immediate shock in the party group, but Ashimov fired into the ceiling.
“Hold it – everybody. Just do as you’re told. Hands on heads!”
Levin moved to one side and stood with his back to one of the entrances to the terrace outside. The men hesitated, then did as they were told.
Greta glanced at Levin. “Igor, what a surprise.”
“Not as much as you being here, you traitoress bitch. I should shoot you myself,” Ashimov said.
He held the AK on his hip, covering them. Bell did the same; Levin’s right hand hung at his side, holding the Walther.
Ferguson said, “You’ve got it wrong. Major Novikova is my prisoner. She is not here of her own free will.”
Ashimov stepped forward at once and smacked the butt of his AK into the side of Ferguson’s neck. The General went down with a groan, falling against Harry, who tried to catch him, leaning over, and Ashimov gave him the same as Ferguson in the back of the neck.
Max Zubin held his mother close. Billy and Dillon stood there, hands behind the neck, Greta between them, trembling a little.
Ashimov said, “So, shaking with fear, are you?” She shook her head. “You should. You’re a disgrace to your uniform.”
“You disgrace my country by your very existence, you animal.”
He struck her backhanded across the face, sending her staggering into Dillon, who caught her. Ashimov said, “A traitor to her country, Captain Levin.” There was a strange formality to the way he spoke. “You may have the honor of executing her.”
There was a stunned silence. Bella said, “You take me back to the Gulag. Many people like you in charge there. No better than Nazis.”
“Shut up, old woman, your turn will come.” He looked at Levin. “I gave you an order. Shoot Major Novikova.”
There was a pause while everyone waited. Levin had raised the Walther slightly, but now he said, “Sorry I can’t oblige, but I don’t think I want to do that.”
His hand came up fast, but not fast enough, as Ashimov fired two rounds slamming into Levin’s chest, sending him out on the terrace to go backward over the hardwood rail and down into the river below.
Dillon pushed Greta to one side, his hand went under his jacket at the rear, the Walther came up smoothly and he shot Ashimov in the forehead twice. Billy, on one knee, had reached for the Colt.25 in his ankle holster and caught Bell with a heart shot. The Irishman went backward, involuntarily firing at the ceiling for a moment.
Greta ran out to the terrace rail and peered down into the dark. “My God, Igor.”
Dillon put an arm around her. “It’s a tidal river, the Thames. What goes in goes out one way or the other. At the end, he just couldn’t do it. We all have choices.”
Behind them they heard Ferguson on the phone. “Ferguson here. I’ve got two disposals for you. Most immediate.” He gave the address.
Greta said, “What does he mean, disposal?”
“We have access to a private crematorium in North London. The corpse goes in for thirty minutes. What’s left is six pounds of gray ash.”
“And Ferguson can do that?”
“Ferguson can do anything.”
Harry said, “I feel well-used. The bastard could certainly dish it out.” He poured champagne down and swallowed it. “Come on, everybody. Another drink, then we’ll see you home.”
Ferguson said to Bella and Zubin, “I think you’ll find this is the end of the affair.”
“A short run,” Bella said. “And thank God for it.”
The lift returned and Billy got out. “I found the security guard, Tony Small, in the back of reception. No serious damage, just a sore head. I told him it was a mob thing. Five hundred quid will keep him happy.”
“We’ll get you good people back home,” Ferguson said. “I’ll leave you and Billy to handle the disposal people, Harry.”
“We’ll be in touch, General.”
Sometime earlier, Levin had drifted out of the Thames close to a ladder that took him up to the wharf. Rounds blocked by a bulletproof vest often knock the recipient unconscious, but not in Levin’s case. The ice-cold waters of the Thames had taken care of that. He reached in his shirt, pulled out Ashimov’s two rounds, then hurried to where he had left the Mercedes, got in and drove away.
Half an hour later, at the Dorchester, where he had arrived soaked to the skin, he showered, changed clothes and packed. He had various phone numbers from GRU records, and one of them was the Holland Park safe house. He phoned and a man answered.
“Who is this?”
“Would that be Major Roper?”
“And who would you be?”
“Igor Levin. Are you aware of what happened at the penthouse?”
“Of course. I was told Ashimov blew you away.”
“Over a railing and a rather steep fall into the Thames. Tell Dillon there’s nothing like a titanium vest. I survived, got back to the Dorchester, where my condition probably surprised the doorman, but being the best hotel in London they were able to cope. Just tell me. What happened after Ashimov shot me?”
Roper told him in a few short sentences. “It’s all taken care of. Ashimov and the ex-Chief of Staff of the IRA are, as we speak, being turned into six pounds each of gray ash. The Zubins have survived, so have Ferguson and Harry, though a little damaged.”
“I was surprised to see Greta there.”
“Only as a guest.”
“Give Dillon and Billy my respects.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve got diplomatic immunity. You can’t touch me.”
“And you would be advised to stay out of Russia.”
“Yes, but I have an English passport through my mother, and an Irish one through one of my grandmothers. Not to mention lots of money, Roper. I think I’ll lay low in Dublin for a while. What the hell, you sound like a nice guy, so I’ll give you my mobile number. If Dillon wants me, I’ll make it easy.”
“Cheeky bastard,” but Roper took it.
“Take care, though for a man in a wheelchair you do well. Tell Greta not to be stupid.”
The line went dead.
Roper sat there, smiling, then reached for the whiskey bottle and found it empty. He pushed his chair to the drinks cabinet, found a bottle of scotch and opened it. He poured a glass and held it high.
“Well, here’s to you. Good luck.”
A moment later, Ferguson came in with Greta, Dillon and the Zubins.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Ferguson said.
“So I should.” Roper poured another scotch. “I’ve just been talking to a ghost. You know, someone who’s returned from the dead.”
And it was Dillon, with that extraordinary sixth sense, who said, “Igor Levin.”
“He was wearing a bulletproof vest, just like you favor, Sean. Headfirst into the Thames.”
“Thank God,” Bella Zubin said. “He was always a lovely boy, wasn’t he, Max?”
“Well, that’s one way of describing him,” her son told her.
Greta was unable to stop smiling. “He’s himself alone, that one.”
“And he said to tell Greta not to be stupid.”
She stopped smiling and shrugged. Ferguson said, “He’s right, except that diplomatic immunity would send him home.”
“He is half English.”
“Volkov would crucify him.”
“I’m not so sure. He’ll go from Archbury, there’s a Falcon there. I’ve checked. Are you going to stop him?”
