hours of that must have been hell."

"But who are they, where am I, and who are you? Though thank God for you."

"Your brother is Major Harry Miller, the man in your life is Sean Dillon. Tell them Caitlin Daly is dead, and the man I've just killed was responsible, a GRU captain named Peter Ivanov who worked for Colonel Josef Lermov. They'll know what it's all about, believe me."

"And you?"

"Just call me Daniel." He went to the steps, recovered his raincoat, and found the car keys he'd taken from Kerimov. "I think you'll find these are for the Mercedes. If you're up to it, I'd drive it back to London if I were you."

"But where am I?"

"In West Sussex, a place called Bolt Hole owned by an oligarch named Max Chekhov. The car's his, too. I think you'll find he's not unknown to your people." He took out his Codex. "A good job these things are water resistant. I think you'd better give them a call. They'll be worried. I'm going to get my car."

She was still on the phone when he got back. He took his suitcase with him, went below, dumped his wet clothes, and changed. Both his passports had survived the soaking, thanks to their plastic covers, so that was all right. There was a wardrobe with a wide range of clothes. He helped himself to a fawn trench coat and went back on deck.

She was still on the Codex, paused, and said, "He's here." A moment passed, and she held it out to him. "It's Sean Dillon."

Holley took it from her, and said, "She'll be fine."

Dillon said, "Who the hell are you?"

"There are days when I'm not too sure myself. A cinema ghost, a friend calls me, though you won't know what that means. I don't know where Kurbsky is, but give him my respects. Ivanov and his sergeant actually gained entrance to Chamber Court earlier and found it empty. There's how close it came."

"So there's nothing more I can say or do?" Dillon asked.

"Yes, there is, actually. Alexander Kurbsky's situation is a big problem that would seem beyond solving. I think I've got a solution, and I'd like you to pass it on to Blake Johnson."

"And what would it be?"

The telling only took a couple of minutes, and, when he was finished, Dillon laughed. "Do you know something? I think that could very well be an answer. I'll pass it on."

Holley turned off his Codex. "I'll get moving, and so should you." He passed Monica a plastic bag he'd found in the bedroom below. "One Walther, a Colt.25, and a flick-knife. I'd never get through customs with that lot. Give them to Dillon. He'll know what to do with them."

She accepted the bag and held out her hand. "What can I say?"

"Good-bye would seem to be appropriate." He smiled. "You're one tough lady, Monica Starling." He got in the Mini Cooper and drove away.

She stood there, listening as the noise dwindled. Strange, the sense of loss she felt, and she turned, went to the Mercedes, and drove away herself.

Holley left the Mini Cooper in the long-stay car park at Southampton Airport, booked in a hotel overnight, and flew out on an early flight to Paris. Unable to sleep very well, he'd phoned Selim and told him what had happened.

"A terrible business," Selim said. "What do you think Ferguson will do?"

"He's always had a very efficient disposal system. Rather like undertakers, the people he employs pick up the bodies left over from unfortunate incidents such as this. Ivanov and Kerimov will be reduced to a few pounds of gray ash quicker than you can i magine."

"And Caitlin Daly?"

"Her death means it makes it very easy to treat the whole affair as if it never happened. Blake Johnson, of course, had a bullet in him, but he's on the mend."

"And Josef Lermov?"

"Perhaps it's his turn to do a stint with the GRU at Station Gorky, like Greta. The only certain thing is that Mister Big at the Kremlin is going to feel very let down," Holley said.

"Especially at the continuing lack of information regarding Kurbsky. I would also point out that details about what happened at Bolt Hole will certainly reach the Kremlin and will certainly do your reputation little good there, but, in my opinion, what you did for Lady Monica Starling was magnificent, and I'm sure her friends will share that view."

"Yes, but unfortunately they are all on the wrong side, and don't try to make me out to be some kind of a good guy, not at this stage, Selim. I found out who I truly was all those years ago when I shot dead those four men who'd murdered Rosaleen Coogan. What I am is what I am. It can't be changed now."

"So what next?" Selim said.

"Algiers, I think. I'll see you soon."

Algiers it was, three days later, sitting on the terrace of the old Moorish villa on the hill overlooking the harbor, drinking ice-cold lager.

"So what now?" Malik asked. "Back to business?"

"The death business? God help us, but there's got to be something better. Anyway, the Russians can be very unforgiving. It might be a good idea to vanish into the desert again for a while."

"I don't think you need to worry about any idea of vengeance anymore. There was an interesting story on CNN on the television this morning. I saw it just before you arrived."