“Irish citizen. What would be the point?” He turned to Dillon. “What do you think?”
“Well, we not only know where he is, he’s left his mobile number.”
“Exactly.” Ferguson smiled. “Damn his eyes, I like the bastard. Who knows what the future holds?”
Igor Levin waited on the High Street beside Kensington Palace Gardens. It was raining heavily, the Russian Embassy up there. The end of something, in a way.
The phone rang and Volkov said, “God, what a bloody mess. I don’t blame you. Ashimov’s insane, I should have realized that years ago. I’ve heard you’ve decided to flee to Dublin. That’s the smart move, but there’s part of you that’s still a sentimentalist. Taking Chomsky and Popov with you, I understand.”
“Yes, they’re very good. But then, so were Ferguson’s people.”
“Dillon – I wish he was available. Brutal, resourceful. And that language thing he has. Very useful.”
“And the Zubins?”
“Forget them. Ferguson will always have them guarded. Putin’ll just have to get ahold of Belov International another way. He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him, so we’re all just laying low. Heads are going to roll, so I’m going to make damn sure one of them isn’t mine.” He sighed. “Take care, Igor.” And he switched off.
A moment or so later, Chomsky and Popov said good-bye to the Embassy of the Russian Federation, came down Kensington Palace Gardens, each with a couple of suitcases. They loaded up the Mercedes and Levin got out to help. They were as excited as schoolboys.
Levin said, “You drive, Chomsky, and you sit with him, Popov. I’ll spread myself in the back. Your passports are all in order, I trust.”
“Ah, yes, Captain,” Chomsky said. “I thought we might as well go the whole hog and take two each from the files, English and Irish.”
“They’re excellent, sir,” Popov said. “Stamps on all the pages. We’ve been to places I haven’t been, if you follow me.”
“Oh, I do,” Levin said. “Put Archbury into the road-finder, Chomsky, and follow the instructions.”
“Will there be the chance of trouble, sir?”
“I doubt it. But let’s not take any chances – let’s move.”
He took out his Russian cigarettes, selected one, pinched the tube and lit it. Then he produced a couple of miniature bottles of vodka from his pocket, which he’d taken from the bar in his room at the Dorchester. There was a shelf in the Mercedes, water in plastic bottles and plastic tumblers. He filled one of them with the contents of the two vodka miniatures.
It had been a long day, a hard day, but here he was, against all the odds. He drank some of the vodka. Volkov had been extraordinarily well informed about his plans, and Levin, looking at the two young men in front, wondered which one it was, Chomsky or Popov. It had to be one of them, the information had been too fresh.
Not that it mattered. That was for another time. He examined the rest of his vodka and considered toasting Greta Novikova, but what would have been the point? He swallowed it down and sat back.
15
The following morning, it was March weather, rain driving in across the Thames at Hangman’s Wharf. Dillon sat at the corner booth in the Dark Man with Harry and Billy and they all ate breakfast.
Harry went through the food with gusto in spite of the brace around his neck. “God,” he said, “that was good.”
“How are you feeling?” Dillon asked.
“Well, that Ashimov bastard is finally dead, so I’m feeling good. I like the Zubins, so I’m feeling good about that, too. What about you?”
“You know what they say. Just another day at the office.”
“You think Ferguson was right to let Levin off the hook?”
“Why not? He can pull him in when it suits him.”
“What do you think, Billy?” Harry asked.
“That he could just as easily be pulled in by his own people.” Billy shrugged. “It’s like the Cold War’s starting all over again.”
Dillon’s mobile rang. He answered and found Roper at the other end. “Listen, Sean, I’ve had Ferguson on. He’s got a job for you.”
“What kind of a job?”
“Involving Novikova.”
“Fire away.” Roper did. Afterward, Dillon said, “Harry, can I borrow the Bentley?”
“No, you can’t, it’s still being repaired. You can have the Aston Martin, though. What’s the gig?”
“Ferguson’s releasing Novikova. He wants her delivered to the Russian Embassy.”
“Well, that’s a turn-up,” Harry said.
Dillon turned to Billy. “You can drive.”
“Suits me.”
Dillon looked out as rain pelted the windows. “Never rains but it pours. See you later, Harry,” and he made for the door.
Driving down Wapping High Street, Billy said, “What’s the old man up to?”
“Being Ferguson” – Dillon lit a cigarette – “the game, Billy, the game. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“Not really. I was a two-bit gangster. Okay, I worked for my uncle, and had plenty of money to throw away, but then there was that first time we got involved with you – you, that old bastard Ferguson, Hannah…” He swerved slightly, braking a little. “Sorry, Dillon, I can’t believe I said that.”
And Dillon said, “Said what? You mentioned an old and loving friend. Always in our hearts, Billy.”
They turned into the Holland Park safe house. “I’m with you, Dillon, you know that. Whatever it takes, whatever turns up.”
“Oh, to be young,” said Dillon gloomily. “Come on, let’s go and get Greta.”
At his screens, Roper seemed cheerful enough. “I’ve had our sources in Dublin confirm the arrival of the Belov Falcon. Chomsky and Popov are Englishmen with funny names, according to their passports.”
“Well, that’s been going on a few hundred years,” Dillon told him.
“And Levin is Jewish enough to have been around since Oliver Cromwell,” said Roper. “What are they up to?”
“God knows. We’ll hear soon enough.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve been at this game for years. I know so,” said Dillon, smiling.
“What about madam?”
At that moment Doyle walked in, carrying her suitcase, and Greta followed, wearing the black trouser suit and duster coat.
“So what’s all this?”
“Ferguson wants us to drop you at the Russian Embassy,” Dillon told her.
“I see.”
“He seems to think you don’t see things his way.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, there you are, then.”
“I’d remind you,” Roper put in, “that the last time Igor Levin spoke to me, he said to tell Greta not to be stupid. I’d say he’s an expert at not being stupid.”
“An expert on what suits Igor Levin.”
Dillon said, “All right, we’re wasting time here. Take her suitcase to the Aston Martin, Doyle, we’ll join you.”
