A Darker Place (2 page)

He slid down in a corner of the doorway and died very quickly on his knees. Kurbsky took out a fresh handkerchief, wiped the knife clean, and closed it; then he leaned over the body, found a wallet and mobile phone, turned, and walked to where Bounine waited. He got in the Volvo and they drove away.

“It’s done,” Bounine said.

Kurbsky opened the glove compartment and put the wallet inside, plus the mobile phone. “You’ll get rid of those.”

“Just another street mugging.”

“He was on coke.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” He took out a pack of Marlboros.

Bounine said, “Does it bother you?”

Kurbsky said calmly, “Did Chechnya bother you?” He lit a cigarette. “Anyway, I’m not in the mood for discussion. I’ve got a performance to give. Let’s get the great Alexander Kurbsky on-stage.”

As they moved along Columbus Avenue, Bounine said, “Is that all it is to you, Alex?”

“Yuri, old friend, I’m not into Freud at the start of a dark winter’s evening in good old New York. Just get me to the Pierre, where my fans are waiting.”

He leaned back, staring out at the sleet, and smoked his cigarette.

 

 

WHEN MONICA STARLING and Professor Dunkley went into the reception at the Pierre, it was awash with people, the surroundings magnificent, the great and the good well in evidence. The U.S. ambassador to the United Nations was there, and his Russian counterpart. The champagne flowed. Monica and Dunkley took a glass each, moved to one side, and simply observed the scene.

“There seem to be a few film stars,” Dunkley said.

“There would be, George, they like to be seen. There seems to be a pop star or two, as well. I suppose they feel an affair like this touches them with a certain . . . gravitas.”

“He’s there,” Dunkley said. “Talking to the French ambassador, Henri Guyon, and the Russian—what’s his name again?”

“Ivan Makeev,” Monica told him.

“They seem very enthusiastic about something, their heads together, except for Kurbsky.”

“He looks bored, if anything,” Monica said.

“We’ll be lucky to get anywhere near him,” Dunkley told her mournfully. “Look at all those people hovering like vultures, waiting for the ambassadors to finish with him so they can move in. We’ve had it.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She stood there, her left hand on her hip, her black suede purse dangling from it, and as he turned, she caught his eye and toasted him, glass raised, and emptied it. He knew her, of course, but she didn’t know that, and he gave her a lazy and insolent smile as he walked over.

“Lady Starling, a pleasure long overdue.” He relieved her of her empty glass and waved for a passing waiter. “How are things in Cambridge these days? And this will be Professor George Dunkley, am I correct? I’ve read your book on the other Alexander.”

Dunkley was stunned. “My dear chap.” He shook hands, obviously deeply affected.

“The other Alexander?” Monica inquired.

“An early work,” Dunkley told her. “An analysis of Alexander Dumas and his writing salon.”

“All those assistants, and Dumas prowling up and down the aisles like a schoolmaster in a black frock coat,” Kurbsky said.

He resonated charm, throwing it off as if it was of no account, his voice pleasantly deep, only a hint of a Russian accent.

“Was it really like that?” Monica asked.

“But of course, and look what it produced.
The Three Musketeers, The Man in the Iron Mask, The Count of Monte Cristo
.”

Dunkley said, breathless with enthusiasm, “The literary establishment in Paris in his day treated him abominably.”

“I agree. On the other hand, they really got their faces rubbed in it when his son turned out one of the greatest of French plays,
La Dame aux Caméllias.
”

“And then Verdi used the story for
La Traviata
!” Dunkley said.

Kurbsky smiled. “One would hope Dumas got a royalty.”

They laughed, and Dunkley said, “Oh, my goodness, Captain Kurbsky, my seminars would be so crowded if my students knew you were going to attend.”

“That’s an enticing prospect, but Cambridge is not possible, I’m afraid—and Captain Kurbsky belongs to a time long gone. I’m plain Alexander now.” He smiled at Monica. “Or Alex, if you prefer.”

She returned his smile, slightly breathless, and an aide approached and said formally, “The ambassador is ready. If you would form the party, dinner is served.”

