Without Mercy Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Jack Higgins
it.”
“If you say so, Major.”
“I do. Now go to the kitchen and see if you can find some spare keys for the cars.”
“On my way.”
McGuire went out and Ashimov went along to Belov’s study and sat behind the desk with the satellite phone and rang a Moscow number. It was astonishing the clarity of these things, he thought, and also thought of Greta, surprised at how angry he felt.
A voice said in Russian, “Volkov. Who’s this?”
“Ashimov at Drumore. We have a problem.”
“Explain.”
When he was finished, Volkov said, “That’s certainly inconvenient, but our backup plans are in place. You’ll need to come to Moscow for a meeting at once.”
“Of course. Send a jet for me.”
“You’ll make the new arrangements with the IRA?”
“No need—everything’s still set.”
“Excellent. The death of Belov would be very inconvenient to our business plans.”
“Of course.”
“Another performance from Max Zubin would be in order, I think.”
“I agree.”
“On the other hand, the fewer people who know, the better. The locals should not be told that Belov is dead.”
“You mean I should withhold the information from the IRA?”
“That would seem sensible.”
“All right.”
“Good. I’ll arrange the plane. See you soon.”
Ashimov switched off the phone, put it down and that’s when he received the shock of his life. He looked up to find Greta Novikova standing in the doorway, Patrick Ryan’s arm around her, and he was amazed at the feeling of joy that flooded through him. He had never been a man to feel much emotion for anyone and surprised himself by rushing round the desk and embracing her.
“Greta, I can’t believe it. I heard what happened.” He kissed her, then held her at arm’s length. “My God, what happened to you?”
“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said. “What about you?”
“Salter thought he killed me, but I was wearing body armor. Belov? Murphy?”
“Gone,” she said. “It’s a miracle I’m here,” and she explained about the blast.
There was blood on the left side of her head and he examined it. “It’s not too bad, but it might need a couple of stitches. We’ll get that fixed by the good sisters at Saint Mary’s near Ballykelly.”
“The Sisters?” She was bewildered.
“They’re a nursing order. Belov does a lot for them.”
Ryan had gone away and now returned with the kitchen first-aid box. He rummaged in it and produced a large bandage, and Ashimov patched her up. McGuire was hovering in the background. Greta staggered a little and Ashimov caught her.
“Take it easy. I’ll take you upstairs to your room so you can change.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to Moscow. A plane is coming to pick us up.” As he led her out, he said to the other two, “Wait for me.”
In Dublin, Liam Bell sat in the sitting room of his apartment in a warehouse development. He was reading the evening paper, his spectacles giving him the look of a schoolteacher, which, in his youth, he’d been. Many years of dedicated service to the IRA had take him as far as Chief of Staff. He’d resigned a year earlier to nurse his wife through terminal cancer and another had taken his place in the command structure. Now he was bored out of his mind and thirsting for action—any kind of action—and his phone rang and presented him with some.
Ashimov said, “Mr. Bell? Yuri Ashimov. Several years ago, you made a promise that we could call you if needed.”
“You still can.”
“Do you know a man called Sean Dillon?”
“Indeed I do. If that bastard’s on your back, you’ve got trouble.”
“Listen to me. Would you be prepared to move in here with, say, half a dozen IRA men? I’d make it worth your while.”
“I thought you had Dermot Kelly and his boys?”
“Not any longer.”
“What happened?”
Ashimov gave him a version of events that excluded any participation by Belov. “Anyway, a general cleanup is in order. You can rely on
“If you say so, Major.”
“I do. Now go to the kitchen and see if you can find some spare keys for the cars.”
“On my way.”
McGuire went out and Ashimov went along to Belov’s study and sat behind the desk with the satellite phone and rang a Moscow number. It was astonishing the clarity of these things, he thought, and also thought of Greta, surprised at how angry he felt.
A voice said in Russian, “Volkov. Who’s this?”
“Ashimov at Drumore. We have a problem.”
“Explain.”
When he was finished, Volkov said, “That’s certainly inconvenient, but our backup plans are in place. You’ll need to come to Moscow for a meeting at once.”
“Of course. Send a jet for me.”
“You’ll make the new arrangements with the IRA?”
“No need—everything’s still set.”
“Excellent. The death of Belov would be very inconvenient to our business plans.”
“Of course.”
“Another performance from Max Zubin would be in order, I think.”
“I agree.”
“On the other hand, the fewer people who know, the better. The locals should not be told that Belov is dead.”
“You mean I should withhold the information from the IRA?”
“That would seem sensible.”
“All right.”
“Good. I’ll arrange the plane. See you soon.”
Ashimov switched off the phone, put it down and that’s when he received the shock of his life. He looked up to find Greta Novikova standing in the doorway, Patrick Ryan’s arm around her, and he was amazed at the feeling of joy that flooded through him. He had never been a man to feel much emotion for anyone and surprised himself by rushing round the desk and embracing her.
“Greta, I can’t believe it. I heard what happened.” He kissed her, then held her at arm’s length. “My God, what happened to you?”
“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said. “What about you?”
“Salter thought he killed me, but I was wearing body armor. Belov? Murphy?”
“Gone,” she said. “It’s a miracle I’m here,” and she explained about the blast.
There was blood on the left side of her head and he examined it. “It’s not too bad, but it might need a couple of stitches. We’ll get that fixed by the good sisters at Saint Mary’s near Ballykelly.”
“The Sisters?” She was bewildered.
“They’re a nursing order. Belov does a lot for them.”
Ryan had gone away and now returned with the kitchen first-aid box. He rummaged in it and produced a large bandage, and Ashimov patched her up. McGuire was hovering in the background. Greta staggered a little and Ashimov caught her.
“Take it easy. I’ll take you upstairs to your room so you can change.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to Moscow. A plane is coming to pick us up.” As he led her out, he said to the other two, “Wait for me.”
In Dublin, Liam Bell sat in the sitting room of his apartment in a warehouse development. He was reading the evening paper, his spectacles giving him the look of a schoolteacher, which, in his youth, he’d been. Many years of dedicated service to the IRA had take him as far as Chief of Staff. He’d resigned a year earlier to nurse his wife through terminal cancer and another had taken his place in the command structure. Now he was bored out of his mind and thirsting for action—any kind of action—and his phone rang and presented him with some.
Ashimov said, “Mr. Bell? Yuri Ashimov. Several years ago, you made a promise that we could call you if needed.”
“You still can.”
“Do you know a man called Sean Dillon?”
“Indeed I do. If that bastard’s on your back, you’ve got trouble.”
“Listen to me. Would you be prepared to move in here with, say, half a dozen IRA men? I’d make it worth your while.”
“I thought you had Dermot Kelly and his boys?”
“Not any longer.”
“What happened?”
Ashimov gave him a version of events that excluded any participation by Belov. “Anyway, a general cleanup is in order. You can rely on