A Darker Place (27 page)

 

 

BACK FROM HIS meeting, Blake Johnson had been dropped at the front entrance of the hotel only fifteen minutes before Kurbsky arrived, and Igor Oleg saw it. He was wearing a green uniform, the name of a laundry company printed on the back. His companion, Petrovich, was waiting in the courtyard at the rear of the building.

Oleg had gone around to the back using the very footway that Kurbsky was on now, and hurried down the steps to his companion, who already had a large four-wheeled cloth container waiting filled with towels.

“He’s here,” Oleg told him.

“Let’s get it done, then.” They went in through the basement door, entered the service elevator, and went up to the top floor.

 

 

BLAKE HAD TAKEN off his jacket, loosened his tie, and poured himself a whiskey—and a large one. Not because of his exertions at the NATO meeting—the highly classified twenty minutes he had spent with his good friend Charles Ferguson afterward had been much more demanding. The interesting thing about politics was that sometimes, though not often, you could help to make history just a little bit.

The door buzzed, he walked toward the door, drink in hand, opened it, and Oleg punched him very hard just under the breastbone. As Blake’s legs buckled, Oleg caught him and dragged him backward so that Petrovich could wheel in the laundry cart. His wrists were handcuffed together with plastic ties, his mouth was taped, a large plastic tie bound his ankles.

Towels were removed, and they hoisted him between them and dropped him in the cart, then covered him with the towels again. Oleg opened the door, checked that the corridor was clear, and they walked to the end and discovered the service elevator was on its way.

Oleg glanced nervously at Petrovich as they waited for the elevator door to open. A Filipino cleaning woman, in hotel uniform and carrying a mop and pail, emerged, nodded without a word, and walked off down the corridor. They got in the elevator and descended, smiling at each other, emerging on the ground floor and pushing the cart out into the courtyard toward the truck.

Kurbsky, emerging from the walkway, saw everything. He remembered Oleg and Petrovich from the GRU safe house outside Moscow, and the fact that they were pushing the cart said it all. The top half of the back of the truck was stretched canvas, the bottom half metal. Opened, it provided a ramp to facilitate loading. They shoved the cart inside, closed the ramp, and walked around to board.

Kurbsky was already rushing down the steps as the engine roared and the truck started to move. The bottom of the ramp protruded slightly, and he got a foot on it and hung on by his left hand, clutching the twine that held the canvas tight. He reached in his boot, found the gutting knife, stabbed into the canvas, and cut it from top to bottom. Then he sliced to one side, raised the flap he had created, and pulled himself through.

Once inside, he replaced the knife in his boot, found the ski mask in his left leg pocket, and pulled it on, stuffing his tweed cap into the pocket in its place. It was gloomy outside now and even gloomier in the truck. There was no sound from the cart, and there were several more all full of laundry, and he had to force his way through and listen from the back of the cab. He could hear voices, but not what they were saying.

He took out the gutting knife and sliced a hole in the canvas on the left side so that a flap hung down and he could see out to where they were going. Traffic, houses, but a busy road, obviously pushing out of the city. He turned to the cart and pulled out the towels, revealing Blake Johnson.

He had obviously recovered his senses, and his eyes were wide open and staring. Kurbsky spoke to him in street Russian, heavily accented working class. “I hear you speak Russian? If I’m right, nod your head.” Blake did so, and Kurbsky carried on. “You’ve been kidnapped by some pretty bad people. They’re taking you to an airfield called Berkley Down in Kent, where there’s a Falcon waiting to take you to Moscow or Siberia. I’ll take the tape off now so you can talk, but keep your voice low.”

He yanked the tape off in one quick pull, and Blake winced. “Christ, that hurt,” he said in English.

“Better we stick to Russian.”

Blake did. “Who the hell are you?”

“You ask too many questions, my friend.” Kurbsky sliced the plastic ties at his wrists and ankles. “There you go.”

His harsh, uncultivated tones could have been the voice of some low-life member of a Moscow Mafia gang, and Blake, pulling himself out of the laundry cart, had to grab hold of the nearest strut to stop himself from falling over.

