“Yes, General,” he said. “How can I be of service?”
“Oh, you already have.” Volkov was in a jovial mood and took two vodkas from a passing waiter and gave Zubin one.
“A fine performance. The President is very pleased with you, and tomorrow at the Kremlin will be your biggest performance ever. Signing the Belov Protocol in front of the world’s cameras. The President will decorate you. Hero of the Soviet Union.”
“Ah, I thought we’d done away with that?”
“Well, something similar.”
“May I see my mother?” Zubin held his breath and hoped, but Volkov was in high good humor.
“You may order your chauffeur to take you to your mother’s apartment on the way to the Excelsior when we get in, but fifteen minutes only, Zubin, at least for now.” He waved for two more vodkas and passed one over. “Everything’s worked out perfectly. You’ve been splashed all over Russian television in the company of the President and the British Prime Minister in London. It’s made you quite a star, and news of the Belov Protocol with ordinary people has done even more. It’s made you a hero.” He smiled jovially and tossed down his vodka. “A great triumph for us all.”
He got up and walked away and Zubin sat there, trying to take it all in, then leaned back in his seat and wondered what Dillon was up to.
Dillon arrived at Farley the following morning, rain driving in. He parked the Mini Cooper, got out, a raincoat over his shoulders, and ran across to the operations room under the control tower, the rain heavy. The Citation X stood a few yards away, its RAF rondels proud, and as Dillon went up the steps, Squadron Leader Lacey emerged from behind some bushes, wearing a flying jacket, standard uniform underneath, medals clear, his Air Force Cross well on display.
“You look good,” Dillon said.
“You know how it is, Sean, it’s special this one, so it seems fitting we do it right. Parry’s got things moving along. We’ll be out of here fast.”
“You’re pushing it, aren’t you?”
“There are headwinds across Europe, and a front from Siberia westwards later today—you know how it is. Billy’s waiting inside.”
“He’s what?”
“Apparently there was some confusion over the time.”
Dillon walked into the operations room and found Harry and Ferguson having coffee.
“You’re a little tardy this morning,” Ferguson said.
Dillon shook his head at Harry. “Where is he?”
“Back room, changing. You really think he’d have gone for that? Go on, get on with it. I can’t wait to see you dressed as a Russian.”
Billy adjusted his tie and pulled on his sergeant’s tunic. “Hey, I’ve got campaign medals—Ireland, the first Gulf War.”
“How would you know?”
Dillon’s uniform hung by a locker, quite spectacular. “Levin must be quite a guy,” Billy said. “He’s got more medals than me, and his uniform is prettier.”
“If you say so.” Dillon started to change and pulled on his jackboots.
Billy said, “Oh, I do, and another thing. Don’t try to pull a stunt like that again. It’s a good thing Harry has an old-fashioned sense of family honor.”
“Your choice.”
Dillon tightened his tie, pulled on the tunic and buttoned it. He fastened his belt with the holstered pistol, then adjusted his cap. When he checked in the mirror, a rather sinister-looking man stared out at him, a figure of grim authority.
“Dillon, that’s you,” Billy said. “That is very definitely you. Now let’s move it.”
They went out and found Lacey back with Harry and Ferguson. “Very smart,” he said. “The Russians do like their uniforms, don’t they?”
“What about me?” Billy asked.
“Good turnout, Sergeant, a credit to the squadron. The Quartermaster’s bag is on board, the Embassy boxes. Could we go, please?”
There was a slight pause, then Harry said, “Just get on with it.”
Ferguson said, “Keep the faith.”
Billy led the way up the Airstairs door. Dillon followed, Lacey after him, turning to close the door, then moving to the cockpit to join Parry as the engines throbbed. Billy and Dillon belted in on either side of the aisle.
Dillon said, “Are you all right, then?”
“What in the hell do you think?” Billy leaned back, closed his eyes and the plane surged forward.
At Moscow in late afternoon verging into early evening, the Putin plane landed at the airport with the usual pomp and ceremony associated with the homecoming of the President after his appearance on the world stage.
He went down the steps, met the usual functionaries and generals, rather more of those these days or so it appeared, and moved to his limousine. Lesser mortals had disembarked and stood waiting, amongst them Max Zubin. He was conscious of a strange air of fatalism. He was here, this was it; what would be, would be. Always the actor, always playing a part. And then it struck him, a sudden thought, and he smiled and murmured to himself.
