“Where else would she be? She is preparing to go to bed.”
“I’d like a word.”
“What a ridiculous time to call. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
She went out and he lit a cigarette. “You must excuse Sonia. She’s a failed actress who became my mother’s dresser.”
Greta moved to the piano and examined the photos. Zubin sat at it and started to play “Falling in Love Again.”
“Marlene Dietrich’s national anthem,” Greta told him.
“You’ll find her and my mother amongst the photos there.”
Greta was working her way through and picked one up. “My God, this is her with Laurence Olivier.”
“In London, where we did
And there she was in the flesh, wearing a silk robe, her hair tied back, powerful and thrilling in spite of her age.
Ashimov stepped forward. “You look like some great warrior queen.”
“Don’t try flattery, Major. I remember you well from that affair in Paris. So, you need my son again?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She turned to Greta. “And who’s this one?”
“Major Greta Novikova of GRU.”
“Typecasting, but good bone structure.”
Greta couldn’t think of a thing to say. Bella did a surprising thing. As Sonia came in with the ritual glasses of vodka on a tray, the old actress patted Igor Levin on the cheek.
“He looks in on me from time to time, this one. A nice boy in spite of himself.”
Levin took her hand and kissed it. “No man could have a greater compliment.”
They all took their vodka. “So, this is State business?”
“Direct from Putin himself.”
“Well, to hell with him and to hell with the lot of you. Where are you taking him?”
“Station Gorky in Siberia,” Levin said.
“For a while only. You’ll see him again soon,” Ashimov said.
“And I’m supposed to believe that?” She turned to Zubin. “You’ll have to get rid of the beard. A pity. It suits you.” She turned to Levin. “Can I have him for tonight?”
“Where would he go?” Levin smiled. “His escort will be downstairs.”
“I thought so. All right, the rest of you can get out. I’d like some time with my son.”
Which they did, there was not much else to say. She turned to Zubin, who was still playing, and raised her glass to Sonia, who came over with the vodka bottle.
“If it wasn’t for me, you could make a run for it.”
“Things are as they are, Mama, so running is out of the question.”
“You’re a good son, Max, always were. So it’s the same old thing as Paris?”
“No, I think this is rather more important. They’ve shown me a warrant from Putin.”
“Then God help us.” She swallowed her vodka down and tossed the glass into the fireplace.
Onward from Moscow, the Falcon rose to forty thousand feet and moved on into the night, while Levin slept and Greta and Ashimov talked in low voices.
“What’s the story on the boy wonder there?” she asked.
“His father was an infantry colonel, a military attache at the London Embassy, his mother was English. Igor spent a couple of years at a posh public school in Westminster, London. He should have gone to university, but he’s a strange one, marches to his own drummer. He went home on holiday and just decided to join the army without even consulting his father, who couldn’t do anything about it because it would have looked bad.”
“Some KGB time was mentioned, the paratroopers and now GRU,” she said.
“Yes. He became a war hero, decorated twice. The thing that singled him out for a commission was when he took out a Chechnyan general.”
“As a sniper?”
“It was more complicated than that. He’s something of an actor, and made a very convincing Chechnyan. Worked himself close in, slit the man’s throat and walked off laughing.”
“My God.”
“That’s the thing. He really doesn’t care. Not about anything. His father was involved with Belov in the old days, so when the money started pouring in, he got his share. Ten million sterling, that kind of money. He was killed in a car crash with his wife the other year, which left Igor very well fixed and all nicely stashed away in London.”
“So Levin could be on the Riviera. Champagne, girls, a yacht? Why not?”
“He reminds me of Sean Dillon in a way,” Ashimov said. “Dillon is also well fixed in the money department. You could ask why he continues to live the life he does.”
He poured Greta a glass of champagne while she thought about it. “A kind of madness?” she asked. “A need to live on the dangerous edge?”
“You could have a point.”
“Well, if that means comparing him with Dillon, he must be mad. When I was involved with Dillon in Iraq, he seemed to be enjoying the whole business.”
Igor Levin stirred and said, “It’s very simple. Life can be so boring.” He tilted up his seat. “If you’ve finished talking about me, I’d like a glass of the old bubbles there.”
Ashimov said, “Ah, you’re awake, are you? Well, first things first. I’m going to need you, Igor, so I have something for you. When Billy Salter shot me at Drumore, my life was saved by a personal gift from Belov, a nylon- and-titanium vest. Even stops a forty-five. Fits nicely under your shirt.” He took a package from his briefcase. “My gift to you.”
Levin put it on the seat beside him. “Frightfully good of you, old boy, but I’d still appreciate some champagne.”
He spoke in an impeccable English public school accent.
Greta poured him a glass. “They’ll love you at the Reform Club.”
“I should damn well hope so.” He sipped some of the champagne. “I must say, Dillon sounds rather like the twin I never had. I can’t wait to meet him.”
“You won’t have to wait long,” Ashimov said. “After stopping at Drumore, we’re off to London for you to take up your new duties.”
“Where I may be received with less than enthusiasm.”
“Not when the Ambassador sees your warrant from Putin.”
“Oh, good, I’m to have that, am I?”
He still spoke in that English upper-class accent. Ashimov opened a briefcase, took out a file and passed it across.
“Here’s everything you need to know on Dillon, Ferguson, Roper and the Salters. These people are bad news, my friend, as bad as you’ve ever known.”
Levin flicked the file and it opened by chance at a printout about Bernstein. He went through it quickly. “What a woman. This is an incredible record.”
“Well, don’t fall in love with her. She’s the first one to go.”
“A nice Jewish girl, and you forget – my father was Jewish.”
“Your mother was Christian,” Ashimov said. “You can only be a Jew through your mother.”
“An academic argument. All those wonderful genes. They never go away. If I was religious, I’d say it was a blessing from God. Personally, I’m rather proud of it.”
“Good for you. Now read the file and see what you’re getting into. I’ll fill you in on the IRA side of things later.”
“As you say.”
Levin settled back with the file, while Ashimov poured Greta some more champagne and used his satellite phone to contact Liam Bell. He found him at Drumore Place.
