The Wolf at the Door

‘On my life, Parky, those days are long gone. I own most of the developments round here, and my nephew Billy’s got an MI5 warrant card in his pocket.’

‘Yes, I heard they’d taken him on. I was impressed. I’d always understood they wouldn’t accept anyone with a record.’

‘True, Parky, it was the folly of youth where Billy was concerned, but all wiped clean now.’

‘You must have friends in high places these days, Billy.’

‘Oh, I do, Inspector,’ Billy said, ‘and here’s my warrant to prove it.’ He offered it. ‘As you know, I’m involved in cases where the highest security and the welfare of the nation is involved—so I’d like to check the identity of the man who’s being hauled up at this moment. It could explain the severity of his intentions.’

‘Are you saying you could have been his target?’

‘It’s possible,’ Billy said, and at that moment an ambulance rolled up, two paramedics emerged, opened the rear door and pulled out a stretcher, which they took forward to where four policemen were hauling up the drowned man in a sling.

Water poured from him as they laid him down on the stretcher, and one of the paramedics removed the balaclava, revealing the unshaven face, handsome enough, eyes closed in death, dark hair with silver streaks in it.

‘Good God, I know this one,’ Parky said. ‘He used to live round here when I was a young constable. Bagged him coming out of a booze shop he’d broken into on Wapping High Street. Costello, Fergus Costello. He went down the steps for two years. Petty criminal when he got out. Irish bloke, drunk and disorderly, that kind of thing, always getting arrested.’

‘Can you remember what happened to him?’ Billy asked.

‘Not really, it’s so long ago.’ They watched as a police officer went through the dead man’s pockets, producing a bunch of skeleton keys, a folded flick-knife and a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, which he handed to Parky.

‘He certainly meant business.’

A passport came next, which turned out to be Irish. ‘See, I was right,’ Parky said, but frowned when he opened it. ‘John Docherty, and there’s a Dublin address.’ He shook his head and handed the passport to Billy. ‘Even though he’s dead, you can see from the photo it’s the same man.’

‘You’re right,’ Billy gave it to Harry. ‘Must be a forgery. Let’s see what’s in the wallet.’

Parky went to his car, opened the wallet and took out the wet contents, a driver’s licence, a Social Security card, and a credit card. ‘All in the name of John Docherty and an address in Point Street, Kilburn.’

‘So he was living under a false name,’ Harry said.

Parky nodded. ‘You know, I remember now, it’s all coming back. He used to get in a lot of trouble over the drink and then there was a refuge opened, run by Catholics. They used to get visits from a priest, who had a big influence on the boozers there. I can’t remember his name, but as I recall, Docherty stopped getting into trouble and started churchgoing and then he cleared off.’

The officer who had been examining the wallet, searching the pockets said, ‘There’s this, sir, tucked away.’

He offered the damp card and Parky examined it. ‘I’ve seen something like this before. It’s a prayer card.’

Billy took it from him and read it aloud. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and in the hour of our death.’

Harry said, ‘But what the hell does it mean?’

Parky smiled. ‘I told you he’d turned to religion, didn’t I, so I was right.’

‘You certainly were,’ Billy said. ‘I’ll hang on to this and the passport. You can keep the rest.’

3 (#ulink_2c558c79-5983-5196-b551-192c6beef9e3)

They met in the computer room at Holland Park, all of them, Ferguson presiding, and Harry Salter was a very angry man indeed.

‘I mean what in the hell is going on?’

‘It’s simple, Harry,’ said Dillon. ‘You’ve been targeted, you and Billy, just like Blake Johnson, General Ferguson, and Major Miller. Maybe somebody thinks it’s payback time.’

‘All very well,’ Harry pointed out, ‘but that bastard Costello or Docherty or whatever he called himself was prepared to torch everybody in the pub, just to get at Billy and me.’

‘Whoever these people are, they’re highly organized and totally ruthless. The would-be assassin in Central Park, Frank Barry, called somebody and told them where he was. The instant response was an executioner.’

‘Exactly,’ Miller put in. ‘And one professional enough to remember to snatch Barry’s mobile before departing, so details of that call couldn’t be traced.’

‘I’ve spoken to Clancy, brought him up to speed, including the arson attack on the pub,’ Roper said. ‘His people have established that Flynn’s passport was an extremely good forgery, as was his driver’s licence and Social Security card.’

‘So there’s no way of checking if he had a police record?’ Ferguson put in.

‘Exactly.’ Roper carried on. ‘His address in Greenwich Village is a one-room apartment, sparsely furnished, basic belongings, not much more than clothes. An old lady on the same floor said he was polite and kept himself to himself. She’d no idea what he did for a living, and was surprised to hear he had an American passport, as she’d always thought he was Irish. She’s a Catholic herself and often saw him at Mass at the local church.’

Miller said, ‘Interesting that Costello-cum-Docherty has a forged Irish passport, too, and his religion had been the saving of him, according to Inspector Parkinson.’

‘A passport which claims he was born in Dublin, yet we know from his other identity documents that his address is in Point Street, Kilburn,’ Dillon said.

‘And Henry Pool from Green Street, Kilburn,’ Ferguson said. ‘Too many connections here. This would appear to be a carefully mounted campaign.’

‘Another point worth remembering,’ Roper said. ‘I’ve processed the computer photo of Major Miller which was in Barry’s wallet.’ His fingers worked the keys and the photo came on screen. ‘Just a crowded street, but that’s definitely the side of a London black cab at the edge of the pavement. The photo was definitely taken in London, I’d say.’

‘Careful preparation beforehand by someone who knew I was going to New York,’ Miller said.

‘Yes, and remember that Blake was only visiting his place on Long Island because he was going to the UN.’ Roper shook his head. ‘It’s scary stuff when you think about it.’

Salter said, ‘But nobody had a go at you, Dillon, when you were in New York. Why not?’

‘Because I wasn’t supposed to be there. It was only decided at the last moment that I should join Harry.’

‘Nobody has had a go at me either,’ Roper told him. ‘But that doesn’t mean they’re not going to.’

‘Exactly,’ Ferguson said, ‘which raises the point again—what in the hell is this all about?’

‘Let’s face it,’ Billy said. ‘We’ve been up against a lot of very bad people in our day. Al Qaeda, a wide range of Islamic terrorists, Hamas, Hezbollah. We’ve been in Lebanon, Hazar, Bosnia, Kosovo. And you older guys talk about the Cold War, but the Cold War is back, it seems to me, so we can add in the Russians.’

‘Which adds up to a lot of enemies,’ Dillon put in. ‘Lermov, who’ll be the new Head of Station for the GRU here, was at the UN reception with Putin, and we were talking to him. Baited him, really. Asked after Boris Luzhkov, and was told he was in Moscow being considered for a new post.’

‘Six pounds of grey ash, that bastard,’ Billy said.

‘And when I asked after Yuri Bounine, he said he’d been given another assignment.’

‘He knew something,’ Miller said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, if he knows that Bounine is guarding Alex Kurbsky at his Aunt Svetlana’s house in Belsize Park, we’re in trouble,’ Ferguson told him.

They were all silent at the mention of the famous Russian writer whose defection had caused so much mayhem recently, but of whom they’d all become unaccountably fond.