Chapter 13

At that precise moment in time, Kelly and Tod were moving through Witch Wood and paused at the iron grille in the thicket. They both wore hooded anoraks against the rain. Dermot had phoned Smith from the trailer, had told him to do the return flight to Dunkley at once. Smith had been unable to conceal his reluctance, but had soon seen the error of his ways.

Kelly and Tod lit cigarettes. “Well, this is it,” Tod said. “This is where the luck comes in.”

“Oh, you always need that.”

“What about Fahy and Regan, or Ashimov, for that matter?” Tod asked.

“Later,” Kelly said, “when we’ve got the good news. Now let’s get it done.”

He pulled up the iron grille, went down the ladder and Tod dropped the weapon bag down and went after him.

A short while later, at the end of the tunnel, they paused and opened the weapons bag. Tod produced an AK and a silencer and passed them to Kelly, took out another for himself. Kelly went up the ladder, opened the grille and exited, and Tod followed him. They moved through the dense foliage of the copse and crouched behind the Roman statues. It was quiet, only the occasional bird calling, and the rain hissed down steadily.

“Come on,” Kelly said. “Make my day.”

“That was a movie,” Tod murmured. “This could take more patience, so be patient.”

In the sitting room, Ferguson and Selim were having tea at the end of an exhausting session. Dalton and Miller stood watchful as usual, as the two men talked.

“Open the French windows, Staff Sergeant,” Ferguson said to Dalton. “Let’s have a breath of air.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Dalton pressed the button and the windows opened. “I like it,” Selim said. “The smell of the rain in the countryside, the sound of it falling through the trees.”

“I know what you mean,” Ferguson said, and hesitated. “You know, Doctor, you obviously have a genuine love of your native land. Do you regret having been born in London?”

“No, I love the damn place.” He laughed as he got to his feet. “I’m remembering something Mr. Dillon said to me. That I should remember there are mosques all over London.”

He moved to the open windows, and Ferguson joined him. “Then what were you thinking of?”

“There is a passage in the Koran, General, that says one sword is worth ten thousand words. Perhaps that is what I was thinking of.”

And at that moment, Kelly shot him between the eyes, fragmenting the back of his skull. As the body hurtled back, bouncing against Ferguson, the General leaned over slightly to catch it and Tod Murphy’s bullet went askew, slicing Ferguson across the left shoulder. He sank to the floor, clutching Selim, and Dalton and Miller darted past, each drawing a Beretta and firing blindly into the woods, but Kelly and Tod were already working their way back through the copse and dropping down through the grille.

“I got him,” Kelly said. “Clear in my sight, right between the eyes.”

They stowed the rifles in the bag and hurried along the tunnel. “Not Ferguson,” Tod said. “I hit him, that’s a fact, but he moved at the last minute. I think I clipped his shoulder.”

“Never mind, it’s a grand day’s work, that’s the truth of it,” Kelly said. “Come on, let’s get out of here and make for Dunkley and that Navajo. We’ve made our bonus for our Russian friends on this one. Belov will pay us in gold bars.”

They were back at the village in fifteen minutes, put their belongings together and stowed them in the Transit. Tod went to the kiosk by the fuel pumps and found Betty.

He got his wallet out. “I’ve just had a phone call. We’re needed in London, like yesterday.”

“That’s a shame,” she said.

“What do I owe you?”

She told him, and he paid her. “It’s a smashing place, and we’ll be back.”

He jumped in the Transit, got behind the wheel and drove away. Kelly was on a high, produced a bottle of whiskey and swallowed. “Jesus, but we did it.” He got his mobile out. “I’ll ring Fahy, tell him that he and Regan should move it.”

He tapped out the number, and when it connected, said, “It’s Dermot, Brendan.”

“And it’s Dillon here, you bastard, what do you think about that?”

At Roper’s place, after Fahy had drawn the Browning from his pocket, things had not gone as he and Regan had expected. Roper hadn’t seemed to care, had stayed incredibly calm.

“What do I get, summary execution, IRA-style? You gentlemen have tried to shoot me and blow me up many times, and I’m still here. I need a smoke.”

He took the carton of Marlboros from the side pocket of his wheelchair, pulled a pack out and extracted a cigarette. “Anyone got a light?” he asked, as he replaced the pack in the side pocket, only this time when his hand came out, it clutched a Walther, which he jammed against Fahy’s knee and pulled the trigger. Fahy cried out and fell back, dropping his Browning.

