Without Mercy

There was a moment’s silence. Ashimov said, “It would be our honor.”

Putin nodded, turned to Volkov and handed him an envelope. “There is what you asked for. Read it.”

Volkov opened the envelope and took out a document, which he unfolded.

“Aloud, please.”

“From the Office of the President of the Russian Federation at the Kremlin. The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way demanded. Signed, Vladimir Putin.”

“It may help, it may not. It’s in your hands now.” Putin stepped behind the secret door and it swung noiselessly back into place. It was as if he had never been.

Volkov replaced the letter in the envelope and gave it to Ashimov. “Such power. You must guard it well. Now, on your way.”

He turned, opened the secret door and disappeared as completely as had his master.

“So there we are,” Ashimov said. “What happens now?”

“I’m taking you out,” Igor said. “There’s a very acceptable nightclub called the Green Parrot. It’s owned by the Mafia, but they know me.”

“There is a purpose to this, I presume?”

“You want to see Max Zubin perform, don’t you?”

On the way to the club, it was Greta who said, “We’re being followed.”

“Good for you, but it’s all right. They’re my people. They’ll arrange Zubin’s onward transportation to Station Gorky.”

“I don’t understand,” Greta said. “If Zubin is so important, why is he allowed to have so free a life? To perform in public and so on?”

“Because of his mother,” Ashimov told her. “Bella Zubin.”

Greta was astounded. “The actress?”

“The great actress,” Ashimov said. “One of Russia’s finest. Unfortunately, she dabbled too much in politics and was sent to the Gulag.”

“I thought she was dead.”

“No, very much alive at eighty-five and living in a comfortable condominium by the river. Her son would not wish to see her returned to a more uncomfortable situation. That’s why we could trust him not to make a run for it when he was playing Belov in Paris the other year.”

Greta shook her head. “I remember seeing her play the Queen in Hamlet when I was a little girl. She was wonderful.”

“It’s a hard life, Greta,” Ashimov said, “but some things are more important.”

The Green Parrot was up a side street in an old brownstone house, a neon sign advertising the fact over an arched doorway. Levin parked outside and the doorman stepped out.

“You can’t park there. Clear off.”

The other limousine pulled in behind them and three men in black leather coats got out. The doorman took one look and hurriedly backed off.

“Sorry, Comrades.” He opened the door behind him, the three men went in first and Levin, Ashimov and Greta followed.

The club was small, curiously old-fashioned, a little like some joint in one of those cinema noir, black-and-white thrillers from the Hollywood of the forties. The headwaiter even wore a white tuxedo as if doing an impersonation of Rick in Casablanca. He turned, saw Levin and his party, and his face fell.

The tables were crowded, but one of Levin’s men brushed past the headwaiter as he came forward, ignored the bearded man at the microphone who seemed to have the audience in stitches with his humor, and leaned down to a table of five people in the front, three women, two men. Whatever he said was enough. They vacated the table at once and moved away.

The man at the microphone said, “I know I can be bad, but this is ridiculous.”

Levin called, “Max, you’re looking good. How about the piano? ‘A Foggy Day in London Town.’ You know how I love all those old numbers. Let’s all cheer for Fred Astaire. The Yanks are our friends now.”

He sat down with Ashimov and Greta; the three minders stood against the wall.

Max Zubin shook his head and, waving at the audience, said, “The GRU, my friends, what do you expect? My master calls and I obey.”

He went to the piano at the back of the stage, a baby grand. A drummer and a double bass player were already there, and Zubin sat down and started a driving, complex version of “Foggy Day” that wouldn’t have been out of place in any great piano bar in London or New York.

Levin called the headwaiter over. “Vodka, on the house, and don’t forget the boys behind me.”

“It is my pleasure, Captain.”

“And a little beluga on toast, the way I like it.”

“Of course.”

There was a roar of applause as Zubin finished and Levin stood up, clapping. “Marvelous,” he called. “More.”

Zubin moved into “Night and Day” and waiters appeared hurriedly with glasses of vodka on a tray, each glass in a larger glass with crushed ice, one waiter handing them out to the security guards, the other to the party at the table, the third distributing the beluga caviar.

As they started on the feast Ashimov said, “You live well, my friend.”

“I could be dead tomorrow, that’s what I learned in Afghanistan and Chechnya.” He crunched toast and savored the beluga.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Greta said, as she followed suit.

“It was in the Chechen capital I got a taste for it. We took the Grand Hotel in a firefight – a very bloody firefight. Found the beluga in the icebox behind the bar in the main kitchen. A few of us survived that fight. Not many. The Twenty-first Independent Parachute Company, made up of anyone they could reach out and grab. We were wolfing that caviar down when we heard the piano start to play in the anteroom. We went out to see what was going on and there he was, an infantry captain named Max Zubin.”

“And what was he playing?” Greta asked.

“ ‘As Time Goes By.’ I swear to God, just like in Casablanca. You know the old movie? I’ve seen it in American, and I’ve seen it dubbed with Bogart speaking Russian and it’s just as fantastic.” He stood up, applauded and called, “Max, let’s do the Grand in Chechnya, in memory of the Twenty-first and all those guys we left. Let’s do ‘As Time Goes By.’ ”

He sat down, snapped his fingers for another vodka and ate some more toast and caviar, somehow managing to hum the tune at the same time.

“An enthusiast,” Ashimov told Greta.

“The crowd seems to like it.”

And indeed they did, large sections singing along, some in English, others in Russian. Zubin finished on a high. People cheered, stood up and clapped. He waved to everyone, nodded to the double bass player, who put his instrument down and took over the piano, then came down from the stage, shaking hands on the way, and sat down at the spare seat at the table.

Levin smiled. “You haven’t lost your touch.” He handed him a vodka, which Zubin swallowed in one gulp, then reached for another. “Why are you being so nice to me, Igor?”

Levin said, “Let’s put it this way. The beard suits you, but it’s time to take it off again.”

“Christ, no,” Max Zubin groaned. “Not that.”

“I’m afraid so. Surely you remember Major Ashimov from Paris? I’ll let him explain.”

The Zubin apartment was a time capsule from another age. Even the maid was aging and could have been out of a Chekhov play. The interior was more thirties than anything else, with a grand piano covered by photos of the great and the good in silver frames.

Levin, Ashimov and Greta were admitted by the maid, who viewed them all suspiciously.

“Is my mother at home, Sonia?” Zubin asked.