future.”
He was into the cockpit and back to work, the plane hurtling along the runway and rising into the fog, as Tod sat across from Kelly and fastened his seat belt. Kelly had a bottle of whiskey out and swallowed from it.
He laughed wildly. “We did it. We did it, and we got away with it.”
“Actually, it’s Smith who’s gotten us away with it.”
“He’s being paid, isn’t he?” He offered the whiskey bottle. “Have a drink.”
“I don’t think so.” Tod lit a cigarette. “I need my head clear for Drumore. For little things like Belov and Ashimov.”
“I can handle them, Tod. I can handle Ashimov. We’ve survived worse things than those two. They need us more than we need them.” He raised the bottle. “Up the IRA.”
“Yes, right up,” Tod said.
Hannah had caught a commuter train from Windsor to London after the wedding reception. It was early evening, dusk falling, when she came out of King’s Cross Station and found an enormous taxi line. She hesitated, debating whether to wait it out, then decided on the bus instead and walked to the main road. She was sitting on the top deck looking out when her mobile went. It was Dillon.
“Jesus, woman, I’ve been trying to get you for hours.”
“I’ve been to a wedding.”
“Yes, while you’ve been having fun and sipping champagne, the roof’s fallen in. Listen.”
When he was finished explaining, she was horrified. “So what’s happening now?”
“Selim is on his way to oblivion, and Ferguson to Rosedene, where he’s going to need some attention from Henry Bellamy. Kelly and Tod Murphy? If I know the score, I’d say they’ve flown straight back to Louth from this Dunkley place.”
“And Ashimov?”
“Roper says that a Belov International Falcon landed at Ballykelly yesterday and it’s still there. That means Belov must be at Drumore Place. But Ashimov is still a loose cannon. Where are you?”
“On top of a number-nine bus on my way home.”
“Listen, Hannah, this guy has made it personal. He wants the whole team, even the Salters, and we don’t know where he is. You go straight home. I’m coming to get you. Now, watch yourself.”
Ashimov had taken the wheel of Greta’s Opel and drove recklessly now through the traffic, to Greta’s alarm.
“Watch it, Yuri, for God’s sake.”
He was simmering with rage. “I’ve been watching it all my life and I’m still here.” That terrible scar on his face seemed to stand out. “I’m the original survivor, never forget that,” and he swerved around a truck and plowed on.
Hannah got off the bus at Millbank and started toward Victoria Tower Gardens. She paused at the curb, allowing the traffic to pass, then started across to Lord North Street. Ashimov recognized her at once as she crossed the road in front of him.
“It’s the Bernstein bitch,” and he dropped a gear, swung across the road and went after her.
She turned into Lord North Street and saw Dillon’s Mini car outside her house and he was standing at the door. She called and waved and hurried toward him as Ashimov swerved behind her.
Dillon had turned, was plainly identifiable, and Ashimov said, “I’ll get them, I’ll get both of them.”
And as they closed on Hannah, Dillon saw them, recognized them, and his mouth opened in a cry of warning. Hannah half turned, but there was no time. Ashimov crowded her on the pavement, bouncing her to one side, and Dillon drew his Walther and fired, but the Opel swerved, his bullet passing through the roof as it hurtled past.
“For God’s sake, Yuri,” Greta Novikova said.
“Just shut up,” he said, “and let’s get to that damned airport,” and he put his foot down.
On the pavement, Hannah Bernstein was trying to haul herself up, clutching at the railings as Dillon got to her. “You’re all right, just hold on to me.” But there was blood coming down her face, and he was afraid.
She spoke, but as from a distance. “It was Ashimov, Sean, and the woman.”
“I know, look, just do as I say.” He eased her around to the passenger seat, got behind the wheel, took out his mobile and phoned Roper and explained what had happened as he started the car. “Phone Rosedene. Tell them I’m on my way and we’re going to need Bellamy.”
“Leave it to me.”
Dillon drove away, Hannah leaning back, moaning. Strange, he didn’t feel some hot burning rage. If anything, he was cold and conscious of only one thing: Ashimov was responsible for this.
LONDON IRELAND
14
At Rosedene, Dillon paced nervously up and down in reception, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Rabbi Julian Bernstein sat by the window.
“Sean, sit down. It isn’t helping and it isn’t good for you.”
“If anything goes wrong with her” – Dillon had that Devil’s face on him – “I swear I’ll…”
“You’ll do nothing. We wait, we see. ‘Vengeance is mine’ achieves nothing.”
“What do I do, turn the other cheek? Well, I’m feeling very Old Testament right now.”
His mobile sounded. It was Roper. “How is she?”
“I’m waiting to hear. What have you got?”
“I’ve tracked down another Belov plane which lifted off half an hour ago from Archbury. Ashimov and Novikova are aboard.”
“Dammit,” Dillon told him. “That really rubs it in. That she’s gone with him, I mean.”
“There’s something else you won’t like. The Opel car. It’s a Russian Embassy vehicle logged out to a Novikova.”
“Well, there you are,” Dillon said. “Make my day. What’s the intended destination of the plane?”
“Ballykelly. Belov International’s got a big development there, which includes an airstrip. Belov dropped in yesterday, which means he’s already at Drumore Castle.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Dillon said.
“Safely in the Republic of Ireland, where they can’t be touched.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Well, you’ll have to hurry, Sean. Air Traffic Control in Dublin reports a slot booked out at ten o’clock tomorrow morning for Belov’s Falcon to Moscow.”
At that moment, the door opened and Ferguson came in, supported by Miller and Dalton. His face was gray, eyes sunken. They helped him to a chair.
He looked at Dalton. “Be a good chap. Find us some whiskey. They’ll have some in the back for medicinal purposes.”
Dalton went away, and Dillon said, “You look terrible.”
“Yes, well, being shot does have that effect. But never mind me. How is the Superintendent?”
“Bellamy’s with her now. They did a scan.”
Ferguson turned to Rabbi Bernstein. “This life of Hannah’s, Rabbi, you must hate it, all of it.”
The old man smiled gently. “It’s the life she chose, General. It’s what she wanted. And you do look awful. My son is at a medical conference in Paris, but I’ve phoned him and he’s coming back at once. No,” he said, as Ferguson started to protest, “I insist. He’d never forgive himself otherwise. And I wouldn’t forgive myself, either.”
