The Wolf at the Door - By Jack Higgins Page 0,60

disappointed again?”

“No,” Ivanov said. “I think he’s a thoroughly dangerous man.”

“I know, and he looks so agreeable. Let’s have another vodka on it.”

There was snow mixed with sleet in the evening darkness as the Falcon carrying Max Chekhov landed at the Belov International private-aircraft facility close to the main Moscow airport. When the plane pulled in to the entrance of the terminal building and Chekhov came down the steps, Lermov was waiting for him in full uniform, fur hat, and fur collar. He saluted, giving Chekhov his title, one soldier to another.

“Major Chekhov . . . Josef Lermov.”

“Kind of you to meet me, Colonel.”

“A pleasure but also a duty. The Prime Minister is waiting for you now.”

For a moment, Chekhov was terrified again and fought to control his shaking. He stumbled slightly, mounting the icy steps leading into the terminal, his walking stick sliding.

Lermov caught him and laughed. “Take care. I wouldn’t want you to fall and break a leg. The Prime Minister doesn’t permit excuses.”

“That is my experience of him, too.”

They reached the limousine, a porter following with Chekhov’s bags, and found Ivanov waiting. Lermov made the introductions, then he and Chekhov sat in the rear and Ivanov got behind the wheel and drove away.

The snow was falling lightly now, and it was really rather peaceful. Chekhov said, “It’s a great pleasure to meet you. You name is certainly familiar to me. Could I ask what this all is about?”

“General Charles Ferguson.”

Chekhov’s sudden anger blotted out any fears he was going through at that moment. “That bastard! I’m half crippled, as you may have noticed, and it’s all his fault. A shotgun blast in one knee-cap delivered by gangsters in his employ.”

“Yes, I’d heard something of the sort. Well, the Prime Minister’s had enough. He’s entrusted me with the task of doing something about it. He wants them finished off.”

With his rather unique experience of the ways of General Charles Ferguson and company, Chekhov had reservations about Lermov’s prospects but felt it politic to offer only enthusiasm. And he was relieved to hear that they didn’t seem to know anything about his other past history with them. This could work out nicely.

“I will tell you, Colonel, and with all my heart, I would like nothing better than to see those swine wiped off the face of the earth.”

“Then we must do our best to oblige you.”

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the same office where Lermov had met Putin before, the one that belonged to General Volkov, once head of the GRU. As they waited, Chekhov said, “A great man, Volkov, did you know him?”

“Not intimately.”

“Disappeared off the face of the earth. I wonder what became of him?”

“Oh, I think it highly likely that he and his men were murdered by this man Dillon on Ferguson’s orders,” Lermov told him.

“Good God.” Chekhov crossed himself.

“Yes, they fully deserve killing. And the Prime Minister has told me I may rely on you for any help I need.”

Before Chekhov could reply, the wall panel opened, and Putin appeared in a tracksuit. “There you are, Chekhov. Good flight? Is your leg improved?”

“Excellent, Prime Minister, really excellent,” Chekhov gabbled.

“Has Colonel Lermov explained the task I have given him?”

“Yes, sir, he has,” Chekhov managed to say. “I completely agree with everything you have ordered. He may rely on me totally in London.”

“Good.” Putin turned to Lermov. “How’s it going?”

“Very well, Prime Minister. I was inspired by your advice to think Moscow Mafia and how they would handle it.”

“And you’ve come up with an answer.”

“A man, Prime Minister, and just the one for the job.”

“Don’t tell me,” Putin said. “Just get on with it, and let the result speak for itself. Good luck.”

He moved, the door opened in the paneling, and he was gone. Chekhov heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God. Let’s get out of here. Where do we go now?”

“The Astoria, the staff hotel for GRU headquarters. It’s not exactly the Dorchester, but you’ll be amongst friends.”

Chekhov accepted the Astoria with good grace, for an old soldier amongst soldiers again usually fits in. Ivanov helped him settle in, and suggested meeting downstairs in half an hour for a meal.

Chekhov said, “Look, Captain, I was wounded in Afghanistan, so I’m not just a rich fool like some of my fellow oligarchs. Your colonel has told me about your plan, and the Prime Minister’s just confirmed it to me.”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

“Of course not, those bastards crippled me. But just sit down