Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“Yes, I know that,” Ferguson said.

“Then, when the Rashid Empire was up for grabs, he took over.”

“So where is this getting us?” Dillon asked.

“To the United Nations Common Policy Division. Belov International has become so enormous, its tentacles reach every developing country in the world. It’s truly global. Can you imagine the effect all that could have if it was controlled by a single government?”

“The Russian Federation?” Ferguson asked.

“Many Russian politicians think it was a mistake to allow the State’s assets to pass into private ownership in the first place. Times have changed, Putin is a hard man, the Russians like strength. Things are getting more like the Cold War every day. Now is the time for a truly magnificent gesture from a Russian hero, Josef Belov. He’ll sign an item called the Belov Protocol, transferring all of Belov International into the hands of the government of the Russian Federation.”

“Just a minute,” Harry said. “If this United Nations outfit was worried about Belov International putting things out of balance, being too powerful, they aren’t going to be too happy about Russia taking over.”

“Neither will the United States nor the UK nor Europe,” Ferguson put in.

Harry said, “When I was young, under the Labor government after the war, we used to nationalize things, didn’t we? Well, this would be something similar. Putting things back into government control.”

“And an incredible boost in power and prestige for Russia,” Ferguson said.

Dillon nodded. “All performed in front of cameras, Max Zubin standing in for Belov.”

“I hope he’s practiced how to do Belov’s signature,” Harry said.

“Oh, that will be taken care of, no problem,” Roper said.

“And the beautiful thing from their point of view is that we can’t stand up and say, ‘That isn’t Josef Belov,’ ” Ferguson said. “Because we blew him up.”

“So there it is.” Roper shook his head. “A wonderful confidence trick. I don’t know about Putin, but Volkov must be laughing up his sleeve.”

“And there’s nothing we can do about it?” Billy asked.

“I’m not so sure.” Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Tomorrow night at the Dorchester, the Russian Embassy’ll have a reception. Putin will be there, the Prime Minister and Josef Belov.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I think we should go. Billy and I got into Igor Levin’s room when he was there. I don’t see why I couldn’t manage the same thing where Max Zubin is concerned.”

“To what purpose?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, but he might have things to say, some personal suggestions.”

“You know, I think you could be right.” Ferguson nodded. “We’ll go. You, me and Billy.”

“Excellent.” Dillon turned to Roper. “You’ve often boasted in the past that if it’s out there in cyberspace, you can find it.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Go through the entire story from the beginning, access all Russian sources, check out who’s going to be at the Dorchester function, what kind of security the Putin delegation will have. Something might be there, lurking in the woodwork. Everything in life has a flaw.”

“Well, if there’s one to this whole affair, I’ll find it.”

And work at it Roper did. There wasn’t an aspect of the entire affair that wasn’t covered. All relevant traffic out and in at the Russian Embassy in London, traffic from the Kremlin, dealings with the IRA. It was never-ending.

Another interminable night, then, of sandwiches and whiskey and constant smoking, and Doyle, on the duty shift, bringing innumerable cups of tea.

At five o’clock, Doyle pulled up the blinds. “Dirty morning, raining away.” He turned. “Look, sir, don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit?”

“You always are when you’re looking for the little things, Sergeant, so it pays to take care. I learned that lesson with my last bomb in Londonderry. It was just a Mini car with a shopping bag on the rear seat, so I didn’t treat it seriously.”

“Bad luck, sir.”

“Sheer carelessness, so it pays to take care. Check everything.” At that precise moment, he was proved right.

The intercept was one of many relevant to Station Gorky, mainly messages to do with administration, work structure, now and then commands from Volkov himself. Roper was reviewing them, when he stopped, then frowned and reversed the screen listings. The message that had caught his eye referred to transportation for Belov’s flight from Station Gorky, but not to Moscow Airport. Some little distance from it was the Belov Complex, which specialized in private planes, executive jets and the like, even courier aircraft from foreign countries, making their regular pilgrimages in and out with Embassy material.

The particular message made the point that Colonel Josef Belov’s chauffeur, one Ivan Kurbsky, would meet the plane and transfer the Colonel straight to the Kremlin before Belov moved on to the Excelsior Hotel to his usual suite.

It hadn’t struck Roper before, the reference to Belov’s old KGB rank, and he went back to the beginning of the traffic from Moscow to Station Gorky. No reference to Max Zubin. Well, of course there wouldn’t be. The whole emphasis was on Belov, even in the most trivial matters.

Perhaps he was tired, or slightly out of his mind by that stage, but a wild idea had formed in his head. Crazy, obvious and simple. What if everyone dealing with Max Zubin at Station Gorky actually believed he was Josef Belov?

He turned to Doyle. “See if the Major’s stirring, Sergeant, and ask her if she’d fancy some early breakfast with me, and I’d like you to help me out with her,” and he explained.

“Certainly, sir.”

Roper poured a whiskey to pull himself together. The implications were obvious. “Right, old son, don’t mess up,” he murmured.

“You look terrible,” Greta told him.

“I’ve looked terrible for some years now.”

She was genuinely sorry and shook her head. “But your diet seems to consist solely of Irish whiskey.”

“That’s Dillon for you.”

“I expect so.”

“And too many cigarettes.”

“They help calm me down. I get neurological symptoms. Can’t sleep.”

“And you only eat sandwiches. I haven’t seen you tackle a decent meal.”

“Well, you will now. I’ve ordered a full English breakfast. I thought you’d like to join me. Start with the tea, Sergeant,” he said to Doyle. “Oh, and pass the morning papers.”

“Coming up, sir.”

Doyle picked up the Times and the Daily Mail from a side table and passed them over. Both featured Putin’s visit, also the press release announcing details of the Belov Protocol.

“My God,” she said, as she looked at the Mail .

“My God, indeed.” Roper poured another whiskey. “This is purely medicinal, I assure you, but a toast to Russian barefaced cheek.”

She read the piece quickly and looked up. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, come on, you’ll never get away with it.”

“That’s what you think. Ashimov passed Max Zubin off in Paris the other year with no trouble. Not only does Zubin really look like Belov, he’s a damn good actor. Ashimov told me he handled it really well. It fooled everybody. French intelligence, the CIA, the Brits.”

Doyle had come in with a trolley and laid a table by the fire. She carried on talking.

“If it worked then, it will work now.”

He wheeled his chair to the table and started on the bacon and eggs. “Come on, eat up, it’ll get cold.”

She took his advice. “Say, this is good. But you must understand, Roper, we Russians are used to the cold.”