Without Mercy Page 8

  “Well, that’s damn nice of you,” Blake said, and went out.

  When he got into the BMW, however, his keys were missing. When he got out, Casey and Magee were standing there.

  Up on the hill, Ashimov and Greta each watched through binoculars and Bell stood by.

  Casey said to Blake, “What a pity, but that’s life.” He moved behind him and Magee took a Browning out of his waistband.

  “You’ve made a mistake, my friend.”

  Casey reached inside Blake’s jacket and removed the Walther. “Well, would you look at that? I’m amazed a tourist would get through security with that.” He put it in his pocket.

  “Oh, it happens,” Blake said.

  “Yes, well, you just come with us and we’ll show you the grand place Drumore is. Mr. Bell’s orders.”

  Casey pushed him along and Blake went, Magee in the rear, all the way down to the tiny harbor and those few fishing boats, and not a soul in the place.

  They went along the wharf and pushed Blake down to the deck of a fishing boat. Casey followed him, Magee cast off, went in the wheelhouse and turned the engine on and moved through the harbor, turning at the end of the point. Casey presented the Browning and Blake sat down in the stern, took the.25 Colt from the ankle holster and shot Casey between the eyes. He went backward, the Browning flying from one hand, and over the rail into the water.

  The boat swerved. Magee killed the engine and came to the entrance of the wheelhouse. Blake shot him in the right thigh, knocking him over.

  He leaned down. “I’ve been good to you. I could have killed you. Instead, I’ve crippled you. I’m sure your IRA chums will see to you when I’ve gone.” He reached in Magee’s jacket and found an old Smith amp; Wesson.38. “I’ll see you in hell, son.”

  The boat had bounced back against the wharf. He went over the rail and up to the pub, a gun in each hand, and high on the hill, Greta said, “You got it wrong, Yuri, and you, Liam.”

  At the Royal George, Blake burst in the front door and discovered Ryan turning from the bar. “Hold it right there. My keys. I’d say you’re the most likely to have them.”

  He held up the weapons like a gunfighter and Ryan was terrified. “All right, I’ve got them.”

  He handed them over and Blake said, “So, Belov’s in Russia and you’ve got a new boss since Mr. Kelly passed on, a Mr. Bell.” He smiled, on a high. “I’ve got a friend named Sean Dillon. He says he has an excellent remedy for people like you.” He rammed the Colt.25 against Ryan’s left ear and fired. Ryan cried out and went down.

  “You’re lucky, you bastard,” Blake said. “You’re still alive.”

  He left Ryan writhing on the floor, went out, got in the BMW and drove off.

  On the hill, Greta lowered her binoculars. “Well, I don’t know what we’re going to find inside the Royal George, but I’d say the whole thing has been a monumental cock-up.”

  On his way back over the Atlantic, Blake called Ferguson and went over the experience.

  “My God, you’ve been in the wars,” Ferguson told him. “You say one of the men mentioned someone called Bell as being in charge?”

  “That’s it. See if that strikes a chord with Dillon, and I’d give it to Roper as well. He usually comes up with someone.”

  “I’ll see to it. Safe journey, Blake, regards to the President.”

  Blake switched off and leaned back. He felt great. Mary said, “Can I get you anything, sir?”

  “Actually, you can, Mary.” He smiled. “You can get me a Horse’s Neck.”

  The carnage in the village was immediately apparent. Greta, Ashimov and Bell stood on the wharf while two of his men assisted Magee over the rail of the boat and into a Land Rover. “Shall we pick up Pat Ryan at the pub as well? He’s lost half an ear, Mr. Bell.”

  “What else would you do with him? Take them to the convent at Ballykelly. They’re in safe hands with Sister Teresa.”

  The men drove away. Beyond, by the harbor entrance, the body of Jack Casey floated up and was swept out to sea.

  “What happens to him?” Greta said.

