The Wolf at the Door Read Online Free PDF Page B

cut your throat? Well, you don’t have a razor, so let’s have a drink on it.”
     
     
     
    They landed at Farley just past six in the morning, bad winter weather, gray and rainy. Miller and Dillon went their separate ways, for Miller had a Mercedes provided by the Cabinet Office, his driver, Arthur Fox, waiting. Tony Doyle had driven down from Holland Park, under Roper’s orders, in Dillon’s own Mini Cooper.
    “I’m going home, Sean, to see to my mail, knock out a report on my impressions of Putin and the Russian delegation at the UN, then take it to Downing Street. The Prime Minister will want to see me personally, but he likes things on paper, he’s very precise.”
    “Will you tell him of your exploits in Central Park?”
    “I’ve no reason not to. It happened to me, Sean, I didn’t happen to it, if you follow me. The way it’s being handled, there is no story, not for the press anyway. The whole thing is an intelligence matter that needs to be solved. He’ll understand. He’s a moralist by nature but also very practical. He won’t be pleased at what’s happened, and he’ll expect a result.”
    “Well, let’s see how quickly we can give him one.”
    Dillon got in the Mini beside Tony Doyle, and they drove away. Miller got in the back of the Mercedes and discovered a bunch of mail.
    “Good man, Arthur.” He opened the first letter.
    “Thought you’d like to get started, Major. Traffic’s building up already. Could take us an hour to get to Dover Street.”
    “No problem. I can save a lot of time here due to your usual efficiency.”
     
     
     
    Dillon arrived at Holland Park just after seven. “I’m going to shower and change, and then I’m going to partake of Maggie Hall’s Jamaican version of the great British breakfast.”
    “Hey, I could give you that,” Doyle said, for he was of Jamaican stock, born in the East End of London.
    Dillon went into the computer room, but there was no sign of Roper, and then Henderson, the other sergeant, entered wearing a tracksuit.
    “Good to see you back, sir. Major Roper’s in the wet room having a good soak. We’re also hosting General Ferguson. He’s in one of the second-floor suites, no sign of movement. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to the Major.”
    “Fine, I’m going to my room. Tell him I’ll join him for breakfast.”
     
     
     
    At Dover Street, Miller told Arthur to get a breakfast at the local café and come back in an hour. Once inside the house, he went straight upstairs to the spare bedroom, which was now his. It was a decent size for an eighteenth-century town house and had its own shower room. The magnificent master bedroom suite at the end of the landing, once shared with his wife, he had kept exactly as it was before her murder, but the door was locked and opened only once a week by the housekeeper, seeing to the room and keeping it fresh.
    He stripped his clothes off, left them in the laundry basket, showered and shaved, pulled on a terry-cloth robe, and went down to the kitchen. He ate two bananas, drank a glass of cold milk from the refrigerator, went into his study, sat at his computer, and produced his report. Satisfied, he went upstairs and changed, ready for Arthur exactly on time as ordered.
     
     
     
    He called in at Downing Street, showing his face at the Cabinet Office, where he was greeted with enthusiasm by Henry Frankel, a good friend who had smoothed the way for Miller in many ways in the terrible days following the death of his wife.
    “You look well, Harry. How was Vladimir?”
    “Worrying, Henry. To be honest, I think I find him rather impressive on occasion, and I’m not supposed to.”
    “Certainly not.”
    Miller handed him his report. “All there, but I expect the PM saw it on television.”
    “Not the same, sweetheart,” said Henry, his gayness breaking through occasionally. “Who believes in TV anymore? You’ve got a genius for seeing things as they really are.”
    “Lermov was with