“Or that Starling bitch,” Ivanov said. “She was more involved with Kurbsky than anyone.”
“I don’t think you’d get very far asking her, and, as she’s Harry Miller’s sister and Sean Dillon’s lover, I wouldn’t advise you to try. Anyway, I’m telling you again. Stay away from Caitlin Daly.”
“Go to hell,” Ivanov told him, and clicked off.
Holley didn’t have
to prepare for the possibility of a bad scenario, he knew it was coming. He stripped to the waist and pulled on his bulletproof vest, then dressed again. This time, he backed up the ankle holster and the knife in his left sock with the silenced Walther in the special left-hand breast pocket of his raincoat.
At the shop, Selim let him in, and said, “I see you have your suitcase with you.”
“At this stage in the game, a fast exit might be in order. I’m returning your laptop.”
“Bring me up-to-date,” Selim said.
Holley filled him in. “So there you are, a disaster all round.”
“The call from Ivanov doesn’t sound good. Do you think he’ll go after Daly?”
“I’m sure of it, which is why I’m going there now. Lermov’s not due until midnight. Can I borrow the Mini Cooper?”
“Of course you can. I’ll get the keys.” Selim went out for a moment, then returned and handed them to Holley. “If you have to park it somewhere, leave the keys inside and lock the door. I have spares if it needs to be picked up. What have you planned?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I’m at the stage where I’m not playing the game, the game’s playing me.”
“A most interesting position to be in. I await the outcome with bated breath.”
“Then I’ll be on my way. Obviously, I’ll be in touch.”
“Please do, dear friend.” Selim embraced him and lightly kissed his cheeks. “Allah protect you.”
Holley went out into Shepherd’s Market, the door closed behind him. He was alone again.
He’d just started
to drive when his Codex sounded, and he pulled over to the side of the road. It was Chekhov, and his first words were, as usual, “Where are you?”
“On the road. What do you want?”
“You spoke to Ivanov, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You told him that Cochran found the place empty. You were very lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Ivanov has some special new electronic gadget from Major Chelek that knocks out security systems. He and Kerimov got inside Chamber Court a short time ago and found it deserted. Not a soul there.”
Holley felt immediately cheered. “Ferguson certainly moves fast.”
“So where do you think they are?”
“Probably America, Ferguson is owed a lot of favors there, but wherever it is, it will be very, very safe. Ivanov must be going out of his head at that thought.”
“What about Caitlin Daly?” Chekhov asked. “She must be devastated at the way things have worked out.”
“That’s one way of describing it.”
“And Lermov gets in at midnight, I hear,” Chekhov said. “And won’t be pleased.”
“You can say that again,” Holley told him.
“What are you going to do, get the hell out of there?”
“I’d like to, but there’s the woman to consider.”
Chekhov laughed incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t owe her anything.”
“Come off it, Max. There she was, living on past glory and her own impossible dream, and she’d still be doing that if I hadn’t turned up and made the dream real again.”
“Hardly your fault. That was Lermov and Putin at the Kremlin. You didn’t have a choice.”
“Maybe not, but I can’t just run out on her now. I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you later.”
He started to drive but had to pull over to the side as his Codex alerted him again. It was Caitlin Daly in a panic. Sean Dillon had turned up at the church with Billy Salter. Dillon had gone into the confessional box with Monsignor Murphy. It was all there, and Dillon knew everything, and four dead men already—Henry Pool, John Docherty, Frank Barry, and Jack Flynn—all with the card in their wallets. Ferguson and his people were on to them.
Holley agreed with her. At this stage, for Dillon to be so close was incredible. The prayer cards hadn’t helped. Out of the six male cell members, five had carried the card. He certainly hadn’t known about that, and he wondered if Caitlin did.
“There’s no proof, nothing concrete.” He tried to reassure her. “Where are you?”
“At the church. Monsignor Murphy’s in his study in the presbytery. I’m in the sacristy. It’s the only place where I can be truly alone and lock the door. I’m scared, Daniel, frightened that Ivanov will make an appearance. I dread that he could be here already.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes, I carry a Belgian Leon .25 in my bag.”
