A Darker Place (31 page)

“For which there will be no charge to the national exchequer,” Harry pointed out. “I’m proud to serve.”

“You’ll get a knighthood yet, Harry,” Ferguson told him. “As to security, Lord Arthur Tilsey’s seeing to our people. There will also be the Vice President’s Secret Service men, and of course, the Israelis and Palestinians have added security as well.”

“And what about us?” Dillon asked.

“I’ll be there, obviously, you and Billy—and I think Monica. You’ll blend in well with the great and the good, Monica, as an extra pair of eyes and ears.” He turned to Katya. “I think you’d be better employed handling the Kurbsky situation.”

“So everybody’s going to have fun but me,” Roper pointed out.

“This is a very particular day,” Ferguson said. “No one could be more important than you, Roper, viewing the entire proceedings on your screens via the CCTV cameras. Of all people, you will be in control.”

“Now you’re stroking me, but true enough.” His fingers danced over the keys and there on screen was the
Garden of Eden
at Cadogan Pier, a hive of activity. “There’s a much better view from here, anyway. So get out of here, all of you, just go away and have an absolutely wonderful time.”

They all moved on except Katya. “I know I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone what you discovered about him. It just all poured out.”

“A good thing it did.”

“It was Svetlana. I had to tell her, and he was on the terrace of the conservatory and overheard.”

“It’s all right.” He reached for her hand. “It’s worked out for the best, or let’s hope it has.”

“But what’s going to happen to him?”

“He could always seek asylum, sit around here till his hair grows back, write a truly great book, and reappear on the international scene.”

There was hope on her face. “Would that be possible?”

“Well, if we wouldn’t have him, the Yanks certainly would. After what he did for Blake Johnson? President Cazalet would see to that.”

“What a world.” She shook her head.

“Isn’t it? Anyway, you go home and reassure Svetlana, and if Kurbsky calls you, let me know at once.”

She went, leaving him there in his only true home.

ENDGAME

K
urbsky had driven around the streets for some considerable time with absolutely no idea of a destination. His Codex trembled on occasion, and when he checked, it indicated Katya. He didn’t reply, because he couldn’t think of anything to say. He finally lost himself in a maze of side streets in the general area of the Dark Man and Cable Wharf. He found a small café on a corner and had a burger and a cup of tea while he thought.

There was a television behind the bar and a bulletin came on, the news of the day’s events having leaked. Old footage of each of the Big Four came on as the reporter talked, and then some stuff showing the
Garden of Eden
and all the preparations under way. It was raining again, just to make things difficult for the workers, and it occurred to him that the men in suits should have considered the possibility of bad March weather on the Thames.

He returned to the Ford, got behind the wheel, and his Codex trembled, Katya again. This time he decided to speak to her.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Does it matter? Backstreets, the river. How’s Svetlana?”

“Very upset, obviously. I’ve been to Holland Park and met with Ferguson and the others. They understand, Alex, they really do now that they know everything. Ferguson wants you to just come in.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. He told me that was what I had to tell you if we spoke, but there’s something more.”

“And what would that be?”

“He had us all in the computer room while he spoke to Luzhkov on the speakerphone. Told him he was aware of his part in the whole business, from the blackmailing of you with the fake DVD and file, to the attempt to kidnap Blake Johnson.”

“What did he say in reply?”

“There wasn’t much he could say.” She told him about Ferguson’s threat of mass deportation.

Kurbsky actually found that quite amusing. “It would certainly denude the Embassy of staff. There are dozens of GRU people posing as commercial attachés, economic attachés, even arts attachés. It would hit the bastards hard to be banished back to Moscow.”

“Anyway, you must think hard, Alex. They’re all busy today with this conference on the Thames.”

“Yes, I saw something about that on a café television.”

“Please, Alex, I’m begging you. If not for me, then Svetlana.”

He was very touched. “Give me a little time. I’ll see how I feel. Perhaps I could come back to Chamber Court again tonight.”

“Your arm—is it okay?”

