Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“Some KGB time was mentioned, the paratroopers and now GRU,” she said.

“Yes. He became a war hero, decorated twice. The thing that singled him out for a commission was when he took out a Chechnyan general.”

“As a sniper?”

“It was more complicated than that. He’s something of an actor, and made a very convincing Chechnyan. Worked himself close in, slit the man’s throat and walked off laughing.”

“My God.”

“That’s the thing. He really doesn’t care. Not about anything. His father was involved with Belov in the old days, so when the money started pouring in, he got his share. Ten million sterling, that kind of money. He was killed in a car crash with his wife the other year, which left Igor very well fixed and all nicely stashed away in London.”

“So Levin could be on the Riviera. Champagne, girls, a yacht? Why not?”

“He reminds me of Sean Dillon in a way,” Ashimov said. “Dillon is also well fixed in the money department. You could ask why he continues to live the life he does.”

He poured Greta a glass of champagne while she thought about it. “A kind of madness?” she asked. “A need to live on the dangerous edge?”

“You could have a point.”

“Well, if that means comparing him with Dillon, he must be mad. When I was involved with Dillon in Iraq, he seemed to be enjoying the whole business.”

Igor Levin stirred and said, “It’s very simple. Life can be so boring.” He tilted up his seat. “If you’ve finished talking about me, I’d like a glass of the old bubbles there.”

Ashimov said, “Ah, you’re awake, are you? Well, first things first. I’m going to need you, Igor, so I have something for you. When Billy Salter shot me at Drumore, my life was saved by a personal gift from Belov, a nylon-and-titanium vest. Even stops a forty-five. Fits nicely under your shirt.” He took a package from his briefcase. “My gift to you.”

Levin put it on the seat beside him. “Frightfully good of you, old boy, but I’d still appreciate some champagne.”

He spoke in an impeccable English public school accent.

Greta poured him a glass. “They’ll love you at the Reform Club.”

“I should damn well hope so.” He sipped some of the champagne. “I must say, Dillon sounds rather like the twin I never had. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“You won’t have to wait long,” Ashimov said. “After stopping at Drumore, we’re off to London for you to take up your new duties.”

“Where I may be received with less than enthusiasm.”

“Not when the Ambassador sees your warrant from Putin.”

“Oh, good, I’m to have that, am I?”

He still spoke in that English upper-class accent. Ashimov opened a briefcase, took out a file and passed it across.

“Here’s everything you need to know on Dillon, Ferguson, Roper and the Salters. These people are bad news, my friend, as bad as you’ve ever known.”

Levin flicked the file and it opened by chance at a printout about Bernstein. He went through it quickly. “What a woman. This is an incredible record.”

“Well, don’t fall in love with her. She’s the first one to go.”

“A nice Jewish girl, and you forget – my father was Jewish.”

“Your mother was Christian,” Ashimov said. “You can only be a Jew through your mother.”

“An academic argument. All those wonderful genes. They never go away. If I was religious, I’d say it was a blessing from God. Personally, I’m rather proud of it.”

“Good for you. Now read the file and see what you’re getting into. I’ll fill you in on the IRA side of things later.”

“As you say.”

Levin settled back with the file, while Ashimov poured Greta some more champagne and used his satellite phone to contact Liam Bell. He found him at Drumore Place.

“It’s me,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine. We’ve moved in, got things arranged. No trouble from the villagers. Life, shall we say, is back to normal. What about you?”

“Well, I’ve a target for you, during the coming weeks.”

“And what would that be?”

“Sean Dillon, Ferguson and company.”

“Jesus! A tall order.”

“We’ll discuss it in detail when I’m there. However, I’m going to need someone from your side of the coin. A hit man who’ll do the job, no questions asked, no argument, no sentimentality.”

“What you mean is you’re looking for the original cold-blooded bastard.”

“No, that’s you,” Ashimov told him. “What I’m looking for is a reasonable facsimile. I know the Peace Process is supposed to have brought an end to the glorious cause of Irish unity, but I believe you do have sleepers in London. Young men and women in good suits who work in the stock exchange…”

“And hanker after the romance of the struggle,” Bell said. “You might be surprised by how many of those there are. What would you be offering?”

“Oh, to you, a big payday. Funds for the organization, of course, not for the personal bank account in Spain. What you pay for him or, indeed, her to eradicate someone for me is your business.”

“Would you be involved?”

“Not personally. I’ll be staying there for a while with Major Novikova. I’m bringing a young colleague from Moscow who’ll handle the London end. He’ll work out of the London Embassy. The target is legitimate from your point of view. A high-ranking Special Branch officer who’s put more of your friends inside the last few years than she’s had hot dinners.”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” Bell said. “I’ve got ideas right away. Leave it with me.”

“We’ll see you soon.”

Levin looked up. “Dillon really is quite something. Now I’m really looking forward to meeting him.”

“Make sure it isn’t your last meeting,” Ashimov told him, and poured another glass of champagne.

When Igor Levin flew from Ireland to London, it was in a Belov International jet and Liam Bell flew with him, under a false identity. Levin didn’t approach the Embassy, not then. He stayed in an indifferent hotel in Kensington next door to Bell, waited patiently while the man from Dublin made his arrangements with Mary Killane and Dermot Fitzgerald, and then, after the outcome, delivered Fitzgerald to Heathrow for the flight to Ibiza.

He wasn’t impressed. In his opinion the whole business had been badly handled. The Killane girl, for example. Anyone with half a brain would find it too much a coincidence that she, the last person to treat the Bernstein woman, had been murdered so soon afterward and so close to the hospital.

Perhaps things were done differently in Belfast. Maybe the IRA had employed such fear, such power, that they thought they could get away with anything. Or maybe they were just used to getting away with anything.

“Never mind, Igor,” he mused, after delivering Bell to the airfield for his return flight. “You’re just the hired help.”

He’d already rented a Mercedes, but now, taking advantage of his wealth, he moved into a suite at the Dorchester Hotel overlooking Hyde Park.

“Only the best, Igor,” he said, and drove down to the Embassy of the Russian Federation situated in Kensington Palace Gardens. There was a snag at first, when he discovered the Ambassador was in Paris, but a further inquiry revealed that the senior commercial attaché, Colonel Boris Luhzkov, in reality Head of Station for the GRU, was lunching in the pub across the High Street. Levin went out the main gates, waited for a break in the traffic, then crossed the road.

Luhzkov was in a window seat on his own devouring shepherd’s pie, a half-empty glass of red wine before him. Levin got two more and went across. He put one of the glasses on the table.