Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“Well, as long as you know what you’re doing.” He kissed her again and Lacey came in through the door.

“Ready for takeoff.”

Dillon said to Russo, “Sorry about the plane.”

“No big deal. It’s not too deep and near the shore. The crew will have her up easy.”

“If you say so.”

They all got up and Russo put his good arm around Dillon. “Anytime, my friend, anytime.”

“You must be mad,” Dillon said, and led the way out.

When they landed at Farley Field, the Daimler was waiting, with Ferguson beside the driver. There was also a Shogun with the Military Police Sergeant Major from Holland Park, Henderson, and a black sergeant called Doyle. They stood, waiting, watchful, in navy blue blazers and neat ties, normal except for the earpieces and that special look common to security men all over the world.

They disembarked from the Citation and walked toward the Daimler, and Ferguson got out. “Major Novikova, what a pleasure. I seldom get the opportunity to greet someone risen from the dead.” He held out his hand, which she took instinctively. “I hope they’ve been looking after you?”

Which reduced her to helpless laughter. “Come on, General, let’s get on with it. Let’s see what you’re going to do with me and then I’ll comment. One thing is certain. I’ll need a hairdresser. Prolonged immersion in seawater is not to be recommended.”

“I’m sure we can manage that. I’ll have one brought in.”

“To the Holland Park safe house?”

“Such a good address. Excellent quarters, totally secure, wonderful company. Major Roper’s there. Very special man. You’ll get on famously.”

“While you pick my brains.”

“Now, would I do that to you, Major?”

“Absolutely,” and she climbed into the Daimler as he held open the door for her.

At Holland Park, they were joined by Roper and sat round the table in the conference center, Henderson and Doyle standing against the wall keeping a watchful eye on things.

“You must think you’ve been through the wringer, Major,” Ferguson told her.

“You could say that. Life with Dillon and Billy is a bit of a roller coaster.”

“Now, tell me about the Putin warrant. I can take it as definite that the President himself passed that document across?”

“Yes, I was there with Ashimov.” She shrugged. “And Levin.”

“And?”

She smiled. “Ah, I see you don’t know everything.”

“Oh, but I do know most things. Volkov, for example? What can you tell me about him?”

“I only met him once. He appears to control Belov International for the government. The President joined us, handed over the warrant, told us he expected us to do our duty in this matter. Never mentioned Belov, just left.”

“What’s the point of the exercise?”

“Two, actually. Belov International is so important to the country at the moment, they don’t want the sort of movement on the world financial market that would take place if there was news of Belov’s death.”

“And what’s your second point?”

“Volkov thinks you and your people are a great nuisance and better put out of the way once and for all.”

“Thanks very much,” Billy told her.

“Would you say the President agrees?”

“The President is clever. He hands out a warrant, but it gives not the slightest indication what it’s for.”

“The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way necessary,” Dillon said. “That can mean everything or nothing, but not from Volkov’s point of view.”

“And Ashimov’s been happy to assist him,” Greta said.

There was a pause. Roper said, “So an unhappy Max Zubin still sits there in Station Gorky.”

“Yes, I thought you’d know about him. Well, he’s shaved the beard off. It is an extraordinary resemblance, so they tell me. He posed as Belov once before. Ashimov was there.”

“Yes, we know that.”

“And his mother in Moscow?”

“I’ve met her. Fantastic woman, one of our greatest actresses. She leads an open life. I mean, where would she go with him to think of?”

“And where would he go?” Dillon said.

“Any plans for him to be moved?” Roper asked.

“I believe so. An appearance in Moscow or Paris. I suppose a sight of him would dispel any rumors about Belov, keep things looking normal.”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

“What about Levin?” Ferguson asked. “Where do you think he’s gone?”

“He had the plane, so he’ll have gone to Ballykelly. Ashimov is there.”

“Really? How interesting.” Ferguson stood up. “I must take that on board. Enough for now. Your hairdresser, after all, he’s top priority. We’ll meet again later.”

At Hangman’s Wharf, there was a magnificent warehouse development. It was Harry’s pride and joy, walking distance from the Dark Man and turned into apartments of total luxury, unique in design.

The ultimate was the penthouse, vast, spread across a huge top floor, reached by two private elevators, one in front, the other at the back. Where the original cargo gates opened, there were now terraces of hardwood jutting twenty feet out over the river, and from the penthouse, it was a seventy-foot drop.

The furnishings were cedar and mahogany, a great desk for Harry Salter in the corner, sofas, sumptuous carpets everywhere, Indian, Chinese, and in the open-plan design, a fabulous kitchen area with graceful hoods taking the fumes away, and Harry’s personal chef, Selim, from the restaurant Harry’s Place. He had energetically supervised the meal, mainly Indonesian, for the Salters, Dillon, Ferguson and Roper. Even Henderson and Doyle, seated at the far end of the bar and keeping a watchful eye on things, had been well taken care of. And there was Greta, of course.

“You’ve been very frank, Major,” Ferguson told her. “Why?”

“Well, to be practical, I suspect you know most of what I told you. I might have done a little filling in, but that’s all. Anyway, what happens now? You can’t arrest me. That would be terribly inconvenient.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Every job you and your people do is a black operation. It never happened, never existed. Dillon and Billy would never dream of going out there under orders and killing everybody on sight, but they do, which leaves me in the clear. So what happens to me?”

“If he sends you back, love, I think old Volkov would either shoot you or send you to the Gulag.” That was Billy.

“Of course, you could claim asylum,” Roper said.

“If I found myself on the pavement, the most you could do is ask Colonel Luhzkov to send me home. I have diplomatic immunity.”

“How boring,” Ferguson said.

“And what a bleeding waste,” Harry put in.

“What if I made you a proposition?” Ferguson said.

“Throw in my lot with you?”

“Oh, no, something much more subtle. What if I gave you a chance to return to the fold, your own people?”

“What, hand me over to Luhzkov? Tell him to fly me out?”

“Much, much better than that. Now listen to me. There’s one thing I suggest you do first, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“First, let me ask you where you think Levin might be.”

She frowned. “Drumore Place, probably.”

He handed her his Codex Four. “I’m sure you know his number. Give him a call. Tell him what you think of him. After all, he dumped you at Khufra.”

She sat looking at him, then shook her head. “What would be the point?”

“I’d like to know if he is there. I’d like to know if Ashimov is still there. I want them, and don’t kid yourself, I intend to have them. Dead or alive, it makes no odds to me.”