At the same moment, Dillon’s voice echoed over the voice box. “Roper, it’s me.”

Regan, confused, stood over Fahy, who was being noisy.

Roper called, “They’re here, Sean, one down, one to get.” He pressed the electronic door button and raised his Walther to Regan, who ducked out into the corridor and ran for the rear of the house.

Dillon burst in, gun in hand, and found Fahy groaning, Roper leaning over him. “There was Regan, Sean, and he cleared off through the kitchen.”

“Call Rosedene,” Dillon said. “Get the paramedics in. I’ll be back.”

He got to the front door and saw Regan hurrying down the pavement. Regan glanced over his shoulder and started to run. Dillon went after him, past the corner shop. Regan kept running headlong, scattering a few people on the pavement, then lurched into the main road as a red London double-decker bus came along and bounced him into the air.

Traffic came to a halt, and people milled around as the driver got out of the bus. A police car turned out of the traffic stream and eased beside the bus. Dillon paused and listened, saw one of the policemen drop to one knee and examine Regan. He shook his head.

“He’s dead.”

The driver was shocked. “It wasn’t my fault.”

More than one person called out, “That’s right. He ran into the road, head down.”

Dillon turned discreetly and walked away.

When he rejoined Roper, he found him holding the Walther on Fahy, who was clutching his trousered knee with both hands, groaning. Dillon went into the kitchen, found a couple of towels, went back, knelt and tied them tightly around Fahy’s knee.

“You always were a stupid bastard, Brendan, so stop moaning and listen. We use a private clinic called Rosedene. They’re on their way, so you won’t bleed to death. However, this isn’t a public hospital. It’s high security, so you belong to Ferguson now. Understand?”

“Yes,” Fahy moaned.

“Play ball and you could stay out of prison. You understand that, too?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me the whole story, and make it quick or I might put one in the other knee.”

And talk Fahy did. It was just as he finished that the mobile in his pocket sounded.

It’s Dermot, Brendan.”

“And it’s Dillon here, you bastard, what do you think about that? Regan’s dead and Fahy’s in a poor way. He’s spilled his guts, too. I know everything.”

“Like hell you do,” Kelly said wildly. “We got Selim and Ferguson. I bet you don’t know that. It was a good payday, Sean. Go to hell.”

He switched off and said to Tod, “Put your foot down.”

Tod did as he was told. “What’s happened?”

Kelly told him.

Tod said, “What now?”

“We get to Dunkley and move the hell out of here.”

“As long as Smith’s there.”

“He’ll be there,” Kelly said grimly. “He wouldn’t dare not to be.”

“You’d better let Ashimov know.”

“I suppose so. I’d like to leave him to rot in hell, but there’s Belov to consider. He’s got a long arm, that one.”

After a lengthy afternoon at the Ivy, Ashimov and Greta had called in at the Old Red Lion in Farley Street and were sitting in a booth by the fire when his phone sounded. They’d been laughing over a shared joke, and he was still laughing when he put the phone to his ear.

“Ashimov.”

As he listened, the smile vanished and his face was terrible to see. “So that’s it? You’re not even sure about Ferguson? And Fahy’s spilling his guts to Dillon?”

“Jesus, man, we got Selim for you. He was the main priority, and Ferguson’s damaged, I swear.”

“And now you’re running for it?”

“Flying for it, and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll do the same. We’ll see you at Drumore.”

“Oh, you’ll see me at Drumore, all right.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Ashimov. Drumore is my patch. You need me and you need my friends. Since the Peace Process, the Brits haven’t been able to lay a finger on us in the Irish Republic. You’d do well to remember that. You need us!”

He rang off, and Greta demanded, “For God’s sake, what is it?”

He explained. When he was finished, she said, “It could be bad, right?”

“Could be? How the hell do you think Belov’s going to take it? Especially after what Fahy’s no doubt blurted out to Dillon? My career, my association with Belov, are on the line.” He punched a number into his phone. “Archbury? Connect me with Captain Kelso.”

“You’re going?” she said.

“I think it would be the smart thing if we both went.” Kelso’s voice came on. “It’s me,” Ashimov told him. “I’ve got Major Novikova with me. We should be with you in forty-five minutes. Immediate takeoff, destination Ballykelly.”