“What’s going on?”

“You Americans have a thing called extraordinary rendition, right?”

“I know that can happen, and I’m not proud of it.”

“Well, this is the Russian version, and I’m saving you from it.”

“But why should you care?”

“Now you disappoint me, Mr. Johnson.” Kurbsky pushed Blake so he fell on a pile of towels. “Sit down and shut up.”

He peered out through the hole he had made in the left side of the canopy. They were moving out into country now, fields, woods, only the occasional house. He turned, went to the tailgate, and sliced the canvas till it was open from top to bottom, then undid the clamps on each side that held the ramp in place and kicked it open so that it trailed down, scraping on the road.

The truck swerved, and he grabbed a stanchion and took out the Walther. Blake, rolling among the towels as the truck swerved again, cried, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Making them stop,” Kurbsky said.

They swerved again into a lay-by that stood empty for the moment, backed by trees and fields. There were voices raised, and both of the cab doors banged open.

“Get ready,” Kurbsky said.

Petrovich and Oleg appeared from each side and stood there, amazement and shock on their faces. “Good evening, Comrades,” Kurbsky said cheerfully.

“What is this?” Oleg demanded. “Who are you?”

“Your worst nightmare. Mr. Johnson doesn’t fancy the holiday in Siberia. It’s the wrong time of year.”

Petrovich suddenly pulled a Beretta out of his pocket, and Kurbsky shot him in the hand. “Really stupid, that. Now you’ve got to manage without knuckles.” He was out of the truck, followed by Blake, and said, “Get their weapons.”

Which Blake did. “Now what?” he asked, calmer and in control.

“Well, you won’t want the police in on this, and neither will the pride of the GRU here, so we’ll leave them and drive away. These days they’re only a mobile call away from like-minded comrades who’ll come running. Have you got one?”

Blake said, “Luckily, I always carry it in my pants pocket.”

“Well, there you are. I’ll drop you off at a service station.” He turned to Oleg. “Raise the ramp and put the clip in place on the right-hand side. I’ll do the left.”

Oleg was bitterly angry, his face said it all, but he did as he was told until, seizing a moment that Kurbsky turned, pulled out a spring-blade knife and slashed. Kurbsky only just managed to ward it off. It sliced through the sleeve of the overall and into his left arm.

Kurbsky hit him across the face. “That was very stupid, but you always were a moron.” He rammed the muzzle against Oleg’s right ear and shot half of it off. Oleg howled, and Kurbsky shoved him into Petrovich, who was trying to stop the bleeding from his knuckles with a handkerchief and failing miserably.

“Are you okay?” Blake asked. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled before.” Kurbsky put the Walther in his pocket, took off his khaki scarf, and bound it around his left arm as tightly as he could. He said to the two Russians, “You bastards better call in for room service. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said to Blake, went around, and climbed up behind the wheel of the truck.

“Have you any idea what you look like?” Blake said.

“Yes,
tovarich
.” Kurbsky laughed. “A bank robber or international terrorist. Take your pick. See that big roundabout up ahead? That sends us back the other way, towards London. I drop you at the first service station and you call in your people and I’m away, like I’ve never been here.”

“But you have, my friend,” Blake said. “And thank God for it.”

“No problem,
tovarich
,” said Kurbsky, and he laughed harshly.

 

 

TEN MINUTES LATER, Kurbsky pulled in on the edge of the approach road to a service station. “There you go,” he said, and Blake dismounted.

As Blake turned to say good-bye, the truck simply drove away, slowing only to enter the traffic stream, and Kurbsky pulled off the ski mask and pulled on the tweed cap. His arm was hurting and he didn’t know how bad it was, but that was all right. A good man had been saved from a bad end, that was the thing, and he settled down to drive back to London.

DARKNESS WAS BEGINNING to fall as he reached Marble Arch. He left the truck on a building site and simply walked away from it, once more threading his way through Mayfair until he reached the Albany Regency, and went into the parking area and found everything as he had left it.

He cleared up the cones and his sign, his arm hurting, got behind the wheel of the Ford, and drove away. He’d have a look at the arm when he got back to the house. One of those British Army wound packs that he had in his bag would take care of it.

