Chapter 12

And work at it Roper did. There wasn’t an aspect of the entire affair that wasn’t covered. All relevant traffic out and in at the Russian Embassy in London, traffic from the Kremlin, dealings with the IRA. It was never-ending.

Another interminable night, then, of sandwiches and whiskey and constant smoking, and Doyle, on the duty shift, bringing innumerable cups of tea.

At five o’clock, Doyle pulled up the blinds. “Dirty morning, raining away.” He turned. “Look, sir, don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit?”

“You always are when you’re looking for the little things, Sergeant, so it pays to take care. I learned that lesson with my last bomb in Londonderry. It was just a Mini car with a shopping bag on the rear seat, so I didn’t treat it seriously.”

“Bad luck, sir.”

“Sheer carelessness, so it pays to take care. Check everything.” At that precise moment, he was proved right.

The intercept was one of many relevant to Station Gorky, mainly messages to do with administration, work structure, now and then commands from Volkov himself. Roper was reviewing them, when he stopped, then frowned and reversed the screen listings. The message that had caught his eye referred to transportation for Belov’s flight from Station Gorky, but not to Moscow Airport. Some little distance from it was the Belov Complex, which specialized in private planes, executive jets and the like, even courier aircraft from foreign countries, making their regular pilgrimages in and out with Embassy material.

The particular message made the point that Colonel Josef Belov’s chauffeur, one Ivan Kurbsky, would meet the plane and transfer the Colonel straight to the Kremlin before Belov moved on to the Excelsior Hotel to his usual suite.

It hadn’t struck Roper before, the reference to Belov’s old KGB rank, and he went back to the beginning of the traffic from Moscow to Station Gorky. No reference to Max Zubin. Well, of course there wouldn’t be. The whole emphasis was on Belov, even in the most trivial matters.

Perhaps he was tired, or slightly out of his mind by that stage, but a wild idea had formed in his head. Crazy, obvious and simple. What if everyone dealing with Max Zubin at Station Gorky actually believed he was Josef Belov?

He turned to Doyle. “See if the Major’s stirring, Sergeant, and ask her if she’d fancy some early breakfast with me, and I’d like you to help me out with her,” and he explained.

“Certainly, sir.”

Roper poured a whiskey to pull himself together. The implications were obvious. “Right, old son, don’t mess up,” he murmured.

You look terrible,” Greta told him.

“I’ve looked terrible for some years now.”

She was genuinely sorry and shook her head. “But your diet seems to consist solely of Irish whiskey.”

“That’s Dillon for you.”

“I expect so.”

“And too many cigarettes.”

“They help calm me down. I get neurological symptoms. Can’t sleep.”

“And you only eat sandwiches. I haven’t seen you tackle a decent meal.”

“Well, you will now. I’ve ordered a full English breakfast. I thought you’d like to join me. Start with the tea, Sergeant,” he said to Doyle. “Oh, and pass the morning papers.”

“Coming up, sir.”

Doyle picked up the Times and the Daily Mail from a side table and passed them over. Both featured Putin’s visit, also the press release announcing details of the Belov Protocol.

“My God,” she said, as she looked at the Mail.

“My God, indeed.” Roper poured another whiskey. “This is purely medicinal, I assure you, but a toast to Russian barefaced cheek.”

She read the piece quickly and looked up. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, come on, you’ll never get away with it.”

“That’s what you think. Ashimov passed Max Zubin off in Paris the other year with no trouble. Not only does Zubin really look like Belov, he’s a damn good actor. Ashimov told me he handled it really well. It fooled everybody. French intelligence, the CIA, the Brits.”

Doyle had come in with a trolley and laid a table by the fire. She carried on talking.

“If it worked then, it will work now.”

He wheeled his chair to the table and started on the bacon and eggs. “Come on, eat up, it’ll get cold.”

She took his advice. “Say, this is good. But you must understand, Roper, we Russians are used to the cold.”

“Well, you didn’t do too well in the Cold War.”

He was pushing her now, and she flared. “We did all right. Gave you your share of bloody noses, you and the Americans both. And some you don’t even know about.”

Doyle brought a bottle across and two glasses. “I’m sorry, Major Novikova. Major Roper told me a vodka usually starts a Russian breakfast. I forgot.”

“It certainly does, he’s right there.” He poured, she took it down in one go. “Another, Sergeant.” She was on her mettle. “I’ve invented a new breakfast for you English. Vodka and bacon and eggs.”

