A Darker Place

by Jack Higgins

  “That was never clear to me. The boss of what, exactly?”

  “The Prime Minister’s personal security unit.”

  “And you’ve obviously dealt with this kind of thing before.”

  “Too bleeding right,” Billy told him. “Our rules are there are no rules, not these days, not with all the terrorists and murderers emerging free from court, thanks to stupid laws and clever lawyers.”

  “And how did you get involved with him?” Kurbsky asked.

  “I used to be a gangster, but it got boring. So did my uncle Harry. Dillon here was a top enforcer with the Provisional IRA, and the two guys flying this plane are decorated RAF officers. The point is, we can be worse than the bad guys.”

  Kurbsky turned to Monica. “And you? Are you worse than the bad guys?”

  She hesitated. “Now and then, I can be useful.”

  Dillon topped his glass up. “Who knows what you could end up doing?”

  AT FARLEY, Ferguson ’s Daimler drove straight up to the Chieftain when it rolled to a halt, Parry dropped the airstair door, and Kurbsky went down and got in the rear seat beside Ferguson. It sped away at once, and the General said, “Charles Ferguson,” and shook hands. “Heard about the spot of bother on the train.”

  “Yes, rather unfortunate,” Kurbsky said.

  “You’re here now, and that’s the main thing. We’re going to the Holland Park safe house. Most of my work emanates from there, and Major Roper is based there. It has the fullest facilities, extreme security, and it’s very high-tech, which saves on staff. I need only a couple of Military Police sergeants to keep things smooth. One of them, Doyle, is driving the car now, and Sergeant Henderson is back at the house.”

  “And what about me?”

  “We’ve put together some ideas, which we’ll explain to you shortly. I think you’ll find them rather interesting.”

  “Excellent,” Kurbsky said. “I can’t wait to see what you have in store.”

  BACK AT FARLEY, Harry drove across the tarmac to the Chieftain in his Bentley, put the window down, and leaned out, grinning.

  “Let’s be having you. Ferguson wants us all down at Holland Park.” They climbed in and he drove away. “So it worked okay, he’s here. Bleeding marvelous. He must be a right villain, knocking off three like that.”

  “ Ferguson told you?” Billy demanded.

  “He certainly did. We’re like a club, Billy, the six of us. We’re the ones who know everything. He won’t tell Svetlana about this. Kurbsky being her nephew and everything, she mightn’t like to think of him running around and knocking off people. Let’s face it, though, he’s obviously got a talent for it. I tell you, he’d have done well in the East End in the old days when the Krays were running things. He’ll be giving you a run for your money, Dillon.”

  Monica leaned forward and said, “Harry, you’re one of a kind.”

  AT HOLLAND PARK, they found Ferguson and Kurbsky with Roper in the computer room. Harry needed an introduction and shook hands warmly.

  “You certainly don’t take prisoners, my old son.”

  “Only if there is a choice, and there wasn’t.” Kurbsky turned to Ferguson. “What about my aunt? She must be anxious to see me.”

  “Of course. I’ve put her and Katya in one of our staff apartments.” He turned to Monica. “Perhaps you could do the honors? You know where it is.”

  “Of course.” Monica led the way. “It’s on the ground floor and not far.” A couple of minutes later, she paused at a door. “It’s a big moment, Alex, for both of you.”

  “For her especially, I think, because of her age. I must get it right, for her sake.”

  “For both your sakes.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek and held his hand for a moment.

  “You are a remarkable woman.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “Sean Dillon is a very lucky man, I think.”

  He opened the door, and Monica glimpsed Svetlana on a sofa by the window, Katya beside her. Svetlana got to her feet and Kurbsky stood there for a moment. Then Svetlana held out her hands and said, “Alexander, can it be you? I can’t believe it after all these years.”

  “Like the bad penny, I’ve turned up again, Babushka.”

  There was a flood of tears, and he closed the door. A short while later it opened again, and Katya emerged and closed it. “He introduced me, but it’s very emotional for Svetlana in there.”

  “Let’s leave them to it and go and join the others,” Monica said.

  Ferguson was in the corner of the bar area, talking to Dillon and Harry. Billy was sitting with Roper, and the two women joined them.

  “How did it go?” Roper asked.

  “Floods of tears from Svetlana. Her precious boy back after all these years. He even called her Babushka.”

  “I thought that meant grandmother in Russian?” Roper said.

  “It seems it was his pet name for her when he was very little. She is so relieved to see him. Just can’t believe he’s got here safely.”

  Monica glanced at Roper, who nodded. “Tell her what happened. After all, you were there.”

  WHEN SHE WAS finished listening, Katya looked grave but not particularly shocked. “It’s a bloody nose for the GRU, but Alex is what he is.”

