Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“I know, Harry, I, too, hate getting old.” Ferguson nodded. “The ball’s in your court, Sean.”

Dillon shook his head. “There you go, calling me by my first name again.”

They left at six, Dillon at the wheel and Ferguson joined him. It was still dark, wind stirring. “What’s the forecast?” Ferguson asked.

“Four to five when we hit the open sea.” Dillon took out a cigarette one-handed and flicked his Zippo. “I love this.”

“So do I. Remember I told you how I tried to make up for a lost love by sailing the Atlantic run single-handed, Portsmouth by Long Island?”

“I remember what lost you your love. The woman couldn’t marry a man who’d take out five IRA men in Derry who’d tried to assassinate him.”

“An old story, my boy. Is there any chance you could let me take over?”

“Be my guest.”

Dillon went out, and Ferguson checked his instruments and took the Highlander through the harbor entrance in a long sweeping current to the Firth.

The swell started to move beneath, the masthead light began to roll rhythmically from side to side. Through the gloom, he could see the red-and-green navigation lights of a steamer. He steadied at twelve knots and plunged forward, feeling better than he’d done for years.

In London earlier in the afternoon, Levin had reported to Luhzkov at the Embassy.

“So, what’s all the fuss about?”

“I’ve no idea. I had a Most Secret from Volkov, saying to hold you here.”

“You mean physically?”

“Of course not. Hold you available.”

“And you don’t know why?”

“No.

Levin said, “Well, Boris, you have my number. I’m staying at the Dorchester, so you’ll have no trouble finding me.”

Later, sitting in the corner of the Piano Bar, indulging in a pasta salad and champagne, Levin was approached by Guiliano, the manager.

“So, we could have a little excitement around here,” Guiliano said.

“What do you mean?”

“A fellow countryman of yours.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Putin. He’s going to attend some EU conference in Paris, but there’s a whisper he’ll look in here on his way back.”

“You mean visit London?”

“No, visit here, the Dorchester. He’d be in good company. We’ve had every President in Europe stay at this hotel.”

He went to attend another customer. Levin lit a cigarette and sat there thinking about it. Maybe that was it, maybe his presence was needed in some way. It was a crazy world where international intelligence organizations could have their secrets and yet those secrets were readily available on the Grand Hotel circuit. You had to laugh, and he waved to the waiter to pour him another glass of champagne and toasted himself.

“To you, Igor,” he murmured. “The only sane man in a world gone mad.”

Having said that, it occurred to him that under the circumstances it might be sensible to book out of the hotel until he’d seen the way things worked out, which meant staff quarters at the Embassy for a while. How dreary, but there was no help for it.

Later, on the Highlander, Dillon took over and Ferguson went and sat in the saloon with Harry Salter. There was no sign of Billy. Harry said, “He’s taken a couple of pills and gone for a lie-down in the aft cabin. The old seasickness really gets to him.”

“Join me in a large scotch,” Ferguson said. “Finest remedy I know for seasickness.”

They savored it for a while, then Harry said, “What do you think our chances are? I mean, are we daft or just a couple of old geezers sticking two fingers up at the world?”

“Never old, Harry, old is a state of mind. The present expedition isn’t particularly crazy. We slip in under cover of darkness, Dillon and Billy visit Drumore Place, lift Ashimov and Levin, bring them down to the Highlander at gunpoint and away. Could go very well.”

“And it could go very badly.” Harry shook his head. “Why are we here right now with the sea rising, as far as I can tell somewhere off the Isle of Man.”

Ferguson poured him more whiskey. “Maybe it is something to do with getting old, maybe we’re trying to show we can still cut it.”

“That makes sense for you and me, but what about Billy? I mean, he’s rich, got everything he wants.”

“Maybe that’s not the way he sees it,” Ferguson said. “He’s got everything and he’s got nothing, or that’s how it seems.”

“Dillon’s not too badly off when it comes to cash,” Harry said.

“From his mercenary days.” Ferguson shrugged. “People paid highly for his services. The whispers are true, Harry, he really did arrange the mortar attack on John Major and the war cabinet in ’ninety-one during the first Iraq war.”

“The IRA?”

“No, an Iraqi billionaire paid him big-time.”

“The bastard.”

“He’s never played favorites, our Sean. In the old days, he’d be working for the PLO one minute and the Israelis the next.”

“What makes him tick?”

“Ah, the game, Harry, and there’s always the danger that in the end, instead of you playing the game, the game is playing you. Anyway, that’s enough of that. I think I’ll have a little shuteye and then I’ll take over from Dillon.”

At the Royal George in Drumore, trade was brisk. In the corner booth, Liam Bell sat with Walsh, Kelly, Magee, a walking stick beside him, a relic of Blake Johnson’s bullet in the thigh.

“Walking wounded.” Kelly nudged Magee.

“Well, this one’s no better,” Magee said, as Ryan appeared from the kitchen. “Are you sure you can still hear, Patrick?”

Ryan put down the tray of ale he was carrying. “Stuff you, Magee, would you like to buy your own?”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, he was a desperate kind of a fella, that Johnson.”

“Shut up,” Bell said. “And drink up. I want some of you at the house. Walsh, Kelly, Magee.” He turned to three young men at the next table. They were new recruits, Connor, Derry and Gibson. “You stay down here overnight with Ryan and mind what he tells you.”

They were young, arrogant and had their AK47s on the bench beside them. “We will that, Mr. Bell.”

“And keep your mobiles on at all times. Now go to the kitchen for your supper, then Ryan will work a rota for you, taking turns checking the harbor.”

After they had gone, Ryan said, “Are you expecting trouble, Liam?”

“Christ knows what to expect in the present situation. Ashimov’s staying over in Dublin. There’s something up, but I don’t know what. Levin’s been called to London.”

“Jesus, but he needs taking down a peg,” Ryan said.

“Don’t be stupid, man, it was Connor who got taken down in two seconds flat. You avoid contact with Levin at all times. He was a paratrooper in Chechnya, medals, the lot. Anyway, drink up and we’ll move up to the house. Mrs. Ryan’s left us a nice supper in the kitchen.”

There was quite a sea running, and cold spray stung Ferguson’s face as he moved along the heaving deck and opened the wheelhouse door. Sean Dillon was standing at the wheel, his face disembodied in the compass light.

“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”

“I’ll take over.” Ferguson brushed past and took over the wheel. He increased speed, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and the waves grew rougher.

“Go on, get below and find something to eat. I’ll be fine.”

It was dark, very dark, and yet there was a slight phosphorescence from the sea now and then. At one stage there was the gleam from a lighthouse in the distance, but as they plowed on, except for the occasional red and green lights of a ship, they might as well have been alone in a dark world.