No, conditions on the Russian President’s plane were stricter, more regimented. On the other hand, Zubin didn’t find himself sitting at the back with the rabble, as they were known in Russian political circles. After all, he was Josef Belov, which secured him three vacant seats, and, following whispered instructions, he sat in the third one next to a window and blanked off from people.
Rising up out of London, he wasn’t as excited as he’d been the previous evening, but calm and serious, considering the situation. There had been no security check at RAF Northolt, but it had been obvious that there wouldn’t be, not for VIPs, so the Colt.25 they’d given him and the Codex Four mobile were at the bottom of his briefcase. He’d also discovered a couple of pairs of plastic handcuffs, a street map of central Moscow, his route from the Excelsior to his mother’s apartment clearly marked and onward to the Belov Complex, a spray can of CS gas and some night glasses.
It was mad, the whole idea that it could be got away with, but the other future was too awful to contemplate. He was staring into space thinking about it when someone sat beside him. He turned and found it was Volkov.
“Yes, General,” he said. “How can I be of service?”
“Oh, you already have.” Volkov was in a jovial mood and took two vodkas from a passing waiter and gave Zubin one.
“A fine performance. The President is very pleased with you, and tomorrow at the Kremlin will be your biggest performance ever. Signing the Belov Protocol in front of the world’s cameras. The President will decorate you. Hero of the Soviet Union.”
“Ah, I thought we’d done away with that?”
“Well, something similar.”
“May I see my mother?” Zubin held his breath and hoped, but Volkov was in high good humor.
“You may order your chauffeur to take you to your mother’s apartment on the way to the Excelsior when we get in, but fifteen minutes only, Zubin, at least for now.” He waved for two more vodkas and passed one over. “Everything’s worked out perfectly. You’ve been splashed all over Russian television in the company of the President and the British Prime Minister in London. It’s made you quite a star, and news of the Belov Protocol with ordinary people has done even more. It’s made you a hero.” He smiled jovially and tossed down his vodka. “A great triumph for us all.”
He got up and walked away and Zubin sat there, trying to take it all in, then leaned back in his seat and wondered what Dillon was up to.
Dillon arrived at Farley the following morning, rain driving in. He parked the Mini Cooper, got out, a raincoat over his shoulders, and ran across to the operations room under the control tower, the rain heavy. The Citation X stood a few yards away, its RAF rondels proud, and as Dillon went up the steps, Squadron Leader Lacey emerged from behind some bushes, wearing a flying jacket, standard uniform underneath, medals clear, his Air Force Cross well on display.
“You look good,” Dillon said.
“You know how it is, Sean, it’s special this one, so it seems fitting we do it right. Parry’s got things moving along. We’ll be out of here fast.”
“You’re pushing it, aren’t you?”
“There are headwinds across Europe, and a front from Siberia westwards later today – you know how it is. Billy’s waiting inside.”
“He’s what?”
“Apparently there was some confusion over the time.”
Dillon walked into the operations room and found Harry and Ferguson having coffee.
“You’re a little tardy this morning,” Ferguson said.
Dillon shook his head at Harry. “Where is he?”
“Back room, changing. You really think he’d have gone for that? Go on, get on with it. I can’t wait to see you dressed as a Russian.”
Billy adjusted his tie and pulled on his sergeant’s tunic. “Hey, I’ve got campaign medals – Ireland, the first Gulf War.”
“How would you know?”
Dillon’s uniform hung by a locker, quite spectacular. “Levin must be quite a guy,” Billy said. “He’s got more medals than me, and his uniform is prettier.”
“If you say so.” Dillon started to change and pulled on his jackboots.
Billy said, “Oh, I do, and another thing. Don’t try to pull a stunt like that again. It’s a good thing Harry has an old-fashioned sense of family honor.”
“Your choice.”
Dillon tightened his tie, pulled on the tunic and buttoned it. He fastened his belt with the holstered pistol, then adjusted his cap. When he checked in the mirror, a rather sinister-looking man stared out at him, a figure of grim authority.
“Dillon, that’s you,” Billy said. “That is very definitely you. Now let’s move it.”
They went out and found Lacey back with Harry and Ferguson. “Very smart,” he said. “The Russians do like their uniforms, don’t they?”
“What about me?” Billy asked.
“Good turnout, Sergeant, a credit to the squadron. The Quartermaster’s bag is on board, the Embassy boxes. Could we go, please?”
There was a slight pause, then Harry said, “Just get on with it.”
Ferguson said, “Keep the faith.”
Billy led the way up the Airstairs door. Dillon followed, Lacey after him, turning to close the door, then moving to the cockpit to join Parry as the engines throbbed. Billy and Dillon belted in on either side of the aisle.
Dillon said, “Are you all right, then?”
“What in the hell do you think?” Billy leaned back, closed his eyes and the plane surged forward.
At Moscow in late afternoon verging into early evening, the Putin plane landed at the airport with the usual pomp and ceremony associated with the homecoming of the President after his appearance on the world stage.
He went down the steps, met the usual functionaries and generals, rather more of those these days or so it appeared, and moved to his limousine. Lesser mortals had disembarked and stood waiting, amongst them Max Zubin. He was conscious of a strange air of fatalism. He was here, this was it; what would be, would be. Always the actor, always playing a part. And then it struck him, a sudden thought, and he smiled and murmured to himself.
“Hey, in Chechnya they cast you as a paratrooper, Max, no stand-ins. That was a charnel house and you were a hell of a good paratrooper. They gave you a medal, you, Max Zubin, Yiddish boy, actor, pianist, comedian. If you could do that, you can do this.”
He began to walk, the briefcase Billy Salter had given him in his hand. He followed the crowd through, and a strange thing started to happen when he entered the terminal. Various officials, scanning the crowd, jumped to attention when they saw him, and started clapping.
“It’s Belov,” someone cried, and as he went forward, people turned and smiled and there was shouting and applause and then, moving into the VIP tunnel, he reached the end and there was his chauffeur, Ivan Kurbsky.
“I’ve got your suitcase, Max,” he said, and led the way.
Max. In one shocking moment, everything was different.
Zubin tried a recovery, putting on his best Belov voice. “What on earth are you talking about, Kurbsky?”
“Oh, come off it, Zubin. I’m ex-KGB. General Volkov always felt you needed a proper minder. He appointed me himself.”
“Mikhail, my mother’s driver, does he know, too?”
“That prick? No way. You’re all mine, Max.”
“But why are you telling me now?”
“Because, frankly, seeing you there on television with the President, the Prime Minister, all those toffs, it just doesn’t feel right. You getting all that attention and me getting nothing at all. I figured it was time to remind you
