hood.”
“A man in a black hood who spoke Russian, which Dillon does, and rather well, only Dillon wasn’t responsible for this gig. I’ve spoken to him, and so has Ferguson. He’s still in Cambridge with Lady Monica Starling.”
Katya said calmly, “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“Blake did say the man in the hood was cut with a spring-blade knife and bound it up with his scarf. Does that sound familiar?”
“But why would he do such a thing?”
“It was a good deed in a naughty world from Blake’s point of view, and first-class professional job from ours. No police involved, no dramatic story for the media.”
“And Luzhkov and his people get away with it?”
“It never happened, Katya, it’s a game we play. We know that they know, and they know that we know.”
“Does Ferguson know about Alex’s involvement?”
“I’ll have to tell him in the morning.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“The thing is, there are big events happening in the next few days, things even the media don’t know about. I was only told a bit about it earlier by Ferguson. Blake’s involved, but I can’t tell you how.”
“I see.” She got up and reached for her coat. “I must be getting back. I’ve got a lot to think about. Can I call for a cab?”
“Sergeant Doyle will run you home. I insist on it.” He buzzed for Doyle and followed her to the door. “A strange business, so many questions unanswered, including the biggest of all.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“How on earth did he know about the attempt to kidnap Blake and when it was taking place?”
It was so silly, yet so obvious, that it hadn’t occurred to her. “I see what you mean.” Doyle appeared in the van, and she ruffled Roper’s hair. “You’ve been good to me. I’ll speak to you in the morning.”
AT THAT MOMENT, Boris Luzhkov sat in the living room of his quarters at the Embassy with much vodka taken and angrier than he had ever been. Yuri Bounine, sitting in an easy chair opposite him, had been emptying his glass into a convenient wastepaper basket for some time.
“You know, Yuri, thank God I kept the whole damned affair from the Prime Minister. I meant it to be a surprise, my gift to him. Those idiots, Oleg and Petrovich. I’ll have them transferred to a penal battalion, I swear it.” He poured another vodka and slopped it down. “Ferguson and his damned Prime Minister’s private army and that bastard Dillon. They’ve done it again.”
“So you believe the man in the hood was Dillon?” Bounine said.
“Who else? Shooting off half of Oleg’s ear is typical of Dillon. He’s famous for it, and everybody knows that he’s a linguist. Anyway, who else would it be? The history of our dealings with these people speaks for itself.”
There was a knock on the door and a young woman entered. She had tightly bound blond hair and a trim black suit, and was clutching a piece of paper. “Hah, it’s you, Greta, on the night shift again? What’s happening?”
“Something unexpected, Colonel, so I thought you’d like to hear it straightaway. It’s from our Paris Embassy.”
“Well, get on with it-tell me.” He poured another vodka.
“As you know, Vice President Hardy is due to depart tomorrow for Washington. At the last moment, however, his plane will divert to London. He and the British Prime Minister are meeting with the Israeli Prime Minister and the President of Palestine to broker a deal over Gaza.”
Luzhkov almost choked on his vodka and sat up. “Can this be true?”
“It comes from a highly confidential source in French intelligence who’s on the GRU payroll in Paris.”
Bounine held out his hand and the girl gave him the sheet. “Major.”
He read it quickly and nodded. “Yes, exactly as Greta says.”
“There hasn’t even been a hint of this-in the media, in government circles, anywhere. What the hell are they playing at?” Luzhkov asked.
“Politics, it’s as simple as that. Catch your opponents on the wrong foot. Everything revolves around the Americans.”
Luzhkov’s immediate response was antagonism. “Who says so?”
“The world says so.” Bounine suddenly felt tired, the lawyer in him sticking its head out again. Where did the regime find such people? Everything seemed to be run by a layer of colonels with half-brains. It was something to do with Communism devouring the country for all those years-had to be.
“America is still the world’s greatest superpower. Sure, it makes mistakes, but it can still knock heads together and bring about solutions. Public negotiations can be endlessly time-consuming. Much better to pull a rabbit out of the hat. Everyone’s watching the President because the media are like leeches onto every move he makes, so send the Vice President on normal business to Paris, then divert him to London, and presto! Everyone gathers on a boat in the Thames and scores the public relations coup of the year.”
Luzhkov seemed to have sobered up, his eyes gleaming, his face full of purpose. “What is this about a boat on the Thames?”
Bounine examined the message again. “Actually, it says: ‘Our information is that the meeting will probably take place on a riverboat on the Thames.’ I presume they’re thinking of the security aspect there. Make it harder for terrorists.”
“What a target, though.” Luzhkov clenched a fist. “What a sensation the death of the four of them would make. It would rock the world.”
“I should imagine it would,” Bounine said acidly, and then he stopped. “Major, you’re not thinking of-”
Luzhkov now seemed like another man. “Listen, Bounine. I am sixty-five years of age. I was born in 1943, during the greatest war in Russian history, when we were brought out of hell to victory by the iron will of Josef Stalin. My father, a foot soldier, died in the war, and my mother took me to live with her parents. They were village peasants, but the school was good and it led to the army, which saw I had a brain and educated me further. Eventually, I was commissioned, rising steadily over the years thanks to one thing: the Communist system. It became my religion during the Cold War, and it is my religion still.”
He leaned forward.
“Then the Wall came down and Communism was kicked to the side. In its place, all the evils of capitalism flourished, the greed spilled over, touching every country in the world. Those who taught me the virtues of Communism at my village school were right then and right now. Chaos is what we must create. Chaos, disorder, fear, poverty, and unrest in the Western world, because that will, more than anything, cause a breakdown in society, working people will revolt, and Communist order will be restored!”
There was a long silence, because Bounine couldn’t think of a thing to say. That Luzhkov believed every word he’d said was obvious. That the man was a dangerous lunatic was also obvious, at least to Bounine. But he dared not disagree. Better to wait and listen…
“What would you like me to do, Colonel?”
“This is now a priority. The moment it is confirmed that a riverboat is to be used for the meeting, I am to be notified. The moment we know which boat, I am to be notified. Every scrap of information must be evaluated.”
Bounine turned to Greta, who had stood almost to attention during Luzhkov’s outburst, completely riveted. “You’ve heard the Colonel, Greta. Do you understand what’s expected?”
“Absolutely, Major.”
“Get on with it, then.”
She went out, and he turned to Luzhkov. “What next, Colonel?”
“We need a man, Bounine, to deal with our problem satisfactorily. A bad man who is also a madman.” He chuckled at his rhyme. “A man who speaks of God but thinks more of money. A man who doesn’t care and who looks upon each day as the day he may die.”
“And you know of such a man?”
“Yes, I know of such a man. Go and get your coat, make sure you have a pistol in your pocket, and I will introduce you to him.”
