Without Mercy

taking weaponry from the Quartermaster’s bag and passing pistols across.

“One for you, Charles.”

He gave him a Walther, then dropped a flap beside the instrument panel, disclosing some clips screwed into place. He put a Walther in one, a Browning with a twenty-round clip in the other, and pushed the flap back into place.

“Just so you all know they’re there. Now, what was it you said about food?”

They crossed to the jetty in the inflatable, found a nearby pub that offered a log fire, a variety of drinks and a venison pie, which they all sampled. Later, back on the Highlander, they sat under the canvas awning over the stern, rain pouring off, and except for Billy, drank whiskey and smoked, and Dillon turned on the deck lights, for that early darkness of the far north was closing in on them.

“So what’s the plan?” Ferguson asked.

“What would you like to happen?” Dillon asked.

“I’d like us to slip in out of the night like young Lord Nelson on a culling-out expedition.”

“And do what?”

“Get our hands on Ashimov and Levin or, to be honest and it was a perfect world, shoot the bastards. Do you think that’s too much to expect?”

“Not if we leave at six, hit the Irish coast early in the morning under cover of darkness, drape the Highlander with nets to look like a fishing boat. That way we can close in on shore and land.”

“We’ve one big advantage,” Billy said. “Dillon and me know Drumore Place, know what we’re getting into.”

There was a pause. Ferguson said, “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Just that you and Harry stay on the boat,” Dillon said, “and no arguments. We need somebody on board anyway to handle it if we have to make a quick getaway.”

“He’s right,” Harry said. “I mean, we’d be just lumbering around, wouldn’t we?”

“I know, Harry, I, too, hate getting old.” Ferguson nodded. “The ball’s in your court, Sean.”

Dillon shook his head. “There you go, calling me by my first name again.”

They left at six, Dillon at the wheel and Ferguson joined him. It was still dark, wind stirring. “What’s the forecast?” Ferguson asked.

“Four to five when we hit the open sea.” Dillon took out a cigarette one-handed and flicked his Zippo. “I love this.”

“So do I. Remember I told you how I tried to make up for a lost love by sailing the Atlantic run single-handed, Portsmouth by Long Island?”

“I remember what lost you your love. The woman couldn’t marry a man who’d take out five IRA men in Derry who’d tried to assassinate him.”

“An old story, my boy. Is there any chance you could let me take over?”

“Be my guest.”

Dillon went out, and Ferguson checked his instruments and took the Highlander through the harbor entrance in a long sweeping current to the Firth.

The swell started to move beneath, the masthead light began to roll rhythmically from side to side. Through the gloom, he could see the red-and-green navigation lights of a steamer. He steadied at twelve knots and plunged forward, feeling better than he’d done for years.

In London earlier in the afternoon, Levin had reported to Luhzkov at the Embassy.

“So, what’s all the fuss about?”

“I’ve no idea. I had a Most Secret from Volkov, saying to hold you here.”

“You mean physically?”

“Of course not. Hold you available.”

“And you don’t know why?”

“No.

Levin said, “Well, Boris, you have my number. I’m staying at the Dorchester, so you’ll have no trouble finding me.”

Later, sitting in the corner of the Piano Bar, indulging in a pasta salad and champagne, Levin was approached by Guiliano, the manager.

“So, we could have a little excitement around here,” Guiliano said.

“What do you mean?”

“A fellow countryman of yours.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Putin. He’s going to attend some EU conference in Paris, but there’s a whisper he’ll look in here on his way back.”

“You mean visit London?”

“No, visit here, the Dorchester. He’d be in good company. We’ve had every President in Europe stay at this hotel.”

He went to attend another customer. Levin lit a cigarette and sat there thinking about it. Maybe that was it, maybe his presence was needed in some way. It was a crazy world where international intelligence organizations could have their secrets and yet those secrets were readily available on the Grand Hotel circuit. You had to laugh, and he waved to the waiter to pour him another glass of champagne and toasted himself.

“To you, Igor,” he murmured. “The only sane man in a world gone mad.”

Having said that, it occurred to him that under the circumstances it might be sensible to book out of the hotel until he’d seen the way things worked out, which meant staff quarters at the Embassy for a while. How dreary, but there was no help for it.

11

Later, on the Highlander, Dillon took over and Ferguson went and sat in the saloon with Harry Salter. There was no sign of Billy. Harry said, “He’s taken a couple of pills and gone for a lie-down in the aft cabin. The old seasickness really gets to him.”

“Join me in a large scotch,” Ferguson said. “Finest remedy I know for seasickness.”

They savored it for a while, then Harry said, “What do you think our chances are? I mean, are we daft or just a couple of old geezers sticking two fingers up at the world?”

“Never old, Harry, old is a state of mind. The present expedition isn’t particularly crazy. We slip in under cover of darkness, Dillon and Billy visit Drumore Place, lift Ashimov and Levin, bring them down to the Highlander at gunpoint and away. Could go very well.”

“And it could go very badly.” Harry shook his head. “Why are we here right now with the sea rising, as far as I can tell somewhere off the Isle of Man.”

Ferguson poured him more whiskey. “Maybe it is something to do with getting old, maybe we’re trying to show we can still cut it.”

“That makes sense for you and me, but what about Billy? I mean, he’s rich, got everything he wants.”

“Maybe that’s not the way he sees it,” Ferguson said. “He’s got everything and he’s got nothing, or that’s how it seems.”

“Dillon’s not too badly off when it comes to cash,” Harry said.

“From his mercenary days.” Ferguson shrugged. “People paid highly for his services. The whispers are true, Harry, he really did arrange the mortar attack on John Major and the war cabinet in ’ninety-one during the first Iraq war.”

“The IRA?”