A Darker Place (4 page)

“But Luzhkov—make sure you don’t tell his GRU minders in Paris what’s going on. His escape must at all times appear genuine to the British. If the minders fall by the wayside, so be it.”

“Of course,” Luzhkov said hastily.

“Finally, Kurbsky makes it clear that his defection attracts no publicity. He will demand a guarantee of that. Otherwise, he won’t do it.”

“And you think Ferguson and company will accept that?”

“Absolutely, because he knows what jackals the British press are. We stay quiet about the whole matter, but all our security systems go through the motions of trying to recover him. As far as the general public knows, he’s working away somewhere, faded from view. Any questions?”

“I was just wondering . . . this suggestion regarding the journalist Igor Vronsky in New York? That Kurbsky eliminate him?”

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” Luzhkov said hastily. “I was just wondering, would this set a precedent? I mean, would that kind of thing be part of his remit?”

“If you mean would I expect him to assassinate the Queen of England, I doubt it. On the other hand, should a more tempting target present itself, who knows? I doubt it would bother him too much. He was in the death business for long enough, and in my experience few people really change in this life. Was there anything else?”

“Only that everything hinges on him actually agreeing to this plan, Comrade Prime Minister.”

Putin smiled. “Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem, Luzhkov. In fact, I expect him any minute now. I’ll leave him to you.”

And he disappeared back behind the secret door. Moments later, the door behind Luzhkov opened and Alexander Kurbsky entered, the GRU lieutenant hard on his heels.

 

 

AN HOUR EARLIER, Kurbsky had been delivered to the same rear door of the Kremlin by Military Police. Although he had been drinking when they picked him up at his hotel, he’d been enough in control to realize that when the Kremlin was mentioned, it meant serious business. He’d been led into a small anteroom next to the main office, with chairs and a TV in the corner.

He said, “All right, I bore easily, so what is this about?”

The lieutenant gave him the DVD. “Watch this. I’ll be back.” He opened the door and paused. “I’m a great fan.”

The door closed behind him. Kurbsky frowned, examining the DVD, then he went and inserted it, produced a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and sat down. The screen flickered. A voice quoted a lengthy number and then said, “Subject Tania Kurbsky, aged seventeen, born Moscow.” He straightened, stunned, as he saw Tania, his beloved sister, gaunt, hair close-cropped, with sunken cheeks. The voice droned on about a court case, five dead policemen in a riot, seven students charged and shot. Tania Kurbsky had been given a special dispensation obtained because of her father, Colonel Ivan Kurbsky of the KGB. Instead of execution, she’d been sentenced to life, irrevocable, to be served at Station Gorky in Siberia, about as far from civilization as it was possible to get. She was still living, aged thirty-six. There followed a picture that barely resembled her, a gaunt careworn woman old before her time. The screen went dark. Kurbsky got up slowly, ejected the DVD and stood looking at it, then turned, went to the door, and kicked it.

After a while, it was unlocked and the lieutenant appeared. One of the guards stood there, machine pistol ready. Kurbsky said, “Where do I go?”

“Follow me.” Which Kurbsky did.

 

 

IN THE NEXT room, he looked Luzhkov over. “And who would you be?” Behind him, the lieutenant smiled.

“Colonel Boris Luzhkov, GRU. I’m acting under Prime Minister Putin’s orders. You’ve just missed him. How are you?”

“For a man who’s just discovered that the dead can walk, I’m doing all right. I’ll be better if I have a drink.” He went to the cabinet and had two large vodka shots, then he cursed. “So get on with it. I presume there’s a purpose to all this.”

“Sit down and read this.” Luzhkov pushed the file across the desk, and Kurbsky started.

Fifteen minutes later, he sat back. “I don’t write thrillers.”

“It certainly reads like one.”

“And this is from the Prime Minister?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s the payoff?”

“Your sister’s released. She will be restored to life.”

“That’s one way of putting it. How do I know it will be honored?”

“The Prime Minister’s word.”

“Don’t make me laugh. He’s a politician. Since when do those guys keep their word?”

