A Darker Place

by Jack Higgins

  “Very civil of you,” Ferguson said. “I think that will do for the moment, people.”

  Harry got up. “Anybody want a bite to eat at the Dark Man? It’s only eight o’clock. Best pub grub in London, and on me.”

  Monica nudged Dillon. He said, “Thanks, Harry, another time. Monica’s got an early start in the morning.”

  “All right, lovebirds. Come on, Billy,” and they left.

  Ferguson was writing away. “There’s your checklist.” He handed it to Monica, and she put it in her purse.

  “We could stop in at that French restaurant in Shepherd’s Market on the way back,” she said to Dillon.

  “Why not.” He turned to Roper. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve done enough travel for one day, Sean. A sandwich and the scotch, and I’ll catch up on cyberspace.”

  Monica said, “What about you, Charles?”

  He hesitated. “Oh, you don’t want an old fogey like me at the table.”

  Her Codex went. She flicked to see where the call originated, her eyes widened, and she held it out to Roper. He took it from her, making an adjustment that linked it to his speakers.

  She said, “Who’s that?”

  “Monica? It’s Alex Kurbsky.”

  Roper put a finger to his lips and waved the others to silence. Monica said, “What a surprise, Alex, to hear from you so soon. Where are you?”

  “A special hotel the Ministry of Arts runs, but I move soon to a safe house outside Moscow, where the GRU will keep an eye on me until Paris.”

  “Where are you staying when you go there?”

  “They haven’t decided yet, but I’ve been thinking about what we discussed. I’d like to proceed.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “But on the terms I discussed with you. Total secrecy. You said you knew people in the British Security Services at the highest level.”

  “I do, and I’ve spoken to them.” She took a chance now. “You can speak to my controller right now. I happen to be visiting the London safe house. Major Giles Roper.”

  “Put him on.”

  Roper said, “Mr. Kurbsky. It’s a great honor, one soldier to another.”

  “Monica said her phone was encrypted. Is that so?”

  “A work of technical genius. What can I do for you?”

  “As Monica knows, I wish to fly my cage, but my terms are strict. I prefer total anonymity, certainly for a while.”

  Roper glanced at Ferguson, who nodded. “That’s a given. Totally guaranteed.” He also took a chance now. “I spoke with Svetlana today. Monica and I visited her. She was thrilled to hear about New York and now Paris.”

  “God in heaven,” Kurbsky said. “Is she well?”

  “She lives with a woman friend, Katya Zorin, in Chamber Court. Kelly died years ago, but I suppose you knew that.”

  “Not until afterwards. So, if you talked to my aunt, I presume the question of my desire to flee was raised?”

  “She made an assumption it was impossible to deny. So she and her friend are aware of what’s intended, but obviously they’re trustworthy.”

  “I accept that. I would trust Svetlana with my life, but I don’t want her involved in this business in any way. She’s an old woman. I would not wish to bring any kind of threat to her. So you think you can snatch me in Paris? I fly in privately with three GRU minders, and they’ll dog my every step.”

  “We’ll think of something.”

  “Is your boss there?”

  “Yes, General Charles Ferguson.”

  “I sensed there might be somebody. Put him on.”

  Ferguson said, “Kurbsky, what a pleasure.”

  “I must go, but titbits for you. I spoke to Putin personally. He made it clear how important I am to dear old Mother Russia. I used to be handled by a General Volkov, who was in charge of security. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “It does indeed.”

  “It seems Volkov is no more and Putin intends to handle the security side himself. Does that interest you?”

  “Very much.”

  “And does the name Luzhkov strike a chord?”

  “Certainly. Station Head of GRU at the London Embassy.”

  “Putin spoke to him in my presence. Told him that London was the top hot spot and he was promoting him to full colonel and sending him back there.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “I must go. I’ve been hiding in the toilet too long. I’ll be in touch. I won’t give you my number this time. I don’t want you calling me at an inconvenient moment.”

  He was gone, and Roper was smiling all over his ravaged face. “Well, how about that, then?”

