The Wolf at the Door (6 page)

“So he was living under a false name,” Harry said.

Parky nodded. “You know, I remember now, it’s all coming back. He used to get in a lot of trouble over the drink, and then there was a refuge opened, run by Catholics. They used to get visits from a priest, who had a big influence on the boozers there. I can’t remember his name, but, as I recall, Costello stopped getting into trouble and started churchgoing, and then he cleared off.”

The officer who had been searching the pockets said, “There’s this, sir, tucked away.”

He offered the damp card, and Parky examined it. “I’ve seen something like this before. It’s a prayer card.”

Billy took it from him and read it aloud.
“‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’”

Harry said, “But what the hell does it mean?”

Parky smiled. “I told you he’d turned to religion, didn’t I, so I was right.”

“You certainly were,” Billy said. “I’ll hang on to this and the passport. You can keep the rest.”

T
hey met in the computer room at Holland Park, all of them, Ferguson presiding, and Harry Salter was a very angry man indeed.

“I mean, what in the hell is going on?”

“It’s simple, Harry,” said Dillon. “You’ve been targeted, you and Billy, just like Blake Johnson, General Ferguson, and Major Miller. Maybe somebody thinks it’s payback time.”

“All very well,” Harry pointed out. “But that bastard Costello or Docherty, or whatever he called himself, was prepared to torch the pub, just to get at Billy and me.”

“Whoever these people are, they’re highly organized and totally ruthless. The would-be assassin in Central Park, Frank Barry, called somebody and told them where he was. The instant response was an executioner.”

“Exactly,” Miller put in. “And one professional enough to remember to snatch Barry’s mobile before departing, so details of that call couldn’t be traced.”

“I’ve spoken to Clancy Smith, brought him up to speed, including the arson attack on the pub,” Roper said. “His people have established that Flynn’s passport was an extremely good forgery, as was his driver’s license and Social Security card.”

“So there’s no way of checking if he had a police record?” Ferguson put in.

“Exactly,” Roper carried on. “His address in Greenwich Village is a one-room apartment, sparsely furnished, basic belongings, not much more than clothes. An old lady on the same floor said he was polite and kept to himself. She’d no idea what he did for a living, and was surprised to hear he had an American passport, as she’d always thought he was Irish. She’s a Catholic herself and often saw him at Mass at the local church.”

Miller said, “Interesting that Costello-cum-Docherty has a forged Irish passport, too, and his religion had been the saving of him, according to Inspector Parkinson.”

“A passport which claims he was born in Dublin, yet we know from his other identity documents that his address is in Point Street, Kilburn,” Dillon said.

“And Henry Pool from Green Street, Kilburn,” Ferguson said. “Too many connections here. This would appear to be a carefully mounted campaign.”

“Another point worth remembering,” Roper said. “I’ve processed the computer photo of Major Miller that was in Barry’s wallet.” His fingers worked the keys, and the photo came on screen. “Just a crowded street, but that’s definitely the side of a London black cab at the edge of the pavement. The photo was definitely taken in London, I’d say.”

“Careful preparation beforehand by someone who knew I was going to New York,” Miller said.

“Yes, and remember that Blake was only visiting his place on Long Island because he was going to the UN.” Roper shook his head. “It’s scary stuff, when you think about it.”

Salter said, “But nobody had a go at you, Dillon, when you were in New York. Why not?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to be there. It was only decided at the last moment that I should join Harry.”

“Nobody has had a go at me either,” Roper told him. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not going to.”

“Exactly,” Ferguson said. “Which raises the point again—what in the hell is this all about?”

“Let’s face it,” Billy said. “We’ve been up against a lot of very bad people in our day. Al Qaeda, a wide range of Islamic terrorists, Hamas, Hezbollah. We’ve been in Lebanon, Hazar, Bosnia, Kosovo. And you older guys talk about the Cold War. But the Cold War is back, it seems to me, so we can add in the Russians.”

“Which adds up to a lot of enemies,” Dillon put in. “Lermov, who’ll be the new Head of Station for the GRU here, was at the UN reception with Putin, and we were talking to him. Baited him, really. Asked after Boris Luzhkov, and was told he was in Moscow being considered for a new post.”