And Luzhkov said exactly the right thing. “She’s your sister. If that means anything, this is all you can do. It’s as simple as that. Better than nothing. You have to travel hopefully.”

“Fuck you,” Kurbsky said, “and fuck him.” But there was the hint of despair of a man who knew he had little choice. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Igor Vronsky. Does he mean anything to you?”

“Absolutely. The stinking bastard was in Chechnya and ran a story about my outfit. The Fifth Paratroop Company, the Black Tigers. We were pathfinders and special forces. He did radio from the front line, blew the whistle on a special op we were on, and the Chechens ambushed us. Fifteen good men dead. It’s in my book.”

“He’s working as a journalist in New York now. We want you to eliminate him, just to prove you mean business.”

“Just like that.”

“I believe you enjoyed a certain reputation in Chechnya. The smiler with a knife? An accomplished sniper and assassin who specialized in that kind of thing. A lone wolf, as they say. At least three high-ranking Chechen generals could testify to that.”

“If the dead could speak.”

“That story in
On the Death of Men
where the hero is parachuted behind the lines when he had never had training as a parachutist. Was it true? Did you?” Luzhkov was troubled in some strange way. “What kind of man would do such a thing?”

“One who in the hell that was Afghanistan decided he was dead already, a walking zombie, who survived to go home and found himself a year later knee-deep in blood in Chechnya. You can make of that what you will.”

“I’ll need to think about it. I’m not sure I understand.”

Kurbsky laughed. “Remember the old saying: Avoid looking into an open grave because you may see yourself in there. In those old Cold War spy books, you always had to have a controller. Would that be you?”

“Yes. I’m Head of Station for GRU at the London Embassy.”

“That’s good. I’ll like that. I had an old comrade in Chechnya who transferred to the GRU when I was coming to the end of my army time. Yuri Bounine. Could you find him and bring him in on this?”

“I’m sure that will be possible.”

“Excellent. So if you’re available, let’s get out of here and go and get something to eat.”

“An excellent idea.” Luzhkov led the way and said to the lieutenant, “The limousine is waiting, I presume? We’ll go back to my hotel.”

“Of course, Colonel.”

They followed him along the interminable corridors.

“They seem to go on forever,” Luzhkov observed. “A fascinating place, the Kremlin.”

“A rabbit warren,” Kurbsky said. “A man could lose himself here. A smiler with a knife could do well here.” He turned as they reached the door. “Perhaps the Prime Minister should consider that.”

He followed the lieutenant down the steps to the limousine, and Luzhkov, troubled, went after them.

 

 

OVER THE THREE weeks that followed, things flowed with surprising ease. They moved into a GRU safe house outside Moscow with training facilities. On the firing range, Kurbsky proved his skill and proficiency with every kind of weapon the sergeant major in charge could throw at him. Kurbsky had forgotten nothing of his old skills.

Yuri Bounine, by now a GRU captain, was plucked from the monotony of posing as a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy in Dublin, where he was promoted to major and assigned to London, delighted to be reunited with his old friend.

Kurbsky embraced him warmly when he arrived. “You’ve put on weight, you bastard.” He turned to Luzhkov. “Look at him. Gold spectacles, always smiling, the look of an aging cherub. Yet we survived Afghanistan and Chechnya together. He’s got medals.”

Again he hugged Bounine, who said, “And you got famous. I read
On the Death of Men
five times and tried to work out who was me.”

“In a way, they all were, Yuri.”

Bounine flushed, suddenly awkward. “So what’s going on?”

“That’s for Colonel Luzhkov to tell you.”

Which Luzhkov did in a private interview. Later that day, Bounine found Kurbsky in a corner booth in the officers’ bar and joined him. A bottle of vodka was on the table and several glasses in crushed ice. He helped himself.

“Luzhkov has filled me in.”

“So what do you think?” Kurbsky asked.

“Who am I to argue with the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation?”

“You know everything? About my sister?”

Bounine nodded. “May I say one thing on Putin’s behalf? He wasn’t responsible for what happened to your sister. It was before his time. He sees an advantage in it, that’s all.”

“A point of view. And Vronsky?”

“A pig. I’d cut his throat myself if I had the chance.”