  “How about that indeed?” Ferguson turned to Dillon and Monica. “Thank you, and I’d love to join you for dinner in Shepherd’s Market.”

  IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock at the Minsky Hotel in Moscow, and Kurbsky was sitting with Bounine and Luzhkov in a corner by the bar.

  “Wonderful things, mobile phones.”

  “Well, if they’re not encrypted, they can be a stone in the shoe,” Luzhkov said, “but ours are good. Play the recording back.”

  Kurbsky did as he was told and turned the sound up. Afterward, Bounine said, “Hah, you must be pleased to hear about your aunt. Christ, you used to talk about her in Afghanistan.”

  “She was the only mother I knew, a wonderful person. Was I okay?” he asked Luzhkov.

  “Amazing to hear Roper and Ferguson. I know them so well. And the information you gave them was harmless-they’d find out anyway, and every little bit helps to establish your credentials. The magic name of Putin will certainly excite them.” He turned to Bounine. “I go back to London on Thursday night-you come with me. If Ferguson ’s people are keeping an eye out on Alexander in Paris, we can’t have you anywhere near him.”

  “Who have you selected for the minders team?”

  “Ivanov, Kokonin, and Burlaka.”

  “I’m surprised. I’d say they’ve got a lot to learn,” Bounine commented.

  “And they aren’t in on the plot. That’s definite?” Kurbsky asked.

  “Whatever Ferguson ’s people do, they’ll expect your minders to defend you. If they didn’t, they’d smell a rat.”

  “So they could get killed?”

  “My dear Alexander, they’re expendable. That’s the name of the game.”

  “So they play their part and die for the Motherland?”

  “A great honor,” Bounine said. “I thought you’d have learned that by now.” He got up. “It’s late. Let’s turn in. It’s been a long day.”

  TH E DAY BOUNINE and Luzhkov boarded their flight for London, Monica returned from Cambridge to Dover Street. Her brother was still unwell and remained at Stokely in the care of Aunt Mary and the servants. She phoned Roper at Holland Park.

  “I’m back. No further word from Kurbsky. How’s Sean?”

  “He’s here somewhere. I’ve had a message from Katya Zorin. She wants us to call. Apparently, she’s got something she wants to run by us. Are you doing anything at the moment?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll come straight round. Ask Sean if he wants to come with us. I think he should meet them.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Tony Doyle delivered them to Chamber Mews, three of them this time, and they followed the path and found Katya waiting on the terrace at the open door. Inside, Svetlana sat in her wicker chair like a queen on a throne.

  “So this is your Irishman?” she said to Monica, and held out her hand to Dillon for a long moment. “A good man, but two men are inside you and one fights the other. However, you are better than you think, my friend, in spite of yourself. I should do a Tarot reading.”

  “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, spare me that, ma’am.” He turned to Katya. “Miss Zorin.” He shook hands. “I went to RADA as a boy and was an actor for a while. I admire your work. The Macbeth you designed, the Nazi one. Jesus, if ever there was a tour de force, it was that.”

  “We were just having tea Russian-styl
e. Everyone join in.” She gestured to the samovar, the cups. Svetlana said, “What is your birthday, Mr. Dillon?”

  “January the thirteenth.”

  “Capricorn. Among your aspects, you have Jupiter in the House of Marriage and the Moon in good aspect with Venus.” She turned to Monica. “And yet he isn’t married. This is most unusual.”

  “Perhaps he’s just been waiting for me?” Monica said.

  There was general laughter. Katya said, “If you’d all come into the drawing room, I’d like to show you something which may interest you.”

  Dillon helped Svetlana up and gave her his arm. They went through, and Katya settled them in front of the large television screen. She had a keyboard control in one hand.

  Roper said, “Before you start, I should tell you that Alex phoned Monica the other night. He’s confirmed that he wants us to help him defect in Paris.”

  Katya said, “Then it is even more important that I explain what I intend. Pay attention, please.”

