Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“Ferguson can do anything.”

Harry said, “I feel well-used. The bastard could certainly dish it out.” He poured champagne down and swallowed it. “Come on, everybody. Another drink, then we’ll see you home.”

Ferguson said to Bella and Zubin, “I think you’ll find this is the end of the affair.”

“A short run,” Bella said. “And thank God for it.”

The lift returned and Billy got out. “I found the security guard, Tony Small, in the back of reception. No serious damage, just a sore head. I told him it was a mob thing. Five hundred quid will keep him happy.”

“We’ll get you good people back home,” Ferguson said. “I’ll leave you and Billy to handle the disposal people, Harry.”

“We’ll be in touch, General.”

Sometime earlier, Levin had drifted out of the Thames close to a ladder that took him up to the wharf. Rounds blocked by a bulletproof vest often knock the recipient unconscious, but not in Levin’s case. The ice-cold waters of the Thames had taken care of that. He reached in his shirt, pulled out Ashimov’s two rounds, then hurried to where he had left the Mercedes, got in and drove away.

Half an hour later, at the Dorchester, where he had arrived soaked to the skin, he showered, changed clothes and packed. He had various phone numbers from GRU records, and one of them was the Holland Park safe house. He phoned and a man answered.

“Who is this?”

“Would that be Major Roper?”

“And who would you be?”

“Igor Levin. Are you aware of what happened at the penthouse?”

“Of course. I was told Ashimov blew you away.”

“Over a railing and a rather steep fall into the Thames. Tell Dillon there’s nothing like a titanium vest. I survived, got back to the Dorchester, where my condition probably surprised the doorman, but being the best hotel in London they were able to cope. Just tell me. What happened after Ashimov shot me?”

Roper told him in a few short sentences. “It’s all taken care of. Ashimov and the ex-Chief of Staff of the IRA are, as we speak, being turned into six pounds each of gray ash. The Zubins have survived, so have Ferguson and Harry, though a little damaged.”

“I was surprised to see Greta there.”

“Only as a guest.”

“Give Dillon and Billy my respects.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ve got diplomatic immunity. You can’t touch me.”

“And you would be advised to stay out of Russia.”

“Yes, but I have an English passport through my mother, and an Irish one through one of my grandmothers. Not to mention lots of money, Roper. I think I’ll lay low in Dublin for a while. What the hell, you sound like a nice guy, so I’ll give you my mobile number. If Dillon wants me, I’ll make it easy.”

“Cheeky bastard,” but Roper took it.

“Take care, though for a man in a wheelchair you do well. Tell Greta not to be stupid.”

The line went dead.

Roper sat there, smiling, then reached for the whiskey bottle and found it empty. He pushed his chair to the drinks cabinet, found a bottle of scotch and opened it. He poured a glass and held it high.

“Well, here’s to you. Good luck.”

A moment later, Ferguson came in with Greta, Dillon and the Zubins.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Ferguson said.

“So I should.” Roper poured another scotch. “I’ve just been talking to a ghost. You know, someone who’s returned from the dead.”

And it was Dillon, with that extraordinary sixth sense, who said, “Igor Levin.”

“He was wearing a bulletproof vest, just like you favor, Sean. Headfirst into the Thames.”

“Thank God,” Bella Zubin said. “He was always a lovely boy, wasn’t he, Max?”

“Well, that’s one way of describing him,” her son told her.

Greta was unable to stop smiling. “He’s himself alone, that one.”

“And he said to tell Greta not to be stupid.”

She stopped smiling and shrugged. Ferguson said, “He’s right, except that diplomatic immunity would send him home.”

“He is half English.”

“Volkov would crucify him.”

“I’m not so sure. He’ll go from Archbury, there’s a Falcon there. I’ve checked. Are you going to stop him?”

“Irish citizen. What would be the point?” He turned to Dillon. “What do you think?”

“Well, we not only know where he is, he’s left his mobile number.”

“Exactly.” Ferguson smiled. “Damn his eyes, I like the bastard. Who knows what the future holds?”

Igor Levin waited on the High Street beside Kensington Palace Gardens. It was raining heavily, the Russian Embassy up there. The end of something, in a way.

The phone rang and Volkov said, “God, what a bloody mess. I don’t blame you. Ashimov’s insane, I should have realized that years ago. I’ve heard you’ve decided to flee to Dublin. That’s the smart move, but there’s part of you that’s still a sentimentalist. Taking Chomsky and Popov with you, I understand.”

“Yes, they’re very good. But then, so were Ferguson’s people.”

“Dillon – I wish he was available. Brutal, resourceful. And that language thing he has. Very useful.”

“And the Zubins?”

“Forget them. Ferguson will always have them guarded. Putin’ll just have to get ahold of Belov International another way. He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him, so we’re all just laying low. Heads are going to roll, so I’m going to make damn sure one of them isn’t mine.” He sighed. “Take care, Igor.” And he switched off.

A moment or so later, Chomsky and Popov said good-bye to the Embassy of the Russian Federation, came down Kensington Palace Gardens, each with a couple of suitcases. They loaded up the Mercedes and Levin got out to help. They were as excited as schoolboys.

Levin said, “You drive, Chomsky, and you sit with him, Popov. I’ll spread myself in the back. Your passports are all in order, I trust.”

“Ah, yes, Captain,” Chomsky said. “I thought we might as well go the whole hog and take two each from the files, English and Irish.”

“They’re excellent, sir,” Popov said. “Stamps on all the pages. We’ve been to places I haven’t been, if you follow me.”

“Oh, I do,” Levin said. “Put Archbury into the road-finder, Chomsky, and follow the instructions.”

“Will there be the chance of trouble, sir?”

“I doubt it. But let’s not take any chances – let’s move.”

He took out his Russian cigarettes, selected one, pinched the tube and lit it. Then he produced a couple of miniature bottles of vodka from his pocket, which he’d taken from the bar in his room at the Dorchester. There was a shelf in the Mercedes, water in plastic bottles and plastic tumblers. He filled one of them with the contents of the two vodka miniatures.

It had been a long day, a hard day, but here he was, against all the odds. He drank some of the vodka. Volkov had been extraordinarily well informed about his plans, and Levin, looking at the two young men in front, wondered which one it was, Chomsky or Popov. It had to be one of them, the information had been too fresh.

Not that it mattered. That was for another time. He examined the rest of his vodka and considered toasting Greta Novikova, but what would have been the point? He swallowed it down and sat back.

The following morning, it was March weather, rain driving in across the Thames at Hangman’s Wharf. Dillon sat at the corner booth in the Dark Man with Harry and Billy and they all ate breakfast.

Harry went through the food with gusto in spite of the brace around his neck. “God,” he said, “that was good.”

“How are you feeling?” Dillon asked.

“Well, that Ashimov bastard is finally dead, so I’m feeling good. I like the Zubins, so I’m feeling good about that, too. What about you?”