“No, an Iraqi billionaire paid him big-time.”
“The bastard.”
“He’s never played favorites, our Sean. In the old days, he’d be working for the PLO one minute and the Israelis the next.”
“What makes him tick?”
“Ah, the game, Harry, and there’s always the danger that in the end, instead of you playing the game, the game is playing you. Anyway, that’s enough of that. I think I’ll have a little shuteye and then I’ll take over from Dillon.”
At the Royal George in Drumore, trade was brisk. In the corner booth, Liam Bell sat with Walsh, Kelly, Magee, a walking stick beside him, a relic of Blake Johnson’s bullet in the thigh.
“Walking wounded.” Kelly nudged Magee.
“Well, this one’s no better,” Magee said, as Ryan appeared from the kitchen. “Are you sure you can still hear, Patrick?”
Ryan put down the tray of ale he was carrying. “Stuff you, Magee, would you like to buy your own?”
“Well, you’ve got to admit, he was a desperate kind of a fella, that Johnson.”
“Shut up,” Bell said. “And drink up. I want some of you at the house. Walsh, Kelly, Magee.” He turned to three young men at the next table. They were new recruits, Connor, Derry and Gibson. “You stay down here overnight with Ryan and mind what he tells you.”
They were young, arrogant and had their AK47s on the bench beside them. “We will that, Mr. Bell.”
“And keep your mobiles on at all times. Now go to the kitchen for your supper, then Ryan will work a rota for you, taking turns checking the harbor.”
After they had gone, Ryan said, “Are you expecting trouble, Liam?”
“Christ knows what to expect in the present situation. Ashimov’s staying over in Dublin. There’s something up, but I don’t know what. Levin’s been called to London.”
“Jesus, but he needs taking down a peg,” Ryan said.
“Don’t be stupid, man, it was Connor who got taken down in two seconds flat. You avoid contact with Levin at all times. He was a paratrooper in Chechnya, medals, the lot. Anyway, drink up and we’ll move up to the house. Mrs. Ryan’s left us a nice supper in the kitchen.”
There was quite a sea running, and cold spray stung Ferguson’s face as he moved along the heaving deck and opened the wheelhouse door. Sean Dillon was standing at the wheel, his face disembodied in the compass light.
“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“I’ll take over.” Ferguson brushed past and took over the wheel. He increased speed, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and the waves grew rougher.
“Go on, get below and find something to eat. I’ll be fine.”
It was dark, very dark, and yet there was a slight phosphorescence from the sea now and then. At one stage there was the gleam from a lighthouse in the distance, but as they plowed on, except for the occasional red and green lights of a ship, they might as well have been alone in a dark world.
At Holland Park, Roper was seated at the computers eating a sandwich, when there was a knock at the door and Sergeant Doyle looked in.
“I’ve got Major Novikova, sir. She asked to speak to you.”
“Fine, show her in, Sergeant.”
She brushed past Doyle, dressed in a padded dressing gown. “What is it?” Roper asked.
“I’m bored, tired of being locked up with two bloodhounds taking shifts seated outside my door. How long will this go on for?” She sat down, and Doyle leaned against the wall.
“As long as Ferguson wants. He could hold you indefinitely under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.”
“What if I want to be sent home?”
“They don’t know you’re here.” He smiled.
She said, “At last that frozen face of yours has cracked.” He stopped smiling. She threw up her hands. “I can’t believe I said that. It was a car bomb, wasn’t it?”
“IRA, one of many.”
“And you can work with Dillon?”
“Sean was never a bomb man.” He lit a cigarette and offered her one. “You’d be better off going back to bed.”
Her mobile was on the desk close to his hand, and now, for the first time, it sounded. Roper switched it on, held it to his ear. There was a hint of breathing. He offered it to her, she shook her head.
He smiled, put it to his ear again and said, “Major Novikova’s residence.”
The caller disconnected. Roper moved into the emergence pattern on his computer, knowing it would be a waste of time, and it was.
“A coded instrument and a good one. Impossible to trace.”
“Of course.”
“I’d go back to bed and consider your options, Major. He’s a very reasonable man, the General, with people who are reasonable with him.”
“As you English would say, what a load of cobblers,” and she got up and walked out, followed by Doyle.
Roper thought about calling Ferguson and telling him about it, but decided against it. He couldn’t even tell the general area the call had come from, so there wasn’t much to tell. He wondered how they were getting on and went back to work.
At Station Gorky, Max Zubin sat in his room and talked to his mother. He did that a lot and was allowed unlimited time. After all, security were listening to the conversations. Her cheerful, tough humor kept him relatively sane, but all her conversations ended in the same way.
“When am I going to see you?”
“I can’t say.”
“Well, Josef Belov has ultimate power, people listen to his orders.”
“But I’m just a poor Jewish actor, Mama, and I don’t even get Actors Guild minimum. Sure, there are hints I might be making a move, that’s all I can say. God bless.”
Three miles off Drumore, the
Ferguson and Harry wore flak jackets and each had an AK to hand. There was a chart open on the table showing the general approach to Drumore.
“With the nets up, we’ll look like any other fishing boat,” Dillon said. “Lay offshore beyond the point. We’ll go in the dinghy, it’s got silencers on the outboard. Tie up on the west side of the jetty and proceed to the house.”
“Could work like a Swiss watch,” Billy said.
“Or the kind you buy off a stall at Camden Market,” Harry grumbled.
“Well, we’ll see.” Ferguson smiled. “It’s good to smell powder again. Let’s get on with it. I’ll tell Roper it’s all systems go.”
At Holland Park, Roper listened. “So, approximately thirty minutes?”
“I’d say so.”
“Excellent. I’ll stand by.”
He lit a cigarette and sat in the shadowed room, watching his screens, his inputs to the Russian Embassy in London, his scanning of what was happening with Belov International, Ashimov, Levin, the names of all involved parties, waiting for what might come up – anything. A dirty night for it, and he waited.