  She pointed the control, pressed a button, and the large screen was filled with a full-length picture of Alexander Kurbsky in a bomber jacket and jeans, hands in his pockets, face calm, smiling slightly.

  “So here we have the man as he is, the man the world knows, for appearance is everything in this life. A gallant soldier, a star, if you like to put it that way, with a swagger to him. A sort of Renaissance man, with the hair almost to his shoulders, the beard as if basing himself on the heroes of those books by Alexandre Dumas we are told he so loved as a boy. Everything about him says ‘Look at me.’ ”

  “I take your point,” Monica said. “But couldn’t he really be hiding his real self? The extravagant appearance would argue that to me.”

  “Possibly, there are two sides to any coin, but the important thing here is to change him into something else.”

  “Change his appearance?” Dillon said.

  “Yes, but not just that. We must change the inner man as well. It will require a performance. But first, the other man.”

  She tapped on her keyboard, the head moved into full screen, and within moments the beard had gone-the mouth area, the chin, clear of all facial hair.

  There was silence for a moment, then Dillon said, “Amazing. How accurate is this?”

  “Well into the ninety-percent range,” Katya said.

  “How different to see the firm chin, the mouth,” Svetlana said. “And the cheeks so hollow, a hint of the boy I knew.”

  “It’s a revelation,” Monica whispered.

  “One can make further adjustments-and remove the smile, for instance,” Katya said, and did just that. “Now he is much more somber. Not quite the Alexander Kurbsky people are used to.”

  Roper said, “I’d say a great many people looking at him like that wouldn’t recognize him at all.”

  “Certainly not the general public,” Dillon said.

  “And let’s take it further. The extravagant hair.” Katya had the head image turning, the hair shortening to a neat conservative style, and stabilized it. “Now we’ll change clothes from the bomber jacket and jeans.” She punched away at the keys until the figure on the screen wore a dark single-breasted suit, white shirt, and striped tie.

  “My God, he could be something in the city, a banker or accountant,” Monica said.

  “He certainly isn’t Alexander Kurbsky,” Dillon said. “I think you’ve demonstrated that.” He looked at Roper. “What about you?”

  “Katya said ninety percent and I’d accept that, even a little more. But we’re up against professionals here. I’d never underestimate Russian intelligence. The GRU are as good as it gets. That’s something we have to accept.”

  “So you want more?” Katya asked. “I thought you might. I told you I would treat this as a performance, and it will require Kurbsky to adopt a new identity so different from his own that anyone would accept him, even the most skilled operatives of the GRU. Remember our conversation about the best place to hide the letter, Major Roper?”

  “In plain sight.”

  “So, what if I suggested that Alexander Kurbsky be lodged here in plain sight? That he use the flat over the garage and work as Svetlana’s gardener and odd-job man just like Marek, the Pole. Observe.” Katya manipulated the screen again, stripping Kurbsky of his clothes, substituting loose hospital scrubs for them. The hair was removed totally, the image now of a gaunt human being with sunken cheeks and a shaved skull.

  “That’s how chemotherapy leaves you when you have treatment for lung cancer, which is why he has been residing at that wonderful hospital, the Royal Marsden. He’s of French extraction-through his father, perhaps? I understand he speaks excellent French, but that would be up to you people. What do you think?”

  “You’re a genius,” Roper said. “I’d defy anyone to look at that man on the screen and identify it in any way with Kurbsky.”

  “I agree,” Monica said. “What about you, Sean?”

  “Remarkable. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.” He turned to Svetlana. “And you?”

  “I want him safe, I want him close to me again, and if this is the only way, so be it.”

  “That’s it, then,” Roper said. “We’ll report back. Is there anything else?”

  “Now we wait,” Svetlana said. “The rest, I suppose, is up to you.”

  “I’ve got time off from the university.” Monica gave her a kiss. “I’ll stay in close touch.”

  Katya came all the way down to the gate with them. “Now comes the hard part, I think. Paris. They’ll be guarding him closely. The Russians can be very difficult.”

  “Don’t worry. We can be difficult too.” Dillon smiled, and he and Monica followed Roper out.

