Lermov was. Even his smile seemed weary. ‘Major Miller, I believe? Josef Lermov.’ He turned to Dillon and held out his hand. ‘So nice to meet you, Mr Dillon.’
‘How flattering to be recognized,’ Dillon told him.
‘Oh, your reputation precedes you.’
Miller smiled. ‘How’s Luzhkov, still on holiday?’
Lermov gave no sign of being fazed. ‘I understand he is in Moscow, being considered for a new post as we speak.’
‘What a shame,’ Dillon said. ‘He loved London. He must regret leaving after all those years.’
‘Time to move on,’ Lermov told him.
‘And his number two man, Major Yuri Bounine? Was it time for him to move on?’ A loaded question from Miller if ever there was one, considering that said Yuri Bounine, having defected, was being held by Ferguson in a secure location in London.
Lermov said patiently, ‘He is on special assignment, that is all I can say. I can only speak for my own situation in London and not for Moscow. You spent enough time serving in British Army Intelligence to know what I mean.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Miller beckoned to a waiter. ‘Now join us in a glass of champagne, Josef? We could celebrate your London appointment.’
‘Most kind of you.’ A brief smile flickered, as if he was amused at Miller’s familiarity.
Dillon said, ‘It isn’t vodka, but it will do to take along.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Vladimir Putin. That was quite a speech.’
‘You think so?’ Lermov said.
‘A bit of a genius if you look at it,’ Dillon said.
Miller smiled. ‘Definitely a man to keep your eye on.’
Lermov said, ‘Your friend, Blake Johnson, I expected him to be here, too. I wonder what’s happened to him? Ah, well, I suppose he’s moved on also.’ He smiled that odd smile and walked away.
At Mercy Hospital on the Upper East Side, the man known as Frank Barry lay in a room on the fifth floor where he had been prepped to get the bullet out of his knee. His eyes were closed and he was hooked up to everything in sight, the only sounds electronic beepings. A young intern entered, dressed for the operating theatre, a nurse behind him. He raised the sheet over Barry’s left knee and shuddered.
‘Christ, that’s as bad as I’ve seen. This guy’s going to be crippled.’ Barry didn’t move. ‘He’s been thoroughly prepped, I take it.’
‘The anaesthetist on this one is Dr Hale. The guy was in such agony, he was begging for mercy. Mind you, I caught him making a phone call earlier in spite of the pain, so I confiscated it. It’s on the side there. He said his name was Frank Barry and he lived in the Village. Mugged in Central Park.’
‘Just when I thought it was safe to go there,’ Hale said. ‘The police have been notified?’
‘Nobody’s turned up yet, but they’ve been told he’s going into the O.R., so I suppose they think they can take their time.’
‘OK,’ the intern said. ‘Twenty minutes.’ He went out and the nurse followed him.
It was quiet in the corridor. The man who emerged from the lift at the far end wore green scrubs, a skullcap and a surgical mask. He took his time, checking the names on doors almost casually, found what he was looking for, and went in.
Barry was out, there was no doubt about that, as the man produced a hypo from his pocket ready charged, exposed the needle and injected its contents in the left arm. He stood there, looking down for a moment, noticed Barry’s mobile phone on the bedside table, picked it up and turned to dump the hypo in the bin. The door opened and the nurse came in.
She was immediately alarmed. ‘Who are you? What are you doing?’
He dropped the hypo in the bin and punched her brutally, knocking her to the floor. He went out, hurried along the corridor and, as an alarm sounded behind him, didn’t bother with the lift, but took the stairs, plunging down fast, finally reaching the basement parking area. A few moments later, he was driving out.
Upstairs, of course, it was pandemonium on the fifth floor with the discovery of the unconscious nurse, but it would be some time before she would be able to explain what had happened. The only certainty was that the man known as Frank Barry was dead.
It was just before midnight in London when Major Giles Roper of the bomb-scarred face, sitting at his computer at the Holland Park safe house, got the phone call from Ferguson.
‘Little late for you, General.’
‘Never mind that. Some bugger just tried to blow me up after I’d been to that do at the Garrick.’
Roper turned his wheelchair to the drinks table, poured a large Scotch, and said, ‘Tell me.’
Which Ferguson did, the whole affair, including the death of Pool. ‘I’m at Rosedene now,’ he said, naming the very private hospital he had created for his people in London, a place of absolute total privacy and security, headed by the finest general surgeon in London. ‘Bellamy’s insisting on checking me thoroughly. I was knocked over by the blast.’
‘You’ve been lucky,’ Roper said ruefully. ‘And I’m the expert.’
‘But not Pool.’
‘From what you’ve told me, there’s a story with him that bears investigation.’
‘You could be right. He wasn’t my usual man, and the Cabinet Office uses hire-car companies when it’s under pressure. I’ve told the anti-terrorism people at Scotland Yard to play it down as much as possible. Fault in the car, petrol explosion, that kind of thing. Don’t want the press leaping in and implying Muslim bombs.’
‘Maybe it was.’
‘Well, we don’t want another public panic. Bellamy’s had Pool’s body brought here, and George Langley will do the post-mortem. I’ll stay till he’s done.’
After hanging up, Roper sat there thinking about it, and Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, came in. ‘Still at it, Major? What am I going to do with you?’
‘That was General Ferguson. He was going to his car when it blew up. The driver’s dead.’
‘My God,’ Doyle said softly. ‘Takes you back to Ireland in the Troubles. Like someone’s walked over my grave.’ He shivered. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Sustenance, Tony, that’s what I need. Get me a bacon sandwich. I’d better get in touch with Miller and Dillon in New York.’
‘Christ, they’ll go berserk, those two.’
He went out. Roper poured another whisky, then phoned Miller on his Codex.
Miller and Dillon were walking back to their limousine outside the UN, discussing where to go for dinner, when Miller took the call. He listened, his face grim, then said, ‘Tell Dillon.’
He handed his Codex over and Dillon listened, his face darkening. ‘You’re sure the old sod’s OK?’
‘So it would appear. Not the driver, though. Something fishy there, I think.’
‘Then you’d better investigate.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know, Harry’s in charge. I’m just his minder.’
‘As if he needs one.’