“Yes, of course,” Kurbsky said. “These two will be sitting with me.”

The aide faltered. “But sir, I don’t think that would be possible. It’s all arranged.”

“Then rearrange it.” He shrugged. “Of course, if there is a problem, we could sit at another table.”

“No, of course not, sir,” the aide said hastily. “No need—no need at all. I’ll go and make the necessary changes.”

He departed. Dunkley said, “I say, old chap, we seem to be causing a bit of a problem.”

“Not at all. I’m their Russian Frankenstein, the great Alexander Kurbsky led out like a bear on a chain to astonish the world and help make Mother Russia seem great again.”

All this was delivered with no apparent bitterness, and those cold gray eyes gave nothing away. They reminded Monica uncomfortably of Dillon, as Kurbsky continued, taking Monica’s hand and raising it to his lips.

“If you glance over my shoulder, you may see the Russian ambassador approaching to see what the fuss is about.”

“Quite right,” Monica told him. “Is he going to be angry?”

“Not at all. The moment he claps eyes on the most beautiful woman in the room, he’s going to scramble to make sure you grace his table and no one else’s.” He turned to Dunkley. “Isn’t that so, Professor?”

“Don’t ask me, dear boy, I’m just going with the flow. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.”

And then the ambassador arrived.

 

 

THE DIPLOMAT ENDED up with his wife seated on his right, Monica on his left, and Kurbsky opposite. Dunkley beamed away lower down the table, facing the French ambassador and proving that an Englishman could speak the language perfectly. The whole thing was thoroughly enjoyable, but glancing across the table, Monica was conscious that Kurbsky had withdrawn into himself. He reminded her once again of Dillon in a way. For one thing, the champagne intake was considerable, but there was an air of slight detachment. He observed, not really taking part, but then that was the writer in him, judging people, constantly assessing the situation in which he found himself.

He caught her eye, smiled slightly, and raised his eyebrows, as if saying what fools they all were, and then silence was called for speeches and the Russian ambassador led the way. It was as if it were international friendship week, nothing unpleasant was happening in the world, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan had faded into obscurity, the only thing of any significance being this dinner in one of New York’s greatest hotels, with wonderful food, champagne, and beautiful women. Everyone applauded, and when Monica glanced again at Kurbsky, he had joined in, but with the same weary detachment there. As the applause died, the French ambassador rose.

He kept it brief and succinct. He was pleased to announce that if Alexander Kurbsky would make himself available in Paris in two weeks’ time, the President of France would have great pleasure in decorating him with the Légion d’Honneur. Tumultuous acclaim, and Kurbsky stood and thanked the ambassador of France in a graceful little speech delivered in fluent French. It was a fitting end to a wonderful evening.

 

 

LATER, AS PEOPLE dispersed, Monica and Dunkley hovered. There was no sign of Kurbsky.

“What an evening,” Dunkley said. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.” They were on a Virgin flight to London in the morning, leaving at ten-thirty local time. “We’ve got an early start, so I’m for bed.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.

He walked away to the elevators. Monica paused, still seeking a sign of Kurbsky, but there wasn’t one. In fact, he was outside the hotel, sitting in the Volvo talking to Bounine.

“This Legion of Honor nonsense. Did you know about it?”

“Absolutely not, but what’s wrong, Alex? The Legion of Honor—it’s the greatest of all French decorations.”

“Do you ever get a ‘So what?’ feeling, Yuri? I’ve been there, done that.”

“Are you saying no? You can’t, Alex. Putin wants it, the country wants it. You’ll be there in Paris in two weeks. So will I. God help us, you’ve got your own Falcon back to Moscow in the morning, and a Falcon’s as good as a Gulfstream.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, old son. I’ll pick you up at ten sharp.”

Kurbsky shrugged. “Yes, I suppose you will.”

He got out, and Bounine drove away. Kurbsky watched him go, turned, and went back into the Pierre. The first thing he saw was Monica waiting for an elevator, and he approached, catching her just in time.

“Fancy a nightcap, lady?”

She smiled, pleased that he’d turned up. “Why not?”

He took her arm and they went to the bar.