  MOSCOW / LONDON

  5

  On the firing range in the cellars of the GRU safe house outside Moscow, the three men who were to be responsible for Kurbsky’s protection in Paris stood facing the target area, supervised by a hardened sergeant major with a cropped head named Lermov. Kurbsky, dressed in a tracksuit and woolen hat, sat on a stool, watching, and smoked a cigarette. The three GRU men were in uniform.

  “Six single shots, and take your time. Kokonin first. First two head shots, then four in the heart and chest area.”

  The lights came on in the gloom, the target figure moved from right to left, pausing, and Kokonin loosed his shots. His first round chipped an ear, the next went through the left cheek, the chest grouping was widely dispersed.

  Kokonin was a junior lieutenant in rank, but Lermov didn’t take prisoners. “If that’s the best you can do, I wonder how you handle your cock, sir. Stand back. Next.”

  Which was Burlaka, who managed to catch the head once, but his grouping in the chest was very poor.

  “Even worse,” Lermov said, and called to Burlaka, “Just fire six times at the body,” which Burlaka did, peppering the torso area.

  Lermov shook his head. “Terrible.”

  Burlaka was angry and said, “I did the job, Sergeant Major-hit whoever it was six times.”

  Lermov laughed harshly. “That’s one point of view, sir.” He turned to Kurbsky. “ Afghanistan, Chechnya, it’s all gone. They’re sitting behind desks these days, doing everything by computer. What’s happened to the world? Where did it all go?”

  “We’re dinosaurs, Sergeant Major.”

  The three young GRU officers were angry. Ivanov put his pistol on the table after removing the clip. “If you can do any better, show us. I’m tired of being put down like this. If you’re so much better, let’s see it. And what about you, Comrade?” he said to Kurbsky. “Your books make a lot of claims.”

  Kokonin said, “Maybe that’s all it ever was.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Kurbsky dropped his cigarette on the floor and stood. Lermov picked up a Stechkin. “I’ve got a certain affection for this. I’ve had it since Afghanistan. It should take you back, Comrade.”

  “It certainly should,” Kurbsky said.

  He held it aga
inst his right thigh. Two targets swung up. He double-tapped, shooting the left target twice in the heart, then twice in the forehead. He swung right, double-tapping the heart, then a single shot through each eye. There was silence.

  Kurbsky handed the Stechkin back to Lermov, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. “I must say you keep it in perfect working order, Sergeant Major. My compliments. Now I’m going to go for my run.”

  He went out, and Lermov turned to the other three. “What was it you were saying, sir?” he asked Ivanov. He shook his head. “He’s not like other people, he’s a one-off, but don’t let it get you down. I’m going to give you your most important lesson.” He pushed a fresh clip in the butt of the Stechkin. “Come with me, all of you.”

  He led the way down to the range and stopped three paces away from the targets. “Watch this.” He raised the Stechkin and shot the target in the heart, then in the forehead. He handed the weapon to Ivanov. “Now you.” The shots slammed home, and he said, “Let the others do it.”

  They obeyed him one after another. “Perfect.” He held out his hand, and Burlaka passed him the pistol again. “Now you know-get that close if possible. There’s only one alternative that’s better.”

  “What’s that, Sergeant Major?” Ivanov asked.

  Lermov replaced the clip on the Stechkin, stepped close to the target, rammed the muzzle into it, and fired several times.

  “There you go, Comrades, a job well done. But that’s enough. I believe your task is never to leave Alexander Kurbsky for a moment, and there he is running through the orchards on his own.”

  Ivanov looked hunted. “Come on, you bastards.” He rushed out, followed by the others.

  In fact, as they emerged into the entrance hall, they discovered Kurbsky talking to a man in an old-fashioned fedora and a black leather coat. Kurbsky turned. “Ah, here they are. We were just having a little pistol practice on the range. This is Major Gregorovich from Moscow. Good boys, this lot, Major, they never leave me for a moment.”

  “Following our orders, Major, that’s all,” Ivanov said piously.