“That’s good, and you know how to use it. I’ll see you quite soon. I’ve got a car. Twenty minutes, with any luck.”
He did not see
what happened, that was the terrible thing. He drove to Kilburn, parked the Mini Cooper some distance from the church, and could see a small crowd of people standing there in the dusk of early evening, an ambulance and two police cars, policemen taking statements. Monsignor James Murphy was in a dark cloak, talking to one officer, and, from the look of him, greatly distressed. There was a medium-sized truck with one front wheel over a curb, a shaken-looking man in a leather jacket leaning against it, obviously the driver.
Holley stood at the back, and said softly to an old man in a cloth cap standing next to him, “What happened?”
“A terrible business. Monsignor Murphy’s housekeeper came running down the path and straight out into the road. I saw the whole thing. Quite a few people did. The driver never stood a chance. I don’t know what possessed her.”
An older woman in front looked back over her shoulder. “I heard her shouting at somebody. She was saying: ‘Get away from me.’ ”
“And where is she?” Holley asked the man.
“In the ambulance, but she’s dead. Like I said, the police are taking a lot of statements. It’s a terrible thing, but that poor sod was in no way to blame.” He nodded towards the driver.
Holley backed slowly away as more people appeared, drawn to the crowd by the drama of it. He turned and walked back to the Mini Cooper and sat behind the wheel for a while. She had been running from Peter Ivanov. That had to be the explanation.
His anger was very real because he was to blame. He sat there, breathing deeply and gripping the wheel hard, then he called Chekhov. There was no background music, no impression that others were there.
“It’s Daniel,” he said. “Where are you?”
“At the apartment.”
“Do you know what Ivanov’s up to?”
Chekhov was obviously reluctant to talk. “He was here a while ago, after he’d discovered that there was no one at Belsize Park. He turned up in a cab, and he had Kerimov with him. The ape-man was wearing big gloves because of his bad hand so he could drive. Ivanov had been drinking.”
“What did he want?”
“He said they needed to know where Alexander Kurbsky was, and the obvious person to ask was Monica Starling, because she’d been involved with him from the beginning.”
“And that was it?”
“No, he told me he wanted me to lend him one of my Mercedes limousines. I keep three in the underground parking downstairs. He said he didn’t want to use an Embassy car.”
“To do what?” Holley demanded.
“He was just talking nonsense. He said if he could get his hands on Monica Starling and take her for a ride in the country, he could soon get the truth about Kurbsky out of her.” Chekhov laughed uneasily. “Just crazy stuff, Daniel.”
“Max, he made threats against Caitlin Daly bad enough to frighten her to death. I’ve been up to Kilburn, and she was already in a body bag in the ambulance, cops all over the place, the old priest, Murphy, in tears.”
“Jesus, Holley, I don’t know anything about that. I swear it.”
“Okay, then what
do
you know? What did he say about where he would go?”
“That was drunken nonsense. He was rambling on about Bolt Hole, and he said there was a full moon tonight and it would be perfect to go for a sail.”
“Which is exactly what the drunken fool intends. Now, this is what you’re going to do, and if you let me down, I’ll kill you.”
“Anything, Daniel, I’ll do anything.”
“I’m going to ring off. You will call him, assess the situation, and call me. Now, get on with it.”
Chekhov was back within five minutes. “He’s really tanked up. I asked where he was headed, and he said he already told me. Then he said he had to go now because he had precious cargo in the trunk.”
“The stupid bastard, he’s actually gone and lifted her,” Holley said.
“What are you going to do?” Chekhov asked. “Give Ferguson a call? Miller and Dillon will go crazy when they find out about this.”
“No, I’ve got to think of me here as well as her. I can only bring them into it by delivering myself into their hands, and I’m damned if I’ll do that. I’ve had enough of prison bars to last a lifetime. I’ll just have to handle it alone.”
“You’re crazy, it isn’t your business.”
“Oh yes it is, Max. I told you before, it’s a woman thing with me. I’ll go now. I’ll have to hurry, but they tell me a Mini Cooper is built for speed, so we’ll see.”