“Of course it is. Hitesh did a wonderful job. I’ll be fine.”

Which wasn’t strictly true, because it had been aching badly for some time. He found the bottle of painkillers Hitesh had given him. It said two, so he took four, then drove away.

CHARLES FERGUSON’S ONSLAUGHT left Luzhkov in a rage. He got the vodka out, swilled it down, and stamped around his office in a fury.

“That bastard Ferguson, to treat me like this.”

“I should point out that we’re on his patch, Colonel. He has the legal right to do what he has threatened.”

“And we would have the right to respond, to kick people out from the British Embassy in Moscow.”

Bounine was all lawyer now. “But perhaps Prime Minister Putin wouldn’t like that, or President Medvedev.”

“I don’t care about all that,” Luzhkov raged.

“It would be a pity if one or both of them came to the conclusion that you had acted unadvisedly in this matter. It’d be a great pity to lose the delights of London after thirteen years.”

It was enough, and for Luzhkov obviously a sobering thought. “Yes, it makes sense.” He sighed. “Maybe we should cancel the operation.”

“I wonder how Ali Selim will take that?” Bounine said. “Half a million up the spout.”

“He’ll be sensible. We’ve worked together before and we’ll work together again.”

Bounine nodded. “Do you want me to stay while you phone him?”

Luzhkov was not happy, and it showed. “A phone call he would take badly. He is a man of uncertain temper, as you will have noticed.” He turned to the wall safe behind his desk, opened it, and disclosed stacks of cash. He took a canvas bag from a lower shelf and tossed packets of money in it. He pushed it across the desk. “Give him this. Fifty thousand pounds, with my compliments for his time.”

“Fifty thousand pounds for nothing?”

“Believe me, it’s the safest course with that one. Take it to him now.” He frowned. “Are you refusing to obey my order, Major?”

“Of course not.”

“Then the sooner you go, the sooner you get back.”

If I get back, Bounine thought. He took the bag and withdrew.

 

 

HE LEFT AT once and was at India Wharf in little more than half an hour. Yuri Bounine was a brave man, for he could not have survived Afghanistan and Chechnya if he had not been, but in this case he was dealing with a very unbalanced human being. He had a Stechkin pistol in his raincoat pocket, which he suspected would not do him much good if it came down to a hand-to-hand struggle. So he would just have to trust his luck.

He opened the doors at the head of the companionway and called, “Ali Selim, it’s Bounine. Colonel Luzhkov has sent me to see you. He has a message for you.”

“Then come below and give it to me.”

 

 

HE WAS SITTING at the end of the table, the Beretta pistol at his right hand beside an early edition of the
Standard
, which carried a picture of the
Garden of Eden
on the front page.

He looked up. “I’m just bringing myself up to speed on what’s happening. I was watching it on television a little while ago.” He frowned, then said calmly, “There’s something up, isn’t there?”

Bounine tried a joke. “You know what they say. Don’t shoot the messenger. He wants to cancel.”

Ali Selim poured a cognac. “Has he got a reason?”

“He thinks Moscow won’t like it. It’ll cause too much trouble on the international scene.”

“Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Because he’s afraid of you.”

“And you are not?”

“When I was in the Russian Army, I fought Afghans for long enough to learn something about them. You invited me in, I’m a guest in your dwelling.” He put the bag on the table. “He said this is his gift to you for your trouble.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand pounds.”

Ali Selim laughed out loud. “At any other time, I might have said yes, but today not only does his fifty thousand quid mean nothing, even his half million means fuck all.”

“Could you explain that?” Bounine sat down on one of the benches.

“You want to know why I’ve been pouring cognac down me like it’s gone out of style? Pains in my gut, started four weeks ago, and I discovered that a slug of cognac kills the pain for a while.”

“A short while,” Bounine said.

“Exactly, so I saw the doctor, had the tests, and he phoned me up an hour ago. Wanted me to go and see him, but I’m a big boy now, so I told him to come straight out with it.”

“And?”

“Cancer in my liver and lights, already spreading like wildfire. No chance with surgery and too late for chemo.”