  “This is my patch,” Bell said. “Everybody keeps their head down, nobody sees a thing. None of this happened. As for Casey, just on the other side of the jetty where the body’s drifting now, there’s a ten-knot bore running because the tide’s turning. It’ll take Casey out into the Irish Sea fast, food for fishes.”

  “Really? How interesting.”

  She left him talking to Ashimov and walked back to the pub and onward to Drumore Place. She went into the Great Hall, got herself a vodka, went and stood by the fire thinking about it, then phoned Levin, who was in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester, having a late lunch.

  “Why, Greta, darling girl.”

  “None of that nonsense. Blake Johnson arrived at Drumore posing as an American tourist. Igor, he’s so old he was in Vietnam. He’s fifty-five at least. He should have been in his box by now.”

  “You know, my mother was English, but her mother was Irish. And whenever there was bad news, that old Irish lady would say to me, It was as certain as the coffin lid closing.”

  “Well, the coffin lid’s closed tight.”

  “Really?” He was laughing. “Tell me the worst.”

  When she was finished, he said, “So he sends one corpse drifting out to sea, cripples another and disposes of half the ear of Ryan, the publican at the Royal George?”

  “There’s more to it than that. Ryan said that when threatening him, Johnson mentioned Bell having taken over from Kelly. He also mentioned his friend Sean Dillon.”

  “Oh, dear. What’s happening to the walking wounded?”

  “Taken to the convent hospital at Ballykelly. The Little Sisters of Pity. They’ll keep quiet enough.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “Ashimov should have let Johnson nose around, have lunch and move on.”

  “Well, he didn’t. He’s on a holy crusade to get the lot of them, and the chance of stiffing Blake Johnson was too good to miss.”

  “What happens now?”

  “I should imagine Blake has already phoned Ferguson, who will ask Dillon and the good Major Roper if the name Bell means anything to them in connection with the IRA.”

  “It’s a mess,” she said.

  “It’s a can of worms, my love. However, I’ll handle it. I’ll phone Volkov in Moscow, give him the bad news and cover your back as well as my own. But that’s only because I like you.”

  She thought about it for only a second. He had something about him, this young man, she recognized that and took it on board.

  “Right, we’ll see how it goes.”

  “As far as Yuri’s concerned, if anyone gets blamed for it all coming out, it’s me not you, so keep your mouth shut.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll leave it to you.”

  She switched off, went and got another vodka, and Ashimov stamped in. “What a mess!”

  “It was certainly that, Yuri.”

  He went and poured himself a drink. “I had him in my hand, Blake Johnson, the President’s man, the ultimate coup.”

  “It would have been a greater coup to allow him to pass through empty-handed,” she said. “I told you. But you just had to give Bell the wink, didn’t you? Sometimes, Yuri – I just don’t know,” and she walked out.

  In London, at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson listened to Blake, then called Dillon and Billy into his office. He gave them an account of what Blake had told him.

  “Bloody marvelous,” Billy said. “That’s put the bastards in their place. What do you think, Dillon?”

  “So there’s a new bunch in power from the Provisional IRA. And some guy told Blake that Belov was in Russia. Where does that get us?”

  “Maybe if we traced that Bell person they mentioned. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  Ferguson shook his head. “I’ll give it to Roper. He might find something.”

  “What about the murder inquiry?” asked Dillon.
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br />   “Still proceeding, Sean.”

  “Then maybe I should have a look myself.”

  “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

  Dillon shrugged. “I’ll get on, then.”

  Outside, he paused at his desk, only for a moment. Billy said, “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think? I’ll see you later,” and he went out.

  “Wait for me, Dillon,” Billy called, and went after him.

  On the phone to Volkov, Levin explained everything that had happened. He waited while Volkov considered the matter. Finally, he said, “I agree with you, Igor, Major Ashimov has been foolish in this matter. Dillon is far from being an idiot. He’s probably already made the link between the nurse and the IRA. Now this thing at Drumore. With Roper’s assistance, Dillon may hunt down the Bell connection sooner than you think.”

  “What should I do?” Levin asked.

