Part 8 (1/2)

”I agree,” Dillon said. ”The Russians were behind the plot for Kurbsky's original false defection. Since then, they haven't heard a word from him or Luzhkov or Yuri Bounine. It must be making someone very angry indeed.”

”And angry enough to do something about it?” Ferguson said. ”So you think it is the GRU seeking revenge if they can't find answers?”

”It's the GRU I've always worried about, because Russian military intelligence is as good as it gets.” Roper nodded. ”There are six of us sitting here, and four have experienced serious attempts to kill them. Blake and Monica make six.”

Miller said, ”You and Dillon must feel left out.”

”Well, it would be difficult to get at me here in my wheelchair, but I'm always ready.” He produced a Walther from the side pocket of his chair and turned to Dillon. ”Why they're leaving Sean alone, I don't know.”

”I've already told you,” Dillon said. ”If I hadn't gone to New York at the last minute, it could have been different.”

”So that's it, the bleeding Russians again,” Harry Salter said.

”What are we going to do about it?”

”Hold on, there's something I'd like you to see first,” Ferguson said. ”Dillon and Billy visited Kilburn earlier in the afternoon to explore the Irish connection.”

”And where's this taking us?” Harry Salter asked.

”To a hospice known as Hope of Mary, which has a website, if you can believe it, featuring a familiar prayer card. It has an executive director, Caitlin Daly, a charity called Requiem behind it, and a priest responsible for the whole package called Monsignor James Murphy. Roper's prepared a very interesting fact file, so watch and learn.”

As they pulled chairs forward and Roper adjusted his equipment, Harry Salter said in a low voice to Dillon, ”Waste of time, all this. There's got to be more to it than Kilburn.”

”You think so?”

”Of course I do.” He sat down. ”Shooting Blake on Long Island, bombing the General's car in London, all these other things-this is major stuff, and it takes organization. I think you're absolutely right, Dillon. It's the GRU getting their own back for Kurbsky, and I bet they've been planning it ever since he scarpered.”

And he was absolutely right.

IN THE BEGINNING.

THE KREMLIN.

5.

Two weeks before Prime Minister Vladimir Putin's appearance at the UN and the events surrounding it, Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU had been enjoying a six months' leave of absence to work on a book on international terrorism, a subject on which he held a formidable reputation in Russian security circles. Lermov had had scholarly leanings as a younger man, but he came from a military family-his father had been an infantry general, in his time-and so in spite of Lermov's undoubted promise, the army it had to be.

His wife had died at forty from breast cancer, he was childless, and his parents were both dead, leaving him with nothing to do but devote himself to his duty. A basic knowledge of Arabic had, on three occasions, led to covert operations, and his actions during them had left no doubt of his courage, with the decorations to prove it.

He was sitting at a desk in the university library now, auburn hair falling over his forehead, steel-rimmed gla.s.ses on his nose, an air of weariness with life in general about him, when a young GRU captain tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

”I regret to disturb you, Colonel, but I've orders to take you to the Kremlin? I have a car waiting outside.”

”The Kremlin?” Lermov didn't understand. ”What on earth for?”

”The Prime Minister wishes to see you.”

Lermov was shocked, and said the first thing that came into his head. ”But I'm on leave.”

The young Captain smiled slightly. ”It would appear not, Colonel.”

”Of course. Then if I may retrieve my greatcoat and briefcase from the cloakroom, I am at the Prime Minister's orders.”

Twenty minutes later, after a drive through miserable weather, the Captain at the wheel, early winter at its worst, sleet and rain, he was delivered to the rear of the Kremlin. The Captain, whose name was Ivanov, knocked on a small postern door, which was opened by an armed soldier who said nothing and stood to one side as the Captain brushed past him and led the way along numerous corridors until they reached one with an armed guard sitting on a chair with a machine pistol on his lap. The Captain opened a door into an unexpectedly grand room furnished in the French style of the seventeenth century, painted walls and fine paintings.

”This is rather remarkable, I must say,” Lermov commented.

”It was the office of General Volkov,” the Captain said. ”Special Security Adviser to the Prime Minister. Unfortunately, no longer with us.”

”I had the pleasure of knowing him. His death will make him sorely missed by all in the GRU.”

There was a sideboard with drinks of most kinds available, and a fine desk close to the fireplace with a DVD on it, a TV in the corner.

”The information on the DVD is cla.s.sified on a strictly eyes-only basis. The Prime Minister's orders are that you should watch it, and take on board all the facts. When you feel you know what you're talking about, press the b.u.t.ton on the desk. He will discuss the matter with you then.”

”Do you know what's on it?”

”I helped put it together, Colonel.”

”What's it about? Just tell me briefly.” Peter Ivanov hesitated, and Lermov said, ”Humor me, Captain.”

”All right. To put it like the Americans would, there's been a 'turf war' going on in London for the past four or five years, and our people have not been doing very well.”

”The opposition being British intelligence?”

”An elite group known as the Prime Minister's private army.” He quickly ran down its members for Lermov and gave him a precis of the b.l.o.o.d.y history of the past few years.

”All leading up to the current state of play and the disappearance of Kurbsky, Luzhkov, and Major Yuri Bounine. But there's more on the DVD. Judge for yourself.”

”I will.” Lermov moved to the sideboard and, as Ivanov left, helped himself to vodka, then sat down to watch. Ivanov had been right, there was a great more detail, and it was a good thirty-five minutes before it finished.

He pressed the b.u.t.ton on the desk, and it was surprising how quickly the door in the paneled wall opened and Vladimir Putin himself entered. He was wearing an excellent black suit, a white s.h.i.+rt, and a conservative striped silk tie.

”Prime Minister,” Lermov said. ”It's an honor to be here.”

”I'm a great admirer of yours, Colonel. You have a remarkable mind. Now, sit and tell me what you think. I haven't got long, I'm meeting the French Amba.s.sador.”

”This feud with Charles Ferguson's people in London, it's better than a movie, though the body count has been appalling on our side. Then this whole thing with Kurbsky. He arrives in London-and then, three days later, he vanishes. Two days later, Colonel Luzhkov and Major Bounine disappeared.”

”Five days for the whole thing. Quite a puzzle.” Putin stood up.

”And what would you like me to do about it, Prime Minister?”