When Ferguson was admitted to Number Ten Downing Street, a waiting aide took him upstairs past the pictures of every past Prime Minister and along the corridor.
“Five minutes only, General. He’s due at Northolt to greet Putin, but he did want a word with you.”
He opened the door, Ferguson went in and there was the Prime Minister behind his desk. “Sit down, General.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister.”
“I just want to reassure myself about certain, shall we say, unfortunate aspects of present events. Things are in order at the Dorchester, I take it?”
“I believe so, but I’m visiting personally after our meeting.”
“Let me be plain, General Ferguson. I know I find it prudent on many occasions where matters of intelligence are concerned to look the other way, but aspects of my meeting today, this Belov Protocol? It can’t be allowed to happen.”
“It won’t, Prime Minister. Everything will be resolved within the next two days to your satisfaction.” He smiled. “Or you can have my resignation.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want that, so I’ll just have to take your word for it. Now I must go. Northolt awaits.”
The door behind was eased open as if by magic and Ferguson was eased out.
When the Daimler picked him up, Dillon and Billy were in the back and Ferguson climbed in. The Daimler pulled away and Dillon said, “Where to?”
“The Dorchester. I want to check security.”
“Did the PM have much to say?”
“In five minutes? Hardly. Of course, he did tell me the Belov Protocol can’t be allowed to happen, and I told him it would be resolved to his satisfaction over the next two days.”
“Charles, your confidence is breathtaking.”
“You’ve got it wrong, Dillon. It’s a sign of my total faith in your ability to achieve miracles.”
Igor Levin made contact with his security colleagues at the hotel. The President, of course, was in the most exclusive suite at the very top of the hotel, members of his entourage on lower floors, Belov on floor five in a park suite. Everything seemed in order, so he went down to the Piano Bar and ordered a vodka in crushed ice, the special way they did it, the Dorchester way, got a couple of newspapers and went and sat by the piano and worked his way through them.
Someone brushed past him to the piano. He didn’t look up, engrossed in what the
He looked up, and Sean Dillon, seated at the piano, said, “We just wanted to make you feel at home, Igor, my old son, me and Billy here.”
Billy was standing by the piano, arms crossed. “That was quite a gig you played in Khufra, Captain. It was you who knocked off Tomac, we presume?”
“He annoyed me.”
“A right bastard. Screwed up our floatplane. We went in nose first for the deep six.”
Levin stopped smiling. “That was nothing to do with me.” He hesitated. “And Greta was with you in that plane?”
Dillon said, “I held her hand all the way up from the bottom.”
Levin smiled again. “How romantic. She’s well, I trust?”
“In excellent accommodation. Oh, here comes the boss.”
Ferguson came down the steps from the bar. “My dear chap, we keep missing each other. Tried to catch up again at Drumore Place yesterday, but you weren’t at home.”
“And neither was Ashimov. Dublin, I understand.” Dillon shook his head. “Liam Bell did a runner, but we depleted the ranks of the IRA.”
“You must be feeling pleased.” Levin stood up.
Ferguson said, “Don’t go, join us in a drink.”
Levin smiled. “Now, that would really be too much. I’m sure I’ll see enough of you tonight.”
He went out. Ferguson said, “Pity, I rather liked him. Still, we can have something while we’re here,” and he waved to Guiliano.
In the ballroom later that night, all London was there. Politicians by the score, big business, the media, anybody who was anybody and lots of men in black suits, ever watchful as waiters passed through the crowd with trays loaded with champagne, vodka, canapes.
“They stand out a mile, don’t they?” Billy said to Dillon as they stood by a temporary bar.
“Who do you mean?”
“The security men. It’s the black suits.”
Ferguson was away, glad-handing a few people. Dillon said, “Just because Ferguson made us wear black tie for tonight, don’t let it go to your head. There’s Igor Levin over there. Keep him in view and let him keep you in view. I’m going up now to try and play Roper’s trump card.” He eased out of the crowd by the rear lift, pushed open a side door and ran up the stairs to the fifth floor. The room adjacent to Max Zubin’s suite was just around a bend in the corridor opposite. He produced his passkey and entered.
It was small, comfortably furnished, the door giving access to the living room of Zubin’s suite locked. Dillon slipped in an earpiece and listened. There was a sound of movement, but no voices.
He took off his coat, then removed a small suitcase from the wardrobe and pulled out a white waiter’s coat, which he put on. On the sideboard tray, champagne stood ready in an ice bucket with two glasses. He took a deep breath, picked up the tray and went out. Just a few yards down the corridor was all it took. He paused at the door, then pressed the bell.
It opened surprisingly quickly, and there stood Zubin in shirtsleeves adjusting his black tie.
“Champagne, sir?” Dillon asked.
“I don’t think I ordered that,” Zubin said.
“It’s on the house, sir, Dorchester champagne.”
“Okay, bring it in, but don’t open it.”
He turned away into the living room and Dillon put the tray on the table. “I’d better open it just in case somebody comes,” he said in fluent and rapid Russian.
Strangely, Zubin didn’t look alarmed, but there was an instant frown. “What in the hell is this?”
“Nobody here is what they seem. My name is Sean Dillon and I work for British intelligence. You’re Max Zubin pretending to be Josef Belov, and not liking it very much. However, they have your mother in Moscow, so you have to play ball, you have to go back to her.”
Zubin adjusted his tie and reached for his jacket. “If any of this were true, what could I do about it?”
“Go back tomorrow, you’d have to do that, then we’d bring you out, you and your mother.”
“You could do that?”
“Yes. I’ll explain after dinner.”
“I’m not doing dinner. From what I know, I’ll be back up here at around nine to nine-thirty.”
“I’ve got the room next door. We’ll talk later. If you’re on your own, knock on the door.” He’d finished uncorking and pouring a glass. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”
Zubin took the glass. “I was a paratrooper in Chechnya. You sound like the real thing. Unless they’re employing raving lunatics here who start off with an Irish accent and move into fluent Russian.”
The doorbell sounded.
“Shower stall,” Dillon whispered. “I know these suites.”
He moved into the small hall bathroom, left the door partly open and stepped into the shower.
Outside, Zubin opened the door. “Ah, Levin, there you are. Are they ready for me?” He was obviously in his Belov role, voice measured.
“No need to take that tone with me,” Levin said. “Now, remember the cameras. Be nice and forbidding, so