“Actually, I’m Irish, Major.” Doyle smiled. “What they call Black Irish.”

“God, I can never understand this. Why do you Irish always fight for the English? You should hate them.”

“Not really, Major.” He slipped another vodka in her empty glass. “I mean, they’re a bit like your mother-in-law. An inconvenience when she calls.”

She fell about laughing and finished the third vodka. “Your mother-in-law? I like that. Do you like it?” she asked Roper.

He pushed his plate away. “If you do, but enough of this chat. I’m telling you, this Belov Protocol will never work.”

“Why not?”

“Too many people know what happened to the real Belov, know about Zubin, I mean, everybody who worked with him at Station Gorky.”

She exploded, almost in fury. “Are you stupid or something? Don’t you understand? To everyone at Station Gorky, Max Zubin is Josef Belov.”

There was a moment’s stillness, and Roper said, “Is that really true?”

“But of course. Only a handful of us know the truth—Ashimov, me, General Volkov, and through him, the President.”

“And we do.”

“Because Dillon pressed a button and killed Belov.”

“So when you present Zubin at Station Gorky …”

“He’s got to be Belov.” She shook her head. “Surely you can see that? Even his chauffeur in Moscow thinks he’s Belov. People accept. And what can you do?” She held her glass up to Doyle. He refilled it obediently.

“Is Ferguson going to stand up at the Dorchester and say, ‘Excuse me, this isn’t Josef Belov, we assassinated him with American connivance’?” She took the vodka down. “I think not.”

“An amazing situation,” Roper said. “When you think of it, he could be Josef Belov for the rest of his life.”

“I don’t understand.” She was befuddled with too much vodka now.

“It’s just an interesting point. You know, the appearance of things and people believing in it.” He smiled. “Anyway, I’ve got work to do. Take Major Novikova back to her quarters, Sergeant.”

She got up, staggered a little and leaned on the table. “What was all this about? What were you after?”

“I’d go back to bed if I were you. Greta, have another sleep.”

She staggered slightly and Doyle caught her. “Steady now, miss, just come along with me.”

Roper lit a cigarette and thought about it, then turned back to the computers. The last message on his screen was the one about transportation to the Belov Complex, where his chauffeur, Ivan Kurbsky, would meet the plane and convey him to the Kremlin before the Excelsior Hotel. That would be for Volkov to give him a final briefing.

He sat there brooding, thinking of every aspect, and it all started to come together, make sense. He thought about it some more and phoned Ferguson and found him still at home at Cavendish Place.

“I need to see you.”

“Why?”

“How would you like to make the Belov Protocol into a total balls-up? How would you like to leave the Russians with nothing but egg on their faces?”

“Tell me more.”

Which Roper proceeded to do.

When he was finished, Ferguson said, “Totally mad and also quite brilliant. It could be absurdly simple.”

“The old Swiss watch syndrome. If it all worked.”

“All right, what do you want?”

“A meeting with you at the soonest with me, Dillon, Billy, Squadron Leader Lacey and Parry.”

“Is there anything I should know before we meet?”

“Yes, I’ve got a few requests.” He went through them. “There are a number of things I can sort out via my computers. I’ll take care of those aspects. Can we meet in, say, two hours?”

“Absolutely. Holland Park?”

“I think so. It’s useful if we need to refer back to computer information.”

“Of course. There is one thing I’ve got to say.”

“And what’s that?”

“Max Zubin—it would all depend on his willingness to play ball.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.”

Roper switched off and went back to his screens.

At Holland Park, Roper was doing the briefing. “This whole thing hinges on some sort of contact being made at the Dorchester with Max Zubin. It seems obvious to me that he’ll return to Moscow still playing his role for the sake of his mother. That means the day after tomorrow, he’ll be seen on the world stage signing the Belov Protocol. The only way to prevent that would be to get Zubin out of Moscow with his mother.”

“And how do we do that?” Billy asked.

Roper turned to Lacey. “You know the Belov Complex in Moscow?”

“Of course. We’ve been there a few times. It’s close to the main airport, handles private traffic, executive aircraft and courier planes. We’ve done it for the Embassy run a few times.”

“So if the great Josef Belov turned up there with his mother and had a walk around, how do you think he’d be treated?”

“With fear and great respect. I know Russia.”

“And if they ended up on your courier plane and you got out of there fast, how long would it take you to leave Russian airspace?”

