“And I always thought you liked me, Ruby. Just a word. Me and my friend Mr. Dillon would appreciate that. You see, we’ve been to Saint Michael’s, and George and Harold have told the police they were mugged, a racial attack in reverse. They’ve got nothing else to say.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, you see we know who shot them, a friend of ours who was actually attacked by George and Harold in his wheelchair. The thing is, he was armed, Ruby, he’s that kind of man.”
“So?” She still stood there, holding the door.
“George is a hit man, that’s what he’s done for a living for years.”
“So what we’d like to know is who paid him,” Dillon told her.
“I don’t have any idea who he was.” She flinched, aware that she’d been caught out.
“Come on, Ruby, I’ve got a warrant here. We could take you in.”
“Okay, a guy came, spoke to George. No names, no pack drill, George said. He knew the man’s principals and they were frightening people. I mean, he’d obviously worked for them before.”
“But he didn’t know the man?” Dillon asked.
“No, there was one funny thing, though.”
“What was that?”
“When I was told to get him a drink, George said that considering the gentleman’s antecedents, he’d probably prefer a vodka.”
“So he was Russian?” Dillon said.
“No, a real gent. Drop-dead good-looking, public school voice. He was back here a little while ago. Told me what had happened, but I’d already had the police on.”
“Why did he come back?”
“His money. Two grand. Took the lot,” she lied.
They were still standing in the hallway. Billy glanced up and saw a security camera. “That appears to be on.”
“It is.”
He reached up, switched it off and removed the tape. “Upstairs, Ruby. We’ll have a quick look on your TV.”
Levin was there, of course, his one mistake, his face quite clear. “We’ll keep this,” Billy told Ruby. “You stay quiet and we’ll stay quiet, okay?”
“Men.” She shook her head. “Piss off, Billy.”
Driving away, Dillon said, “There’s something about our man. It’s as if I know him.”
“Not me,” Billy said. “But the Russian link is cool.”
Dillon’s mobile rang, he answered it, then switched off and turned. “That was Ferguson. He’s at the Holland Park safe house with Roper, and now your uncle.”
“Harry? What in Christ for?”
“Somebody cut the brakes on the Bentley. He and Joe Baxter ended up hanging over the edge of the wharf. It’s a miracle they survived.”
“This is beginning to stink, big-time,” Billy said.
“You don’t have to tell me. Just get us there.”
At the Holland Park safe house, they were all assembled. It was a bad business all round. They’d just run the tape through and found Levin entering the Harvest Moon. They established that he didn’t mean a thing to anyone.
“So where are we?” Dillon asked.
“This is a serious situation,” Ferguson said. “The death of Superintendent Bernstein, followed by what happened to Blake in Drumore and now the attacks on Major Roper and Harry Salter.” He shook his head. “Billy could have been with you, Harry, it could have been both of you.”
“Just wait till I get my hands on them,” Salter said. “Just wait.”
There was silence. Dillon lit a cigarette. “Well, I’d say it’s more than a coincidence that four members of the Prime Minister’s private army have been targeted, Charles. That only leaves you and me. Blake was extra.”
“Exactly, so the sooner we discover the identity of the gentleman on the security tape, the better.”
Dillon said, “Show me a picture of him on your computer.”
“Happy to oblige. There is one thing I wanted to run by you. The name Bell. I’ve come across one. A Liam Bell, once Chief of Staff to the PIRA, in the Maze Prison for some years. Retired some time ago. Lives in Dublin?”
“The schoolteacher?” Dillon said. “That’s what they used to call him. He was retired years ago. I thought he was dead.”
Dillon thought about it some more and said to Ferguson, “If Roper can give Billy the details on Bell, you could send him over in the plane from Farley Field tomorrow. See if he’s around. Is that okay with you, Billy?”
“Sure, but what about you?”
“Things I’d like to check out here. Is that all right, Charles?”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
Miles away in Siberia, in his suite in a hotel on the Station Gorky development, surrounded by snow, Max Zubin spoke to his mother, Bella, in Moscow. She was as vivacious as usual, slightly loud.
“What are they doing to you?”
“Not much. Shaved my beard.”
“I bet you look ten years younger.
“What about you?”
“They treat me well. I have a big black car with a driver. He hangs around downstairs. I can go anywhere. The supermarket, the theater, the Bolshoi.”
“Well, you couldn’t exactly run away. They’ve got me.”
“And they’ve got me, too, so you can’t run away. What’s going to happen, Max?”
“I don’t know. Volkov spoke to me yesterday. He said I might have to turn up in Moscow again and play my part.”
“Well, whatever else you are, you’re a fine actor, my son.”
“From you, that’s the ultimate compliment. I love you, Mama.”
“And I love you, my son. God bless.”
Ferguson spoke to Blake and brought him up to speed. “There’s something going on here and we don’t know what it is.”
Blake said, “The name Bell, I’ve got that right, no question.”
“Well, we’re all on the case now.”
“I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll speak to the President.”
When Blake went into the Oval Office a few minutes later, Cazalet was by the fire, smoking a cigarette, Murchison, his flat-coated retriever, at his feet. The dog was the most intelligent Blake had ever known. He’d often suspected it of talking to the President. On a famous occasion, it had hurled itself at a waiting assassin and saved Cazalet’s life. Clancy, as usual, hovered.
“Well, I’ve said it before, Blake, but you’re a remarkable man. Three members of the Provisional IRA, one dead and two down? Amazing!”
“They were going to give me the deep six off a fishing boat, Mr. President. I decided otherwise.”
Cazalet said, “Clancy, scotch and soda. Can you believe this?”
“Absolutely, Mr. President. If you can get a Navy Cross in Vietnam at twenty-one, that means you can handle yourself.”
“Hell, you did the same thing in ’ninety-one in Iraq,” Blake said. “Mind you, Iraq was pussy.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I might just spill your drink.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t do that to a superior officer, Sergeant Major.”
“Stop the war games, we’ve all been there.” Cazalet toasted Blake. “Ferguson is right. Superintendent
