At Huntley Hall, the duty medical officer had done his best with Ferguson’s left shoulder. The bullet had plowed through close to the edge.
“It’s Rosedene for you, General,” the young Medical Corps captain said. “It’s a decent patching job I’ve done, but you could do with a scan, and Professor Henry Bellamy is far better at embroidery than I am. You’re going to need some good work. AK rounds really leave a mark.”
“And you would know, Wilson?”
“Six months in Iraq, sir. The second injection I’ve given will hold you to London, but don’t disturb the sling. Let me help you with your jacket.”
Which he did, and Ferguson said, “And Dr. Selim?”
“Bagged and awaiting the disposal unit, General.”
“Let’s get him to the North London crematorium. The latest incinerators don’t take much more than an hour, and all that’s left is six pounds of gray ash. Do you mind your work for my department after Iraq, all the Official Secrets stuff?”
“Good God, no, sir, it’s infinitely more interesting.”
“As long as you can accept the importance of what we do. We’re at war, too, you see, Captain.”
He walked out into the hall and found Dalton and Miller. Dalton said, “The disposal team just collected Dr. Selim, General.”
“Good, then we can get back to London.”
In the back of the Land Rover, he called Dillon, who had driven back to Roper’s place in his Mini car. They’d spoken earlier when Dillon had phoned Huntley Hall in a panic after Kelly’s claim to have gotten Ferguson as well as Selim. The General had just been about to undergo treatment in surgery, so not much information had been exchanged.
“Just tell me everything, Sean, so I get the full picture.” Which Dillon did, and Ferguson said, “My goodness, Ashimov’s got plenty to answer for.”
“All done on Belov’s behalf with Belov’s power and money behind him, and Roper’s hunch is that Belov’s at Drumore.”
“An interesting pattern. He not only wanted Selim shut up for good, but the rest of us – me, you, Major Roper. Even the Salters.”
“Well, we did spoil the plot to assassinate President Cazalet, and then there was Baghdad. With a few other things that happened, I guess we screwed up things big-time for Belov.”
“I suppose the only person who seems to have avoided his wrath is Superintendent Bernstein. You’ve told her what’s happened?”
“Haven’t been able to. Both Roper and I have been trying, but there’s been no response on her mobile phone.”
“What on earth’s going on?”
“It’s all right, General. I got through to her grandfather, who told me she’d gone to the wedding of an old friend in Windsor this afternoon. That’s what people do at weddings, they switch off.”
“Well, keep trying. Ashimov’s still out there someplace.”
At Dunkley, there was rain and fog and things were down and Smith was sweating, taking the biggest chance of his life. At any other time, he would have aborted, but he knew what Kelly’s people might do to him back home if he failed.
In the Transit at the side of the airstrip, Kelly and Tod waited, listening to the sound of the Navajo as Smith made one pass and then two.
“The bastard,” Kelly said, as the sound faded again. “He’s doing a runner.”
“Give him a chance, Dermot. This weather is bad news. Maybe you’d like him to crash?”
There was the sound of the engines again, and at the controls, Smith went lower and lower, despairing at the gray cotton wool that seemed to surround him, and then suddenly, at four hundred feet, the runway appeared and he bounced down. It was one of the worst landings of his career, but he’d made it. He taxied to the far end, turned, and Tod drove toward him in the Transit. He and Kelly jumped out and Smith left the cockpit and opened the Airstair door. Kelly led the way in.
“You fuck, what were you trying to do, frighten us?”
After him, Tod helped Smith wrestle with the door. He put a hand on Smith’s shoulders. “You did well.”
“I just took ten years off my life, Tod, never again. I’ve had it, I mean it. You can keep your money in future.”
He was into the cockpit and back to work, the plane hurtling along the runway and rising into the fog, as Tod sat across from Kelly and fastened his seat belt. Kelly had a bottle of whiskey out and swallowed from it.
He laughed wildly. “We did it. We did it, and we got away with it.”
“Actually, it’s Smith who’s gotten us away with it.”
“He’s being paid, isn’t he?” He offered the whiskey bottle. “Have a drink.”
“I don’t think so.” Tod lit a cigarette. “I need my head clear for Drumore. For little things like Belov and Ashimov.”
“I can handle them, Tod. I can handle Ashimov. We’ve survived worse things than those two. They need us more than we need them.” He raised the bottle. “Up the IRA.”
“Yes, right up,” Tod said.
Hannah had caught a commuter train from Windsor to London after the wedding reception. It was early evening, dusk falling, when she came out of King’s Cross Station and found an enormous taxi line. She hesitated, debating whether to wait it out, then decided on the bus instead and walked to the main road. She was sitting on the top deck looking out when her mobile went. It was Dillon.
“Jesus, woman, I’ve been trying to get you for hours.”
“I’ve been to a wedding.”
“Yes, while you’ve been having fun and sipping champagne, the roof’s fallen in. Listen.”
When he was finished explaining, she was horrified. “So what’s happening now?”
“Selim is on his way to oblivion, and Ferguson to Rosedene, where he’s going to need some attention from Henry Bellamy. Kelly and Tod Murphy? If I know the score, I’d say they’ve flown straight back to Louth from this Dunkley place.”
“And Ashimov?”
“Roper says that a Belov International Falcon landed at Ballykelly yesterday and it’s still there. That means Belov must be at Drumore Place. But Ashimov is still a loose cannon. Where are you?”
“On top of a number-nine bus on my way home.”
“Listen, Hannah, this guy has made it personal. He wants the whole team, even the Salters, and we don’t know where he is. You go straight home. I’m coming to get you. Now, watch yourself.”
Ashimov had taken the wheel of Greta’s Opel and drove recklessly now through the traffic, to Greta’s alarm.
“Watch it, Yuri, for God’s sake.”
He was simmering with rage. “I’ve been watching it all my life and I’m still here.” That terrible scar on his face seemed to stand out. “I’m the original survivor, never forget that,” and he swerved around a truck and plowed on.
Hannah got off the bus at Millbank and started toward Victoria Tower Gardens. She paused at the curb, allowing the traffic to pass, then started across to Lord North Street. Ashimov recognized her at once as she crossed the road in front of him.
“It’s the Bernstein bitch,” and he dropped a gear, swung across the road and went after her.
She turned into Lord North Street and saw Dillon’s Mini car outside her house and he was standing at the door. She called and waved and hurried toward him as Ashimov swerved behind her.
Dillon had turned, was plainly identifiable, and Ashimov said, “I’ll get them, I’ll get both of them.”
And as they closed on Hannah, Dillon saw them, recognized them, and his mouth opened in a cry of warning. Hannah half turned, but there was no time. Ashimov crowded her on the pavement, bouncing her to one side, and Dillon drew his Walther and fired, but the Opel swerved, his bullet passing through the roof as it hurtled past.
“For God’s sake, Yuri,” Greta Novikova said.
“Just shut up,” he said, “and let’s get to that damned airport,” and he put his foot down.
On the pavement, Hannah Bernstein was trying to haul herself up, clutching at the railings as Dillon got to her. “You’re all right, just hold on to me.” But there was blood coming down her face, and he was afraid.