Without Mercy Page 21

  In Cavendish Place outside Ferguson’s apartment, a gardener was working in the central area of the square.

  Levin debated about Dillon’s cottage in Stable Mews, but decided against it. More and more, he felt an affinity with Dillon.

  He said to Chomsky, “Not Dillon. Anything in the slightest way out of the ordinary near his place, and he’d smell it like a hound dog. I would.”

  Chomsky, a law student who’d only joined the army as a conscript, had fed on Afghanistan and Chechnya and found he liked it. He had immersed himself in the files of the whole affair.

  “I don’t think they’d put them up in a hotel, sir, so Holland Park makes sense, probably as a temporary measure.”

  “And what comes after?”

  “God knows. Some sort of house elsewhere. If the Captain will allow me?” He opened a file. “I took the liberty of accessing these gangsters, the Salters. They make the Moscow Mafia look like rubbish. Millionaires many times over.”

  “You’re too smart for your own good, Chomsky. I’d forgotten you spent two years training for the law before the army.”

  “They own houses and developments all over London, sir. I don’t mean rubbish. First-class stuff in some of the most exclusive squares.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Everything stems from Hangman’s Wharf, sir, the Dark Man. I’ve been and looked. Boats of every kind tie up at the wharf, some people live in them, others work on them. I found one for rent almost opposite the pub. I’ll put Popov in it. His English is excellent. He can spend his time painting the damn boat or whatever. He’ll have a Suzuki. Who knows what might come out of the Dark Man.”

  “Excellent,” Levin told him. “They all seem enthusiastic.”

  “It’s a little different from that, sir.” Chomsky was almost apologetic. “They like it here, they like life in London. They don’t want to screw up and get sent home.”

  “Dear God, what’s the world coming to? Okay, straight to work. I need to know where the Zubins are being held as soon as possible.”

  At Holland Park, Max Zubin and his mother were handed over to Sergeant Doyle. “Temporary accommodation, I promise you,” said Ferguson.

  After they’d gone upstairs, he went in to Roper. “God, I feel knocked out. I can’t believe it worked.”

  “Thanks to Dillon and Billy Salter.” Roper lit a cigarette. “Dillon’s had a death wish for years. I worry that young Billy’s inherited it. Where are they?”

  “Dark Man for breakfast.”

  “And why aren’t we?”

  “Damn you, you’re right,” and Ferguson called to Doyle. “Get the People Carrier out, Sergeant. Hangman’s Wharf for breakfast.”

  Ashimov, in the kitchen having breakfast with Bell, answered Levin’s call.

  “I’ve got a phony motorcycle cop parked at Holland Park. A big van emerged, carrying Ferguson and Roper. My man followed and guess what? The Dark Man at Wapping. I’d say it’s certain Zubin and his mother were taken to Holland Park.”

  “So what now?”

  Levin went through the arrangements he had made. “I think we’ve covered most options.”

  “I think so, too. I’ve ordered the plane. Bell and I will come over later this morning. We’re staying in some hotel he knows near the Embassy in Kensington. The Tangier. Small and unpretentious.”

  Levin could have said that large and ostentatious was the best way to conceal anything, but he let it go.

  “I’ll expect to hear from you.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Sitting over coffee after breakfast, Ferguson said, “The question is, what do we do with them?”

  “What’s wrong with Holland Park?” Billy said.

  “Too constrained. I’d like them established somewhere more established.”

  “What you want is quiet obscurity for a few weeks until Zubin grows a beard again,” Dillon said.

  “Something like that.”

  “The money’s there,” Ferguson said. “Plenty to buy a nice place.”

  “Yes, but finding what you want takes time,” Billy said. “I like old Bella, she’s a great lady. She deserves the best.” He frowned. “Just a minute, I’ve got an idea, Harry. We’ve got a list of properties a yard long in Mayfair, the West End.”

  “Billy, sometimes you get it right,” Harry said. “We’ll come up with something suitable, I’m sure.”

  At eleven o’clock on Russian television, with an atmosphere of some solemnity and gloom, it was announced that Josef Belov had collapsed and been rushed to hospital. There was a suspicion of a recurrence of stomach cancer. There had been concern about his health for some time. There was a definite hint that he had made some sort of personal sacrifice as regards the future of Belov International. There was a significant absence of political figures to comment, but footage of Max Zubin at the Dorchester in London with Putin and the British Prime Minister was run and rerun.

  The announcement was picked up by the BBC, where at Holland Park, Zubin and his mother saw it. So did Greta Novikova, who immediately demanded Roper. She found him in the computer room.

  “What the hell happened?” she asked.

  “Well, as usual, Dillon happened, and a few friends.”

  Afterward, she sat there shaking her head. “Ashimov will be in serious trouble, Roper. You must understand, he’ll be called home, and I wouldn’t like to think of the price he’ll have to pay. He’ll be blamed for everything.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “So, the Zubins are here?”

  “On the floor above you.” He glanced at his watch. “They’ll be down for lunch soon. Do you want to join in? After all, you met them in Moscow.”

  She got up. “Why not?” She walked to the door, Doyle following, and hesitated. “I love my country, Roper, does that make sense?”

