The Wolf at the Door

‘You mean you’re a professional hitman?’

‘That’s it. I got a call. I don’t know who it was. There was a package, I don’t know who from. A photo of you staying at the Plaza, with instructions and two thousand dollars in hundreds.’

‘And you don’t know who the client was? That’s hard to believe. Why would they trust you?’

‘You mean trust me with the money? That’s the way it works. Take the money and run, and I’d be the target next time. Now for the love of God, man, help me.’

‘Where’s the money?’

‘In the bank.’

‘Well, there you go,’ Miller said. ‘I’ll keep your wallet and cards and leave you your mobile. Call an ambulance and say you’ve been mugged. No point in trying to involve me. For what you tried to pull, you’d get twenty years in Rikers, or maybe you’ve already done time there? Maybe you’re a three-time loser.’

‘Just fuck off,’ the man said.

‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.’ Miller turned and walked rapidly away, leaving him to make his call.

In the two-bedroom suite they were sharing at the Plaza, Dillon was standing at his bathroom mirror adjusting a tie as black as his shirt. His jacket, like his trousers, was black corduroy and he reached for it and pulled it on.

‘Will I do?’ he asked as Miller walked in the door.

‘In that outfit, Putin is going to think the undertaker’s come for him.’

‘Away with you. You hardly ever see ould Vladimir wearing anything but a black suit. It’s his personal statement.’

‘The hard man, you mean? Never mind that now. We need to talk.’

‘What about?’

Miller put his right foot on the edge of the bath, eased up the leg of his trousers and removed the ankle-holster.

‘What the hell is that for?’ Dillon said. ‘I’d like to remind you it’s the United Nations we’re going to. You wouldn’t have got inside the door wearing that.’

‘True, but I never intended to try. On the other hand, a walk in Central Park is quite another matter, it seems, so it’s a good thing I was carrying.’

As always with Dillon, it was as if a shadow passed across his face that in the briefest of moments changed his entire personality.

‘Tell me.’

Miller did, brief and succinct, because of the soldier in him, and when he was finished, he took out the wallet he’d taken from his assailant and offered it.

‘A folded computer photo of me, no credit cards, a Social Security card, plus a driver’s licence in the name of Frank Barry, with an address in Brooklyn. I doubt any of it is genuine, but there you are. I need a shower and a fresh shirt and we’re short on time.’

He cleared off to his own bedroom, and Dillon took the items from the wallet and unfolded the computer photo. It showed Miller walking on a relatively crowded pavement, one half of a truck in view and behind it, the side of a London cab. Now where had that come from? A long way from Central Park.

Dillon went to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky, thinking of Frank Barry, the hitman. Poor bastard, he hadn’t known what he was up against. Miller was hardly your usual politician. He’d served in the British Army during some of the worst years of the Irish Troubles, for some of that time an apparent desk man in the Intelligence Corps. But Dillon knew the truth. Miller had long ago decided that summary justice was the only way to fight terrorism. Since the death of his wife, the victim of a terrorist attack aimed at Miller himself, he had grown even more ruthless.

Dillon folded the computer photo and tried to slide it back into the wallet. It refused to go because there was something there. He fiddled about and managed to pull out a card that was rather ornate, gold round the edges, with a sentiment inscribed in curling type. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.

Miller came in, ready to go. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Something you missed in the wallet.’ The card was creased and obviously old, and Dillon held it to his nose. ‘Candles, incense and the holy water.’

‘What in hell do you mean?’ Miller held out his hand and examined the card. ‘So Barry is a Catholic, so what?’

‘Such cards are very rare. They go back in history to Michael Collins, the Easter Rising. The card begs the Virgin to pray for we who are ourselves alone. The Irish for “ourselves alone” is Sinn Fein.’

Miller stared at the card, frowning. ‘And you think that’s significant?’

‘Maybe not, but Barry is an Irish name, and you told me that after you shot him, he said, “They didn’t say it would be like this.”’

‘That’s true, but he claimed he didn’t know who’d hired him, even when I threatened to put one through his other knee.’

Dillon shrugged. ‘Maybe he lied in spite of the pain.’ He took the card from Miller’s fingers and replaced it in the wallet.

Miller said, ‘Are you saying there could be a smell of IRA here?’

Dillon smiled. ‘I suppose anything is possible in the worst of all possible worlds. You were right not to kill him, though. He’ll stick like glue to the story of being the victim of a mugging. He wouldn’t want the police to think anything else.’

‘And the IRA connection?’

‘If there was one, it’s done them no good at all.’ He put the wallet in his inside pocket. ‘An intriguing present for Roper when we get back to London. Now can we get moving? Putin awaits us.’

At the UN that evening, there was no sign of Blake Johnson, which surprised Dillon, because Blake had said he’d be there, but maybe he’d decided he just had better things to do. Vladimir Putin said nothing that he had not said before. The usual warning that if the US went ahead with a missile defence system, the Russians would have to deploy in kind and implying that the Russian invasion of Georgia was a warning shot. Delving deep into history, he warned the US about over-confidence in its military might. ‘Rome may have destroyed Carthage, but eventually it was destroyed by barbarians.’

‘That’s a good one,’ Miller murmured.

‘I know,’ Dillon said, ‘though I don’t know if equating Russia with the barbarians is really a good idea for him.’

Putin then moved on to Britain, turning to look at the British Ambassador to the UN as if addressing him personally. Britain was guilty of granting asylum to some who had been traitors to the Russian people. London had become a launching pad to fight Russia. In the end, it seemed impossible to have normal relations any more. And on and on.

Many people sitting there obviously agreed with him and there was applause. The British Ambassador answered robustly, pointing out that British Security Services had identified Russia as a menace to national safety, the third most serious threat facing the country, after Al Qaeda terrorism and Iranian nuclear proliferation.

At the champagne reception afterwards, Miller said, ‘The trouble is, Vladimir Putin is dangerously capable. Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, not to mention his career with the KGB.’

‘I agree,’ Dillon nodded. ‘But in a way, the most significant thing about him is that he’s a patriot. He believes what he says. That’s what makes him the most dangerous of all.’ He nodded towards the Russian delegation, who were hanging on Putin’s every word as he spoke to a Hamas representative. ‘Anyone of special interest over there?’

‘Actually, there is,’ Miller said. ‘The scholarly-looking man with the rather weary face and auburn hair.’

‘Grey suit, about fifty?’

‘Colonel Josef Lermov, new Head of Station for the GRU at the London Embassy. At least that’s the whisper Ferguson’s heard. He only told me yesterday and pulled out Lermov’s photo.’

‘I see,’ Dillon said. ‘So they’ve given up on finding his predecessor, dear old Boris Luzhkov?’

‘It seems so.’

‘It’s hardly likely they would have succeeded, considering he went into the Thames with a bullet between the eyes. Ferguson had the disposal team fish him out the same day,’ Dillon told him.