“If I was given the Citation X, half an hour at the most. Since the demise of Concorde, it’s arguably the fastest commercial plane in the world.”

“So you’d be out of it, in effect, probably before they’d even had a chance to scramble another aircraft to see what you were up to?”

“With any kind of luck, yes.”

“If you volunteer for this, you’d be in uniform, RAF rondels on the plane and so on, everything to confuse the issue.”

“That’s good, sir, and by the way, we do volunteer.”

“My God,” Billy said, “it could work. It’s so bleeding simple.”

“Which only leaves us with the problem of getting Max Zubin to agree,” Roper said.

“I’d say you’ve already worked that out.” Dillon smiled.

“There’s plenty of security at the hotel, both Russian and British. You, Billy, have your identification, so that’s all right. The fact that you speak Russian, Sean, could be useful. You could growl your head off at any unfortunate room service waiter as much as you want and carry your copy of the Putin warrant just in case, to confuse any Russian security people.”

“But meeting Zubin will be difficult.”

“Not at all. He’s been given one of those magnificent park suites on the fifth floor as befits his status as Josef Belov. There is a small bedroom with separate bathroom next to it, double doors in between, which are kept locked unless it’s booked, to provide a second bedroom for the suite.”

“And this one isn’t?”

“Well, it was, but I canceled and then fiddled the computer to make it look as if it’s still occupied. I recall when you got into Levin’s room, you had a house key like staff use.”

“Still do.”

“As regards Levin, he’s with the Russian Embassy party and Boris Luhzkov. I suppose they know we won’t lift Levin.”

“What would be the point?” Ferguson said. “And they can’t lay a finger on us. I’m going and you two can join me,” he said to Dillon and Billy. He turned to Lacey. “You’d better get on with arranging the courier flight out of Farley. You have full authority.”

“Certainly, sir.”

They all got up, and Roper said, “I was thinking, Dillon, take an extra Codex Four. If this idea works and Zubin agrees, it will give him a link with you.”

“Good thinking.”

“Well, let’s get on with it, the game’s afoot,” Ferguson said.

At the Russian Embassy, Boris Luhzkov was in his office when Igor Levin went in. “I got your message. What’s up?” “Nothing, just a thousand and one things to do.”

“You worry too much.” Levin lit a cigarette and sat on the window seat.

Luhzkov said, “It’s all right for you, the big war hero, used to running around at the Kremlin.”

“Luhzkov, what can I do for you?”

“Volkov insists on your presence tonight so you can make yourself useful.”

“I’m not exactly persona grata to our British friends these days. You’re sure Charles Ferguson won’t try to have me picked up once I’m on the street?”

“Look, Igor, I don’t know what you’ve been mixed up in, and I don’t want to know. You work for Volkov, carry the Putin warrant, that’s enough for me. One thing I do know. You’ve got diplomatic immunity. If the Brits want you for anything, all they can do is send you home. Now go along to the Dorchester and check how our security people are getting on.”

“On the instant, boss.”

“Always the clown, Igor.” Luhzkov shook his head. “Greta Novikova is still gainfully employed, I trust?”

“I wouldn’t ask, Boris, I really wouldn’t.”

When Ferguson was admitted to Number Ten Downing Street, a waiting aide took him upstairs past the pictures of every past Prime Minister and along the corridor.

“Five minutes only, General. He’s due at Northolt to greet Putin, but he did want a word with you.”

He opened the door, Ferguson went in and there was the Prime Minister behind his desk. “Sit down, General.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister.”

“I just want to reassure myself about certain, shall we say, unfortunate aspects of present events. Things are in order at the Dorchester, I take it?”

“I believe so, but I’m visiting personally after our meeting.”

“Let me be plain, General Ferguson. I know I find it prudent on many occasions where matters of intelligence are concerned to look the other way, but aspects of my meeting today, this Belov Protocol? It can’t be allowed to happen.”

“It won’t, Prime Minister. Everything will be resolved within the next two days to your satisfaction.” He smiled. “Or you can have my resignation.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want that, so I’ll just have to take your word for it. Now I must go. Northolt awaits.”

The door behind was eased open as if by magic and Ferguson was eased out.

When the Daimler picked him up, Dillon and Billy were in the back and Ferguson climbed in. The Daimler pulled away and Dillon said, “Where to?”

“The Dorchester. I want to check security.”

“Did the PM have much to say?”

“In five minutes? Hardly. Of course, he did tell me the Belov Protocol can’t be allowed to happen, and I told him it would be resolved to his satisfaction over the next two days.”

