Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“Well, I don’t know whose this is, but it’s soon taken care of.” Derry pulled out a pistol, putting three holes in it.

Offshore, Ferguson heard and said to Harry, “We’re going in.”

“I’m with you,” Harry said, and went out on deck, his AK ready.

They went in quickly to the harbor, and Dillon and Billy coming down the hill path came under fire from Ryan and Connor. Dillon hit Connor with two shots, Ryan ducked down and caught Billy in the middle of his flak jacket with a lucky shot that knocked him over. Dillon hauled him up and they continued, running headlong down the path toward the jetty and the beach. Derry and Gibson started to fire up at them caught on the exposed path, and the Highlander roared in out of the darkness. Harry fired in sustained bursts at the two men on the beach by the dinghy, as Dillon and Billy burst onto the jetty. As the Highlander bounced off the jetty, they scrambled over the rail.

Derry was down, and Ferguson, at the wheel, dropped the flap and pulled out the Browning with the twenty-round clip and sprayed the beach as they swerved away, knocking down Gibson as well before they were swallowed up by darkness.

Later, on automatic pilot, they sat in the saloon and drank whiskey. “Well, that was brisk,” Harry said.

“And a bleeding waste of time.” Billy shook his head. “We couldn’t even get Liam Bell.”

“At the time, there was no way of knowing Ashimov was overnighting in Dublin, Levin in London. It was just bad luck, and Major Novikova wouldn’t cooperate.”

“The thing that really interests me is Levin being sent to London,” Dillon said. “I’d like to know why.” He got up. “We’ll have to give him some special attention when we get back. Anyway, I’ll take the wheel. The rest of you can get some sleep.”

The sky was streaked with light, and way over on his left the Isle of Man was apparent in spite of the rain. It could have been worse, Dillon told himself. At least he and Billy had walked away from it, thanks to Harry and Ferguson. It was the enemy who’d suffered. The thing was, what happened now? He lit a cigarette, his Codex Four went. It was Roper.

“You and Billy are in one piece obviously.”

“Just about. Liam Bell did a runner at the house, his boys gave us a hard time. Ferguson and Harry were wonderful. Bell’s short three, maybe four men, so we did some good.”

“You certainly did.”

“The thing is, what happens now?”

“Oh, that’s easy. President Vladimir Putin visits the European Union’s Paris conference tomorrow, then he intends to divert to London, have a chat with the Prime Minister, stay at the Dorchester and fly back to Moscow in the morning.”

“What for?”

“Oh, a remarkable story of greed, corruption and politics, which has only unfolded within the past hour on my screens. I’ve tried Ferguson, but he isn’t replying.”

“Flat on his back below, they all are.”

“Not surprising. How far to Oban?”

“I’d have said two hours, but there’s quite a sea running. It’s going to get worse. You could do me a favor and alert Lacey and Parry.”

“Will do. I’ll leave the juiciest details of the Putin visit until I see you, except to say he’ll have an interesting guest with him at the Dorchester – Josef Belov.”

Dillon was stunned. “How can that be?” and then he saw it. “Max Zubin’s going to do Belov again in London?”

“Something like that. We’ll talk again.”

Dillon thought about it, then put the boat on automatic pilot and went below to tell Ferguson the extraordinary news.

In Moscow at the Kremlin, Max Zubin, bundled out of bed at Station Gorky, ordered to be dressed and ready in an hour, then flown at what had seemed like express speed, stood in front of Volkov’s desk.

“You have a wonderful opportunity to serve your country. Your finest hour. You will visit Paris as part of the President’s entourage, travel to London to perform the same service at the Dorchester Hotel, and then return to Moscow.”

“But what is the service I perform, Comrade?”

“Just your role as Josef Belov. There will even be appearances on television. I’m sure you’ll do very well.”

“Yes, but in the theater we’re expected to know our lines.”

“That’s really very good. There’s a press release here. Have a quick look.”

Zubin scanned it and handed it back. “I see.”

“So now you know what it’s about if anyone talks to you, but we’ll keep conversation to a minimum. Just remember you are Josef Belov.”

“Except to my captors.”

“Don’t be silly, those who guard you at Station Gorky call you Belov because that’s who they think you are. Of course, your controller listening to your phone calls knows.”

“Can I see my mother while I’m here?”

“If you introduce yourself as a friend. After all, you couldn’t possibly be her son, if you follow me. You were bearded – that’s who Mikhail, her chauffeur, knew.”

Zubin shook his head. “So my driver, Ivan Kurbsky, thinks I’m the real Belov?”

“Of course.”

“I’m just like the King in The Prisoner of Zenda .”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry, I got confused. May I go?”

“Right now.”

Zubin got out fast, and was escorted to his limousine. He gave Ivan, the driver, his mother’s address and sat back, brooding. When they reached the destination, Zubin put on his sternest voice.

“You will wait here. I am visiting a friend. One hour and then we go to the hotel.”

It was his mother who answered the door, and her face lit up. “How handsome you look,” and she drew him in.

“Where’s Sonia?”

“Very ill. She’s gone to stay with her sister. Come and sit down. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“I didn’t know myself. Things are moving very fast.”

She gave him a vodka and sat beside him, holding his hand. “So tell me about it.”

“My performance, Mama?” He swallowed the vodka. “The greatest of my life.” He handed her his glass. “Give me another.”

Sitting in Roper’s computer room at Holland Park, they were all there. Ferguson said, “Any trouble with the girl?”

“Not particularly. She thinks she’s being held illegally, of course.”

“Tough luck. After some of the stunts she’s pulled, she’s lucky not to be in a cell. Now let’s get down to it. What’s going on?”

“Before I start, can I ask you if the Prime Minister knows about the playacting over Belov?”

“Yes, President Cazalet discussed it with him. It’s one of those things where they prefer not to know officially, if you follow me, but I keep him informed. Anyway, what’s it all about?”

“Putin has a meeting in Paris with the EU, then he visits London, spends a night at the Dorchester – trade delegation stuff – then dinner with the Prime Minister.”

“Go on.”

“Lurking amongst his staff will be one Josef Belov.”

“What’s the purpose of his presence?”

“To be seen, to have him on television close to Putin, with any luck close to the Prime Minister. He won’t have a lot to say, if anything. They’ll keep tight control.”

“Any interviews?”

“No, but there will be a press release.”

“What about?”

“The Belov Protocol.”

“And what in the hell is that?”

“Well, excuse me if it sounds like a lecture, but here goes. Some years ago, the old Soviet government was going through economic crisis after crisis, always short of the almighty dollar, so they started selling off government utilities at knockdown prices – oil fields, gas, the wealth of Siberia. The oligarchs came along, men like the robber barons in the old days in the USA, men like Belov. He started with a billion, and the word is he got it from Saddam. In oil alone, his wealth can only be measured in billions.”