At the front entrance cabs were delivering people constantly, the doorman busy. Zubin, dodging around, reached the limousine, unlocked the door and climbed in. Snow was falling now, rather pretty in the light of the streetlamps, and traffic not too busy. He reached his mother’s apartment block in fifteen minutes, left the car close to the main entrance and went upstairs. She answered the door at once, dressed in boots, a fur hat and coat, and embraced him.
“Thank God. I’ve been waiting.”
“No Mikhail?”
“I’m never bothered at night, he goes home. I mean, where would I have to go?”
“Well, you have someplace now. Let’s go.”
She indicated a suitcase. “Could you carry it for me?”
“Mama, I said bring nothing.”
“They’re photos from the top of the piano. I’ve spent the time taking them out of their frames. My whole life is in those photos, Max. I even have one with Stalin, God rot him.”
“All right. We can get you new frames in London.” He picked up the suitcase, pulled her out and slammed the door. “Let’s get out of here.” As they went down the stairs, he called Roper. “I have my mother, we’re on our way.”
At Holland Park, Roper immediately relayed the call to Dillon, who called to Lacey, “They’re coming.”
The snow was falling quite heavily now. Lacey pulled the raincoat over his shoulders, concealing his uniform, put his cap underneath, went down the steps and crossed toward the reception area. Behind him, a small tanker drove up to start the process of refueling the Citation X. Dillon dodged in a doorway, took out the cap, adjusted it, then opened the raincoat so it simply dropped from his shoulders, revealing his GRU uniform. He went to the glass doors at the entrance to reception. Lacey was at the desk, doing paperwork with a young man in a dark green uniform and fur hat.
Dillon stood watching, looking quite striking in his uniform, lit a cigarette and turned to see what was obviously the Embassy limousine come round the corner and park by the Airstairs door. A chauffeur got out, bringing what looked like mail sacks with him, and Billy appeared in the door with similar sacks and an exchange took place. The limousine drove away.
In Zubin’s suite at the Excelsior, Kurbsky had managed to wriggle across to the door with great difficulty. The CS gas hadn’t done him any good and the tape on his mouth was half-choking him, but lying on his back, he started kicking his bound feet at the door, and after a while, it had an effect. A room service waiter appeared and found him.
Zubin drove up to the gate entrance of the VIP lot at the Belov Complex and turned in. The guard on duty came out of the hut.
“Papers.”
“On the windshield, man, can’t you see? This is a Belov International limousine and I’m Josef Belov.”
“I still need to see your papers, even if you are Mr. Big.”
Zubin took out the silenced Colt and shot the guard between the eyes. He jumped out, dragged the man into the hut out of sight, got back into the limousine and drove around to the side of reception. The Citation X with its RAF rondels was plain to see.
“Come on, Mama, take your last walk on Russian soil.”
They started forward, her hand on his arm while he carried the suitcase, but as they passed reception, a voice called, “Where are you going?”
He turned and found a young man in a green uniform and fur hat standing on the steps.
“I’m Josef Belov,” he bellowed. “Surely you recognize me?”
The young man peered at him. “Good God, yes. I saw you on television, but where are you going?”
Dillon moved out of the shadows, resplendent in that chilling GRU uniform. “Young man, this is an official matter. Come with me and I’ll explain. I’m Captain Levin.”
The youth was totally intimidated. “Of course, sir.”
From the plane, Billy called, “Come on, Dil – uh, Igor.” Dillon nodded to Zubin. “Carry on, Mr. Belov,” and he turned and took the youth inside, guiding him into an office at the back of the reception area, where he promptly took out his pistol and stunned him with a violent blow.
The engines had fired up in the Citation X, Zubin and his mother inside, Billy standing in the entrance. Dillon ran for the steps and scrambled up, and the door closed. There was chatter from the cockpit, and they moved forward through the falling snow, the runway lights gleaming.
“Just like bleeding Christmas,” Billy said, and turned to Zubin and Bella. “Belt up, we’re on our way.”
Dillon looked at his watch. “Seven-thirty, dead on time. That’s the RAF for you.”
They climbed quickly to forty thousand feet. Kurbsky’s frantic phone message to Volkov made no impact for quite some time for, after all, no one knew exactly what was going on. The youth at reception was unconscious for twenty minutes, and it was only with his report on Belov’s presence, and the discovery of the body of the gate guard, that Volkov made any sense of it at all.
By then, of course, it was far too late, as Lacey had predicted. The extreme speed of the Citation X had taken them out of Russian airspace in thirty minutes and they were well on their way.
At Holland Park, Roper had listened to Dillon and now turned to Ferguson and Harry. “They’ve actually done it.” Ferguson said, “You’re certain they’re out of harm’s way?”
“They’re just over German airspace now and winging into French.”
“You going to call the Prime Minister?” Harry asked.
“No, I think I’ll leave the champagne until they land at Farley Field.” Ferguson shook his head. “Who in the hell would have believed it?”
“I tell you what,” Harry said. “Vladimir Putin isn’t going to be pleased. Where does this leave his bleeding Belov Protocol?”
And to that, of course, there was no answer.
In the plane, they all sat back, and Billy opened the icebox and found a bottle of champagne. “Somebody had faith,” he said, and got it open.
Drinking, Bella Zubin said, “It’s like an impossible dream.”
“Thanks to Dillon here and Mr. Salter,” her son said.
“So what do you think they’ll do?” Dillon asked.
“About the protocol? I don’t know. But I can tell you one thing. Putin’s about to give a royal reaming to that bastard Volkov.”
“And Volkov will get straight on the phone to Drumore Place and put the boot into Yuri Ashimov, and that, Billy, I’d like to see.”
Dillon turned to Bella. “When I was seventeen, I was a student at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. You were appearing at the Old Vic in
“My God, an actor,” Bella said. “All my life…” and Dillon kissed her on the cheek.
LONDON
14
At the White House, Blake Johnson listened to Ferguson almost in disbelief. “My God, I can’t believe you’ve managed to pull it off, Charles.”
“No, not me, Blake. Credit Roper, Dillon and Billy, and two superb RAF pilots willing to put themselves on the