  “Watch them all carefully, Igor. One day soon we’ll need to make hard decisions, and we’ll need to know what – and who – our liabilities are.”

  Levin went into the Dorchester, but instead of going up to his suite, he went into the Piano Bar. It was half busy, cheerful and sophisticated as usual. He sat on one of the banquettes, ordered a glass of champagne and glanced at the newspaper. At that moment, Dillon and Billy walked in.

  The bar manager, Guiliano, approached. “Mr. Dillon, a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ll have the usual and the boy here orange juice. And if you don’t mind it, I’ll give you a tune on Liberace’s grand piano there, before your usual pianist comes in.”

  “It’d be a pleasure,” Guiliano said.

  Levin slipped on his earpiece. He could hear them perfectly.

  “So what’s new?”

  “I’m leaving it to Roper for the time being. Let’s see if this Bell thing hangs together. If anybody can find the answer, it’s Roper.”

  “Oh, dear,” Igor murmured, as Dillon walked down to the piano, opened it and started to play. “We can’t have that.”

  As he got up, Dillon seemed to look across at him. Levin smiled and called, in his finest public school voice, “ ‘As Time Goes By,’ old man. Never fails.”

  He walked out and went upstairs. Billy went to the piano. “Who was that?”

  “God knows,” Dillon said. “I think I’ve seen him somewhere before, but for the life of me I can’t remember where. Good idea on the music, though,” and he started to play the tune.

  Upstairs in his suite, Levin opened the file he’d received in Moscow, found a number and rang it. When there was an answer, he said, “George Moon?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The midnight bell is ringing.”

  Moon said, “That’s fine by me.” Silly buggers, all this code stuff, he thought.

  “I’ll see you in half an hour at the Harvest Moon pub in Trenchard Street. I’ll recognize you. Be alone.”

  “Fine by me. Side entrance. There’s a light like a moon over the door. A moon for a Moon – fitting, right?”

  6

  Levin checked his briefcase, the Walther with the silencer. In the room safe in the wardrobe of the suite, he had five thousand pounds in mad money. He took out two thousand in fifties, stowed them in the briefcase, put on his trench coat and left.

  He took his Mercedes, drove in the general direction of Soho, and beyond Brewer Street he finally came to the pub in Trenchard Street, an old Victorian sort of place. He parked some distance away and walked through the rain, not bothering with an umbrella.

  The light over the door in the side alley had the shape of a half-moon on it, sure enough. Levin glanced up, then pressed the bell. After a moment, the door opened and a rather tarty young woman appeared.

  “I’ve an appointment with Mr. Moon.”

  “So what’s your name?”

  “Mr. Nobody to you, sweetheart. Just lead the way.”

  “All right, keep your shirt on.” She was quite attractive in her own way, a cotton skirt tightening over her buttocks, high-heeled ankle boots on her feet.

  She turned at the top of the stairs and paused to open a door. “Had a good look, did you?”

  “Definitely. Not to be missed.”

  “Cheeky bastard.”

  “Most men are.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “You like having the last word, don’t you? In here.”

  She opened a door and ushered him into a room lined with books like a small library. There was a large desk with a lamp, the light low, and the man seated there was small, balding, wearing steel spectacles. He nodded to Levin, and held out a limp hand without getting up. Behind him a man leaned against the wall, hard, brutal, with the flattened nose of an ex-boxer, and arms folded.

  “I’m George Moon, no need to say who you are. I know your principals and that’s sufficient. Cup of tea for me, Ruby, although considering this gentleman’s antecedents, I expect he’d prefer a large vodka.”

  “Yes, O Great One.”

  She went out. Levin said, “A lot of character there.”

  “A lot of everything. A very naughty girl. Harold?”

  The man behind him moved close enough to smell, and it was not good. Ruby opened the door and said, “Tea’s brewing, George.” She had a bar tray, a bottle of vodka and a glass on it.

  Harold said, “All right, china, arms wide.” His hands went for a body search.

