The real shock hit him when he went in the office, and Malik said, “A terrible tragedy, Liam going like that, but maybe it was a blessing, with a prolonged death from cancer to look forward to. At least, he’ll have a smile on his face, wherever he is now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Daniel asked.
“The Provisional IRA bombed the Canary Wharf business district in London two weeks ago.”
Daniel was stunned. “I can’t believe it. Is my mail here?”
“On your desk.”
There was no message of any kind from Liam, but, on the other hand, if he’d wanted to speak to Daniel, he could have made contact by mobile, even in such a remote country as Hazar. The truth was that if Liam had been responsible in any way for the London bombing, he would have contacted Daniel and told him to activate the cell. He hadn’t, because somebody else had been responsible. The chief of staff knew Liam was a dying man and had probably taken appropriate steps. So there’d been no message to Daniel to pass on to Caitlin Daly. Her cell would doubtless have taken pleasure in the news from London but been disappointed in their failure to be a part of it.
Should he phone her? He toyed with the idea and dismissed it. The bombing had had nothing to do with Liam, that was the truth of it. He was a sick man, a dying man, and others had taken care of it.
So he put his sorrow behind him and got down to work, busy with deals to Pakistan, and then in June 1996 the Provos struck again, the center of Manchester devastated. But in the end, enough was enough, and the cease-fire of 1997 became peace the following year.
How had Caitlin Daly felt, he used to wonder, waiting for the call that never came, the call that was obviously so important to her? But it was over now and done with, until the next time. He smiled, wryly admitting to himself that nothing had changed, not really. There might be “peace,” but the PIRA still ran the largest crime syndicate in Europe, so to hell with it.
Wars and rumors of wars,
world terrorism, Islam on the march, Chechnya, Bosnia, there was no end to it. Business was business, as far as Malik was concerned, and Daniel went with the flow, operating on the theory that a good product and a pistol in the pocket was all you needed to get by. The life he had led had made him a total cynic, and that was all he believed in anymore.
His luck ran out
in 2004. Always take care in the Balkans, Malik used to say, they kill each other at the drop of a hat. That was certainly true enough for Kosovo. Its Muslim citizens hated Serbs beyond anything else in the world and wanted independence.
Daniel had brokered three previous deals in Kosovo, for the Muslims had plenty of money to spend on arms, supplied by sympathizers in the oil-rich Gulf States. A Bulgarian agent named Kovac made the arrangements, and they were simple enough. All Daniel needed in the wild backcountry was a smuggler who knew the forest area and a suitable old Land Rover.
The driver’s name was Mahmud, and he didn’t speak, instead concentrating on his driving on the narrow mud tracks of the forest, a rifle at his feet. He was about fifty, unshaven, and with a walleye. Daniel had met him on one previous occasion and remembered that he’d been surprised at how good his English was, and Mahmud had explained that at nineteen he had gone to England, to Manchester, where his uncle lived.
“How far to this Lamu place?”
“Not long now,” Mahmud said.
“I saw you a year ago. How are things now? Do the Serbs still raid the villages?”
“Sure they do. They rape our women, kill the children.”
“Burn the mosques?
“All those things, and sometimes the Russians come.”
Daniel frowned. “I hadn’t heard that. The Russians aren’t supposed to be here. The United Nations wouldn’t sanction it.”
Mahmud shrugged. “They stay round here in the border country, special soldiers they call Spetsnaz.”
Daniel sat there thinking about it and wondering what the Russian game was. That they were strong supporters of the Serbs was a given, so their presence in this Muslim part of Kosovo gave him pause for thought.
“Lamu, now, just up ahead.” Mahmud pointed to a crossing of tracks where the trees thinned out, and there was a sudden engine roar as a large armored vehicle plowed through small trees from the right and braked to a halt. It was a Russian storm cruiser. Daniel recognized it at once.
“We’ve got trouble,” he said as two armed men in uniform leapt out.
Mahmud picked up his rifle and scrambled out, firing a wild shot, then turning to run and was immediately shot down.