  “If you go back, you’ll disappear from sight forever. Stalin may have died a long time ago, but nothing changes, Greta.”

  She went out slowly, Doyle following.

  Ashimov flew over from Ballykelly, rising up through heavy rain. He found the vodka and sat there drinking. “Bloody country, it rains nearly every day. I’ll be glad to get out of it.”

  “To Russia? Lousy weather, I should have thought, at this time of the year. Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Bell said.

  “Of what?”

  “Oh, our line of work. Years of putting yourself on the line, dodgy passports like today, lies.”

  Ashimov swallowed more vodka. “I loved it, worked my way up from being a private soldier. They’d have made me a colonel for sure this year. I was still officially GRU, though I was responsible for all Belov’s security. You know the good work I did with the KGB in the old days working for the Irish Cause.”

  “I can’t deny that.”

  “And then Ferguson and Dillon came on the scene, always Dillon. This business with Zubin has ruined my life.”

  “And you think knocking off Zubin and his mother will put you back on Volkov’s good books?”

  “I’d be even better if it could be Ferguson and Dillon. I’d like to see them both rot in hell.”

  In spite of being obviously drunk, he had another, and Bell, on the other side of the aisle, picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it, already regretting his involvement. But times were hard. It wasn’t the old days any longer, with a pistol in your pocket and a song in your heart for the glorious Cause. Fifty thousand pounds. He’d just have to put up with this madman. After all, it was only two days.

  Chomsky hadn’t told Levin the exact truth about Popov, his man in the boat at Hangman’s Wharf, for like Levin himself, Popov’s mother had been English. She had died of cancer while Popov served in Chechnya. The truth was she’d had a younger sister living in Islington, so Popov’s posting to the London Embassy had presented him with an aunt and a ready-made extended family. His English was not only excellent, as Chomsky had said, it was perfect, which proved more than useful on his assignment a
t Hangman’s Wharf, for nobody doubted he was English.

  He ventured into the pub, had meat-and-potato pie, beer, even recognized Harry Salter and Billy from the photos he’d been shown. Outside working on the boat at the wharf, he’d noticed them walking down to the warehouse development and going in. He’d taken a walk that way, read the notice board outside extolling the virtues of Salter Developments.

  There was a small exhibition in the foyer, plans on display, leaflets declaring how special the apartments were and, most special of all, the penthouse. At that end of the wharf, the development continued, rising straight up from the Thames, a row of balconies sixty feet high, and what had originally been some sort of cargo gates.

  A man in a security uniform wandered out of the entrance. He smiled. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Do you live round here?”

  “Only on a temporary basis. I’m doing one of the boats up along the wharf there. Just a paint job, really. Charley Black.”

  He held out his hand, the man shook it.

  “Tony Small. I’ve not been here long myself.”

  “Might see you in the pub later.”

  “Could be.”

  Levin’s boys followed various vehicles out of Holland Park, sometimes cross-matching Ferguson from Cavendish Place or the other way round, Dillon in his Mini Cooper, the Salters, particularly Billy, visiting a number of times and occasionally the trail leading to the Ministry of Defence.

  There was a breakthrough when Billy, in his uncle’s Aston, left Holland Park with the Zubins. The man in the Telecom manhole alerted his colleague on a security firm Suzuki, who followed them all over Mayfair and the West End visiting twelve properties, eventually returning to Holland Park.

  “House-hunting, Captain,” the false security man told him. “Sometimes there was a For Rent or a For Sale board.”

  “And sometimes not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The real estate agent’s boards, what was the name?”

  “Salter Enterprises.”

  “And afterwards, they returned to Holland Park?”

  “No, sir, they stopped at Hangman’s Wharf. There’s a Salter warehouse development there. They went in and had a look. Came out an hour later. It’s close to the Dark Man.”

  “Did they go in the pub?”

  “No. Billy Salter took them straight back to Holland Park.”

  “Interesting,” Levin said to Chomsky. “Contact Popov and tell him to find out what he can about this development on the wharf.”

  Popov worked away at painting his boat by the wharf, and in the later part of the afternoon saw the security man, Tony Small, emerge from the development and walk along to the Dark Man. Popov left his work and went across to the pub. It had just started to rain.

  Small was seated in a corner booth, eating a Cornish pasty, a beer at his elbow, and reading the London Evening Standard. Popov got a beer and turned and smiled.

  “Hello, again.”

  Small looked up. “Oh, it’s you. How’s it going?”

  “Just started to rain. Won’t help the painting. Can I join you?”

  “Why not?”

  Popov sat on the other side of the table. “I was really impressed with that place where you work. Somebody told me that this Salter company owns this pub.”

  “They own more than that, mate. Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, own just about everything you can see from here along the riverbank.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Millions in development. Restaurants, gambling, you name it, they’re into it. It’s strictly legal, but it wasn’t always like that. King of the river, Harry. I should know, I spent five years with the river police. Nobody messed with Harry Salter.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t believe you’re working here in Wapping and don’t realize who he is.”