“What about Belov?” she said. “We’d best get it over with.”

“I suppose so.” He called Belov at the castle on his private mobile and was answered at once.

“Yuri, I’ve been waiting. How are things?”

“Good news and bad news.”

He went over events very briefly. There was a long pause, and Belov switched off without a word.

The rage in Ashimov was obvious. “Ferguson’s people, his whole enterprise, have been nothing but trouble ever since Manhattan, and this Dillon has been a stone in my shoe. It’s all gone down the toilet, the years of kowtowing to Belov, doing his dirty work. He doesn’t make allowances, Greta, it’s how he is.” He rose, took her arm roughly. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

“To the embassy?”

“No way. Straight to Archbury. I’m taking no chances. I’m not even calling in at my place.”

At Huntley Hall, the duty medical officer had done his best with Ferguson’s left shoulder. The bullet had plowed through close to the edge.

“It’s Rosedene for you, General,” the young Medical Corps captain said. “It’s a decent patching job I’ve done, but you could do with a scan, and Professor Henry Bellamy is far better at embroidery than I am. You’re going to need some good work. AK rounds really leave a mark.”

“And you would know, Wilson?”

“Six months in Iraq, sir. The second injection I’ve given will hold you to London, but don’t disturb the sling. Let me help you with your jacket.”

Which he did, and Ferguson said, “And Dr. Selim?”

“Bagged and awaiting the disposal unit, General.”

“Let’s get him to the North London crematorium. The latest incinerators don’t take much more than an hour, and all that’s left is six pounds of gray ash. Do you mind your work for my department after Iraq, all the Official Secrets stuff?”

“Good God, no, sir, it’s infinitely more interesting.”

“As long as you can accept the importance of what we do. We’re at war, too, you see, Captain.”

He walked out into the hall and found Dalton and Miller. Dalton said, “The disposal team just collected Dr. Selim, General.”

“Good, then we can get back to London.”

In the back of the Land Rover, he called Dillon, who had driven back to Roper’s place in his Mini car. They’d spoken earlier when Dillon had phoned Huntley Hall in a panic after Kelly’s claim to have gotten Ferguson as well as Selim. The General had just been about to undergo treatment in surgery, so not much information had been exchanged.

“Just tell me everything, Sean, so I get the full picture.” Which Dillon did, and Ferguson said, “My goodness, Ashimov’s got plenty to answer for.”

“All done on Belov’s behalf with Belov’s power and money behind him, and Roper’s hunch is that Belov’s at Drumore.”

“An interesting pattern. He not only wanted Selim shut up for good, but the rest of us—me, you, Major Roper. Even the Salters.”

“Well, we did spoil the plot to assassinate President Cazalet, and then there was Baghdad. With a few other things that happened, I guess we screwed up things big-time for Belov.”

“I suppose the only person who seems to have avoided his wrath is Superintendent Bernstein. You’ve told her what’s happened?”

“Haven’t been able to. Both Roper and I have been trying, but there’s been no response on her mobile phone.”

“What on earth’s going on?”

“It’s all right, General. I got through to her grandfather, who told me she’d gone to the wedding of an old friend in Windsor this afternoon. That’s what people do at weddings, they switch off.”

“Well, keep trying. Ashimov’s still out there someplace.”

At Dunkley, there was rain and fog and things were down and Smith was sweating, taking the biggest chance of his life. At any other time, he would have aborted, but he knew what Kelly’s people might do to him back home if he failed.

In the Transit at the side of the airstrip, Kelly and Tod waited, listening to the sound of the Navajo as Smith made one pass and then two.

“The bastard,” Kelly said, as the sound faded again. “He’s doing a runner.”

“Give him a chance, Dermot. This weather is bad news. Maybe you’d like him to crash?”

There was the sound of the engines again, and at the controls, Smith went lower and lower, despairing at the gray cotton wool that seemed to surround him, and then suddenly, at four hundred feet, the runway appeared and he bounced down. It was one of the worst landings of his career, but he’d made it. He taxied to the far end, turned, and Tod drove toward him in the Transit. He and Kelly jumped out and Smith left the cockpit and opened the Airstair door. Kelly led the way in.

“You fuck, what were you trying to do, frighten us?”

