The Wolf at the Door (32 page)

“Fooled you, you bastard.”

Holley dropped the Walther, and Ivanov shot him in the chest, sending him back over the rail into the water. He went down, surfaced, and kicked out into the darkness while Ivanov was still negotiating the companionway to the deck. Holley pulled his way around to the prow, and, at that point, there were a few stone steps up to the jetty. He freed himself from his raincoat and knelt on the bottom step, listening.

“I’ve killed the bastard, did you see that?” Ivanov was obviously addressing Monica, but then he raised his voice and shouted, “Kerimov, where are you?”

Holley pulled the Colt from the ankle holster, was up the steps in a moment. Monica saw him first and couldn’t help reacting. Ivanov swung around in alarm, and Holley said, “This is for Caitlin Daly.”

He shot Ivanov between the eyes, the hollow-point cartridge imploding in the brain, instant death, as he went back over the rail.

 

 

 

Holley picked his knife
up from the deck and cut Monica’s bonds. She tore the tape away and gagged. “God, that hurt. I don’t know who the hell you are, but I should warn you there’s another one.”

“Not anymore. He jumped me up there in the trees. I’ve taken care of him.”

“Permanently?”

“I’d no choice.”

“Never mind that. What I’d really like is an explanation. Earlier this evening, I went out to visit a local corner shop in Mayfair when this Mercedes drew up beside me. Before I knew what was happening, they had a bag over my head and forced me into the trunk of the car.”

“I should imagine two hours of that must have been hell.”

“But who are they, where am I, and who are you? Though thank God for you.”

“Your brother is Major Harry Miller, the man in your life is Sean Dillon. Tell them Caitlin Daly is dead, and the man I’ve just killed was responsible, a GRU captain named Peter Ivanov who worked for Colonel Josef Lermov. They’ll know what it’s all about, believe me.”

“And you?”

“Just call me Daniel.” He went to the steps, recovered his raincoat, and found the car keys he’d taken from Kerimov. “I think you’ll find these are for the Mercedes. If you’re up to it, I’d drive it back to London if I were you.”

“But where am I?”

“In West Sussex, a place called Bolt Hole owned by an oligarch named Max Chekhov. The car’s his, too. I think you’ll find he’s not unknown to your people.” He took out his Codex. “A good job these things are water resistant. I think you’d better give them a call. They’ll be worried. I’m going to get my car.”

 

 

 

She was still on the phone
when he got back. He took his suitcase with him, went below, dumped his wet clothes, and changed. Both his passports had survived the soaking, thanks to their plastic covers, so that was all right. There was a wardrobe with a wide range of clothes. He helped himself to a fawn trench coat and went back on deck.

She was still on the Codex, paused, and said, “He’s here.” A moment passed, and she held it out to him. “It’s Sean Dillon.”

Holley took it from her, and said, “She’ll be fine.”

Dillon said, “Who the hell are you?”

“There are days when I’m not too sure myself. A cinema ghost, a friend calls me, though you won’t know what that means. I don’t know where Kurbsky is, but give him my respects. Ivanov and his sergeant actually gained entrance to Chamber Court earlier and found it empty. There’s how close it came.”

“So there’s nothing more I can say or do?” Dillon asked.

“Yes, there is, actually. Alexander Kurbsky’s situation is a big problem that would seem beyond solving. I think I’ve got a solution, and I’d like you to pass it on to Blake Johnson.”

“And what would it be?”

The telling only took a couple of minutes, and, when he was finished, Dillon laughed. “Do you know something? I think that could very well be an answer. I’ll pass it on.”

Holley turned off his Codex. “I’ll get moving, and so should you.” He passed Monica a plastic bag he’d found in the bedroom below. “One Walther, a Colt .25, and a flick-knife. I’d never get through customs with that lot. Give them to Dillon. He’ll know what to do with them.”

She accepted the bag and held out her hand. “What can I say?”

“Good-bye would seem to be appropriate.” He smiled. “You’re one tough lady, Monica Starling.” He got in the Mini Cooper and drove away.

She stood there, listening as the noise dwindled. Strange, the sense of loss she felt, and she turned, went to the Mercedes, and drove away herself.

 

 

 

Holley left the Mini Cooper
in the long-stay car park at Southampton Airport, booked in a hotel overnight, and flew out on an early flight to Paris. Unable to sleep very well, he’d phoned Selim and told him what had happened.

