Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

The tables were crowded, but one of Levin’s men brushed past the headwaiter as he came forward, ignored the bearded man at the microphone who seemed to have the audience in stitches with his humor, and leaned down to a table of five people in the front, three women, two men. Whatever he said was enough. They vacated the table at once and moved away.

The man at the microphone said, “I know I can be bad, but this is ridiculous.”

Levin called, “Max, you’re looking good. How about the piano? ‘A Foggy Day in London Town.’ You know how I love all those old numbers. Let’s all cheer for Fred Astaire. The Yanks are our friends now.”

He sat down with Ashimov and Greta; the three minders stood against the wall.

Max Zubin shook his head and, waving at the audience, said, “The GRU, my friends, what do you expect? My master calls and I obey.”

He went to the piano at the back of the stage, a baby grand. A drummer and a double bass player were already there, and Zubin sat down and started a driving, complex version of “Foggy Day” that wouldn’t have been out of place in any great piano bar in London or New York.

Levin called the headwaiter over. “Vodka, on the house, and don’t forget the boys behind me.”

“It is my pleasure, Captain.”

“And a little beluga on toast, the way I like it.”

“Of course.”

There was a roar of applause as Zubin finished and Levin stood up, clapping. “Marvelous,” he called. “More.”

Zubin moved into “Night and Day” and waiters appeared hurriedly with glasses of vodka on a tray, each glass in a larger glass with crushed ice, one waiter handing them out to the security guards, the other to the party at the table, the third distributing the beluga caviar.

As they started on the feast Ashimov said, “You live well, my friend.”

“I could be dead tomorrow, that’s what I learned in Afghanistan and Chechnya.” He crunched toast and savored the beluga.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Greta said, as she followed suit.

“It was in the Chechen capital I got a taste for it. We took the Grand Hotel in a firefight – a very bloody firefight. Found the beluga in the icebox behind the bar in the main kitchen. A few of us survived that fight. Not many. The Twenty-first Independent Parachute Company, made up of anyone they could reach out and grab. We were wolfing that caviar down when we heard the piano start to play in the anteroom. We went out to see what was going on and there he was, an infantry captain named Max Zubin.”

“And what was he playing?” Greta asked.

“ ‘As Time Goes By.’ I swear to God, just like in Casablanca . You know the old movie? I’ve seen it in American, and I’ve seen it dubbed with Bogart speaking Russian and it’s just as fantastic.” He stood up, applauded and called, “Max, let’s do the Grand in Chechnya, in memory of the Twenty-first and all those guys we left. Let’s do ‘As Time Goes By.’ ”

He sat down, snapped his fingers for another vodka and ate some more toast and caviar, somehow managing to hum the tune at the same time.

“An enthusiast,” Ashimov told Greta.

“The crowd seems to like it.”

And indeed they did, large sections singing along, some in English, others in Russian. Zubin finished on a high. People cheered, stood up and clapped. He waved to everyone, nodded to the double bass player, who put his instrument down and took over the piano, then came down from the stage, shaking hands on the way, and sat down at the spare seat at the table.

Levin smiled. “You haven’t lost your touch.” He handed him a vodka, which Zubin swallowed in one gulp, then reached for another. “Why are you being so nice to me, Igor?”

Levin said, “Let’s put it this way. The beard suits you, but it’s time to take it off again.”

“Christ, no,” Max Zubin groaned. “Not that.”

“I’m afraid so. Surely you remember Major Ashimov from Paris? I’ll let him explain.”

The Zubin apartment was a time capsule from another age. Even the maid was aging and could have been out of a Chekhov play. The interior was more thirties than anything else, with a grand piano covered by photos of the great and the good in silver frames.

Levin, Ashimov and Greta were admitted by the maid, who viewed them all suspiciously.

“Is my mother at home, Sonia?” Zubin asked.

“Where else would she be? She is preparing to go to bed.”

“I’d like a word.”

“What a ridiculous time to call. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

She went out and he lit a cigarette. “You must excuse Sonia. She’s a failed actress who became my mother’s dresser.”

Greta moved to the piano and examined the photos. Zubin sat at it and started to play “Falling in Love Again.”

“Marlene Dietrich’s national anthem,” Greta told him.

“You’ll find her and my mother amongst the photos there.”

Greta was working her way through and picked one up. “My God, this is her with Laurence Olivier.”

“In London, where we did The Three Sisters ,” a voice interrupted. “I made the mistake of coming back.”

And there she was in the flesh, wearing a silk robe, her hair tied back, powerful and thrilling in spite of her age.

Ashimov stepped forward. “You look like some great warrior queen.”

“Don’t try flattery, Major. I remember you well from that affair in Paris. So, you need my son again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She turned to Greta. “And who’s this one?”

“Major Greta Novikova of GRU.”

“Typecasting, but good bone structure.”

Greta couldn’t think of a thing to say. Bella did a surprising thing. As Sonia came in with the ritual glasses of vodka on a tray, the old actress patted Igor Levin on the cheek.

“He looks in on me from time to time, this one. A nice boy in spite of himself.”

Levin took her hand and kissed it. “No man could have a greater compliment.”

They all took their vodka. “So, this is State business?”

“Direct from Putin himself.”

“Well, to hell with him and to hell with the lot of you. Where are you taking him?”

“Station Gorky in Siberia,” Levin said.

“For a while only. You’ll see him again soon,” Ashimov said.

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” She turned to Zubin. “You’ll have to get rid of the beard. A pity. It suits you.” She turned to Levin. “Can I have him for tonight?”

“Where would he go?” Levin smiled. “His escort will be downstairs.”

“I thought so. All right, the rest of you can get out. I’d like some time with my son.”

Which they did, there was not much else to say. She turned to Zubin, who was still playing, and raised her glass to Sonia, who came over with the vodka bottle.

“If it wasn’t for me, you could make a run for it.”

“Things are as they are, Mama, so running is out of the question.”

“You’re a good son, Max, always were. So it’s the same old thing as Paris?”

“No, I think this is rather more important. They’ve shown me a warrant from Putin.”

“Then God help us.” She swallowed her vodka down and tossed the glass into the fireplace.

Onward from Moscow, the Falcon rose to forty thousand feet and moved on into the night, while Levin slept and Greta and Ashimov talked in low voices.

“What’s the story on the boy wonder there?” she asked.

“His father was an infantry colonel, a military attaché at the London Embassy, his mother was English. Igor spent a couple of years at a posh public school in Westminster, London. He should have gone to university, but he’s a strange one, marches to his own drummer. He went home on holiday and just decided to join the army without even consulting his father, who couldn’t do anything about it because it would have looked bad.”