“And you look like such a kind man.”

“I am a kind man.”

“So tell me, Yuri, how’s your wife?”

“Ah.” Bounine hesitated. “She died, Alex. Leukemia.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. She was a good woman.”

“Yes, she was. But it’s been a while now, Alex, and my sister has produced two lovely girls—so I’m an uncle!”

“Excellent. Let’s drink to them. And to New York.” They clinked glasses. “And to the Black Tigers, may they rest in peace,” Kurbsky said. “We’re probably the only two left.”

 

 

NEW YORK CAME and New York went. The death of Igor Vronsky received prominent notice in
The New York Times
and other papers, but in spite of his books and his vigorous anti-Kremlin stance, there was no suspicion that this was a dissident’s death. It seemed the normal kind of mugging, a knife to the chest, the body stripped of everything worth having.

On the day following his death, Monica Starling and George Dunkley flew back to Heathrow, where Dunkley had a limousine waiting to take them back to Cambridge. She hadn’t breathed a word about what had happened between her and Kurbsky, but Dunkley hadn’t stopped talking about him during the flight. It had obviously affected him deeply. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Off you go, George. Try and make it for High Table. They’ll all be full of envy when they hear of your exploits.”

There was no sign of her brother’s official limousine from the Cabinet Office or of Dillon. She wasn’t pleased, and then Billy Salter’s scarlet Alfa Romeo swerved to the curb and he slid from behind the wheel, and Dillon got out of the passenger seat.

He came around and embraced her, kissing her lightly on the mouth. “My goodness, girl, there’s a sparkle to you. You’ve obviously had a good time.”

Billy was putting her bags in the trunk. “A hell of a time, from what I heard.”

“You know?” she said to Dillon. “About my conversation with Kurbsky?”

“What Roper knows, we all end up knowing.” He ushered her into the backseat of the Alfa and followed her. “Dover Street, Billy.”

It was the family house in Mayfair where her brother lived. “Is Harry okay?” she asked as they drove away.

“Nothing to worry about, but he’s been overdoing it, so the doctor has given him his marching orders. He’s gone down to the country to Stokely Hall to stay with Aunt Mary for a while. Anyway, this Kurbsky business has got Ferguson all fired up. He’d like to hear it all from your own fair lips, so we’re going to take you home, wait for you to freshen up, then join Ferguson for dinner at the Reform Club. Seven-thirty, but if we’re late, we’re late.”

“So go on, tell us all about it,” Billy said over his shoulder.

“Alexander Kurbsky was one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever met,” she said. “End of story. You’ll have to wait.”

“Get out of it. You’re just trying to make Dillon jealous.”

“Just carry on, driver, and watch the road.” She pulled Dillon’s right arm around her and eased into him, smiling.

 

 

IT WAS A quiet evening at the Reform Club, the restaurant only half full. Ferguson had secured a corner table next to a window, with no one close, which gave them privacy. Ferguson wore the usual Guards tie and pin-striped suit, his age still a closely kept secret, his hair white, face still handsome.

The surprise was Roper in his wheelchair, wearing a black velvet jacket and a white shirt with a knotted paisley scarf at the neck.

“Well, this is nice, I must say.” She kissed Roper on the forehead and rumpled his tousled hair. “Are you well?”

“All the better for seeing you.”

She wore the Valentino suit from New York, and Ferguson obviously approved. “My word, you must have gone down well at the Pierre.” He kissed her extravagantly on both cheeks.

“You’re a charmer, Charles. A trifle glib on occasion, but I like it.”

“And you’ll like the champagne. It’s Dom Pérignon—Dillon can argue about his Krug another time.”

The wine waiter poured, remembering from previous experiences to supply Billy with ginger ale laced with lime. Ferguson raised his glass and toasted her. “To you, my dear, and to what seems to have been a job well done.” He emptied his glass and motioned the wine waiter to refill it. “Now, for God’s sake, tell us what happened.”

 

 

WHEN MONICA WAS finished, there were a few moments of silence and it was Billy who spoke first. “What’s he want, and I mean really want? This guy’s got everything, I’d have thought. Fame, money, genuine respect.”