A Darker Place (29 page)

He leaned forward.

“Then the Wall came down and Communism was kicked to the side. In its place, all the evils of capitalism flourished, the greed spilled over, touching every country in the world. Those who taught me the virtues of Communism at my village school were right then and right now. Chaos is what we must create. Chaos, disorder, fear, poverty, and unrest in the Western world, because that will, more than anything, cause a breakdown in society, working people will revolt, and Communist order will be restored!”

There was a long silence, because Bounine couldn’t think of a thing to say. That Luzhkov believed every word he’d said was obvious. That the man was a dangerous lunatic was also obvious, at least to Bounine. But he dared not disagree. Better to wait and listen. . . .

“What would you like me to do, Colonel?”

“This is now a priority. The moment it is confirmed that a riverboat is to be used for the meeting, I am to be notified. The moment we know
which
boat, I am to be notified. Every scrap of information must be evaluated.”

Bounine turned to Greta, who had stood almost to attention during Luzhkov’s outburst, completely riveted. “You’ve heard the Colonel, Greta. Do you understand what’s expected?”

“Absolutely, Major.”

“Get on with it, then.”

She went out, and he turned to Luzhkov. “What next, Colonel?”

“We need a man, Bounine, to deal with our problem satisfactorily. A bad man who is also a madman.” He chuckled at his rhyme. “A man who speaks of God but thinks more of money. A man who doesn’t care and who looks upon each day as the day he may die.”

“And you know of such a man?”

“Yes, I know of such a man. Go and get your coat, make sure you have a pistol in your pocket, and I will introduce you to him.”

T
he cab dropped Katya at the mews, and she let herself in and walked through the garden. She paused on the terrace and looked at the garage, and there was no light. In fact, Kurbsky was up and watching her through a crack in the curtains. His arm felt numb, but not unpleasantly so. He wore a bathrobe and smoked a cigarette, wondering about Katya and where she had been.

He could see through the trees into the conservatory, saw her standing and talking to Svetlana. It was enough. He went downstairs, found a scarf in the hall to put around his neck, and went out and walked cautiously through the trees. The door stood open to the terrace; he could hear the voices, but not distinctly, and moved carefully, keeping low in the rhododendron bushes until he was close. He had missed part of the exchange, but Svetlana’s words made it plain what it had been about.

“So you say the man in the hood who saved this American, Johnson, was Alexander. Can this be true?”

“Johnson said the man in the hood was cut on the left arm and that he tied his khaki scarf about it. That was how Alex was when he came home. Hitesh will confirm it.”

“Why would he be involved in such a thing?”

“I don’t know, Svetlana. Maybe just a good deed in a bad world. He saved the American from an awful fate.” Katya’s voice faltered. “But there’s more, much more, and maybe I shouldn’t tell, because it will hurt you terribly, but I feel that I must. It will hurt him terribly too, but what can I do?”

She was crying so much, so very much, and the old lady took her hands. “What is it, my dear?”

“You thought Tania died in January 1989 and was buried in Minsky Park Military Cemetery. In fact, she was sentenced to life at Station Gorky in Siberia. She was admitted on January 25, 1989. Roper discovered it.”

“Dear God, that such a thing could be. That my wretched brother should permit such a thing.” Tears were running down Svetlana’s cheeks. “She’s still there after all these years, is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, she’s dead now, God rest her soul.” The tears made her choke. “Died of typhoid in that terrible place on March 7, 2000.”

There was a groan from outside and Kurbsky appeared in the doorway. “For God’s sake, no. It can’t be true.”

She went to him then, putting her arms about him and holding him. “Oh, Alex, my dearest, it is true. Roper broke into all the files and it’s all there, everything that happened to her.”

Svetlana put her hands out. “Come to me, my dear one, come to me.”

He went to her, falling on his knees in anguish. “You don’t understand. They lied to me. She was supposed to be still alive.”

Katya crouched on the other side of Svetlana’s chair. “Who lied to you, Alex? Who?”

“Putin himself, Boris Luzhkov,” and as Svetlana held him close, he told them everything.

