The Wolf at the Door Read Free Page B

know what I mean.”
    “Oh, I do.” Miller beckoned to a waiter. “Now join us in a glass of champagne, Josef? We could celebrate your London appointment.”
    “Most kind of you.” A brief smile flickered, as if he was amused at Miller’s familiarity.
    Dillon said, “It isn’t vodka, but it will do to take along.” He raised his glass. “To Vladimir Putin. That was quite a speech.”
    “You think so?” Lermov said.
    “A bit of a genius, if you look at it,” Dillon said.
    Miller smiled. “Definitely a man to keep your eye on.”
    Lermov said, “Your friend, Blake Johnson, I expected him to be here, too. I wonder what’s happened to him? Ah, well, I suppose he’s moved on also.” He smiled that odd smile and walked away.
     
     
     
    At Mercy Hospital on the Upper East Side, the man known as Frank Barry lay in a room on the fifth floor, where he had been prepped to get the bullet out of his knee. His eyes were closed, and he was hooked up to everything in sight, the only sounds electronic beepings. A young intern entered, dressed for the operating room, a nurse behind him. He raised the sheet over Barry’s left knee and shuddered.
    “Christ, that’s as bad as I’ve seen. This guy’s going to be crippled.” Barry didn’t move. “He’s been thoroughly prepped, I take it.”
    “The anesthetist on this one is Dr. Hale. The guy was in such agony, he was begging for mercy. Mind you, I caught him making a phone call earlier in spite of the pain, so I confiscated it. It’s on the side there. He said his name is Frank Barry and he lives in the Village. Mugged in Central Park.”
    “Just when I thought it was safe to go there,” Hale said. “The police have been notified?”
    “Nobody’s turned up yet, but they’ve been told he’s going into the OR, so I suppose they think they can take their time.”
    “Okay,” the intern said. “Twenty minutes.” He went out, and the nurse followed him.
    It was quiet in the corridor. The man who emerged from the elevator at the far end wore green scrubs, a skullcap, and a surgical mask. He took his time, checking the names on doors almost casually, found what he was looking for, and went in.
    Barry was out, there was no doubt about that, as the man produced a hypo from his pocket, ready charged, exposed the needle, and injected its contents in Barry’s left arm. The man stood there, looking down for a moment, noticed Barry’s mobile phone on the bedside table, picked it up, and turned to dump the hypo in the wastebasket. The door suddently opened, and the nurse came in.
    She was immediately alarmed. “Who are you? What are you doing?”
    He dropped the hypo in the bin and punched her brutally, knocking her to the floor. He went out, hurried along the corridor, and, as an alarm sounded behind him, didn’t bother with the elevator but took the stairs, plunging down fast, finally reaching the basement parking garage. A few moments later, he was driving out.
    Upstairs, of course, it was pandemonium on the fifth floor with the discovery of the unconscious nurse, but it would be some time before she would be able to explain what had happened. The only certainty was that the man known as Frank Barry was dead.
     
     
     
    It was just before midnight in London when Major Giles Roper, of the bomb-scarred face, sitting at his computer at the Holland Park safe house, got the phone call from Ferguson.
    “Little late for you, General.”
    “Never mind that. Some bugger just tried to blow me up after I’d been to that do at the Garrick.”
    Roper turned his wheelchair to the drinks table, poured a large scotch, and said, “Tell me.”
    Which Ferguson did, the whole affair, including the death of Pool. “I’m at Rosedene now,” he said, naming the very private hospital he had created for his people in London, a place of absolute total privacy and security, headed by the finest general surgeon in London. “Bellamy’s insisting on checking me thoroughly. I was