The Wolf at the Door (27 page)

It had rained during the night but stopped by the time Holley went around to Selim’s, where he found a simple breakfast of croissants, coffee, and ripe bananas waiting. Selim wore a French beret and a black duster coat as they made their way through several backstreets and came to a mews named Friars Yard. He produced a key and opened the end garage, revealing a black Mini Cooper.

“A factory limited edition, small but deadly. I indulged myself. It will do in excess of a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour.”

“And have you?”

“That, Daniel, is my dark secret. Would you care to drive?”

“It’s been rather a long time since I did, but Daniel Grimshaw does have a perfectly valid forged license.”

“Then put your umbrella in the back with the other one already in there.”

“You think it will rain again?”

“Absolutely. This is England, Daniel. Off we go, and if you decide to have a crash, do it with style.”

With the driving,
it was as if he’d never been away, for the Mini Cooper handled superbly, and they had a good fast run from London to Guildford and all the way to Chichester, where they had a pit stop at the Ship Hotel and more coffee.

After that, they followed the Mini’s Sat Nav through a maze of country roads and came to Patch End, and Holley pulled up at the side of the road. There was a salt marsh, an inlet with four houses, three old-fashioned fishing boats beached on the shingle, and a small motorboat.

Selim opened the glove compartment and took out a pair of Zeiss binoculars. He peered down. “There’s a woman in the garden of the end house hanging out laundry. Do you want to take a look?”

Holley did and nodded. “I know Chekhov owns a house down there, and I bet that’s a lady named Lily White. Her son, Jacob, keeps an eye on things for Chekhov while he’s away.”

“It wouldn’t have much traffic down there. We’ll go and see what Bolt Hole has to offer.”

 

 

 

A mile farther on,
they discovered a pub set back from the road with a sizable garden. The main part of it was undeniably old, but there was a modern extension that suggested a motel. It looked anything but prosperous, and it was just at that moment that the weather broke again.

“Rather sad, when you think of it,” Selim said. “Imagine staying at that place in the rain.”

“Well, Chekhov fell in love with Bolt Hole, told me so himself,” Holley said. “So let’s go and see why.”

 

 

 

There were no cliffs
but a headland of sorts, with a fringe of trees on top, a small car park behind, and the marsh below, with the causeway running out to the island. It was beautiful beyond doubt: the old house, the sea, and, every so often, a strange geyser of foam erupting.

“So that’s where the name Bolt Hole comes from,” Holley said, raising the binoculars. “Spectacular.”

“Very impressive,” Selim said. “And so is the motor yacht at the jetty on the seaside.”

“It’s called the
Mermaid
.” Holley focused the binoculars in time to see a thickset, rough-looking man wearing a battered naval cap and an old reefer coat emerge from the wheelhouse.

“Jacob White in the flesh,” Holley said. “Talking to someone on his mobile.”

“There’s a Mercedes coming in from the left down there.”

Holley swung around to observe and received a shock, for the Mercedes turned along the causeway, pulled in on the jetty beside the
Mermaid,
and stopped at the gangway, where Jacob White stood waiting. Ivanov got out from behind the wheel, and Chekhov emerged from the passenger side.

“I’d like to say I can’t believe it,” Holley said. “But I do. Let me fill you in on these two.”

He explained, and Selim said, “Well, you could say the plot thickens. But let’s move, we may be noticed.”

“They weren’t supposed to go even near each other. The only communication was supposed to be by Codex. So what are they up to?”

“Ivanov’s your biggest problem, the young military action dog who wants to be in charge.”

“And Chekhov?”

“My dear Daniel, you took me into your confidence last night. You gave me no specifics, but forgive a man used to subterfuge when he guesses that this all has to do with the Russians. And by the Russians, I assume it leads to Putin.”

“The man himself.”

“Max Chekhov is an oligarch, and they’ve fallen increasingly on hard times in the financial mess of the world of today and they need to look to the Kremlin for support. Chekhov has more to contend with than most, since he was chosen to head Belov International when the State took it over again.”

“In other words, he’s a Putin man.” Holley nodded. “Lermov told me that Putin told him Chekhov was the only oligarch he had any time for, and that was only because he had him in his pocket.”

“So what would you like to do now?” Selim asked, but didn’t get an answer.

A harsh voice called, “Hold on, you two. What are you doing sniffing round here? I saw you looking down at the boat, and you had binoculars.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” Holley called, and hissed at Selim, “Keep going, let’s get out of here.”

Behind him, Jacob White increased his pace, reached out, grabbed Holley, and swung him around. Selim also turned and saw Chekhov and Ivanov toiling up the path behind.

“My God, it’s you,” Ivanov called. “Hold him, Jacob.”

Holley, on the half turn as Jacob swung him around, delivered a reverse elbow stroke into the mouth, and, as Jacob doubled over, raised a knee in his face that lifted him backwards. The result was quite devastating.

Chekhov and Ivanov paused, Chekhov looking shocked. “Daniel,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” Holley answered, and Ivanov pulled a Makarov out of his trench coat pocket.

“My turn, you bastard,” he said, and shot him.

It was like a tremendous punch in the chest delivered by a sixteen-stone heavyweight fighter, and Holley staggered, lost his balance, and fell on his back. From the first impact, he had taken one deep breath after another, for sometimes the force of a blow into body armor could induce unconsciousness. All those years ago in the camp, he’d been trained to handle such a situation.

He closed his eyes, heard Chekhov say, “You’ve killed him, you fool, you’ve ruined everything.”

“The bastard deserved killing.” Ivanov dropped to one knee. “I think I’ll give him one in the forehead just to make sure.”