 

 

BOUNINE WAS DRIVING as they turned out into Kensington High Street. “Just follow my directions,” Luzhkov told him. “It’s by the river. The great and mighty Thames. I adore history, you know, it’s a passion. Roman ships with slaves at the oars crept up this river two thousand years ago and made the city out of a tribal encampment.”

In between his lecturing, he managed to give Bounine instructions on their route.

“There was a time when it was the biggest port in the world, crammed with ships, queuing to get a berth. Hundreds of cranes, docks all over the place. Now so many are in a state of decay, warehouses boarded up. It’s a real tragedy.”

“You’ve been here for a long time,” Bounine said.

“Thirteen years. The best posting I’ve ever had. I love the place. I spend a lot of my time sightseeing, particularly the run-down areas. It’s amazing what you find. Every race under the sun, every color, you’ll find them here like nowhere else in the world, down by the river, tight racial groups, a few streets each, shops, houses.”

They were close to the river, and it started to rain as they drove down narrow cobbled streets, many of the properties around them boarded up, and then they emerged onto an anchorage that had a sign, “India Wharf,” edged by tall Victorian warehouses, most boarded. In the basin were several moored boats, including an old Thames barge. A curved entrance ran from the basin into one of the warehouses, and moored inside was a large orange motorboat with a huge outboard motor.

They parked the Mercedes and got out. “That thing looks fast,” said Bounine.

“It is fast. He gave me a run in it once.”

“Who did?”

“Come and meet him.”

He led the way along the wharf. There were lights at the windows of the barge, a gangplank stretching to a companionway leading below. It was closed by two mahogany doors, which Luzhkov opened.

“Ali Selim, are you there?”

“Who the fuck is that?” The voice was very Cockney.

“Boris Luzhkov.”

“Have you brought any money with you? If not, you can piss off.”

“My dear Ali, when have I ever let you down?”

Luzhkov went down and Bounine followed, finding himself in a surprisingly well-ordered interior. The cabin was comfortably furnished, with padded benches down each side, pictures on the walls where there was room, small curtains at the portholes. There was a kitchen area behind a bar, an archway behind obviously leading to sleeping quarters. The man sitting at one end of the table was of mixed blood and looked to be in his fifties, an aggressively handsome man with a hooked nose and the look of a predatory hawk about him. He had taken an old Luger pistol to pieces, spread them on a cloth before him, and was carefully cleaning them. Close to his hand was a Beretta pistol that he could have picked up in a second. His hair was very black and tied in a ponytail that hung to the small of his back, and the only Muslim thing about him was an Egyptian white cotton shirt with wide sleeves.

He paused at what he was doing and looked Bounine over. “Who’s this?”

“Major Yuri Bounine, my second in command.”

“Another one? Boris, you old bastard, they come and go, but you go on forever. I don’t know how you manage to survive, your lot being the fucking maggots they are.”

“You will forgive Ali’s rather colorful language. His father, an Afghan, a deckhand on a cargo ship, landed in the Pool of London around fifty-five years ago and formed a relationship with a Cockney lady from Stepney.”

“Get it right, Boris. She might have been pregnant, but they did marry in church, so my old mum was a lady. It would displease me to think of you putting it about otherwise.”

“Heaven forbid that I should think such a thing.”

“Is this business or pleasure?”

“Very much business, my friend. This could be a very big payday for you.”

“Well, just let me fix this, and then we’ll have a drink and you can tell me all about it.”

Suddenly, with incredible speed and as if it were a game, he put the pieces of the Luger together. Bounine was amazed. “That was truly remarkable.”

“What would you know? You GRU guys sit on your arses in some Embassy office.”

“Major Bounine was a paratrooper in Afghanistan and also served in Chechnya,” Luzhkov informed him.

“Really?” Ali Selim turned to Bounine and extended his hand. “Now, that I respect. A man who went to Afghanistan and came back in one piece I truly respect. Sit down and we’ll have a drink. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He went out, and Bounine said, “Quite a character.”

