Bernstein murdered, you attacked, Major Roper. There seems to be a vendetta against Ferguson’s group. Do you think I should speak to the Prime Minister?”
“There’s not much he can do, Mr. President. I suspect that, as usual, it’s all down to Dillon.”
“Well, good luck to him,” and Cazalet toasted Blake again.
Levin phoned Ashimov at Drumore Place and got Greta first. “How are you doing?” she asked.
“Bloody awful.” He told her what had happened.
“Not so good.”
“Where’s Ashimov?”
“Playing snooker with Bell. He left me the phone. Said he didn’t want to be bothered.”
“Oh, dear, let’s hope Blake Johnson doesn’t appear on the scene again.”
“I wouldn’t mention that if I were you. I’ll transfer you.”
Ashimov said, “So, what’s happening?”
Levin went into detail, finding he was rather enjoying it.
Ashimov said, “This isn’t good, Captain. You disappoint me.”
“Well, the bloody IRA must have disappointed you with their botched job on Bernstein and their total incompetence in the Blake Johnson affair. The idiots I used for Roper were on your list. The Salters’ Bentley was just bad luck.”
“You’re making excuses,” Ashimov roared.
“Take it up with Volkov. I have. When I’ve something to say, I’ll phone. Good-bye.” He put the phone down.
Dillon stayed on with Billy, had a cup of tea in the kitchen while Roper worked away at his computer. They went to check on him when he called out, “Have I got news for you!”
They found him at his computer bank, and on the screen was Igor Levin.
“So, who is he?” Dillon asked. “A Russian?”
“Oh, a strange hybrid.”
Roper went on to describe Levin in detail.
When he was finished, Dillon said, “So, he’s appointed as a commercial attache at the Russian Embassy. We all know what that means.”
“What?” Billy asked.
“In the old days, KGB,” Roper said. “But our boy is GRU, Russian Military Intelligence. Flew in two days ago. Staying at the Dorchester.”
“He’s what?” Dillon said, and gasped. “Christ, I’ve seen him there in the Piano Bar. He was at the mortuary. He was even at the Dark Man.”
“But the Dorchester?” Billy said. “The Russians must be paying their agents well.”
“No, Billy,” Roper said. “He’s a rich man in his own right.” His fingers danced on the keys. “His father was a military attache at the London Embassy, his mother English, his grandmother Irish. Is there no end to him?”
“Apparently not,” Dillon said.
“Big war hero, languages. Christ, he went to Westminster School for a few years.”
“A man of parts.” Dillon nodded. “Billy, would you take me round to my place at Stable Mews? I do believe I have a staff passkey for the Dorchester. We’ll pay his suite a visit.”
“Not without me, you won’t,” Roper said. “A hotel as outstanding as the Dorchester doesn’t give out room numbers to anyone. I, on the other hand, can penetrate most systems.” His fingers danced again. “Six-ten,” he said.
“We’ll see you later,” Dillon said, and he and Billy left.
At the hotel, they checked the Piano Bar and had a stroke of real luck. Levin was at a corner table having some sort of pasta and a glass of champagne, listening to a trio playing jazz at the end of the room.
“Move it,” Dillon said, and they hit the lift fast and went upstairs.
The corridor was long, the carpet luxurious. Dillon had the key ready in his hand, pushed it in the electronic lock when they reached 610. The green light came on, the door opened automatically.
“Fast,” Dillon said. “Bedroom, check if the safe in the wardrobe’s in use. I’ll do the sitting room.”
He went one way, Billy the other. The sitting room was the height of luxury, but having stayed in such rooms at the hotel before, Dillon knew what to expect. It was like staying in a fine English country house. There was a large TV screen on the wall, a cabinet with video, a copier, a computer link, he knew that. But there was more. A spectacular piece of luck – Levin’s briefcase.
“Billy,” he called, got the briefcase open, rummaged around and found the envelope containing the Putin warrant. A Russian speaker, it made perfect sense to Dillon.
“Jesus, Billy, Vladimir Putin and his team sorted it for him.”
“The bloody Russian President,” Billy said. “If you nick it, he’ll know.”
“No need. There’s a copier in the cabinet.” He ran the warrant through, folded the copy and put it in his pocket, put the other in the envelope and returned it to the briefcase. “Out of it, fast.”
Which they did, running down the stairs at the far end instead of using the lift. In the car, Billy did the driving and Dillon phoned Ferguson.
“We’ll meet back at Holland Park,” Dillon said.
“What the hell for?”
“The most astonishing thing you’ll have seen in years. Trust me.”
In the computer room at the Holland Park safe house, they ranged around Roper and his screens.
“So, Levin is posted to London as a commercial attache,” Roper said.
“With one hell of a warrant to back him up and signed by Putin himself,” Dillon said. “Couldn’t you do something about that, Charles? Speak to head of Station?”
“They’d claim diplomatic immunity, and in theory, what, after all, does the letter say? It refers to the bearer, not a specific individual. No, I don’t think it would wash. You can’t even prove what it refers to.”
“I must say I agree,” Roper said. “And I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with Moon and his chum. Sticking to their mugging story keeps them out of court because I’ve got to keep to my story. Keeps me out of court, too, if you take my point.”
“Right,” Ferguson said. “At least Levin doesn’t know we’re onto him. I’ll leave him in your hands, Sean, while you, young Salter, make for Farley Field in the morning and head for Dublin. Any questions?”
“Not really,” Dillon said. “I just want answers.”
7
The Citation X landed at Dublin Airport mid-morning and taxied to the diplomatic arrivals section. Billy, Lacey and Parry had been through a lot together in the past on Ferguson’s behalf. As they walked to the arrivals section, Lacey spoke.
“I’m usually dropping you on some beach at night in deep trouble. I sense something different.”
Billy produced his warrant card. “The General needs a replacement for Hannah. I’m it for the moment.”
“Good God.”
“Yes, well, what you see is what you get. I shouldn’t be too long.”
“What can I say? Good luck.”
Billy moved on, produced his passport at reception. There was nobody around except a man in a raincoat, maybe forty, smoking a cigarette, a scar on one cheek which to someone of Billy’s expertise had been made by a broken bottle. The girl at the desk handed him back his passport.
“Ah, Mr. Salter, your fame precedes you. How’s Sean Dillon these days?” asked the man.
“Up and running,” Billy told him. “Who might you be?”