“Charles, your confidence is breathtaking.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Dillon. It’s a sign of my total faith in your ability to achieve miracles.”

Igor Levin made contact with his security colleagues at the hotel. The President, of course, was in the most exclusive suite at the very top of the hotel, members of his entourage on lower floors, Belov on floor five in a park suite. Everything seemed in order, so he went down to the Piano Bar and ordered a vodka in crushed ice, the special way they did it, the Dorchester way, got a couple of newspapers and went and sat by the piano and worked his way through them.

Someone brushed past him to the piano. He didn’t look up, engrossed in what the Times was saying about Putin and Belov. The pianist started to play a song popular with soldiers during the war in Chechnya. Levin remembered it well, they all did, those young soldiers. “Moscow Nights.”

He looked up, and Sean Dillon, seated at the piano, said, “We just wanted to make you feel at home, Igor, my old son, me and Billy here.”

Billy was standing by the piano, arms crossed. “That was quite a gig you played in Khufra, Captain. It was you who knocked off Tomac, we presume?”

“He annoyed me.”

“A right bastard. Screwed up our floatplane. We went in nose first for the deep six.”

Levin stopped smiling. “That was nothing to do with me.” He hesitated. “And Greta was with you in that plane?”

Dillon said, “I held her hand all the way up from the bottom.”

Levin smiled again. “How romantic. She’s well, I trust?”

“In excellent accommodation. Oh, here comes the boss.”

Ferguson came down the steps from the bar. “My dear chap, we keep missing each other. Tried to catch up again at Drumore Place yesterday, but you weren’t at home.”

“And neither was Ashimov. Dublin, I understand.” Dillon shook his head. “Liam Bell did a runner, but we depleted the ranks of the IRA.”

“You must be feeling pleased.” Levin stood up.

Ferguson said, “Don’t go, join us in a drink.”

Levin smiled. “Now, that would really be too much. I’m sure I’ll see enough of you tonight.”

He went out. Ferguson said, “Pity, I rather liked him. Still, we can have something while we’re here,” and he waved to Guiliano.

In the ballroom later that night, all London was there. Politicians by the score, big business, the media, anybody who was anybody and lots of men in black suits, ever watchful as waiters passed through the crowd with trays loaded with champagne, vodka, canapés.

“They stand out a mile, don’t they?” Billy said to Dillon as they stood by a temporary bar.

“Who do you mean?”

“The security men. It’s the black suits.”

Ferguson was away, glad-handing a few people. Dillon said, “Just because Ferguson made us wear black tie for tonight, don’t let it go to your head. There’s Igor Levin over there. Keep him in view and let him keep you in view. I’m going up now to try and play Roper’s trump card.” He eased out of the crowd by the rear lift, pushed open a side door and ran up the stairs to the fifth floor. The room adjacent to Max Zubin’s suite was just around a bend in the corridor opposite. He produced his passkey and entered.

It was small, comfortably furnished, the door giving access to the living room of Zubin’s suite locked. Dillon slipped in an earpiece and listened. There was a sound of movement, but no voices.

He took off his coat, then removed a small suitcase from the wardrobe and pulled out a white waiter’s coat, which he put on. On the sideboard tray, champagne stood ready in an ice bucket with two glasses. He took a deep breath, picked up the tray and went out. Just a few yards down the corridor was all it took. He paused at the door, then pressed the bell.

It opened surprisingly quickly, and there stood Zubin in shirtsleeves adjusting his black tie.

“Champagne, sir?” Dillon asked.

“I don’t think I ordered that,” Zubin said.

“It’s on the house, sir, Dorchester champagne.”

“Okay, bring it in, but don’t open it.”

He turned away into the living room and Dillon put the tray on the table. “I’d better open it just in case somebody comes,” he said in fluent and rapid Russian.

Strangely, Zubin didn’t look alarmed, but there was an instant frown. “What in the hell is this?”

“Nobody here is what they seem. My name is Sean Dillon and I work for British intelligence. You’re Max Zubin pretending to be Josef Belov, and not liking it very much. However, they have your mother in Moscow, so you have to play ball, you have to go back to her.”

Zubin adjusted his tie and reached for his jacket. “If any of this were true, what could I do about it?”

“Go back tomorrow, you’d have to do that, then we’d bring you out, you and your mother.”

“You could do that?”

“Yes. I’ll explain after dinner.”