“Six pounds of gray ash, that bastard,” Billy said.

“And when I asked after Yuri Bounine, he said he’d been given another assignment.”

“He knew something,” Miller said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Well, if he knows that Bounine is guarding Alex Kurbsky at his aunt Svetlana’s house in Belsize Park, we’re in trouble,” Ferguson told him.

They were all silent at the mention of the famous Russian writer whose defection had caused so much mayhem recently but of whom they’d all become unaccountably fond.

Dillon said, “We’re going to have to do something, General. They could be in harm’s way.”

“I’m aware of that, Dillon,” Ferguson snapped. “But you could widen the circle to include a lot of people who’ve been involved with us.” He turned to Miller. “What about your sister, Major? She helped us out in that business involving the IRA in County Louth last year. She even shot one of them.”

Miller’s sister, Lady Monica Starling, an archaeologist and Cambridge don, had indeed proved her mettle—and, in the process, had become as close a friend to Dillon as a woman could.

Miller frowned and turned to Dillon. “He’s got a point, Sean, we should speak to her.”

Roper said, “If the rest of you can shut up for a moment, I’ll get her on the line.” He was answered at once. She sounded fraught, her voice echoing through the speakers.

“Who is this?”

“No need to bite my head off, darling,” said Miller. “It’s your big brother.”

“It’s so good to hear from you, Harry, I was going to call. I thought you and Sean were still in New York.”

“What’s happened? Where are you?”

“I’m at the hospital here in Cambridge.”

“For God’s sake, tell me, Monica.”

“There was a faculty party at a hotel outside Cambridge last night. Dear old Professor George Dunkley was desperate to go. I volunteered to drive him there so he could enjoy his port and so on. Six miles out into the countryside, a bloody great truck started to follow us and just stayed on our tail. It didn’t matter what I did, it wouldn’t go away, and then, when we came to a wider section of the road, it came alongside and swerved into us.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but George has his left arm broken. We were hurled into a grass verge and crashed against a wall. I called the police on my mobile, and they were there in no time.”

“And the truck?”

“Oh, he crashed farther on. They found the wreck, but the driver had cleared off. The police sergeant who’s been dealing with me says the truck was stolen from somewhere in London. George is going to be in hospital for a while. A terrible thing at his age.”

“And you are coming to Dover Street to stay at the house with me?”

“That’s sweet of you, Harry, but I’ve got seminars, and there’s my book.”

“To hell with your seminars, and you can work on your book at Dover Street.”

“Harry, what’s happening?”

Dillon cut in. “Monica, my love, listen to the man. It’s no coincidence what’s happened to you. Bad things have been happening to all of us. We need you safe and among friends.”

Her voice was quiet. “What’s going on, Sean?”

“I’ll explain when I pick you up,” Miller said. “We should be there in round two hours. Go straight back to your rooms, pack, and don’t go out again.”

“If you say so, Harry.”

The line cleared, and everyone was silent for a moment. Miller said, “Sorry, General, I must go.”

“Of course you must, so get moving.”

Miller went out fast, and Roper said, “Open warfare. They certainly mean business, whoever they are. Do you think there’s an IRA touch to this?”

Dillon nodded. “Since the Peace Process, the IRA hands have fanned out, looking to make money,” he said. “We’ve dealt with plenty of them in the past, desperate for work, who’ve offered their skills to various countries in the Russian Federation, worked with the PLO, Hamas, Hezbollah. Then there was Kosovo and Chechnya.”

“Iraq,” Roper said. “Plenty of money to be made there, one way or another, for the kind of men who were members of the Provisional IRA, with all their military skills.”

“Which is exactly the kind of thing I was doing for years, until the General here made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Dillon shook his head. “That’s what this all smells like to me—IRA for hire. I’ll take myself off to Kilburn and see what I can find out.”

“Would you care for some company?” Billy said.

“Why not? What about you, Harry?”

