The Wolf at the Door - By Jack Higgins Page 0,43

for me. I know I did wrong.” She smiled fully. “After all, it’s only a year. You’ve been very kind, Colonel.”

She rose and turned to Stransky, who took her arm and led her away. “My God,” Lermov said softly. “She thinks she’s got away with it.”

He laughed wryly as it suddenly occurred to him that she had, and he got up and went in search of Ivanov.

He found him sitting at his computer. Lermov paused, and then asked, “How did it go with Greta?”

“I got the impression she thinks she’s come up smelling of roses. God help the male members of staff at Station Gorky, she’ll wreak havoc. What have you got?”

“Max Chekhov, age fifty, married but no children. Wife lives with her widowed mother in St. Petersburg, but he never visits. A university degree in general engineering, He worked as a road builder and military engineer in Afghanistan. Wounded in a roadside ambush and sent home when we still thought we were winning the war. Worked for many construction firms, and then came the crazy years, oil and gas in Siberia and all the other things. Like with most oligarchs, it just happened, and, there he was, a billionaire. He loves London, booze, and women, in that order, but he’s a shrewd operator, which is why Putin made Chekhov chief executive officer when the State took over Belov International.”

“I suppose the argument is that as a rich man in his own right, he’s to be trusted,” Lermov said. “Where does he live?”

“There’s a company house off South Audley Street in Mayfair, which he never uses personally but leaves to visiting dignitaries. His personal treat is an exclusive apartment on Park Lane—where, apparently, he was shot in the knee one night by a hit man delivering flowers. It’s thought to be the work of these gangsters, the Salters.”

“Well, they do get round, don’t they? Anything else?”

“A place off the West Sussex coast called Bolt Hole. It’s reached by a causeway passing through a marsh, and it’s private. There was an article about Chekhov buying the place and wanting to build a helicopter pad and the authorities forbidding it because of the marsh and the birds being protected. There’s a photo of him, if you want to see it. He agreed not to build the helicopter pad and said he’s fallen in love with the island.”

“Show me,” Lermov said, and Ivanov obeyed. Chekhov wore a reefer coat and leaned on a walking stick, had long hair and dark glasses. “He looks pleased with himself.”

“Well, he would be, having bought that place,” Ivanov said. “It looks bloody marvelous to me. Here’s another photo from the same newspaper. A strange name, Bolt Hole. I wonder what it means?”

“Probably Saxon or something like that,” Lermov said. “I think I’d like to see Chekhov. Handle it for me. Speak to him and get him here. Now, let’s go have a drink.”

In the bar, Ivanov said, “So it seems the Prime Minister won’t be content with anything less than the destruction of Ferguson and his entire group.”

“Which has been tried before.”

“And failed.”

“But it doesn’t have to. You just need the right weapon. If you want to be certain of hitting the bull’s-eye, you must be able to put the muzzle of your weapon against it and pull the trigger.”

“Difficult when the target is people.”

“Not really. The man who tried to assassinate Ronald Reagan walked right up to him and fired, in spite of the crowds and the security people,” Lermov pointed out.

“But that implies sacrifice,” Ivanov suggested.

“Of course, the principle beloved of suicide bombers, but your truly professional assassin plans to perform the act and survive to do it again, like Carlos the Jackal. Look how long he lasted.”

“I see what you mean,” Ivanov said.

“My studies of revolutionary movements and terrorism covers anarchist bombings in tsarist times, Fenian dynamiters when Queen Victoria was on the throne, and, in the twentieth century, everyone from the IRA to Al Qaeda. One thing is clear. Except for religiously motivated suicide bombers seeking an imagined salvation, the majority of terrorists would much prefer to survive.”

“And live to fight another day?”

“Exactly.”

“So how many are we talking about? Ferguson, Roper, the Salters, Dillon, and Miller . . .” Ivanov began.

“Plus Miller’s sister, Monica Starling. She’s Dillon’s girlfriend now but working for Ferguson.” Lermov nodded. “Blake Johnson.”

“That adds up to eight,” Ivanov said.

“Ten, if Kurbsky and Bounine are still alive and well and in Ferguson’s hands.”

“An invitation to a dinner party and a