Chapter 15

The following morning, it was March weather, rain driving in across the Thames at Hangman’s Wharf. Dillon sat at the corner booth in the Dark Man with Harry and Billy and they all ate breakfast.

Harry went through the food with gusto in spite of the brace around his neck. “God,” he said, “that was good.”

“How are you feeling?” Dillon asked.

“Well, that Ashimov bastard is finally dead, so I’m feeling good. I like the Zubins, so I’m feeling good about that, too. What about you?”

“You know what they say. Just another day at the office.”

“You think Ferguson was right to let Levin off the hook?”

“Why not? He can pull him in when it suits him.”

“What do you think, Billy?” Harry asked.

“That he could just as easily be pulled in by his own people.” Billy shrugged. “It’s like the Cold War’s starting all over again.”

Dillon’s mobile rang. He answered and found Roper at the other end. “Listen, Sean, I’ve had Ferguson on. He’s got a job for you.”

“What kind of a job?”

“Involving Novikova.”

“Fire away.” Roper did. Afterward, Dillon said, “Harry, can I borrow the Bentley?”

“No, you can’t, it’s still being repaired. You can have the Aston Martin, though. What’s the gig?”

“Ferguson’s releasing Novikova. He wants her delivered to the Russian Embassy.”

“Well, that’s a turn-up,” Harry said.

Dillon turned to Billy. “You can drive.”

“Suits me.”

Dillon looked out as rain pelted the windows. “Never rains but it pours. See you later, Harry,” and he made for the door.

Driving down Wapping High Street, Billy said, “What’s the old man up to?”

“Being Ferguson”—Dillon lit a cigarette—“the game, Billy, the game. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“Not really. I was a two-bit gangster. Okay, I worked for my uncle, and had plenty of money to throw away, but then there was that first time we got involved with you—you, that old bastard Ferguson, Hannah …” He swerved slightly, braking a little. “Sorry, Dillon, I can’t believe I said that.”

And Dillon said, “Said what? You mentioned an old and loving friend. Always in our hearts, Billy.”

They turned into the Holland Park safe house. “I’m with you, Dillon, you know that. Whatever it takes, whatever turns up.”

“Oh, to be young,” said Dillon gloomily. “Come on, let’s go and get Greta.”

At his screens, Roper seemed cheerful enough. “I’ve had our sources in Dublin confirm the arrival of the Belov Falcon. Chomsky and Popov are Englishmen with funny names, according to their passports.”

“Well, that’s been going on a few hundred years,” Dillon told him.

“And Levin is Jewish enough to have been around since Oliver Cromwell,” said Roper. “What are they up to?”

“God knows. We’ll hear soon enough.”

“You think so?”

“I’ve been at this game for years. I know so,” said Dillon, smiling.

“What about madam?”

At that moment Doyle walked in, carrying her suitcase, and Greta followed, wearing the black trouser suit and duster coat.

“So what’s all this?”

“Ferguson wants us to drop you at the Russian Embassy,” Dillon told her.

“I see.”

“He seems to think you don’t see things his way.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, there you are, then.”

“I’d remind you,” Roper put in, “that the last time Igor Levin spoke to me, he said to tell Greta not to be stupid. I’d say he’s an expert at not being stupid.”

“An expert on what suits Igor Levin.”

Dillon said, “All right, we’re wasting time here. Take her suitcase to the Aston Martin, Doyle, we’ll join you.”

Roper said, “Last chance, Greta, or are you really going to be stupid?”

“To hell with it—to hell with all of you.” She walked out like a ship under sail.

Driving through the London streets, Dillon sitting beside Billy, Greta leaned back, looking from side to side, her face serious. Dillon didn’t say a word, and Billy seemed to take his cue from him.

The rain hammered down on lots of traffic, London traffic, and she appeared restless, ill at ease. They were hemmed in by cars for a while.

She said, “Christ, look at it. Do people have to live like this?”

Billy said, “It was snowing in Moscow when I was there the other night. It was a bloody sight colder than this.”

“But not as cold as it would be in Siberia,” Dillon said.

The Aston moved down the High Street and turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and was moving toward the embassy, when she suddenly slammed a hand down on Billy’s left shoulder.

“No!” she said.

He braked. “No what?”

“I don’t want to go in there. Take me to Ferguson.”

“Cavendish Place, Billy,” Dillon said wearily. “You’ll find she’s expected.”

At Cavendish Place, Billy pulled in at the curb and turned off the engine. He opened the door for her and retrieved her suitcase. Dillon got out, reached for an umbrella and put it up against the rain.

“Good-bye, Major,” he said.

“You bastard, Dillon.”

She turned and walked through the rain and mounted the steps to Ferguson’s place and pressed the bell. Dillon caught a glimpse of Kim, Ferguson’s Ghurka manservant, who stood to one side to let her pass and accepted the suitcase handed to him by Billy.

As the rain suddenly increased, Dillon closed the umbrella, got back in the Aston, and Billy slid behind the wheel.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“About her having a change of heart? Not much. How about you?”

“Not for a minute—not for a bleeding minute.” Billy turned on the engine. “But then, neither will Ferguson.” He smiled and drove away.