The soldiers walked forward slowly, weapons ready. Beyond them, several more had emerged from the storm cruiser and stood watching. Daniel opened the door and got out.
He’d picked up enough Russian over the years to understand it when one of the soldiers said, “Who are you?”
So he responded as a reflex, pulling the Browning from his pocket and shooting both of them in the heart, double-tapping, first one and then the other.
As he turned to run into the forest, there were cries of dismay from the other soldiers and a fusillade of shots as they ran forward. He was hit in the right thigh, he was aware of that, and then the left shoulder. He went down, and they were on him in seconds, boots swinging.
And then somebody shouted—a voice of real authority, he knew that—and then there was only the blackness.
He came to on a bed
in a room with a beaded ceiling, feeling no pain, only a general numbness. He was heavily bandaged, and a man was sitting at his bedside in a high-back chair, smoking a cigarette. He wore combat fatigues with the tabs of a full colonel, and, when he spoke, his English was excellent.
“So you return from the dead, I think, Mr. Holley?” He smiled and held up Daniel’s passport. “What an interesting man you are, but then I’ve heard of you before. In fact, many times over the years.”
“Who are you, Spetsnaz?” Daniel croaked.
“The unit I’m with is, but I’m Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU. Both of the men you shot have died.”
“They usually do.”
“My men wanted to kill you, but we can’t have that. I’m sure you have a fascinating story to tell. The unit paramedic has patched you up, and we’ll be returning to our base in Bulgaria, where you can have proper treatment. People like Kovac are seldom trustworthy, I find.”
“My own fault,” Daniel said. “I’ve taken the pitcher to the well too often. What happens now? A short trial in Moscow?”
“Oh, we don’t do that these days. Very counterproductive. Moscow, certainly, but I fear it likely to be the Lubyanka. Not the death sentence. It is unfortunate that you killed those two men, but your death would be such a waste. I’m sure you tell a good story, and I look forward to hearing it. Sleep now.”
He went out, clicking off the light. Daniel lay there, trying to make sense of it all, but his brain was befuddled by morphine. It was over, that was all he could think of, after all these years it was over, and he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.
MOSCOW
9
A
hell of a story,” Ivanov said when Lermov was finished.
“He’s been in the Lubyanka five years now. I did his first interrogation when we got back from the Kosovo mission, which was a highly illegal affair anyway, so he couldn’t be put on trial in any public sense.”
“Which explains him serving life imprisonment at the Lubyanka?” Ivanov said.
“Exactly. For the good of the State, rubber-stamped in some office.”
“So he just sits there in his cell going slowly mad?”
Lermov shook his head. “I’ve kept watch over him. When we first got down to business, I pointed out that the usual prospect for a man like him would be a transfer to Station Gorky, where all he could expect was treatment of a kind that would shorten his life considerably. On the other hand, if he cooperated with me, he could enjoy privileged-prisoner status at the Lubyanka, his own cell and a job in the library.”
“And he proved sensible?” Ivanov said. “But, then, who wouldn’t?”
“No, it was more complicated than that. You could say he was just being sensible, a pragmatist, but I soon discovered it was subtler. I never had the slightest difficulty in getting answers to my questions from him.”
“That’s extraordinary,” Ivanov said. “But why?”
“I’ll tell you later. I have to speak with the governor of the Lubyanka. I’m going to get him transferred here to my authority.”
“And what do you want me to do?” Ivanov asked.
“Make sure Max Chekhov gets here soon.”
In London,
Max Chekhov was in his apartment in Park Lane, standing in front of a mirror in his dressing room and adjusting his bow tie, when his mobile sounded.
“Who is it?” he asked in English.
The answer came in Russian and used his old army rank. “Major Chekhov?”
“Yes.”
“Captain Peter Ivanov calling from GRU headquarters in Moscow on behalf of Colonel Josef Lermov.”
Chekhov was immediately wary, for, as an old military hand with connections at the highest level of government, he knew the name Lermov was one to take seriously.
