“Horsham. Quit worrying. We’ll be there soon.”
He rang off and said to Tod, “To hell with all of them. Let’s you and me get on with it,” and he led the way out.
Tod said as they walked to the Transit, “Why haven’t you told him about Sean, and Danny Malone doing a runner?”
“Why bother the man? He might lose faith, and we can’t have that.” He unlocked the Transit. “Next stop, Huntley.”
Greta Novikova left the Russian Embassy on foot from Kensington Palace Gardens, crossed to the pub on the other side and went in. Ashimov was seated at the bar reading a newspaper.
“Ah, there are you. Would you like a drink?”
“Not at the moment. What’s going on?”
“I’ve spoken to Kelly. They were at Horsham.”
“That’s no more than half an hour to Huntley from there. Things ought to be happening soon.”
“I hope so. But I’ve been around a long time, Greta. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, something else will come along. Survival is the name of the game.”
“And you always do.”
“Because I take precautions. For example, I have a company Falcon on standby at a flying club called Archbury about half an hour out of London. On standby until I tell it to stand down. Why? It’s insurance. It means that if anything goes wrong, I can get the hell out of here quickly.” He smiled. “I know, nothing will go wrong, you will say. And as a tribute to your faith, I intend to take you to lunch at the Ivy. Come on.”
“But that’s impossible to get into.”
“The magic name of Belov works wonders, even at the Ivy.” He had a hand on her elbow as they went out. “Let’s go over to the embassy and pick up your Opel. I’ll show you Bernstein’s house on the way.”
“That should be interesting. I’ve only seen a photo.”
“A lady of some wealth, I’d say. You’ll be surprised.”
Regan had checked Stable Mews, but there was no sign of Dillon’s Mini car outside the cottage. He didn’t linger, but moved out to the square and hailed a cab. With a grin, he told the driver to take him to the end of Lord North Street, which was where Hannah Bernstein lived. When he got there, he walked a bit down the street toward Millbank and Victoria Tower Gardens and stood looking across.
In a way, he was just being bloody-minded, because he was angry at being put down by Tod as he had been. It was particularly unfortunate, given the circumstances, that Ashimov and Greta came down Lord North Street at that moment.
Ashimov, who was driving, said to her, “Impressed?” as they slowed at Hannah’s house.
“Very,” Greta told him. “I see what you mean.”
They picked up speed, passing Regan on the corner, and she recognized him.
“My God, it’s Regan, one of Kelly’s men.”
Ashimov pulled in at the curb. “Stupid bastard, he’s not supposed to be here.”
He got out of the Opel, Greta joined him and they advanced on Regan. “What in the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.
Regan, of course, recognized them instantly. “I was just having a look at the Bernstein woman’s place.”
“It’s not your affair,” she said. “You and your friend were told to check out Dillon’s and Roper’s places. We’re seeing to Bernstein.”
“All right,” Regan told her. “I was just trying to get the job done. I’ve been to Dillon’s.”
“Just do as you’re told,” Ashimov advised him. “You understand me?”
“Okay, okay.” Regan spread his hands. “No need to make a big case out of it.” He turned, walked away and crossed through traffic to Victoria Tower Gardens, very angry indeed.
Ashimov drove away and was just as angry. “Peasants. Totally unreliable.”
“You’re right, they’re clodhoppers,” Greta said. “But, Yuri, the important thing is what’s happening in Huntley. We can check on Bernstein later.”
“And Dillon. I wonder what he’s up to?”
“Never mind. Just get me to the Ivy. I’m starving.”
At that moment, Dillon was entering the Piano Bar at the Dorchester Hotel, where he was warmly greeted by Guiliano, the manager.
“She’s waiting for you,” Guiliano said and led him to where Hannah Bernstein was sitting.
Hannah was looking terrific in a black Armani trouser suit. Dillon ordered two glasses of champagne, kissed her on the forehead and sat down.
“I’ve had a morning of paperwork,” Dillon said. “It was intensely boring.”
“Me, too. I didn’t see you at the office.”
“I did it at home. Any news?”
“Yes, Ferguson’s phoned me twice. He’s very pleased with the way things are going with Selim. Apparently, he had a real breakthrough and it’s going well this morning.”
“I had a minor development of a personal nature last night,” and he told her what had happened to Billy Salter’s Range Rover and his call on Danny Malone.
“There couldn’t be any significance to it,” she said. “We all know who Malone was. I helped put him away. He wouldn’t do anything stupid enough to send him back to complete his sentence.”
“I suppose even Danny couldn’t be that silly. Anyway, a day of rest. Where do you want to have lunch? Mulligans?”
“No, right here will do for me, plus another glass of champagne.”
“Sounds good to me,” and he waved to Guiliano.
Regan, walking along by the Thames in a fury, rang Fahy. “Where are you?” “Watching Roper. He left his house and went to a pub on the corner of the main road. I checked the bar, and he was reading the paper in a booth by the window and the staff was making a big fuss over him. Ordered Irish stew.”
“Well, he’s got taste at least. I’m pissed off,” and he told Fahy what had happened. “First of all, it’s Tod kicking ass and then the bloody Russians.”
“Oh, to hell with the lot of them. A decent meal and a glass, that’s what you need.”
“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard all day. I could murder a pint. Where shall we go?”
And the reconnaissance turned to talk of pubs.
At Huntley, Kelly and Tod arrived to something of a surprise. Two of the trailers on the site behind the garage were occupied, cars parked outside, three children playing ball.
Kelly said, “Jesus Christ, that’s just what we need.”
“No, in fact that is exactly what we need. A couple of families around, kids playing.” Tod shrugged. “A nice, normal environment.” He got out of the Transit. “Come on, Dermot, do your stuff.”
Betty Laker came out of the kiosk. “Fill it up?” she asked.
“No, actually,” Dermot told her. “We’re on our way from Brighton to London, and my nephew called in here – a big lad, in black leather, Suzuki motorcycle. Do you remember him?”
“Oh, I remember him,” she said. Her grandfather came out of the kiosk behind her. She turned. “That young man on the motorcycle you were talking to in the pub. This gentleman is his uncle.”
“Well, he met us in Brighton and told us what a nice place Huntley was. He mentioned the trailer site, so we thought we’d stop off and look around. Can you manage us?” Kelly asked.
“Of course we can,” the old man said. “I’ll handle this, Betty, love. Just follow me, gentlemen.”
They parked by the other cars, the trailer was clean and decent, basically simple and perfectly acceptable. Tod, who was carrying two bags, dropped them on one of the beds.
“Looks fine to me.”