“Hey, in Chechnya they cast you as a paratrooper, Max, no stand-ins. That was a charnel house and you were a hell of a good paratrooper. They gave you a medal, you, Max Zubin, Yiddish boy, actor, pianist, comedian. If you could do that, you can do this.”
He began to walk, the briefcase Billy Salter had given him in his hand. He followed the crowd through, and a strange thing started to happen when he entered the terminal. Various officials, scanning the crowd, jumped to attention when they saw him, and started clapping.
“It’s Belov,” someone cried, and as he went forward, people turned and smiled and there was shouting and applause and then, moving into the VIP tunnel, he reached the end and there was his chauffeur, Ivan Kurbsky.
“I’ve got your suitcase, Max,” he said, and led the way.
Max. In one shocking moment, everything was different.
Zubin tried a recovery, putting on his best Belov voice. “What on earth are you talking about, Kurbsky?”
“Oh, come off it, Zubin. I’m ex-KGB. General Volkov always felt you needed a proper minder. He appointed me himself.”
“Mikhail, my mother’s driver, does he know, too?”
“That prick? No way. You’re all mine, Max.”
“But why are you telling me now?”
“Because, frankly, seeing you there on television with the President, the Prime Minister, all those toffs, it just doesn’t feel right. You getting all that attention and me getting nothing at all. I figured it was time to remind you who you are.”
“As if I could,” Zubin said.
“And as soon as you’ve signed that protocol of theirs tomorrow, you know what’s going to happen to you? It’s back to Station Gorky for you, that’s what—you and your mother.”
“Both of us? You’re sure about that?”
“I wouldn’t bet against me, Zubin.” They reached the limousine, he put the suitcase in the boot and opened the rear door. “So, in you get, big man. Enjoy your brief moment of fame.”
But Volkov had promised him fifteen minutes with his mother, and there was nothing Kurbsky could do about that. When Zubin rang the doorbell, his mother answered quickly. Her face lit up and she pulled him inside. “I saw you on television, with the President and the British Prime Minister. What a performance!”
She embraced him. He pushed her away gently and said urgently, “Shut up, Mama, I only have a few minutes. I’ve just discovered that Kurbsky is ex-KGB, working for the government. I’ve also discovered that after signing this wretched protocol tomorrow, I’m being shunted back to Siberia, and you with me.”
She was shocked. “Siberia! For God’s sake, no.”
“How would you like to leave with me tonight and fly to London to a new life?”
“What are you talking about?”
He told her quickly.
So,” he said, “the RAF plane is booked out at seven-thirty. I’ll be back at seven. You must be ready. You can take nothing, only the clothes you’re wearing. If you won’t do this, then neither will I. We’ll go to Siberia together.”
Like hell we will.” She flung her arms around his neck. “London. God, it would be the most marvelous thing in the world to spend my final years there and know you were safe.”
“I’ll see you at seven, then.” He kissed her and there was a knock on the door. He opened it, found Kurbsky there, turned and kissed her hand. “Good night, Mama.”
“God bless you and good luck tomorrow.”
She closed the door and Zubin turned to Kurbsky, who was smiling cynically. “Right on time.”
“Only doing my job. Let’s get you to the Excelsior and tuck you in for the night. And don’t forget, I’ll be in a room down the hall.”
At the Excelsior, it was a reprise of the airport. Kurbsky parked in a lay-by at the front and carried Zubin’s suitcase in. The two doormen applauded; inside the two porters on reception clapped. The duty manager appeared to shake Zubin’s hand vigorously.
“Mr. Belov—wonderful, unbelievable. Let me get you your key. May I show you to your suite?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Zubin took the key. “Kurbsky can see to the suitcase,” and he walked to the lift.
As they went up, Kurbsky said, “It’s all gone to your head, hasn’t it?”
“If you say so.”
“They’ll knock that out of you when you get back to Siberia.” What he didn’t add was that after a proper interval, a convenient accident would be arranged for both of them, Max and Mama. Kurbsky opened the door. “In you go. You be a good boy.”
“If I’m not, it wouldn’t look good for you, would it?” Zubin said. “Imagine everyone there at the Kremlin, Putin and Volkov, waiting for the signing—but no Belov.” He smiled. “They’d hang you up by your balls.”
