Islamic fundamentalists, “Islamofascists,” he called them.
“Amazing as it sounds to a logical mind, many British leftists are very sympathetic to the fascists, even though they are xenophobic, misogynic, homophobic, antidemocratic religious fanatics who are willing to murder anyone who doesn’t believe as they do. Add the British instinct to root for the underdog to a generous dose of anti-Semitism and it’s positively breathtaking what they can explain away. British intellectuals have a lot to answer for, including their fascination with Communism in the twentieth century. They are going to again cover themselves with glory, I fear.”
He paused a moment for air, then said, “They need another Churchill and they haven’t one.”
Grafton moved right in. “We came tonight to discuss the Surkov murder with you.”
“Alexander Ivanovich … a tragic figure.” Tchernychenko shook his leonine head. “Polonium, so he would suffer. A lesson to every Russian.”
“He accused the Russian government of poisoning him,” Grafton murmured.
“They did it, of course.”
“Not some terrorists, perhaps?”
“Oh, no. Putin and that crowd are trying to make the expatriates come to heel. A few spectacular poisonings will bring them around, he thinks. One of these days he’ll snap his fingers and they’ll obey like trained dogs.”
“And you — how do you stand with the Russian government?”
“They will not shed tears at my funeral,” Tchernychenko said curtly and took a mighty slug of scotch.
“If the real enemy is terrorists and they get you, you’ll be just as dead,” Grafton pointed out calmly. He had a way of saying things that would freeze your blood if a normal person said them, yet from him the remark seemed candid but harmless. That was an illusion; nothing about Jake Grafton was benign.
“No one unknown to me can get onto the grounds. I have four men on duty every hour of every day.”
“Russians?”
“No. British. There isn’t a Russian alive who can be trusted to disobey Putin … me included.” He chuckled, as if that comment were funny. “I know these men and pay them well. They are loyal and extremely competent. They know the stakes, and they know that in the long run Putin and the terrorists will lose. Tyranny and fanaticism burn with a white-hot flame for a short time, then they always sputter out. No one trembles today when one mentions Hitler or Joseph Stalin — no one. Would you like more Scotch?”
For the first time, Grafton glanced at me. “Tommy, would you please check on Speedo? See that he gets a drink and is properly entertained.”
I rose and went off to find the British op. When I glanced back as I went through the door, Grafton and Tchernychenko had their heads together.
I will tell you frankly, I didn’t believe the Russians iced Surkov, or Jean Petrou, or Wolfgang Zetsche. I had a name and wasn’t letting go: Abu Qasim.
Or, maybe, Marisa Petrou. For husband Jean, at least. A little of Mom’s heart medication in hubby’s vino and voila! Life is looking up.
After visiting the kitchen and ensuring Speedo was being properly attended to, I wandered through the house, looking at the stuff from World War I. The downstairs held four large rooms with twelve-foot ceilings, each with a massive fireplace. Little rooms were arranged down the west side of the building: kitchen, pantry, a few bathrooms and a couple of small sitting rooms that now contained televisions. I inspected the entire ground floor and the outside doors and staff door and the view from the windows. Just plain old Scottish night was visible out each window, black and windy and wet. The portraits on the wall and the black windows stared at me as I walked along, looking at this and examining that. The floorboards creaked and groaned with every step. The sound of the wind whispered through that Scottish mansion. Every few moments I paused, closed my eyes and listened to the song of the wind and the rattling windows. Drafty old place. Cold, too. Fifty-five degrees would be my guess, almost cold enough to hang meat. I was fast losing any secret desire I might have had way back when to live in a castle or McMansion. My warm, cozy little apartment was going to look sooo good.
After I had checked out the downstairs, I went upstairs and sniffed around. The rooms were smaller, still chilly and drafty, stuffed with loaded bookcases, and the only bath was at the end of the hallway. Eight bedrooms, three sitting rooms and one bathroom. My mom wouldn’t have liked it.
I wondered about Isolde’s chauffeur. Was he a good guy who tried to capture a villain, or was he one of “them,” a holy warrior trying to earn glory in the next world by committing mayhem and murder in this one?
That Marisa …
Maybe I shot the wrong man in that castle near the Rhine. If I was supposed to get a guilt trip over that possibility, it wasn’t working. I didn’t feel anything, not guilt, angst, remorse … not even relief. Okay, okay, I’m lying again. The truth was I felt guilty and in over my depth. Yet when I ran through the events of that evening in my mind, I couldn’t see what I could have done differently.
I was getting more than a little peeved at Marisa. She knew the answers — all the answers — and she wasn’t talking.
The 1911 Springfield felt good in my pocket, a nice, solid, deadly lump. I got it out and exchanged the half- empty magazine in the grip of the thing for a full one. Checked that the hammer was back and the safety was on, then wedged it back under my belt.
“Wolfgang dead,” Tchernychenko muttered. “Murdered.”
“With a knife, apparently,” Jake Grafton said smoothly, “and you may be next.”
The Russian made an unpleasant noise with his lips and teeth. “I’m safe as it is possible to get here in this house.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Some Arab knife artist or mad bomber isn’t going to dash across these highlands in the dead of winter and through four armed men. On the other hand, if Putin wants me dead, there isn’t much you or I or anyone on earth can do about it. There isn’t anyplace on this planet one can hide from him. The polonium — it was a warning. So we would know and fear him.”
“Perhaps,” Grafton said slowly, “you are misreading this situation. I have been told by a man I respect that the Russian government had nothing to do with Surkov’s death.”
“The Russian government? Those mice that serve at Putin’s pleasure? Perhaps they didn’t. But Putin — I have incurred his wrath before. He is consolidating his power in Russia. He wants to become a czar, to rule Russia.” Oleg Tchernychenko waggled a finger at Grafton. “I think he will do it. Yes, sir. I think he will do it. Beholden to no one, with a mandate he wrote himself, he will rule as Stalin did, as Lenin did, as Czar Nicholas and Catherine the Great did.
“You people of the West, of these little green islands and the lands across the Atlantic, you don’t understand. You have your elections and make polite noises and debate endlessly and vote. Let me tell you, sir, they don’t do that in Russia. Never have and probably never will; certainly not in our lifetimes. And, Admiral, they don’t do that democracy twaddle in the Middle East. God speaks to the imams and they tell the faithful and the faithful charge off to die gloriously as soldiers of God— and kill a few infidels, if at all possible. Those simple fools have never asked why God needs their help, nor will it ever occur to them to ask.
“On the other hand, Putin doesn’t need God’s help. He can build his empire with his own two hands. He can poison Alexander Surkov in Mayfair and all the power and might of Great Britain can’t save his life. We Russians, we understand the basic laws of political physics.”
Jake Grafton said nothing. He sipped at the last of his Scotch.
Tchernychenko wasn’t finished, however. “There is a man, Sheikh Mahmoud al-Taji, who runs a mosque in London. The British court released him today — it was on the telly this evening. He will not be jailed or deported.”
“I heard about that.”
“He’s a terrorist.”
“Do you know that for a fact?”
“I have my sources. Rumor has it he is trying to buy weapons and explosives from Russia. I have friends — I hear these things. Why would they say them if it were not true? And why the British government didn’t accuse him of that I can’t imagine. So now he is free to stand in his mosque and preach his poison. ‘To die in the name of Allah should be the goal of every believer.’ That is his mantra. The court didn’t convict him because he didn’t say ‘to kill and die in the name of Allah.’ The judge is a fool.”
Grafton didn’t reply.
“What are you going to do about him?” Tchernychenko demanded.