His phone trembled as he was going up Abbey Road, and he pulled in to answer. Bounine said, “Alex, you’ve been the greatest friend of my life. In fact, in the old days, you saved my life more than once. But something’s happened here, and I’ve got to ask you if you know anything about it.”

“Well, I can’t answer until I know what it is.”

“We got a mobile call from Oleg out in the country requesting a pick-up for him and Petrovich. They tell an incredible story.”

“I’m listening.”

Bounine covered the facts pretty exactly, and when he was finished said, “Forgive me for asking you this, but considering what has happened, our conversations, your interest in the operation—could it in any way have had anything to do with you?”

“Are you asking for yourself or for Luzhkov?”

“Luzhkov is convinced this masked man must have been Sean Dillon, because he shot off half of Oleg’s right ear. He said it’s Dillon’s trademark.”

“Well, there you are, then. All the same, it’s a good man saved from a lousy fate.”

“So it was nothing to do with you?”

“My dear Yuri, I’m the man who’s had a sister rotting in Station Gorky for years, and who might—repeat, might—have a chance to bring her back to life if he’s a good boy and does as he’s told.”

Bounine’s voice changed. He said hoarsely, “Of course, old friend, forgive me. To do such a thing would be like a sentence of death for her. How could I have been so stupid?”

“Yuri, don’t worry about it.”

“But I do. It’s Luzhkov and his wild talk, always me he confides in. How he has strong contacts with Islamists, how he could bring terror to the streets of London if he wanted to.”

“Fantasyland, Yuri, dreams of power. It’s gone to his head since he found himself face-to-face with Putin. Put it out of your mind, get a decent night’s sleep. We’ll talk again.”

 

 

HE DROVE INTO the garage, switched off, and got out of the van. He went out and saw Katya watching him through the trees, arms folded against the cold. He walked toward her.

“Have you had a good afternoon?”

“I went to the safe house.”

It was a lie, and she knew it because Roper had phoned asking after him a little earlier. She said calmly, “Have you eaten? We haven’t yet.”

“I need a shower. I’m not fit for human consumption,” he joked.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” she said. “Isn’t that blood soaking through the scarf? What happened?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” he said. “I’ll go and get changed, have a shower. I’ll let you know how I feel.”

He went away quickly and she watched him go, waited until the lights turned on above the garage. She went in, troubled, and said to Svetlana, “He lied to me. He said he’d been to the safe house, but Roper phoned me looking for him, and he’s hurt himself in some way. I’m worried.”

“Then go and see him. Tell him you’re worried.”

 

 

IN THE KITCHEN, Kurbsky stood at the sink, the top half of his overalls hanging down. The wound could have been worse, the tip of the knife doing the damage but not too deep, but it was five or six inches long. He had one of the British Army wound packs unopened at the side of the sink when the door opened and Katya entered. She came close and was shocked.

“My God, you need the hospital.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve got everything I need here. I’m an old soldier, remember. I’ve had far worse than this.”

She examined it and shook her head. “I think you should go. It’s a knife wound, isn’t it? What happened?”

“A couple of young punks tried to mug me. One of them had a knife, and there was a struggle. I gave them a good hiding. End of story, except that in hospitals the world over, if you tell how it went, the police get involved. So I’ll see to it myself.”

“You really are very stupid. Just sit there and wait while I go and get Hitesh Patel.”

“No, I don’t want him involved.”

“Well, I do.” She got a bottle of vodka from a cupboard and a glass and filled it. “Drink that, shut up, and wait.”

 

 

SHE WAS BACK in just under fifteen minutes with Hitesh, who was wearing a blue polo shirt and blazer and carried a black bag.

“What have you got there, the tools of the trade?” Kurbsky asked.

“I have my own instruments—it’s part of the game.” He picked up the army wound pack. “My goodness, Henri, you are well prepared.” He removed his jacket and hung it on a chair and opened the bags and found some surgical gloves. “Now, let’s have a look.” He nodded. “Nasty. May I inquire if you have killed anybody?”