Kurbsky’s face contorted with rage. “Get in there, you bastard.” He pushed Zubin inside and threw his bag through. He slammed the door and locked it, then went down the hall to his room and found a bottle of vodka.
At the Belov Complex, the Citation X landed at five-thirty and taxied to its designated parking spot. Formalities were minimal, no security involved, diplomatic immunity absolute. They rolled to a halt and Lacey came back.
“This is how it works. There will be an Embassy limousine in the small VIP lot round the corner. They’ll be called shortly, drive out and pick up stuff we’ve brought from the UK and hand over stuff we’re taking back. They’re our people, so there’ll be no problems.”
“What about refueling?” Dillon asked.
“They’ll have a tanker out here in the next half hour.”
“We still haven’t heard from Zubin.”
“I’ll go and sign in, leave Parry with you.” He looked out at the runway, snow banked to each side. “Good, it’s starting to snow again, not too bad, just enough to confuse things.” He handed Dillon a raincoat. “I’d wear this if you want to venture out, and then dump it if you want to play your friend Levin.”
He turned and opened the Airstairs door and Dillon’s Codex Four rang.
Zubin, in his suite, had a couple of stiff vodkas to pep him up, then opened the briefcase, selected the Colt .25, which he put in his pocket, and then the other items. The handcuffs he laid on his coffee table with the canister of CS gas. There was also a roll of some sort of sticky tape. He took out the Codex Four and pressed the red button.
At Holland Park, Roper jumped to attention, for he’d just had a call from Dillon saying no contact had been made and that was worrying. He hadn’t needed to call Ferguson, for he and Harry were in the canteen and staying the night.
“Is that Roper?”
“Yes. What’s wrong, Max?”
“My cover has been broken. My chauffeur, Kurbsky, turns out to be ex-KGB and a Federal agent.”
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“Oh, yes. I’m not going to let that bastard spoil my greatest performance. I’m calling him to my room and then I’m going to tackle him. I just wanted you to know. If I’m successful I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes. If I’m not, it’s good night, Vienna.”
He switched off and Roper told Doyle, “Get the General at once. Tell him there’s been contact.”
In his room, the vodka flowing while he watched a porn movie, Kurbsky was furious at being disturbed by the room phone.
“Who is it?”
“Me, you pig.” Zubin was doing a very good drunk. “I just wanted to let you know what a piece of shit you are, Ivan. I mean, there’s shit and shit, but you really are something special.”
“You bastard,” Kurbsky cried. “I’ll show you. You need a lesson, you piece of Jewish—”
He was cut off, slammed down his phone, rushed down the hall, got Zubin’s key out and opened the door. But a hand grabbed him by the shirtfront, pulling him in. Zubin gave him the CS spray full in the face, kicked him expertly under the kneecap, yanked him forward and head-butted him like a pro. Kurbsky went down, moaning. Zubin turned him over, affixed one pair of plastic handcuffs to his wrists, the other to his ankles. He turned him on his back.
“I could kill you, but I won’t. Do you know why? Because when Volkov finds I’m gone, it’s you who he’ll send to Siberia, for the rest of your life. If you’re lucky.”
He tore off a piece of sticky tape and applied it to Kurbsky’s mouth, then phoned Roper and got an instant reply.
“Are you okay?” Roper demanded.
“Yes. I’ve taken care of him. I’m leaving now for my mother. I’ll let you know when I’ve got her. I’m out of here.”
He went through Kurbsky’s pockets, found the car keys, put the Colt in one jacket pocket, the Codex Four in the other, grabbed his raincoat and left.
Roper, who’d put everything on conference call so Ferguson and Harry could hear, said, “There he goes.”
“God help him,” Ferguson said.
At the front entrance cabs were delivering people constantly, the doorman busy. Zubin, dodging around, reached the limousine, unlocked the door and climbed in. Snow was falling now, rather pretty in the light of the streetlamps, and traffic not too busy. He reached his mother’s apartment block in fifteen minutes, left the car close to the main entrance and went upstairs. She answered the door at once, dressed in boots, a fur hat and coat, and embraced him.
“Thank God. I’ve been waiting.”
“No Mikhail?”
“I’m never bothered at night, he goes home. I mean, where would I have to go?”
“Well, you have someplace now. Let’s go.”
She indicated a suitcase. “Could you carry it for me?”
“Mama, I said bring nothing.”