“I’m not doing dinner. From what I know, I’ll be back up here at around nine to nine-thirty.”

“I’ve got the room next door. We’ll talk later. If you’re on your own, knock on the door.” He’d finished uncorking and pouring a glass. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

Zubin took the glass. “I was a paratrooper in Chechnya. You sound like the real thing. Unless they’re employing raving lunatics here who start off with an Irish accent and move into fluent Russian.”

The doorbell sounded.

“Shower stall,” Dillon whispered. “I know these suites.”

He moved into the small hall bathroom, left the door partly open and stepped into the shower.

Outside, Zubin opened the door. “Ah, Levin, there you are. Are they ready for me?” He was obviously in his Belov role, voice measured.

“No need to take that tone with me,” Levin said. “Now, remember the cameras. Be nice and forbidding, so people will feel it better not to speak to you.”

“I could frighten them to death. I can do an excellent Hamlet’s father. He was a ghost, you know.”

“Come on, it’s showtime.”

The door closed, Dillon waited, then went out and returned next door.

Round the bend at the far end of the corridor, Levin and Zubin waited for the lift. “You’re feeling good?” Levin said.

“Of course. I always do on an opening night,” and the lift doors parted and he and Levin joined four other people.

Inside himself, Zubin felt only tremendous excitement. Could it be true, could he really confound all of them, bring the whole house of cards tottering down? Well, as far as he was concerned, it wouldn’t be from want of trying.

When Dillon returned, Ferguson had joined Billy. “You look excited,” he said. “How did it go?”

“Couldn’t have been better.” He told them what had happened. “The important thing is he isn’t doing the dinner. That gives me a great chance of accessing him from the room next door later and really laying it on the line.”

“The Putin plane is leaving at eleven from Northolt. The Citation X perhaps an hour later. The courier flight will be logged in and out again, all perfectly legitimate.” He handed Dillon an envelope. “Times and so forth, the whole schedule. Discuss it with him, then destroy it.”

“Of course.”

There was a sudden disturbance at the far end of the room, a great deal of clapping as Putin moved through the crowd, the Prime Minister taking another section.

“He’s there,” Dillon said, “moving close to the President, Levin behind him.”

There was Zubin, pausing while the TV cameras did their work and press cameras flashed, turning closer to the President so they were tied together, as it were. The President nodded to him and moved on, and Zubin walked into the crowd, Levin behind him, pausing to greet people who spoke to him. Finally, he accepted a glass of champagne and stood by the wall, as if holding court, a number of guests obviously hanging on to his every word, and Levin was checking his watch.

“I bet that isn’t in the script,” Ferguson said.

“He’s an actor,” Dillon said. “Can’t resist making the most of his role. I was one myself.”

“Yes, we do know about that,” Ferguson said. “The one person who appears to be missing is Volkov.”

“Not any longer,” Dillon said, as Volkov moved through the crowd, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and pausing beside Putin and handing him one. He murmured something to Putin and they turned and looked across at Ferguson, Dillon and Billy. And then Putin did a strange thing. He raised his glass toward them, and Ferguson raised his.

“Old adversaries from the Cold War, a long time ago,” he said.

A voice echoed over the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”

Volkov moved across to Zubin and Levin and spoke to them, and Levin nodded, touched Zubin on the arm and they made for the door. Those going on to the dinner flooded out. Quite a number who obviously were not stood around finishing their drinks.

Ferguson said, “I’ll get off home and leave you to it. Good luck upstairs and let me know instantly how it’s gone.”

He walked away and Dillon said, “Let’s get on with it, Billy. We’ll take the stairs.”

They made it to the room with no trouble, went in quietly and Dillon tried the earpiece again and put his head to the door. There was a murmur of voices.

“Levin must still be with him,” Dillon said, as he checked his watch. “Just after nine. We’ll have to wait.”

“For as long as it takes.”

Billy lay on the bed, head pillowed on his hands. Dillon sat on the dressing table chair. At half past nine, he checked and still heard voices. Not long after, there was the sound of laughter and then silence and then there were two distinct knocks on the door.

Zubin stood there, undoing his black tie. “Ah, Mr. Dillon. Who’s your friend?”

“Salter,” Billy said. “I look after him when he can’t look after himself.”

“Sorry I’m late, as it were,” Zubin said. “My security man was talking over old times. We were paratroopers together in Chechnya. Not exactly cheek to cheek. I was a captain in those days, he was a lieutenant. Big hero.”