After him, Tod helped Smith wrestle with the door. He put a hand on Smith’s shoulders. “You did well.”

“I just took ten years off my life, Tod, never again. I’ve had it, I mean it. You can keep your money in future.”

He was into the cockpit and back to work, the plane hurtling along the runway and rising into the fog, as Tod sat across from Kelly and fastened his seat belt. Kelly had a bottle of whiskey out and swallowed from it.

He laughed wildly. “We did it. We did it, and we got away with it.”

“Actually, it’s Smith who’s gotten us away with it.”

“He’s being paid, isn’t he?” He offered the whiskey bottle. “Have a drink.”

“I don’t think so.” Tod lit a cigarette. “I need my head clear for Drumore. For little things like Belov and Ashimov.”

“I can handle them, Tod. I can handle Ashimov. We’ve survived worse things than those two. They need us more than we need them.” He raised the bottle. “Up the IRA.”

“Yes, right up,” Tod said.

Hannah had caught a commuter train from Windsor to London after the wedding reception. It was early evening, dusk falling, when she came out of King’s Cross Station and found an enormous taxi line. She hesitated, debating whether to wait it out, then decided on the bus instead and walked to the main road. She was sitting on the top deck looking out when her mobile went. It was Dillon.

“Jesus, woman, I’ve been trying to get you for hours.”

“I’ve been to a wedding.”

“Yes, while you’ve been having fun and sipping champagne, the roof’s fallen in. Listen.”

When he was finished explaining, she was horrified. “So what’s happening now?”

“Selim is on his way to oblivion, and Ferguson to Rosedene, where he’s going to need some attention from Henry Bellamy. Kelly and Tod Murphy? If I know the score, I’d say they’ve flown straight back to Louth from this Dunkley place.”

“And Ashimov?”

“Roper says that a Belov International Falcon landed at Ballykelly yesterday and it’s still there. That means Belov must be at Drumore Place. But Ashimov is still a loose cannon. Where are you?”

“On top of a number-nine bus on my way home.”

“Listen, Hannah, this guy has made it personal. He wants the whole team, even the Salters, and we don’t know where he is. You go straight home. I’m coming to get you. Now, watch yourself.”

Ashimov had taken the wheel of Greta’s Opel and drove recklessly now through the traffic, to Greta’s alarm.

“Watch it, Yuri, for God’s sake.”

He was simmering with rage. “I’ve been watching it all my life and I’m still here.” That terrible scar on his face seemed to stand out. “I’m the original survivor, never forget that,” and he swerved around a truck and plowed on.

Hannah got off the bus at Millbank and started toward Victoria Tower Gardens. She paused at the curb, allowing the traffic to pass, then started across to Lord North Street. Ashimov recognized her at once as she crossed the road in front of him.

“It’s the Bernstein bitch,” and he dropped a gear, swung across the road and went after her.

She turned into Lord North Street and saw Dillon’s Mini car outside her house and he was standing at the door. She called and waved and hurried toward him as Ashimov swerved behind her.

Dillon had turned, was plainly identifiable, and Ashimov said, “I’ll get them, I’ll get both of them.”

And as they closed on Hannah, Dillon saw them, recognized them, and his mouth opened in a cry of warning. Hannah half turned, but there was no time. Ashimov crowded her on the pavement, bouncing her to one side, and Dillon drew his Walther and fired, but the Opel swerved, his bullet passing through the roof as it hurtled past.

“For God’s sake, Yuri,” Greta Novikova said.

“Just shut up,” he said, “and let’s get to that damned airport,” and he put his foot down.

On the pavement, Hannah Bernstein was trying to haul herself up, clutching at the railings as Dillon got to her. “You’re all right, just hold on to me.” But there was blood coming down her face, and he was afraid.

She spoke, but as from a distance. “It was Ashimov, Sean, and the woman.”

“I know, look, just do as I say.” He eased her around to the passenger seat, got behind the wheel, took out his mobile and phoned Roper and explained what had happened as he started the car. “Phone Rosedene. Tell them I’m on my way and we’re going to need Bellamy.”

“Leave it to me.”

Dillon drove away, Hannah leaning back, moaning. Strange, he didn’t feel some hot burning rage. If anything, he was cold and conscious of only one thing: Ashimov was responsible for this.

LONDON - IRELAND