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.”
“They’re photos from the top of the piano. I’ve spent the time taking them out of their frames. My whole life is in those photos, Max. I even have one with Stalin, God rot him.”
“All right. We can get you new frames in London.” He picked up the suitcase, pulled her out and slammed the door. “Let’s get out of here.” As they went down the stairs, he called Roper. “I have my mother, we’re on our way.”
At Holland Park, Roper immediately relayed the call to Dillon, who called to Lacey, “They’re coming.”
The snow was falling quite heavily now. Lacey pulled the raincoat over his shoulders, concealing his uniform, put his cap underneath, went down the steps and crossed toward the reception area. Behind him, a small tanker drove up to start the process of refueling the Citation X. Dillon dodged in a doorway, took out the cap, adjusted it, then opened the raincoat so it simply dropped from his shoulders, revealing his GRU uniform. He went to the glass doors at the entrance to reception. Lacey was at the desk, doing paperwork with a young man in a dark green uniform and fur hat.
Dillon stood watching, looking quite striking in his uniform, lit a cigarette and turned to see what was obviously the Embassy limousine come round the corner and park by the Airstairs door. A chauffeur got out, bringing what looked like mail sacks with him, and Billy appeared in the door with similar sacks and an exchange took place. The limousine drove away.
In Zubin’s suite at the Excelsior, Kurbsky had managed to wriggle across to the door with great difficulty. The CS gas hadn’t done him any good and the tape on his mouth was half-choking him, but lying on his back, he started kicking his bound feet at the door, and after a while, it had an effect. A room service waiter appeared and found him.
Zubin drove up to the gate entrance of the VIP lot at the Belov Complex and turned in. The guard on duty came out of the hut.
“Papers.”
“On the windshield, man, can’t you see? This is a Belov International limousine and I’m Josef Belov.”
“I still need to see your papers, even if you are Mr. Big.”
Zubin took out the silenced Colt and shot the guard between the eyes. He jumped out, dragged the man into the hut out of sight, got back into the limousine and drove around to the side of reception. The Citation X with its RAF rondels was plain to see.
“Come on, Mama, take your last walk on Russian soil.”
They started forward, her hand on his arm while he carried the suitcase, but as they passed reception, a voice called, “Where are you going?”
He turned and found a young man in a green uniform and fur hat standing on the steps.
“I’m Josef Belov,” he bellowed. “Surely you recognize me?”
The young man peered at him. “Good God, yes. I saw you on television, but where are you going?”
Dillon moved out of the shadows, resplendent in that chilling GRU uniform. “Young man, this is an official matter. Come with me and I’ll explain. I’m Captain Levin.”
The youth was totally intimidated. “Of course, sir.”
From the plane, Billy called, “Come on, Dil – uh, Igor.” Dillon nodded to Zubin. “Carry on, Mr. Belov,” and he turned and took the youth inside, guiding him into an office at the back of the reception area, where he promptly took out his pistol and stunned him with a violent blow.
The engines had fired up in the Citation X, Zubin and his mother inside, Billy standing in the entrance. Dillon ran for the steps and scrambled up, and the door closed. There was chatter from the cockpit, and they moved forward through the falling snow, the runway lights gleaming.
“Just like bleeding Christmas,” Billy said, and turned to Zubin and Bella. “Belt up, we’re on our way.”
Dillon looked at his watch. “Seven-thirty, dead on time. That’s the RAF for you.”