  “No, I’m from West Sussex,” Popov said. “Had a real estate agency in Chichester. I got a nice offer to take me over from a national company. Good money, so I took it.” Sticking with the truth, he went on, “My old aunt lives in Islington. I’m staying with her and I’m doing the boat up for a friend of hers while I consider my options.”

  “Oh, I see.” Small finished his beer and waved to the bar. “Two more.” He then went on to fill in Popov with details of the wicked past of the Salters.

  “My God,” Popov said when he’d finished. “And now he’s finished a place like your development. Must be making a fortune.”

  “He will be when he’s sold them. It’s all being talked up in the trade. He’s going to do that for a month, then kind of explode on the market. They’re all nice, the apartments, but I tell you what – you should see the penthouse. It’s fantastic. Great views of the Thames all the way down.”

  “God, I’d love to see that,” Popov said. “I mean, having been in the business.” He finished his beer. “Fancy a scotch?”

  “Well, that’s very nice of you. How can I refuse?”

  By the time he’d accepted two large ones, mellowed by alcohol, he said, “I should be getting back. Tell you what, come and have a look.”

  Which Popov did and saw everything. The two private elevators at the front, two more at the rear, the glorious penthouse spread across the top of the building, beautifully furnished, the old cargo gates jutting out over the river like terraces. It was all very impressive.

  “This is wonderful,” he said.

  “It’s going to cost somebody a packet.”

  “I thought I saw someone going in earlier,” Popov said.

  “Yes, you did. Billy Salter was showing a couple round, a middle-aged guy and an old lady. She was ecstatic about it. He’s invited them round for drinks at six-thirty.”

  “It’ll be dark then,” Popov said.

  “Not too dark for champagne and caviar. He’s having it brought round from the pub.”

  “God, the rich know how to live.” Popov shook his head. “Thanks, Tony. I’d better get back and see if the weather allows me to continue working.”

  He hurried back to the boat, eager to get his mobile out and tell Chomsky everything.

  Levin, sitting with Chomsky, said, “So the Salters have invited the Zubins round to this penthouse. Why?”

  “To discuss moving them in for a while?”

  “Exactly. So, who else would be invited? Put your lawyer’s mind to that.”

  “Ferguson and Dillon. That’s probably it.”

  “They might have their minders.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s only a hundred yards from the pub, and Harry, the gangster, might like to play the gracious host. I’d say he’ll have the goodies delivered beforehand, everything laid out nicely, low lights, soft music.”

  “He could also have a couple of hoods prowling around, armed to the teeth.”

  “So I could be wrong.”

  Levin’s mobile went. It was Ashimov. “We’re at the Tangier.”

  “You’ve told the Falcon to wait at Archbury?”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “My dear Yuri, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s never to leave anything to chance. You never know when you’re going to need to get out of somewhere in a hurry.”

  “Never mind that. What’s happening?”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Igor Levin lit a Russian cigarette and offered one to Chomsky, who said, “You’re having second thoughts.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Levin said, “He’s an oaf, that one. He’s also a murderous bastard.”

  “And Max Zubin was a paratrooper in Chechnya, and so were you.”

  “True. I’m also an officer of the GRU who’s supposed to obey orders and serve his country.”

  “As a lawyer, I could argue that what you’re obeying are General Volkov’s orders, which might not be what actually is right for your country.”

  “Yes, I take your point. We could argue this on
e until the crack of doom. Book a Mercedes, draw me two AK47s from the gun room and put them in the trunk. I’ll deal with Ashimov.”

  He was angry, felt pushed, but there it was, so he phoned Ashimov and said, “There you are. I know where they’ll be at six-thirty. I’ll take you there. Look for me,” and he switched off and said to Chomsky, “There are some wonderful English passports in GRU files. If I were you, I’d fill one in.”

  At Holland Park, Ferguson was talking to Roper when Dillon walked in. “Good, I’m glad you could make it,” Ferguson said. “Harry’s putting himself out. Caviar, champagne. I can’t persuade this one to join us.”

  “I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep in three days,” Roper said. “I’m winding down. If you want an extra guest, take Greta Novikova. She actually met them in Moscow, had breakfast with them this morning. They like her.”

  “An interesting idea,” Ferguson said, and turned to Doyle. “Tell the major we’re taking her out, Sergeant, for some champagne and caviar.”

  Doyle said, “I would say she won’t be able to resist, sir,” and he went out.

  Roper poured a scotch. “I hope you’re carrying, Sean.”

  “Always do. Why?”

  “Because I still have the feeling this is not over yet.”

  “To be frank, I’ve been thinking that, too.”

  Dillon slipped a hand under the back of his jacket and touched the butt of the Walther in the back of his waistband.

  Greta appeared fifteen minutes later in a black suit and a duster coat. “What’s this?” she asked Ferguson. “Are you trying to soften me up?”

  “Not at all. It’s a social occasion, my dear, to take you out of yourself. We won’t be needing you, Sergeant, so let’s be off,” and he took her out through the door, his hand under her elbow.

  At the Hotel Tangier, Levin called Ashimov’s suite, told him he was in the bar, got himself a vodka and sat in the corner. It was early evening, so no one was in the bar itself, two or three people in the lounge area. After a while, Ashimov and Bell arrived.