At least he knew
the way, thanks to the day out with Selim, and there was the Sat Nav to follow. He drove fast but stayed alert. The last thing he needed was a police car to stop him for speeding. He had a good fast run to Guildford and all the way to Chichester, had just passed through, when his Codex sounded. He pulled in at a convenient lay-by, turned off his engine, and answered.
“Daniel? Lermov here.”
Holley checked his watch and found it was almost ten-thirty. “Where are you? I understood you were getting in at midnight.”
“I am,” Lermov replied. “I’m calling you from the Falcon. I know everything, including the death of Caitlin Daly.”
“You’re well informed. Chekhov’s been on the phone to you?”
“He knows who his real friends are and not you. You’re a loose cannon. I should have realized that.”
“The only loose cannon in this whole matter has been your boy wonder, Peter Ivanov. He’s responsible for the death of Caitlin Daly because he didn’t follow your orders.”
“And he’ll have to answer for that.”
“So what happens to Monica Starling? Obviously, Chekhov must have told you what’s going on.”
“I’ve just spoken to Ivanov. It seems they’ve almost reached their destination. I’ve ordered him to release her.”
“And you think that drunken pig will? He’s got to dispose of her, because if she goes free he’ll have Charles Ferguson, Miller, and Dillon thirsting for his blood because of what happened to her, and I think you’ll find they’re not particularly well disposed towards you.”
“I’d be very careful where you’re taking this, Daniel,” Lermov said.
“Ah, Station Gorky awaits, does it? You’ll have to catch me first, and I’m still going to Bolt Hole. Peter Ivanov’s a dead man.”
“Don’t be stupid. He knows you’re on your way. He’ll be expecting you.”
“You told him?”
“Chekhov already had.”
“I might have known. You’re finished, Josef, unless Ivanov puts a bullet in that woman’s head and dumps her over the rail of Chekhov’s yacht with a few pounds of chains round her ankles. I believe that’s what you’ve told him to do. I, of course, intend to see that he doesn’t.”
Lermov shouted, “Don’t be a fool. He knows you’re coming,” but Holley cut him off.
He switched off the engine
at the narrow approach road leading to the small headland and advanced on foot, keeping to the fringe of trees, taking Selim’s Zeiss binoculars with him. There was a single light at the end of the jetty and there was the Mercedes. The canvas stern cover was in place on the yacht, and Monica Starling sat on a folding beach stool, her hands bound behind her. She wore a sweater and slacks, obviously the clothes she’d been wearing when kidnapped, and was facing him so that he could see that her mouth was taped.
He was standing by a small bench seat, there was a footfall behind him, and something nudged him in the back. Kerimov said in Russian, “We’ve been waiting, me and my friend, the Makarov. It seemed obvious you’d start off here to see what was going on, so I thought I’d greet you. Get your hands behind your neck or I’ll blow your spine away.” His roaming left hand found the Walther, which he slipped in his pocket. “Now the ankle holster. Put your foot on the bench.” Holley did exactly as he was told, and Kerimov found the Colt and put that in his pocket also.
“Satisfied?” Holley asked, still with his right foot on the bench.
“I will be when you’re dead,” Kerimov said, and he pushed Holley hard so that he fell over. Kerimov kicked him in the side.
“On your feet, you piece of shit, the boss wants a word before I kill you.”
Holley found the flick-knife in his left sock, pulled it out as he got up, turned to face Kerimov, pressing the button, and the razor-sharp blade sheared up under the chin into the brain. Kerimov went down hard and kicked for a while, and then was still.
Holley recovered his weapons, wiped the knife, and put the Colt back in the ankle holster. He searched Kerimov briefly and found car keys, which he assumed were for the Mercedes. He started down, the Walther in his left hand. There was no sign of Ivanov. There was a light in the wheelhouse, but it seemed empty. There was soft music playing, a light at the portholes. Perhaps Ivanov was below?
Monica saw him coming and shook her head vigorously, which didn’t help at all. He started towards her, a finger to his lips, then took his knife from his right pocket. There was a maniacal laugh behind him, and a bullet caught him squarely in the back and he half turned, and Peter Ivanov was standing up in the wheelhouse.