found he liked it. He had immersed himself in the files of the whole affair.
“I don’t think they’d put them up in a hotel, sir, so Holland Park makes sense, probably as a temporary measure.”
“And what comes after?”
“God knows. Some sort of house elsewhere. If the Captain will allow me?” He opened a file. “I took the liberty of accessing these gangsters, the Salters. They make the Moscow Mafia look like rubbish. Millionaires many times over.”
“You’re too smart for your own good, Chomsky. I’d forgotten you spent two years training for the law before the army.”
“They own houses and developments all over London, sir. I don’t mean rubbish. First-class stuff in some of the most exclusive squares.”
“So what are you saying?”
“Everything stems from Hangman’s Wharf, sir, the Dark Man. I’ve been and looked. Boats of every kind tie up at the wharf, some people live in them, others work on them. I found one for rent almost opposite the pub. I’ll put Popov in it. His English is excellent. He can spend his time painting the damn boat or whatever. He’ll have a Suzuki. Who knows what might come out of the Dark Man.”
“Excellent,” Levin told him. “They all seem enthusiastic.”
“It’s a little different from that, sir.” Chomsky was almost apologetic. “They like it here, they like life in London. They don’t want to screw up and get sent home.”
“Dear God, what’s the world coming to? Okay, straight to work. I need to know where the Zubins are being held as soon as possible.”
At Holland Park, Max Zubin and his mother were handed over to Sergeant Doyle. “Temporary accommodation, I promise you,” said Ferguson.
After they’d gone upstairs, he went in to Roper. “God, I feel knocked out. I can’t believe it worked.”
“Thanks to Dillon and Billy Salter.” Roper lit a cigarette. “Dillon’s had a death wish for years. I worry that young Billy’s inherited it. Where are they?”
“Dark Man for breakfast.”
“And why aren’t we?”
“Damn you, you’re right,” and Ferguson called to Doyle. “Get the People Carrier out, Sergeant. Hangman’s Wharf for breakfast.”
Ashimov, in the kitchen having breakfast with Bell, answered Levin’s call.
“I’ve got a phony motorcycle cop parked at Holland Park. A big van emerged, carrying Ferguson and Roper. My man followed and guess what? The Dark Man at Wapping. I’d say it’s certain Zubin and his mother were taken to Holland Park.”
“So what now?”
Levin went through the arrangements he had made. “I think we’ve covered most options.”
“I think so, too. I’ve ordered the plane. Bell and I will come over later this morning. We’re staying in some hotel he knows near the Embassy in Kensington. The Tangier. Small and unpretentious.”
Levin could have said that large and ostentatious was the best way to conceal anything, but he let it go.
“I’ll expect to hear from you.”
“I can’t wait.”
Sitting over coffee after breakfast, Ferguson said, “The question is, what do we do with them?”
“What’s wrong with Holland Park?” Billy said.
“Too constrained. I’d like them established somewhere more established.”
“What you want is quiet obscurity for a few weeks until Zubin grows a beard again,” Dillon said.
“Something like that.”
“The money’s there,” Ferguson said. “Plenty to buy a nice place.”
“Yes, but finding what you want takes time,” Billy said. “I like old Bella, she’s a great lady. She deserves the best.” He frowned. “Just a minute, I’ve got an idea, Harry. We’ve got a list of properties a yard long in Mayfair, the West End.”
“Billy, sometimes you get it right,” Harry said. “We’ll come up with something suitable, I’m sure.”
At eleven o’clock on Russian television, with an atmosphere of some solemnity and gloom, it was announced that Josef Belov had collapsed and been rushed to hospital. There was a suspicion of a recurrence of stomach cancer. There had been concern about his health for some time. There was a definite hint that he had made some sort of personal sacrifice as regards the future of Belov International. There was a significant absence of political figures to comment, but footage of Max Zubin at the Dorchester in London with Putin and the British Prime Minister was run and rerun.
The announcement was picked up by the BBC, where at Holland Park, Zubin and his mother saw it. So did Greta Novikova, who immediately demanded Roper. She found him in the computer room.
“What the hell happened?” she asked.
“Well, as usual, Dillon happened, and a few friends.”
Afterward, she sat there shaking her head. “Ashimov will be in serious trouble, Roper. You must understand, he’ll be called home, and I wouldn’t like to think of the price he’ll have to pay. He’ll be blamed for everything.”
“That’s the problem.”
“So, the Zubins are here?”
“On the floor above you.” He glanced at his watch. “They’ll be down for lunch soon. Do you want to join in? After all, you met them in Moscow.”
She got up. “Why not?” She walked to the door, Doyle following, and hesitated. “I love my country, Roper, does that make sense?”
“If you go back, you’ll disappear from sight forever. Stalin may have died a long time ago, but nothing changes, Greta.”
She went out slowly, Doyle following.
Ashimov flew over from Ballykelly, rising up through heavy rain. He found the vodka and sat there drinking. “Bloody country, it rains nearly every day. I’ll be glad to get out of it.”
“To Russia? Lousy weather, I should have thought, at this time of the year. Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Bell said.
“Of what?”
“Oh, our line of work. Years of putting yourself on the line, dodgy passports like today, lies.”
Ashimov swallowed more vodka. “I loved it, worked my way up from being a private soldier. They’d have made me a colonel for sure this year. I was still officially GRU, though I was responsible for all Belov’s security. You know the good work I did with the KGB in the old days working for the Irish Cause.”
“I can’t deny that.”
“And then Ferguson and Dillon came on the scene, always Dillon. This business with Zubin has ruined my life.”
“And you think knocking off Zubin and his mother will put you back on Volkov’s good books?”
“I’d be even better if it could be Ferguson and Dillon. I’d like to see them both rot in hell.”
In spite of being obviously drunk, he had another, and Bell, on the other side of the aisle, picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it, already regretting his involvement. But times were hard. It wasn’t the old days any longer, with a pistol in your pocket and a song in your heart for the glorious Cause. Fifty thousand pounds. He’d just have to put up with this madman. After all, it was only two days.
Chomsky hadn’t told Levin the exact truth about Popov, his man in the boat at Hangman’s Wharf, for like Levin himself, Popov’s mother had been English. She had died of cancer while Popov served in Chechnya. The truth was
