“To tell you that your President needs you and Russia needs you. Think about it. Good help is hard to find, and you’re the best. It’s amazing how frequently people let you down.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll give you an example. A few days ago, Blake Johnson was in London, available to all, walking down the street. Lhuzkov and Max Chekov arranged for a couple of would-be assassins to take care of him. Instead, Dillon and Salter took care of them. It was ludicrous.
“Like you said, good help is hard to find. Never mind, General, if at first you don’t succeed. You know the rest.”
“My poor Levin, you must find life infinitely boring not being in the game. Just think about what I’ve said. We’ll speak again.”
“The old bastard,” Chomsky said. “We’ll speak again.” He waved to the barman. “Same again, Mick.”
“Interesting, though,” Levin said. “A piece of crap like Max Chekov in charge of Belov International. I’ve been following that one closely.”
“Nothing changes, it would seem,” Chomsky said. “I wonder…do you think he’s called Popov?”
“A good point. Don’t tell Popov about our conversations with Volkov. Just see if he mentions his. In fact, why don’t you phone him now?”
Chomsky did, finding Popov still with Mary in the cocktail bar of the hotel.
“Hello. It’s me,” Chomsky said in English. “I’m just having a drink with Igor and then we’re going to a show. Do you want to join us?”
Popov didn’t even hesitate. “Not tonight, thanks. I’m about to have dinner with Mary.”
“That’s all right then. So, how are things with you? Anything new?”
“No, just the same old thing.”
“Okay, just thought I’d ask. Have a good time!”
He slipped his mobile into his pocket. “He’s having dinner again with the girl from the office.”
“He’s getting serious,” Levin said.
“No, I don’t think so. Not if the way he’s talked in the past is anything to go by.”
“But he didn’t mention Volkov, did he? It’s inconceivable that the General would have spoken to us and not to him.”
“Which shows he’s stupid, then. Surely he would know that we’d assume that he had.” Chomsky shrugged. “What does it prove?”
“That maybe-just maybe-friend Popov is in Volkov’s pocket, has been since we left London. I knew one of you was. I’m satisfied it isn’t you. Circumstances indicate otherwise.”
“Thanks very much. Is there any reason why it matters?”
“I think Volkov’s approach indicates that there could be. But enough.” Levin got up. “The delights of James Bond await. We’ll dine afterwards.”
MICHAEL FLYNN was in his early fifties, almost six feet tall, a powerful figure of a man in an excellent suit of Donegal tweed, his face strong and purposeful, the face of a man who didn’t waste time on anything. His office at Scamrock Security had paneled walls of oak, dark green velvet curtains at the windows, green velvet carpet, the desk and furniture speaking of a successful man who liked to be exact. In the great days of revolution, he had been, for a while, chief of staff in the Provisional IRA, although prison had followed that.
Those days were far behind him. Now he was a successful businessman, head of a company offering its expertise in the field of international security.
He looked out the window at the rain, but he was in a cheerful mood. Business was good, the death business- with all the wars and rumors of wars, it was the kind of world in which his business could only thrive. He returned to his desk, took the stopper out of a cut glass decanter and poured whiskey into a glass, and then his mobile sounded, the special one he kept only in his inside pocket.
“Yes,” he said.
“Mr. Flynn, this is Volkov.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Flynn swallowed the whiskey and poured another.“It’s been a while since I heard from you.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “So what can I do for you?”
“Oh, I just wanted to keep you informed. As you know, I have a direct pipeline to al-Qaeda.”
“The Broker, right?”
“Yes. He has informed me that an associate of mine, Abdul Rashid, was car-bombed in Baghdad. It was a Sunni operation.”
“So how does this touch me?”
“A man you supplied worked for him. His name was Terence O’Malley, a Provo.”
“The schoolmaster. A good man. Came from Bangor. What happened?”
“He was killed in a firefight with a man named Sean Dillon and a London gangster called Billy Salter. Have you heard of them?”
“You could say that. Dillon and I were comrades in the old days. Salter I know only by reputation. What was it about?”
“A personal matter. Old Rashid had kidnapped his granddaughter from England, a girl of thirteen. Apparently, Dillon and Salter were trying to get her back. A good deed in a naughty world.”
“That sounds like Sean Dillon. Mad as a hatter.”
“Anyway, I thought you should know.”
“I appreciate it. Listen,” Flynn said. “The new company, Belov International. Does it need security work?”
“As a matter of fact, it probably does, especially at the Irish end, Drumore Place. That’s a good idea, Flynn. We’ll speak about it later. Goodbye for now.”
Flynn sat there thinking about it. A pity about O’Malley. A good comrade and big for the Cause, but like so many, unable to handle a future without it.
He poured another whiskey and raised his glass. “Here’s to you, Terence, rest in peace.”
He emptied his glass, put on a trench coat and went out.
KUWAIT
THE EMPTY QUARTER
LONDON
Chapter 5
KUWAIT WAS KUWAIT, THE OIL WELLS WORKING AWAY, the visible signs of war no longer in evidence. Desert Storm had been a long time ago. Hussein had checked on the satellite phone and before arrival had been given instructions to a part of the airport some distance away from the terminals used for Jumbos and other passenger planes.
The Land Rovers moved through a number of parked cargo planes and finally reached a place of separate hangars and private planes, parked with precision.
The one on the end was an old Hawk eight-seater and a man in stained overalls came down the steps from the interior. He was American from his accent.
“My name’s Grant. Mr. Rashid?”
“That’s me,” Rashid said.
“She’s all yours. Are you familiar with this aircraft?”
“I’m familiar with many aircraft types. Have I anything to sign?”