“We know him well,” Billy said.

“How well?”

“Traded shots,” Dillon told him. “Are we coming in?”

“Of course. Levin’s okay in a strange way. He can’t take things seriously. He’s an actor.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Billy said. “Your new friend here went to RADA.”

Zubin positively glowed. “My goodness, I am impressed.”

“Well, don’t be,” Dillon told him. “I was waylaid by the IRA and took to the Theater of the Street, and a bloody awful role it was. Now let’s get serious. Do you feel like going for it?”

“By God, I do. I’ve been trapped, forced into another man’s skin, my moves monitored, my life. I’m a puppet. Volkov pulls my strings, I jump. I’m fifty years of age. Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life this way?”

“I shouldn’t imagine so.”

“But I’ve got no choice. In Paris the other year, I couldn’t make a break for it because of my mother. I can’t try and drop out of things here in London because of my mother. They use her, I know that, but Volkov also knows I would never let her down. You talked earlier of my return to Moscow and you bringing both of us out. Can this be possible?”

“It could be, but how would your mother feel about it?”

Zubin poured a little champagne. “For both our sakes and to get us out of this situation, she would come.”

“Excellent. Read this.” Dillon gave him Ferguson’s letter and poured himself a glass of champagne as well.

Zubin finished and handed him the letter back. “Yes, I understand.”

“You’re sure?”

“One of my strengths is my ability to retain lines.”

“Right. I’ll just go over it again with you. You return to Moscow on Putin’s plane tomorrow. Is Levin going with you?”

“No, he stays here. I’m in Volkov’s hands. I’m put up at my usual hotel, the Excelsior, and the day after tomorrow, I sign the Belov Protocol at the Kremlin.”

“No, you don’t, that’s why our timing is so crucial. You leave in Putin’s plane, and the Royal Air Force courier plane, the Citation X, follows an hour, perhaps two, later. It lands with legitimate documents for the British Embassy, receives legitimate documents for the return journey, which is logged out of Belov Complex at seven-thirty, Russian time. You know Belov Complex?”

“Of course. I landed there from Station Gorky.”

“The timing has been chosen because it’s dark. We’ll make a quick getaway, and with the extraordinary speed of this plane, we should be out of Russian airspace in thirty minutes.”

“You say ‘we’?”

“Yes. Two pilots, RAF naturally. Billy here will wear the uniform of an RAF sergeant as steward. I will wear the uniform of a GRU captain, one Igor Levin, complete with paratrooper wings, medals, the lot. You won’t be the only one acting.”

“And you’d do this, you’d take this chance? My God, if it went wrong, you’d be shot or sent to the Gulag.”

“True, but the simplicity of the whole thing is in its favor. I’ll ask you one more time. Will your mother do it? She’ll be walking out of her apartment with nothing. All the mementos of a remarkable life gone.”

“She’ll do it for me, and I’ll do it for her.”

“Good. There’s something not mentioned in Ferguson’s letter.”

“What’s that?”

“Once in London, there’s your future to think of. Our computer expert has been able to access Belov International bank deposits in London, using your authority. You are, after all, Josef Belov.”

“How much?” Zubin asked.

“Twenty million didn’t seem unreasonable. I mean, property prices have gone up in the city.”

Zubin smiled. “I think you could say that will be perfectly satisfactory.”

Billy took two things from his pocket, a Colt .25 and a Codex Four. “The gun is for obvious emergencies and is silenced. The mobile was specially manufactured for our purposes. It doesn’t look like much, but it can go anywhere, do anything; it’s waterproof and the battery lasts a year. It’s programmed. You press the red button and you’re through to a guy named Roper. He’ll contact us on your behalf. There are one or two extras in the briefcase, just in case.”

“It is simple.” Zubin shook his head. “If everything works, it really would be very simple.”

“At all times, remember you are Josef Belov. In a way, Volkov’s created a Frankenstein’s monster. Only a few important people know your real identity. To everyone else, you’re the great man.”

“I suppose that’s right.”

“Ferguson was telling me that during the Second World War, SOE had someone very like you who impersonated Field Marshal Erwin Rommel on a mission to Jersey in the German-occupied Channel Islands. It was said that what helped him most was discovering that everyone who met him believed he was Rommel, but more importantly, he himself discovered that to be Rommel was to be all-powerful. People automatically obeyed him. You might be surprised how effective that could be.”

“I’ll try to remember it.”