“A terrible business,” Selim said. “What do you think Ferguson will do?”

“He’s always had a very efficient disposal system. Rather like undertakers, the people he employs pick up the bodies left over from unfortunate incidents such as this. Ivanov and Kerimov will be reduced to a few pounds of gray ash quicker than you can i magine.”

“And Caitlin Daly?”

“Her death means it makes it very easy to treat the whole affair as if it never happened. Blake Johnson, of course, had a bullet in him, but he’s on the mend.”

“And Josef Lermov?”

“Perhaps it’s his turn to do a stint with the GRU at Station Gorky, like Greta. The only certain thing is that Mister Big at the Kremlin is going to feel very let down,” Holley said.

“Especially at the continuing lack of information regarding Kurbsky. I would also point out that details about what happened at Bolt Hole will certainly reach the Kremlin and will certainly do your reputation little good there, but, in my opinion, what you did for Lady Monica Starling was magnificent, and I’m sure her friends will share that view.”

“Yes, but unfortunately they are all on the wrong side, and don’t try to make me out to be some kind of a good guy, not at this stage, Selim. I found out who I truly was all those years ago when I shot dead those four men who’d murdered Rosaleen Coogan. What I am is what I am. It can’t be changed now.”

“So what next?” Selim said.

“Algiers, I think. I’ll see you soon.”

 

 

 

Algiers it was,
three days later, sitting on the terrace of the old Moorish villa on the hill overlooking the harbor, drinking ice-cold lager.

“So what now?” Malik asked. “Back to business?”

“The death business? God help us, but there’s got to be something better. Anyway, the Russians can be very unforgiving. It might be a good idea to vanish into the desert again for a while.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about any idea of vengeance anymore. There was an interesting story on CNN on the television this morning. I saw it just before you arrived.”

“What was it?”

“I’d really prefer you to see for yourself. We’ll go in the study. They repeat these things on the hour.” So they sat together and waited, and, there it was, an announcement from the White House.

The great Russian novelist, Alexander Kurbsky, suffering from leukemia, had quietly arrived in Florida to seek the finest help available. The President himself welcomed the chance for the United States to offer the very latest in treatment for this truly great man. He was delighted to know how much the government of the Russian Federation had given their support to the move. In the care of his aunt Svetlana and friends, Mr. Kurbsky was recuperating under medical supervision on Heron Island. It had been suggested that he could be a Nobel Prize winner next year, and Prime Minister Vladimir Putin applauded the idea wholeheartedly.

Malik switched off. “How clever. It takes care of so many things, including you. I’ll go and open the champagne. Your troubles are over.”

“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything,” Daniel said.

He went out and walked to the balustrade of the terrace overlooking the harbor, and his Codex sounded. He hesitated, for it could be anyone—Lermov, Chekhov, even Putin himself—but there was no point trying to hide.

“Is that you, Mr. Holley? This is Charles Ferguson.”

Ah. Charles Ferguson. Daniel took a deep breath. “How did you get my number?”

“Max Chekhov. I had my people lift him once Monica Starling filled us in on Bolt Hole. He told us all about you.”

“The Russians won’t like that.”

“Then Max will have to keep his door locked,” Ferguson said.

“So what do you want with me, now that you know who I am?” Daniel asked.

“I just wanted to thank you for saving Monica’s life from that raving lunatic and his sergeant.”

“Very civil of you. Any news on Colonel Lermov?”

“Back in Moscow, and, if he’s half the man I think he is, he’ll have already managed to shift the blame onto the shoulders of the late, unlamented Ivanov.” Ferguson paused. “Your plan of attack, Daniel, was really very good. Even Putin will have to admit that. He’ll try to pull you back in, you know.”

“He can try all he wants. I’m done with him.”

“And you think you can survive his displeasure on your own, without friends?”

“Friends like you, General?” Daniel’s laugh was short and cold. “You and the Russians—you’re two sides of the same coin. There’s nothing to choose between you.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. But you know, Daniel, situations have a way of changing. You have my number now. You know where to reach me. Watch your back, Daniel—and, again, many thanks for what you did for Monica.”

The line went dead. Daniel checked and, yes, there was Ferguson’s number, stored in his phone. Just a click away . . .

He knew there would come a time when he would have to use it, and he knew he would regret it.

He put the phone down on a small table, lay on the cane recliner, looked up at the sun, and closed his eyes.

His troubles had just begun, and there was much to prepare for.