“A killer of the first water. Served Al Qaeda in Iraq and Beirut. He makes big money in the drug business running heroin along the Thames. He still has family links back in Afghanistan, which helps with the poppy trade.” His mobile sounded and he answered. He held it out to Bounine. “It’s Greta. You take it on deck. I’ll handle Ali.”

Bounine went up and stood under a canopy in the rain. “Tell me,” he ordered.

“It is a riverboat, a new one built a couple of years ago, called the
Garden of Eden.
It is very luxurious, three decks, a bit tropical in its ambience.”

“Sounds like a floating conservatory. Where will it be?”

“Cadogan Pier, Chelsea. They’ll have their discussion, then their joyride past the House of Commons, and disembark at Westminster Pier. Preparations have already started.”

“Good, I’ll be in touch.”

Bounine went back to the cabin and found that Ali Selim had still not returned. He quickly told Luzhkov what Greta had said.

“When we’re driving back to the Embassy, we could take a look,” Luzhkov said. “It’s near Cheyne Walk.” He nodded, thinking about it. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they got their heads together before boarding the boat.”

“Who knows?” Bounine said, and Ali Selim came in.

“Is everything all right, my friend?” Luzhkov asked.

“A little stomach trouble. Nothing a large cognac won’t cure.” He drank one at the bar, then poured another. “Anyone else?” There were no takers. “So let’s get on with it. What’s the game?”

“The half-a-million-pound kind of game,” Luzhkov said.

Ali Selim didn’t even blink. He swallowed the second cognac, put down the glass, and leaned on the bar. “Okay, tell me everything.”

So Luzhkov nodded to Bounine.

 

 

AFTERWARD, BOUNINE SAID, “I realize what a hopeless proposition this must sound. Between the British Security Services and the Vice President’s Secret Service men—let alone Israeli and Palestinian security—getting on the boat would be a nightmare.”

“One couldn’t even plant a bomb on board,” Luzhkov said. “They’ll go over the
Garden of Eden
with a fine-tooth comb.”

“And find nothing,” Bounine said.

“Because the bomb’s elsewhere.” Ali Selim nodded. “Come with me.”

He led the way up the companionway and stood under the canopy, rain pouring down. “Have a look over there.” He pointed to the large orange motorboat with the huge outboard. “I call that
Running Dog,
and her speed would amaze you. Some lifeboat stations use them as rescue boats, and the River Police have a few on the Thames.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Luzhkov asked.

Selim turned and pointed down at the other boats moored with the canvas covers. “One of these loaded with Semtex would do it. Sink the
Garden of Eden
like a stone.”

“Come off it,” Bounine said. “You’d need a suicide bomber to do that. This isn’t Baghdad.”

“I’d arrive while it’s tacking out into the river. I’ll cast off the motorboat so it can’t help but collide. Since it will be carrying seventy pounds of Semtex with short-time pencil fuses, it will blow the
Garden of Eden
to kingdom come.”

Luzhkov looked at him in awe. “And what about you?”

“What about me? I sink the
Running Dog
in some run-down dockland area, await events, and vanish if necessary with your half-million pounds to comfort me. I’ll be fine. I always make out.”

Bounine said, “And the Vice President and the others? This doesn’t bother you, not even the President of Palestine?”

“Fuck him, Major, who cares? It’s a lousy world. People live and die because these politicians push the pieces around on some gigantic chessboard.”

He led the way down to the cabin again, went to the bar, made a face, almost as if he were in pain, and poured another cognac.

“That’s better,” he said. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes,” Bounine said. “You mentioned seventy pounds of Semtex. That’s an astonishing amount. Can you get it at such short notice?”

Ali turned, dropped to one knee, and pulled a khaki-colored canvas holdall from a cupboard behind the bar. His strength obvious, he lifted it and dropped it on the bar. He unzipped and opened it, and there was the Semtex neatly stacked in blocks, each covered by greasy paper. On top was a large tin. He opened it.

“Pencil timers. See for yourself.”

“Excellent,” Luzhkov said. “Everything appears to be in perfect order.”

“Call me when you have the exact departure time. Now I’ve got things to do, so go.”

Bounine said, “You haven’t made arrangements for the delivery of the half million. Aren’t you worried?”