down to the cloakroom.
BLAKE REFUSED A CAR and accepted an umbrella, went down to the steps into the square and walked down toward South Audley Street. He made a brief call on his mobile and was answered by Sean Dillon in the passenger seat of Harry Salter’s Aston Martin. Billy was driving.
“Where are you?” Sean demanded.
“Moving down to the embassy house. I felt like the walk, the rain, all that stuff. The romance of a great city.”
“You damn fool. You know you’re a marked man. Anybody special at the embassy?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, a guy called Boris Lhuzkov, station head of the GRU, apparently.”
“Idiot,” Sean said. “You know the moment you landed here, the GRU were on to you, don’t you?” He switched off.
“Where is he?” Billy demanded, pulling his hat down.
“Near the embassy house. Make it fast. Pass him, as a matter of fact. Go straight up that little side lane. Turn in there. Whoever’s up to no good is probably parked by the house. I’ll bail out fast and you can join me. Are you tooled up?”
“What do you think?”
Billy moved out to pass three parked cars and then Blake, the umbrella over his head. They ignored him, moved into the turning by the house and noticed a small sedan. Billy slowed, and Dillon pulled a Walther PPK with a silencer from his raincoat pocket, opened the door of the slow-moving car and rolled out. The car carried on. He pulled open the door of the waiting sedan and menaced the two men waiting inside. One of them was just clutching the driving wheel, but the other had a Browning, which Dillon wrenched from his hand. Billy arrived a moment later, opened the car door and relieved the driver of a Colt.25 from his waistband.
“Here, what is this?” the driver protested. It started, the usual bluster.
“I hate people being stupid,” Billy said. “Don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Dillon told him, and at that moment Blake turned the corner and approached.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Just go and get your luggage and we’ll be on our way, idiot,” Dillon told him. “Get moving.”
“Did I have company? Ah well, I knew I could rely on you two.” Blake laughed and went to the front door of the house.
“Assume the position, both of you,” Dillon said, which they did with reluctance. Billy went through their pockets, did a quick check and found a wad of fifty-pound notes. “Two thousand,” he said, counting. “Must have been more originally. Had to be.”
Dillon stuck his pistol in the first man’s ear. “Who put you up to this?”
“Get stuffed,” the man said. He sounded Cockney; the driver stayed silent.
“Stupid
The man cursed and moaned at the same time, and Dillon said, “If you want the other one taken care of as well, that’s all right with me.” He slipped the two thousand into the man’s pocket. “You can keep this. Just tell me who it was.”
“George Moon,” the man said, gasping, “Runs the Harvest Moon pub in Trenchard Street, Soho. Farms out work.”
“And pretty dirty work, too, if that old sod’s still at it.”
“And who was he representing?” Billy said to the driver. “You might as well come clean.”
“Russian guy. Moon said he was called Lhuzkov. He met us in a pub in Kensington across the High Street from the Russian Embassy.”
“And the gig was to kill off Blake Johnson.”
“Something like that.”
Dillon gave him his handkerchief. “It’s clean. Now piss off and find a hospital.”
They couldn’t get in the car fast enough.
Billy said, “Nice and generous of you, letting them keep the two grand.”
“It helped grease the wheels, Billy. A little pain, a little reward.”
The front door opened and Blake came out carrying a couple of flight bags. He put them in the back of the car. “Anybody dead?”
“We wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
Blake said, “Who was it?”
“Couple of small-time hoods, hired by Lhuzkov.”
Blake said, “Interesting. He wouldn’t have done that on his own.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy said. “We’ll sort that lot out. It’ll be a pleasure.”
They drove off. Dillon lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Foot down to Farley Field, Billy. Ferguson won’t be pleased if Blake’s late.”
AT FARLEY FIELD, the rain fell relentlessly. Ferguson ’s pilots, Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry, busied themselves with the aircraft, while the General drank coffee and a Bushmills whiskey and stood at the window of the small lounge staring out at the rain. He was indeed not best pleased.
“You’re late.”
“Well, if you can be bothered to wipe the scowl from your face, General dear, I have news for you,” Dillon told him.
Ferguson ’s face became wary. “And what would that be?”
“A couple of gentlemen of evil intent tried to hurry Blake into a better world.”
“Explain. Billy, I need another drink.”
He sampled the Bushmills and listened and Blake watched, amused. “What I want to know,” said Ferguson, “is what’s with all this bloody game-playing? A third-rate colonel working for Russian military intelligence wants to shoot the President’s key security man, and the best he can do is hire these incompetents? Somebody’s head is going to roll.”
“All right,” Billy said. “So where does that get us?”
“Well, obviously, we’re going to have to look into whoever put Lhuzkov up to it, but that will have to wait until I return in four days. After Brussels, Putin visits Germany, and the Prime Minister and the President will be trying desperately to knock some sense into France.”
“I’ll be glad to help with the France thing,” Billy said.
“Very funny. I’ve got something else for you to do. We’ve gotten a tip that some very bad actors may be flying in during the next twenty-four hours. Don’t know who or from where, but it bears checking out. Sean, you know a lot of these people by sight-you and Billy, go to Heathrow and haunt passport control, see who’s flying in from nasty places. We’ve got other men there, too, but they haven’t got your experience.”
Dillon nodded.
“Meanwhile,” Blake said, “we have to be off. Coming, General?” He got up onto the plane, and Ferguson turned on the steps. “I’ll send the Gulfstream back in case of emergencies. Use it at your discretion if something comes up. You might also want to check in at the Holland Park safe house. Major Roper’s just gotten in a new batch of satellite computer equipment. Very powerful stuff-you’ll find it interesting. And Greta’s there now-I thought it would be good experience for her.”
He was referring to Major Greta Novikova, once employed by the Russian Army in Chechnya and Iraq. Circumstances had made it seem sensible for her to transfer allegiance to Ferguson.
The door closed, the plane started to move, and they turned back to the Aston and drove away. Dillon called Billy’s father, Harry Salter, at his pub, the Dark Man.
“Are you on your own?”