Holley drew out the Colt .25, opened his eyes, reached up, and shot off half of Ivanov’s left ear. Ivanov screamed, dropped the Makarov, and got to his feet, clutching the wound, blood streaming through his fingers.

Holley got up, aware of the pain in his chest and still breathing deeply. “I don’t know what’s been going on, Max, between you and the boy wonder here. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’ve organized everything for Friday, completed my side of the bargain, but what have you and this piece of dung been up to, that’s the question. I don’t think Lermov will be pleased, and God help you with Putin if he found that everything had been turned into a cock-up because you and Ivanov had a different agenda.”

Chekhov was horrified. “I didn’t intend anything like this, Daniel, believe me. What am I going to do?”

“There must be a first-aid kit on the
Mermaid.
Strap him up, put him in the backseat, and get back to the Embassy in London. Next time, I really will kill him.” He nodded at Jacob White, who had managed to get to his feet. “Maybe the last of the ape-men can give you a helping hand.”

“I don’t think he can even help himself,” Chekhov said, and walked a few yards after them as they went to where the Mini Cooper was parked. He took out his diary and its pencil.

Selim saw what he was doing. “Ah, you are noting the number, hoping to trace me? It is Algerian, my friend, quite untraceable.”

Holley turned. “Grow up, Max, or do you want a bullet yourself? Just piss off, and tell anyone who needs to know that everything is organized, or, as I suspect Caitlin Daly would say, on Friday we’ll ‘astonish’ the world.”

Selim got behind the wheel. “Get in, and I’ll show you what a great driver I am. What would you like to do?”

Holley unbuttoned his shirt, found the Makarov round sticking in his bulletproof vest, and pulled it out. “A well-dressed man shouldn’t be without one. As to what I’d like to do. That place, the Ship Hotel in Chichester, where we stopped for coffee, had a decent-looking restaurant. I’d say we could get there in half an hour. Sorry you won’t be able to join me in the bottle of champagne I’m going to order.”

“Then you’ll have to drink it all yourself, dear boy,” Selim Malik told him, and they drove away.

 

 

 

The lunch was all
that could be expected, and Holley drank far too much champagne, as he admitted, but the real discovery was Selim’s driving skill. He was first-rate.

On the way back to London, Holley, half asleep in his seat, said, “I’ve got to give it to you, Selim. You handle this thing like a racing driver.”

“Always my dream,” Selim told him. “Many years ago when I was at Oxford University, a policeman who pulled me up for speeding said, ‘Who do you think you are, Stirling Moss?’ ”

“And you were flattered?”

“Who wouldn’t be? Britain’s all-time favorite star of the racetrack and a true gentleman. Now, of course, I am getting too old.”

Holley was aware of nothing more after that because he fell asleep.

 

 

 

He woke with a start
to Selim’s touch on his shoulder. They were outside the hotel. “Here we are. What now?”

“Have a shower, sort myself out. Check the bruising.” Holley managed a laugh.

“So you have nothing particularly important to do?”

“Everything’s sorted, Selim, as I told Chekhov. It’s all in order. Friday, everything comes together, and we solve the problem for Mister Big at the Kremlin. I’ve one call to make on my Codex, and then I’m going to turn it off so nobody can get me for the rest of the night.”

“I have a suggestion. The Curzon Cinema in Shepherd’s Market shows many interesting films. Tonight they show a French film directed by Jean-Pierre Melville in 1956,
Bob le flambeur.
It’s a wonderful heist movie—an aging gangster is tempted back into one last fatal throw of the dice.”

“That sounds like just my kind of movie,” Holley said. “I can’t wait. We’ll have dinner afterwards. I’ll see you in an hour.”

 

 

 

When he called Caitlin Daly,
he got an instant response. “Where are you?” he asked.

“At my office. Paperwork for the charity, and I’ve got a forum to attend with Monsignor Murphy.”

“Don’t you find it difficult to fit everything in?”

“Of course, but it’s important, the work we do, and he’s used to leaning on me in many ways. He’s an important figure in the Catholic Church in London. Even the rich respond to him, and their money is important to us.”

“When I read all the files on your people, it fascinated me that the whole Hope of Mary thing came out of Murphy doing a visit to Derry for a few months during the worst of the Troubles and being impressed by the work the Little Sisters of Pity were doing. I never got any idea he was in favor of a violent solution to the Troubles.”

“He isn’t. To believe in Sinn Fein and a United Ireland was always as natural as breathing for him, and I’m not saying he wouldn’t confess an IRA man when the Church said he shouldn’t—but not an ounce more than that. He’s a great and good man.”

“And a bit of a holy fool. I wonder what he’d say about your involvement in the Glorious Cause? You’re sure he hasn’t got an inkling?”

“Absolutely not. He’d be horrified. Stop this, Daniel, I don’t want to hear any more on the subject.”

“Have you had any final news from Barry and Flynn?”

“Not yet, but it’s only noon over there. Flynn and Bulganin were supposed to go down to this Quogue place.”

“You’re right. Tomorrow will be soon enough. You’ll be having a meeting in the chapel at the refuge, I suppose?”

“You’re not going to suggest joining us?”

“There’s no need. Everything’s worked out. You’ve done very well. I’m going out to a show, so I’ll turn off my mobile. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He got dressed, thinking about it. She obviously wanted to be in charge, a psychological hang-up, that, because of being leader of the cell for so many years. And that was fine, though he didn’t know how she’d react to his insistence that Monica Starling be taken out of the equation. He realized that it’d be better if he told her about it face-to-face, but he would leave that until tomorrow night.

His phone sounded just before he was leaving. It was Chekhov. “Daniel, you’ve got to understand the pressures I’m under. Ivanov is a madman. I knew he was too good to be true the first time I met him.”