  Levin said, “Now who’s being naughty? I don’t like that, Harold.” His right hand came out of his pocket clutching the Walther, and he rammed it under Harold’s chin. “Now go back to propping up the wall like a good boy, or I’ll castrate you.”

  Harold, in shock, eased away. “Do as the gentleman says, Harold.” That was Moon.

  Levin turned to Ruby, who was smiling. She said, “My God, a right hard bastard. Who’d have thought it? Ready for your vodka, then?”

  “Why not?”

  She poured a large one and he drank it down.

  “Fabulous. I’ll have another.”

  He held the glass out and placed the Walther on the desk as if daring Harold, who glowered at him.

  “So what can we do for you?”

  Levin opened his briefcase and took out the money it contained in two packets.

  “It’s simple enough. A man lives in Regency Square, in a wheelchair most of the time, a Major Roper. I want him seen to.”

  “Permanently?”

  “That would be the best solution. After all, anything could happen to somebody like that. He could end up dead in his wheelchair, the victim of an opportunistic burglar. There’s two thousand here; if you accept the assignment, another two on completion. Just one thing.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You do it now – tonight.”

  There was silence for a moment. Harold said, “Regency Square’s only twenty minutes away.”

  “That’s true.” Moon nodded. “As I know your principals,” he said to Levin, “I presume this is a political matter?”

  “None of your affair.”

  Moon nodded and turned to Ruby. “You’ll keep an eye on those bastards behind the bar. You never know what they’ll get up to.” He handed her the two thousand. “Look after that, love.”

  “You’re going yourself, George?”

  “Why not? I’ll keep an eye on Harold. Find a raincoat for me and an umbrella.”

  “Yes, George.”

  Levin took a computer printout from his briefcase, with a photo of Roper on it and his address. Moon picked it up and checked it, then handed it to Harold, who looked and shrugged.

  “Piece of cake.”

  Moon said to Levin, “You coming or are you just watching from afar?”

  “I’ll see you after your successful completion, or let’s hope I do.”

  “That will be entirely satisfactory.”

  “So you trust me not to vanish into the night?”

  “Oh, absolutely. I’ve dealt with your people on many occasions.
Why would they let me down? There’s always a next time. I’m well aware how powerful they are.”

  “I’ll see you later, then.” Levin turned to Ruby. “And you.”

  “God, but you’re a cold-blooded bastard.”

  “It’s been said before.” He grinned, brushed past her, went down the stairs and back to his Mercedes, got in and drove away. He made it to Regency Square. There was plenty of parking at that time of the evening. He found one very close to Roper’s place, pulled in, switched on the radio and sat there listening to it and waiting.

  Roper, busy at his computers, had had enough and his stomach told him as much. There was an Italian on the corner of the square by the main road. They always did well by him and his wheelchair. He pulled on his reefer coat and a cap in the hall and went out into the rain.

  Levin saw him at once, and so did Moon and Harold, who’d just arrived and parked at the side of the square.

  “How convenient,” Moon said.

  “How do we do it?” Harold asked.

  Moon nodded down to the main road. “I always prefer to keep it simple. It looks nice and busy down there. We push him along the pavement and simply let go. He’s bound to run in front of a truck or something.”

  They got out of their car, Moon put up his umbrella and they crossed the road as Levin watched. He had an insane desire to laugh. Did those cretins really think it was going to be that easy?

  “Dear God almighty,” he murmured.

  Harold had a hand on one side of Roper’s wheelchair now, Moon on the other. “Be a nice gentleman now,” Moon said, “and you’ll come to no harm.”

  “Come to no good, you mean,” Roper said. He eyed the two of them. “I’ve been here before. Last time it was the Mafia. What’s your religion?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of telling you, love.”

  “Ah, well, then we can’t do business, I’m afraid,” Roper said. Then he took a silenced Walther from the right-hand pocket of his wheelchair and shot Harold through the side of his knee.

  He went down with a curse, and Moon said, “Oh, my God.”

  Roper grabbed him by the coat. “What’s your name? Come on, quick, or I’ll give it to you, too.”