When his phone rang and he heard Volkov’s voice, it did not affect him the way it had Popov. He was used to handling people, especially under the stress of legal and illegal situations. Nothing in life surprised him anymore.
He dodged in a doorway to avoid the rain. “General, what a surprise.”
“I thought I’d catch up. My spies tell me you performed magnificently in your law exam.”
“True, though I say it myself.”
“And your work for the Riley partnership. More than interesting.”
Chomsky laughed. “Why, General, you’ve been checking up on me.”
“My dear boy, we do have an embassy in Dublin in which the GRU is well represented. Checking on your activities gives them something to do.”
“I can imagine.”
“And how is Levin?”
“Come now, General, I’m sure you are well aware how he is. He has a luxury apartment looking out over the Liffey, and more than one lady, and he enjoys his life completely.”
“But a bit boring for someone of his background, I should have thought.”
“On that, I can’t comment.”
“This firm Popov works for, Scamrock Security, my information is that it supplies contract mercenaries to the trade. Now that there is peace in Ireland, there must be many members of the Provisional IRA seeking gainful employment.”
“Now if it was the police saying that to me, General, I’d have to say I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But of course. Nice to talk to you. Good-bye for now.”
“And what was all that about?” Chomsky asked himself as he stepped out into the road.
VOLKOV CAUGHT LEVIN a few moments later, after he had stepped out of the rain into a quiet bar called Kelly’s. It was an old-fashioned sort of a place with comfortable booths giving privacy. He was greeted with familiarity by a barman named Mick, who brought him a large Bush-mills whiskey.
Chomsky entered the bar at that moment. “Same for me, Mick.” He took off his raincoat. “Guess who’s just been on the phone to me?”
“Shock me,” Levin said.
“Volkov.”
At the same moment, Levin’s mobile rang. He answered it and smiled and leaned close to Chomsky so that he could hear it was Volkov.
“General, what a pleasure,” Levin said amiably.
“Ah, Chomsky has joined you. You are still close?”
“Siamese twins.”
“This is good. How are you?”
“In excellent spirits. Rain in Dublin is curiously refreshing, and the girls are more than beautiful, they have Irish charm. Life couldn’t be better. Where are you, Moscow?”
“No, Paris. I’m with President Putin at the Brussels Conference. He was asking after you, Igor.”
“Really?” Levin said.
“Yes, Charles Ferguson was in Brussels, too, with the British Prime Minister. It jogged Putin’s memory. Ferguson ’s people have been an intolerable nuisance.”
“You could say that.”
“Plus Blake Johnson. My original order was to get rid of the lot of them, but we only succeeded with Superintendent Hannah Bernstein.”
The mention made Levin feel uncomfortable, always had in spite of the fact that all he had done there was chauffeur an IRA hit man to Heathrow Airport.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
“Why, I miss your valuable services, you and the boys. The President wants you. I told him you’d decamped to Dublin and that it was difficult.”
“And what did he say?”
“To tell you that your President needs you and Russia needs you. Think about it. Good help is hard to find, and you’re the best. It’s amazing how frequently people let you down.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll give you an example. A few days ago, Blake Johnson was in London, available to all, walking down the street. Lhuzkov and Max Chekov arranged for a couple of would-be assassins to take care of him. Instead, Dillon and Salter took care of them. It was ludicrous. You would never have let that happen.”
“Like you said, good help is hard to find. Never mind, General, if at first you don’t succeed. You know the rest.”
“My poor Levin, you must find life infinitely boring not being in the game. Just think about what I’ve said. We’ll speak again.”
“The old bastard,” Chomsky said. “We’ll speak again.” He waved to the barman. “Same again, Mick.”
“Interesting, though,” Levin said. “A piece of crap like Max Chekov in charge of Belov International. I’ve been following that one closely.”
“Nothing changes, it would seem,” Chomsky said. “I wonder…do you think he’s called Popov?”
“A good point. Don’t tell Popov about our conversations with Volkov. Just see if he mentions his. In fact, why don’t you phone him now?”
Chomsky did, finding Popov still with Mary in the cocktail bar of the hotel.
“Hello. It’s me,” Chomsky said in English. “I’m just having a drink with Igor and then we’re going to a show. Do you want to join us?”
Popov didn’t even hesitate. “Not tonight, thanks. I’m about to have dinner with Mary.”
“That’s all right then. So, how are things with you? Anything new?”
“No, just the same old thing.”
“Okay, just thought I’d ask. Have a good time!”
He slipped his mobile into his pocket. “He’s having dinner again with the girl from the office.”
“He’s getting serious,” Levin said.
“No, I don’t think so. Not if the way he’s talked in the past is anything to go by.”
“But he didn’t mention Volkov, did he? It’s inconceivable that the General would have spoken to us and not to him.”
“Which shows he’s stupid, then. Surely he would know that we’d assume that he had.” Chomsky shrugged. “What does it prove?”
“That maybe-just maybe-friend Popov is in Volkov’s pocket, has been since we left London. I knew one of you was. I’m satisfied it isn’t you. Circumstances indicate otherwise.”
“Thanks very much. Is there any reason why it matters?”
“I think Volkov’s approach indicates that there could be. But enough.” Levin got up. “The delights of James Bond await. We’ll dine afterwards.”
MICHAEL FLYNN was in his early fifties, almost six feet tall, a powerful figure of a man in an excellent suit of Donegal tweed, his face strong and purposeful, the face of a man who didn’t waste time on anything. His office at Scamrock Security had paneled walls of oak, dark green velvet curtains at the windows, green velvet carpet, the desk and furniture speaking of a successful man who liked to be exact. In the great days of revolution, he had been, for a while, chief of staff in the Provisional IRA, although prison had followed that.
Those days were far behind him. Now he was a successful businessman, head of a company offering its expertise in the field of international security.
He looked out the window at the rain, but he was in a cheerful mood. Business was good, the death business-with all the wars and rumors of wars, it was the kind of world in which his business could only thrive. He returned to his desk, took the stopper out of a cut glass decanter and poured whiskey into a glass, and then his mobile sounded, the special one he kept only in his inside pocket.
“Yes,” he said.
“Mr. Flynn, this is Volkov.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Flynn swallowed the whiskey and poured another.“It’s been a while since I heard from you.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “So what can I do for you?”
“Oh, I just wanted to keep you informed. As you know, I have a direct pipeline to al-Qaeda.”
“The Broker, right?”
“Yes. He has informed me that an associate of mine, Abdul Rashid, was car-bombed in Baghdad. It was a Sunni operation.”
“So how does this touch me?”
“A man you supplied worked for him. His name was Terence O’Malley, a Provo.”
“The schoolmaster. A good man. Came from Bangor. What happened?”