“How long?”

“Three months tops.” He laughed and poured more cognac. “And I don’t fancy that, Bounine. It sounds too much like a kind of torture.”

“So what do you fancy?”

Ali laughed wickedly. “Like going out in a blaze of glory—or should I say Semtex. Now, how do you think Luzhkov would feel about that? It would be like one of those old black-and-white war movies with a title like
Torpedo Run
.”

The smile was quite mad, but he obviously meant it. “I don’t think Luzhkov would approve at all,” Bounine said.

“What a shame. He’d be getting it for free and I’d give him all the credit.” He got up, went behind the bar, and opened a cupboard. “This is where I keep my flags.” He rummaged around and turned with a red flag. “Hammer and sickle and God bless Mother Russia. So what do you think?”

“That Luzhkov would be so hostile to the idea that he might warn the British Security Services or Scotland Yard about what you intended.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve handled a number of operations for him over the years, and I’ll just mention one. It was before your time here, four years ago, the Liverpool shopping-mall bomb that was put down to Al Qaeda. Twelve dead, twenty-one injured. That was me. Part of Luzhkov’s breakup-of-modern-capitalism campaign. Ten years ago, I arranged five different bombings in Belfast during the Troubles, also part of his obsession with causing chaos in the Western world. I could prove all this. The Russian journalist, Dolishny, who supposedly committed suicide from the terrace of his tenth-floor apartment in Clapham two years ago? Him too. He didn’t fall, he was pushed.”

“By you?”

“Who else? And in that case, I’ve got a tape of our discussions setting the thing up.”

“So everything else would be just your word? What would he have to do to persuade you to give him that tape?”

“This. He comes here and faces me, he doesn’t inform on me to the British authorities, he gets the tape—and I leave at once to intercept the
Garden of Eden.
Too late for anyone to stop me.”

The smile was that of a raving lunatic, and he laughed harshly and looked at his watch. “You’ve got plenty of time. Go and speak to him.”

Bounine nodded. “I’ll do as you say.”

As he got to the companionway, Ali said, “Bounine, just remember this: I don’t give a fuck. I’m going to die, and if it isn’t today, it’s going to be soon. So there’s nothing he can do to me. Got it?”

 

 

BOUNINE DROVE BACK to the Embassy as quickly as he could. The whole thing was out of control, and yet some sense of military discipline and loyalty to his country still argued that his duty was to support and defend Luzhkov in any way possible. It then struck him that that must have been the argument some young SS officer had faced when his boss was Heinrich Himmler.

He found Luzhkov in his office. “Yuri,” his boss said, “is the matter concluded?”

“Anything but.” Bounine told him exactly what had taken place.

Luzhkov was thrown. “But this is terrible. What can I do?”

“Well, you obviously can’t warn Ferguson or anyone else in intelligence, because if they get their hands on Ali Selim, you’ve had it. That tape alone would ruin you, never mind his confession on other matters.”

“He’s mad,” Luzhkov said.

“No, he’s dying, and he doesn’t care. Now, what are you going to do about the
Garden of Eden
? Would you consider a phone call to the authorities?”

Luzhkov said, “I don’t give a damn about the bloody boat. My problem is Ali Selim. You should have shot him.”

“Frankly, in his unbalanced state, I consider myself lucky to have got off his barge in one piece.”

“Then you must go back.”

“And say please can I have the tape, and then shoot him? This is nonsense, Colonel. If you want the tape, you must face him.”

Luzhkov was looking increasingly desperate. “All right, but you must come with me. You must find an opportunity to shoot him.” He poured a vodka with a shaking hand and swallowed it down. He took a deep breath. “I order you, Bounine.”

It was a defining moment for Yuri Bounine, an epiphany. He was tired, so tired and sick of the whole business, of the GRU and men like Boris Luzhkov and Putin and the bleak prospect of a return to Moscow to serve a system that had treated Alexander Kurbsky the way it had. This man was part of it, a man to whom others were completely unimportant, who considered only his own self-interest.