“And the disposal of the corpses?”
“I’m an expert in that department.”
“I’ll keep in touch.”
Ashimov walked through to the terrace and found Ryan and McGuire standing by the body of Kelly.
“Poor old Kelly,” McGuire said. “He never knew what hit him.”
“And that’s a fact.” Ashimov took a silenced pistol from his left-hand pocket and shot McGuire in the side of the head. He went down like a stone, and Patrick Ryan jumped back, hands raised, fear on his face.
“No, for God’s sake.”
“Not you, you fool.”
“But why?”
“Because he knew Josef Belov is dead and that doesn’t suit me or those involved with me in Moscow. Listen here. You know Liam Bell, an old friend, I think.”
Ryan was astonished. “Of course. I was in the same cell at the Maze Prison with him.”
“I’ve spoken to him in Dublin. He’ll be here within hours with a crew. He’ll take over everything Kelly was responsible for, and he’ll take care of this lot.” He stirred McGuire with his foot. “They’ll do a satisfactory disposal job.”
“I see.”
“He’ll expect you to fit in, you know.”
“I could do that,” Ryan said slowly.
“I want you to be my eyes and ears. I’ll make your fortune, Patrick, put the Royal George in your name. Would you like that?”
Ryan’s face lit up. “That would be grand.”
“One thing. Nobody, not even Liam Bell, must know that Belov went down on that boat. It was just Tod Murphy as far as Bell knows.”
Ryan took a deep breath. “Right, I’m your man.”
“Good. McGuire should have some keys in his pocket. Get them, would you?”
Ryan fished them out.
“Excellent.” They walked through to the hall and Greta came down the great stairs in a fawn coat and black trouser suit, a traveling bag slung over one shoulder. “You look better, a lot better. Let’s get moving. I’ll be in touch, Patrick.”
They went out and Ryan waited. He heard one of the cars start up outside and then move off.
It was very quiet, too quiet, but he’d taken a step on the kind of journey from which there was no going back.
The convent looked more like a country house than anything else, but inside it was a very different story. The nuns were a nursing order, the Little Sisters of Pity, and Belov had put a great deal of money into the place, a couple of operating theaters, all sorts of medical facilities. The result was a facility that was of great benefit to the local farming community, and a further enhancement of the Belov name.
The Mother Superior, Sister Teresa, was a general surgeon. She saw Greta at once in reception, gave her a cursory check and frowned. “You have been in the wars. What happened?”
Ashimov said quietly, “She was in an accident.”
Greta, improvising, said, “It was so stupid. I was on a fishing boat moored in the harbor, and I slipped stepping over the stern and fell.”
“Several feet. That’s not good.”
“I fell into water. Such a fool.”
“Well, your head’s going to need a stitch or two, and I think we’ll give you a quick scan.”
“Do we have time for all that?” Greta asked Ashimov.
“You can come and watch through the surgery window, but not if you smoke,” Sister Teresa said, and led Greta out.
Ashimov went outside to think things over and he did smoke. In fact, he smoked several, going back over events. He should have been dead, but he wasn’t, thanks to Belov’s gift of the titanium vest. Ferguson would have been behind it, because of what happened to Bernstein, the Salters and Dillon, always Dillon. Now Belov was dead. He thought of their years together in Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, and this was what it had come to. Well, they would all pay, he’d see to that.
His coded mobile rang and he answered. It was Volkov. “The plane should be with you in about thirty minutes. Has anything else happened?”
Ashimov told him of Greta’s astonishing escape.
“That’s good news. She could be of great use.”
“Liam Bell is organizing things in Dublin as we speak. I’ve taken steps to ensure that he isn’t aware of what really happened. To Belov, I mean. There’s only one man left who knows, besides myself.”
“And who would that be?” Ashimov told him. “Let’s hope your judgment proves sound. I’ll see you soon.”
Ashimov lit another cigarette. Volkov was one of the few men who impressed him. A man of mystery way beyond the reach of any Russian government organization. He smiled slightly. He was like Ferguson, in a way. Yes, a Russian Ferguson responsible only to the President.
He threw the cigarette away as a plane roared overhead, obviously coming in to land at the runway Belov had ordered to be laid at the development there. As he went back into reception, Mother Teresa returned with Greta.
“Five stitches, I’m afraid, but I’m good at embroidery. No fracture, but considerable bruising. You must take care, my dear.”
“My thanks,” Ashimov told her. “But we must go. That was our plane landing.”
“Glad to have been of help. Give my regards to Mr. Belov.”
“I certainly will.”
He took Greta’s elbow and led her to the car. “Are you all right?” he said as he helped her in.
The patch on the side of her forehead was neat enough, and she touched it. “I had a local anesthetic. I feel tired more than anything else.”
He got behind the wheel. “You can sleep on the plane. Moscow next stop.”
March in Moscow was much as to be expected. The snow had seemed to be on the verge of clearing, but was back again when they landed, a light powdering only, but crisp and cold. A limousine was waiting, a Mercedes, and they drove away instantly to the Belov International townhouse, a place of some splendor, but they had barely settled in when Volkov called.
“I need to see you at once. Bring the Major with you.”
“Where, exactly?”
“The Kremlin, of course.”
Ashimov switched off and turned to Greta. “How are you feeling?” She’d slept like a log on the plane. “Any better?”
“It was worse in Chechnya. Not too good in Iraq, either, come to think of it.” She smiled. “I’ll be fine, Yuri.”
“So you feel up to a visit to the Kremlin?”
Her eyes sparkled. “My, but we are moving in dangerous waters. How exciting.”
“Then let’s go.”
Snow was falling lightly as they drove through the streets, past the massive entrance to the Kremlin, moving through side streets, until they emerged at an obscure entrance at the back. They were passed through a series of checkpoints manned by uniformed guards, but never once questioned, simply waved through at each one until they reached a small courtyard behind high railings and halted at steps leading up to an archway. They went up, the door opened and a hard young man in an excellent suit appeared.
“A pleasure to see you again, Major Ashimov.” He inclined his head to Greta. “Major.”
“We’ve met before?” Ashimov asked.
