"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.
"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?"