Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“You always like two.”

Luhzkov looked astonished. “My God, Igor, it is you. I had a message from Moscow this morning. It said you were joining my staff.”

“Not quite true, old son. In a way, it’s you who are joining my staff.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

Levin took the envelope from his inside pocket, extracted the Putin warrant and passed it over. “Read that.”

He sat down and lit a cigarette. When Luhzkov handed it back, his hand shook. “For God’s sake, you’d better not lose it. But what does it mean, Igor?”

“That I’m on a special assignment for the President himself. I need a front, so I’m to be a commercial attaché. Any quarrel with that?”

“Of course not.”

“For the moment, I need an office and all that goes with it. I won’t need an Embassy car, I’ve hired a Mercedes, and I don’t need housing – I’m staying at the Dorchester. It’s nice to be back, isn’t it, Boris, and what better place for a Russian intelligence officer to stay than the best hotel in London?”

Luhzkov had totally capitulated. “Anything you say, Igor.”

“Good. The shepherd’s pie looks delicious. I think I’ll have some,” and Levin turned and waved to a waitress.

Later, when the necessary office had been provided, he worked his way through GRU’s computer records, cross-referencing them with the file Ashimov had provided him. Ferguson, Dillon, the Salters. Names, computer printouts, addresses. He even checked on Bell’s past and that of his men whom he’d met at Drumore. An unsavory bunch, no finesse. On the other hand, Bell must have had something going for him to have become Chief of Staff of one of the most notorious organizations in the world.

Dillon was a totally different article; his exploits spoke for themselves. The thing that impressed Levin the most was that in all those years with the IRA, the police and secret intelligence hadn’t touched him once. Levin was lost in admiration.

Even the Salters surprised him. They were far from the usual run of gangsters. Harry Salter’s aging face spoke for itself, and Billy’s deeds were remarkable. Men who didn’t give a damn, the Salters and Dillon.

“Just like me,” Levin said softly.

Hannah Bernstein filled him with a strange kind of regret when he read her file again and looked at her photo. She’d been a remarkable woman – you had to be to make Superintendent rank in Special Branch. An Oxford psychologist and yet she’d killed more than once. And the Jewish background. It made him feel uncomfortable and he knew why that was.

Her death, of course, had had nothing to do with him. She’d been close to death anyway, thanks to Ashimov. The drug the nurse had used might not even have been necessary. Ashimov had killed her, really.

“Trying to comfort yourself, Igor?” he murmured. “Levin, the honorable man? Well, not after what you’ve done, boyo.”

He tapped into the police security facility and all the details of the Mary Killane killing were there: the murder scene, the names of those at Scotland Yard handling the case, the fact that there was a press blackout.

The forensic pathologist in charge of the autopsy was a Professor George Langley. Levin checked him out on the computer. Langley normally worked out of Church Street Mortuary off Kensington High Street. Quite convenient for the Russian Embassy.

However, there was nothing on the police incident screen referring to Hannah Bernstein, and Levin sat back, lit a cigarette and went to the small icebox in the corner, opened it, found the vodka and poured a large one. It calmed him down, helped him think.

So, it would seem reasonable that an autopsy on Hannah Bernstein would be performed by the same eminent pathologist who was performing it on Mary Killane. A strong chance surely. He had another shot of vodka, returned the bottle. There was just one more thing to do. Luhzkov’s remark in the pub that he’d better not lose the Putin warrant had stuck in his mind, so he took the letter out and put it through the office copier. He made three copies, put two in the office safe, one in his briefcase in an envelope and returned the original to his inside pocket.

He phoned Ashimov on his coded mobile and found him at the Royal George with Greta. “Just reporting in. Bell got back without incident?”

“Yes. What’s happening there?”

Levin brought him up to date. “I’m just about to go out and start sniffing around.”

“Yes, do that,” Ashimov told him.

“Frankly, I’ve not been impressed with the way things went here. It may have suited Bell, but if that’s the best the IRA can do, they’re a bunch of clodhoppers. The way Fitzgerald disposed of that girl was ridiculous and unnecessary.”

“We’re in the death business, Igor, there’s no time for finesse.”

He switched off and Greta Novikova said, “Trouble?”

“Just Igor sounding off. He isn’t impressed with the IRA.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Greta told him. “Neither am I.”

In his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson sat with Rabbi Julian Bernstein and Blake Johnson. Dillon sat on the windowsill. There was a knock at the door and Hannah’s father, Arnold Bernstein, came in.

“Sorry I’m late. I had an operation.”

“That’s all right,” Ferguson said. “Carry on, Rabbi.”

“Well, as you know, a Jewish body should not be desecrated by an autopsy, and should be buried within the twenty-four-hour window. But an expert rabbi may determine otherwise in exceptional circumstances. I have made a judgment, and in view of the murder of the young nurse and the circumstances surrounding Hannah’s death, I believe it is necessary to establish exactly what happened. With the blessing of my son, I give my permission for the autopsy.”

“I know how difficult this must be for you, but I’m most grateful. I’ll phone Professor Langley now.”

It was raining hard, so Levin wore a raincoat and trilby hat and carried a black umbrella. The Church Street Mortuary was surprisingly busy, with quite a number of cars outside. It was an aging building, probably Victorian, like many in that part of London, with the look of being a rather shabby old-fashioned school.

Inside it was well decorated and surprisingly pleasant, with two girls behind the reception desk and a number of people milling around, apparently reporters.

“Come on, Gail,” a young man said to one of the receptionists. “So was the Killane woman murdered or wasn’t she? What’s all the mystery?”

“I can’t tell you that,” the girl named Gail said. “All I know is that Professor Langley’s on another case.”

“Is there a link?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

She moved away, leaving the other girl in charge, as Ferguson, Dillon, the Bernsteins and Blake came in. Levin recognized all of them from their files.

Ferguson announced himself.

“Oh, this way, gentlemen.”

She led them through to the back corridor and they disappeared through a door. The young reporter said disconsolately, “Nobody ever tells you a thing. I’ll get hell at the office.”

He took out a cigarette and Levin gave him a light. “Who are you with?”

“ Northern Echo . What about you?”

“ Evening Standard . We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

They found Langley in a room lined with white tiles, fluorescent lights making everything look harsh and unreal. There were steel operating tables and Hannah Bernstein lay on top of one of them. She looked calm, eyes closed, the top of her head covered, blood seeping through a little. In turn, both the Bernsteins leaned over and kissed her forehead. Ferguson said, “Forgive me, Professor, but will you confirm what you told me on the telephone?”