Salter got up. “You go with Dillon, Billy. I’ll take your Alfa and get back to the Dark Man and see how Ruby’s coping with the cleaning.”

He went out, and Ferguson said, “On your way, then, you two, I’m going to have a word with Clancy at the White House, then I’ll visit our Russian friends in Belsize Park.” He turned to Roper. “Whenever you’re ready, Major, call Clancy on his personal line.”

Clancy answered at once, nine o’clock on a Washington morning. “General, how are things?”

“They’ve moved at some speed, but, before I fill you in, how is Blake?”

“What would you expect from an old Vietnam hand? He’s being airlifted in a Medical Corps helicopter to a hospital in Washington this afternoon.”

“Give him our best. Let me tell you what’s happened now.”

Which he did, and Clancy was horrified. “This is incredible. Whoever these people are, they certainly don’t take prisoners. Everything that’s already happened, and now the attempted arson attack on the Dark Man and the assault on Monica Starling, shows we’re up against truly ruthless people. And I take your point about who could be next.”

“Exactly. Alexander Kurbsky, his aunt Svetlana, and their friend, Katya Zorin. Kurbsky’s a marked man. He’s still posing as a leukemia victim on chemotherapy, and the change in his physical appearance is remarkable, but if the Russians get wind of his location, that won’t hold them for long.”

Kurbsky had originally been sent in by the GRU to penetrate British intelligence, but once he’d found out how his bosses had duped him about his sister he’d had a change of heart. In particular, he’d saved Blake Johnson’s ass when he’d been kidnapped in London, and then he and Bounine had saved the Vice President’s life from a crazed Luzhkov.

“As I recall,” said Clancy, “there was a Presidential promise of asylum in the U.S. if Kurbsky ever wanted it. I’m sure that would be honored, if you think it’s a good idea.”

“What would you suggest?”

“We have a list of facilities, but Heron Island off the Florida coast would be perfect. The Secret Service use it only for the most special cases. A hundred percent security, the staff vetted in every possible way, decent climate, and the house I’m thinking of is spectacular.”

“How soon could you arrange all this?”

“Twenty-four hours. I assume you’ll handle your end. It may not be forever, General, but I can promise they’ll be safe on Heron Island. With luck, we’ll take care of the threat between us in a few weeks, and then we can think again.”

“Thank you, old friend,” Ferguson told him. “I’ll be back to you.”

Roper had, of course, heard everything. “Sounds good. Are you going up to see them now?”

“Yes, I think so. One less problem if they agree,” and Ferguson went out.

 

 

 

His Daimler was back and,
with it, Martin, his usual driver, and they drove to Belsize Park. Ferguson, going through everything that had happened, still had not found a solution when Martin parked in the mews beside Chamber Court at the side entrance of the high stone wall. Ferguson announced himself to the intercom, and the gate buzzed and swung open.

The garden was beautiful—rhododendron bushes, cypress trees, plane trees, more bushes surrounding a lovely curving lawn. As he advanced towards the conservatory, Bounine stepped out of the bushes, wearing overalls, holding a baseball bat menacingly in his hand.

“It’s General Ferguson, you idiot.” Kurbsky emerged from the trees, a sad, gaunt figure, with the skull and the haunted face of someone on chemotherapy, although, in his case, he took drugs to make him look that way.

“What’s up?” Ferguson asked.

“We’ve had an intruder,” Kurbsky said. “Yesterday, after supper, we were going to watch television with the ladies. I stepped out of the conservatory to have a smoke and thought I heard something over by the garage, so I went to investigate. Someone jumped me, a man in a bomber jacket and jeans. He was closer to the garage than me and made the security lights come on.”

“What happened?”

“He pulled a flick-knife and sprung the blade, so I smacked him about a bit. He was on the ground after I took the knife, so I relieved him of his wallet, and I moved over to the garage security lights to inspect it. Bounine came out on the terrace and called, which distracted me. The guy scrambled up, ran like hell, and got over the wall.”

“Were the ladies alarmed?”

“Obviously. The security alarms sound inside the house. But they were easily reassured. Russian women are tough as nails.”

“The wallet, were the contents interesting?”