 

 

THERE WEREN’T TOO many people. They sat in the corner, and he had Russian vodka, ice cold, and she contented herself with green tea.

“Very healthy of you,” he told her.

“I wish I could say the same to you, but I’m not sure about that stuff.”

“You have to be born to it.”

“Doesn’t it rot the brain?”

“Not really. Drunk this way, from a glass taken from crushed ice, it freezes the brain, clears it when problems loom.”

“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”

“No, it’s true. Now, tell me. I know about your academic accomplishments—the Ministry of Arts in Moscow is very thorough when one is attending affairs like this—but nothing about you. I’m puzzled that such a woman would not be married.”

“I’m a widow, Alex, have been for some years. My husband was a professor at Cambridge, rather older than me and a Knight of the Realm.”

“So no children?”

“No. A brother, if that helps.” Her smile faltered for a moment as she remembered her brother, Harry, recuperating from the terrible knife wounds he had so recently suffered, and, even more, the terrible psychological wounds. To see his wife assassinated after being mistaken for him—the healing process would take a long time. . . .

She brought the smile back. “He’s a Member of Parliament,” she said, making no mention of what he really did for the Prime Minister.

Of course, Kurbsky actually knew all that, but he kept up the subterfuge.

“But there must be a man in your life, a woman like you.”

She wasn’t offended in the slightest. “Yes, there is such a man.”

“Then he must count himself lucky.”

He poured another vodka, and she said, “What about you?”

“Good heavens, no. The occasional relationship, but it never lasts. I’m a very difficult man, but then, I’ve had a difficult life. You know about me?”

“A bit. Your aunt raised you, right?”

“Svetlana was everything. I loved her dearly, but life in Moscow under Communism was difficult. When I was seventeen, she got a chance to travel with a theater group to London—she was an actress—and she met a professor named Patrick Kelly, a good man. For once she had found something for herself, so she refused to return to Moscow, stayed in London and married him.”

“How was it you managed to join her?”

“That was my father. As a KGB colonel, he had influence. He arranged for me to visit Svetlana, hoping she’d change her mind.”

“And your sister?”

“Tania was at high school and only fifteen. She’d never been close to Svetlana, and so she stayed with my father. There were servants, a couple living in my father’s house, to care for her.”

“And where did the London School of Economics come in?”

He grinned, looking different, like a boy. “I always had a love of books and literature, so I didn’t need to study it. I found a new world at the LSE. Svetlana and Kelly had a wonderful Victorian house in Belsize Park, and they felt I should fill my time for a few months, so I took courses. Sociology, psychology, philosophy. The months stretched out.”

“Two years. What made you return to Moscow?”

“News from home, bad news. Over fifty-five thousand dead in Afghanistan. Too many body bags. Brokenhearted mothers revolting in the streets. Student groups fighting with the police. Tania was only seventeen, but up to her neck in it. Pitched battles, riot police, many casualties.” He paused, his face bleak. “And Tania among them.”

Her response was so instinctive as to be almost banal. She put a hand on his. “I’m so sorry.”

“I returned at once. A waste of time, of course—it was all over. Just a headstone in Minsky Park Military Cemetery. My father used his influence to make things look respectable. She was already dead when he’d got in touch with me in London, so he’d trapped me into returning. I got my revenge on him when I went downtown and joined the paratroopers. He was stuck with that. To pull me out would have looked bad in Communist Party circles.”

“Then what?”

“If you’ve read the opening chapters of
On the Death of Men,
you already know. There was no time to learn how to jump out of a plane with a parachute. I got three months’ basic training, then I was off to Afghanistan. It was ’eighty-nine, the year everything fell apart, the year we scrambled to get out, and lucky to make it.”

“It must have been hell.”

“Something like that, only we didn’t appreciate that Chechnya was to come. Two years of that, and that was just the first war.”

There was a long pause, and he poured another vodka with a steady hand. She said, “What now—what next?”

“I’m not sure. Only a handful of writers can achieve great success, and any writer lucky enough to write the special book will tell you the most urgent question is whether you can do it again or it was just some gigantic fluke.”