“What is this about?” he demanded. “I’m due at the Royal Opera House in a couple of hours to see
Carmen
.”
“Well, I’m afraid she’ll have to wait,” Ivanov told him. “Your presence is requested in Moscow. By the Prime Minister, no less.”
Chekhov was shocked and also immediately worried. “Why? What’s this about?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. There’s a plane waiting for you at Berkley Down. I suggest you don’t keep the Prime Minister waiting.”
He clicked off, and Chekhov called Major Ivan Chelek at the Embassy and, when he answered, told him what had happened.
“Have you any idea what’s going on, Ivan?”
“I can’t say, Max. I do know that Putin’s appointed Josef Lermov as Head of Station here. He’s also given him the task of solving the Kurbsky riddle. I’ve been helping the investigation at this end as much as I could.”
“And what have you found?”
“That’s not for me to say, Max. If I were you, I wouldn’t linger.”
He switched off, and Chekhov unfastened his bow tie and started to unbutton his dress shirt, angry, but frightened as well. What the hell did Putin want him for?
The reason for his unease was a dark secret. Sometime before, Charles Ferguson had ordered his kidnapping by the Salters, and Chekhov had ended up at the Holland Park safe house. Chekhov was not a brave man, and he had spilled the beans about various matters to earn his release.
If it ever got out at the Kremlin, he was not only finished, he was a dead man. On the other hand, Ferguson had never approached him again. Maybe nobody knew? With a sinking sense of dread, Chekhov began to dress appropriately for winter in Moscow.
Ivanov found Lermov
in the bar, vodkas waiting in a bucket of crushed ice. The Colonel toasted him. “How did it go with Chekhov?”
Ivanov took his vodka down in a single gulp, and told him. “I got the impression the summons worried him,” he said.
“The mention of Putin’s name worries a lot of people.” Lermov swallowed another vodka.
“What about you?”
“Daniel Holley, you mean? I spoke to the governor at the Lubyanka, and faxed him a copy of the Putin letter. Holley is on his way here.”
“You were going to tell me more about his interrogation.”
“Yes, I was. When I told you that I had no difficulty getting answers to my questions, you sounded a little disappointed. It was as if you expected more from him.”
“You could be right, I suppose,” Ivanov admitted.
“It took me a long time and many interviews to really get to the truth about him. He told me his secrets, but it wasn’t because he was afraid of the threat of Station Gorky.”
“What is he afraid of, then?” Ivanov asked.
“Nothing.” Lermov shrugged. “He is a nihilist.”
“And what would that be?”
“A common philosophy in tsarist times. A nihilist is someone who believes that nothing has any value—in his case, that nothing has any value
anymore.
”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Ivanov said.
“The rape and murder of Rosaleen Coogan, and his execution of the four men responsible—I think it completely changed him. I don’t think he’s been able to take anything seriously since then. To him, it’s all a violent game, in a way.”
“And you think that’s the way he sees it?”
“Yes, I do.” Lermov took off his glasses and pinched his nose. “And if he doesn’t care about anything, that includes himself.”
“Come in, Dr. Freud.”
Lermov’s mobile sounded, and he answered it, listened, and nodded. “We’ll see you in two minutes.” He gave Ivanov a brief smile. “Holley is at the main entrance. I’ll leave you to do the honors. Just bring him up to the office, and we won’t need a guard.”
As Ivanov approached,
he saw a man in a black tracksuit standing between two prison guards and chatting with them. To Ivanov’s surprise, he didn’t have the shaved head of a prisoner, which was privilege indeed. His dark brown hair was reasonably long, with no sign of gray in spite of his age. He looked fit and well in the tracksuit. His good, strong face wore a slight smile, the smile of a man who couldn’t take anything too seriously.
“Mr. Holley, I’m Peter Ivanov.” The two guards put their heels together, and Ivanov signed for him.
“God bless, lads,” Holley told them in very acceptable Russian. “Don’t do anything I would.” They went away smiling, and he turned to Ivanov. “What happens now?”