“You’ve been seen on British television already tonight. During the next few hours, it’ll be the same for the USA, Europe and the Russian Federation. When you get off the plane in Moscow, you’ll be a star on the level of the President. Everyone will recognize you.”

Zubin took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “A short run, if we’re lucky.”

“And a quick transfer to the West End,” Billy said.

“Yes, I can see that. I can also see that you gentlemen are putting yourselves in harm’s way by accompanying me on this affair.”

“Well, that’s the name of the game.” Billy shook hands.

Zubin said, “You’re not an actor, too, Mr. Salter?”

“No, I’m a gangster,” Billy told him.

“Good God,” Zubin said.

Dillon said, “Good-bye, Mr. Zubin. We will see you in Moscow tomorrow night.”

“You sound certain.”

“I am. I’ll tell your mother why when I’m on that plane with her, leaving Moscow. Come on, Billy.”

They went out. Dillon locked the connecting doors. “The bedclothes,” he said.

Billy rumpled them and the pillows.

“Just in case a maid looks in,” Dillon said, and opened the door. The corridor was silent. “Come on,” he whispered, and they went down the back stairs beside the lift. They stood on the steps in Park Lane, sheltering from hard, driving rain for a few moments, and tried to flag down a cab.

There were still a few people around from the function, limousines drawing up to collect passengers, and, of all people, Igor Levin emerged and stood on the steps, took out a box of cigarettes and saw them.

“Still here, you two?” He selected a cigarette and offered them. “Russian.”

“I could see you were a gentleman.” Dillon pinched the cardboard expertly and accepted the light offered. He inhaled. “Excellent.”

Levin said, “Only the best.”

“Back to Moscow for you, old son?”

“How could I leave you two on the loose?” A black Mercedes turned in. Levin opened the main door, sat beside the driver and was driven away.

“Now, there’s a happy man,” Billy said, and at that moment, in response to his raised hand, a cab swerved in.

Afterward, they sat with Ferguson by the fire at his apartment in Cavendish Place and discussed the evening. Ferguson was particularly interested in the incident with Levin.

“Why do you think they’re keeping him on here?” Dillon asked.

“It suits Volkov. He’s smart, clever, ruthless. Doesn’t fit the mold of your usual agent.”

“I reckon it’s more than that,” Billy said. “He’s getting at you, General. It’s like reminding you that there’s nothing you can do about Levin.”

“You could well be right, young Billy. I’ll outplay him on that one, of course.”

“How?”

“By you two bringing Max Zubin and his mother out of Russia.” He stood up. “I’ll see you off at Farley tomorrow. You’d better move on. You’ll need a good night’s sleep.”

Outside, another taxi. As it swerved in, Billy said, “We’ll drop you at your place first.”

“No, you won’t,” Dillon said. “You haven’t told Harry about this caper, have you?” he asked.

“No,” Billy said. “He’d blow his top. I mean, we’ve done enough in the past, bad things, hard things, but this? One false move in Moscow, Dillon, and it’s curtains. They’ll swallow us whole.”

They got in the back of the cab. Dillon said, “You’re right. It could go as smoothly as silk …”

“Or we might end up in deep shit.”

“Well, if you’re worried,” Dillon said, “maybe it doesn’t need the two of us.”

“Oh, no, you go, I go. I won’t have it any other way.”

It was late, but there were still a few people in the saloon bar of the Dark Man. Harry was seated in his usual spot in the corner booth, Baxter and Hall hanging around.

Dillon said, “Other end of the bar, you two. Billy needs to talk to Harry. It’s family.” They looked surprised, but went. “Okay, tell him.” Dillon went to the bar and ordered a large Bushmills.

He drank it down and ordered another, then went back to the booth. Harry looked pale and angry.

“This is bleeding enough. It’s insane.”

“No, it’s important, Harry, it’s of world importance. I just thought you should know.” He patted Billy on the shoulder and swallowed his Bushmills. “See you at Farley at eleven o’clock, Billy.”

He gave Harry a look, turned and went out. At the door, he stood in the porch buttoning his coat against the rain. Harry came up behind him, Joe Baxter at his shoulder.

“Did you want a word?”

“We’ll leave at ten-thirty tomorrow.”

“You said eleven.”

“Yes, well, we all make mistakes. He’s a good kid.”

“So you’re a sentimentalist at heart.” Harry shook his hand. “Take him home, Joe,” and he went back inside.

MOSCOW