  “God knows, he saw enough during the years of war,” Monica said.

  “I think there’s more to it than that.” Katya moved to Roper’s side table with the bottles, opened the vodka, and poured one. “Something else, something deep in his soul, perhaps blossomed during the wars and won’t go away again.”

  “Perhaps.” Monica was uncertain.

  Roper reached for his whiskey, the pain in his left shoulder and back suddenly intense. “She’s got a point, Monica. Take you. A class act. An academic at a famous and ancient university, with doctorates galore, and yet when push came to shove, you shot that IRA bastard dead last year. I mean, where did that come from?” He swallowed his whiskey. “I know, I’m the pot calling the kettle black, but one thing’s certain. It would be difficult for Svetlana to take on board the fact that her beloved nephew has just stiffed three people.”

  “I think we’re all agreed on that,” Katya said. “I’ll go and see how they are getting on.”

  She went out, and Billy said, “One smart lady, Katya.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t disagree with you.” Roper pushed his glass over and Monica poured another scotch. “Is it a bad day?” Monica asked him.

  “Monica, it’s always a bad day, but I’m alive, if not exactly kicking, when I should have been in bits and pieces, like a lot of the poor sods coming back from Afghanistan and Iraq these days. It occurs to me that in the great scheme of things, there might have been a meaning to my survival.”

  “I didn’t know you were religious,” Billy told him.

  “I’m not, Billy, but I believe in reason and purpose.”

  The conversation was cut off by the appearance of Kurbsky with Katya, and Svetlana on his arm. Katya said, “Svetlana wants Alex to watch my show now, so that he knows what we have in mind. I’ve spoken to Ferguson, and he and Dillon and Harry have gone ahead to the viewing theater.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Roper said.

  KAT YA HAD TWEAKED the film a certain amount, but it was pretty much the same as she had first shown to Svetlana, Dillon, and Monica at Chamber Court. She talked it through, and when she was finished, said, “Let’s show it once more, I think, so that Alex really gets the idea.”

  There was silence when she finally froze on the final image of what he had become, standing there in hospital scrubs.

  “Very impressive,” Kurbsky said. “An audacious plan.” He turned to Svetlana. “What do you think?”

  “It would be wonderful if it gave you the chance to stay at the house, at least for a while, so that I could get close again, get to know you.”

  “Let’s analyze the situation. If the GRU thinks I’m in London, they’ll try and seek me out. On the other hand, the last thing they�
��d want to do is advertise the fact of my presence here. They’d prefer to kidnap me or kill me in some unobtrusive way.”

  “All that makes sense,” Ferguson said.

  “So I don’t think they’ll bring in the heavy artillery. They’ll wait and watch. If I become wretched Henri Duval, the walking ghoul, dying of lung cancer, racked by the effects of chemotherapy, the odd-job man living over the garage at the house, it’ll be so different from what they expected to find that eventually they’ll just move on. Of course, if it doesn’t work and they sniff me out, I can always do a runner.”

  “So you’re up for it?” Dillon said.

  “The sooner the better. To make such a fundamental change in me so quickly will vastly increase our chances of success.”

  Ferguson was excited. “That’s it, then, people.” He turned to Katya. “When do you want to start?”

  “As soon as possible. I’ve brought my makeup box in the car, my hairdressing essentials, certain drugs I want him to take. I understand you keep a wardrobe of assorted clothing and footwear here as a backup for your operations.”

  “We certainly do, and anything extra that you need, we can get.”

  “Excellent.” She kissed Svetlana on the cheeks. “Go now, love, back to the apartment. Billy will take you. He’ll make sure you get anything you need.”

  “Gold room service,” Billy said, gave her his arm, and took her to the door. She stopped him and turned, looking at Kurbsky. “I’m afraid, Alexander, that in finding you again, I will lose you.”

  He blew her a kiss. “You will never lose me again, Babushka, I swear it.”

  They left. Katya said, “Right, the stuff from my car, and you, Monica.” She nodded. “Yes, you can assist me. It will be good to have you there.” She turned to Ferguson. “But no one else. This must be understood.”

  She turned and walked out, with Kurbsky and Monica following.

  LONDON

  8

  The wardrobe area at Holland Park was rather theatrical, when you considered it, filled with walk-in wardrobes containing a wide selection of clothes, even uniforms. There was a screen high up in the corner, and when Katya switched it on, it showed the final image she had frozen on the viewing theater set, the lost-looking hopeless creature in hospital scrubs.

  She made Kurbsky undress and put on cotton pajama trousers, and he sat facing the mirrors, the hair wild, the beard tangled. “You look like Sir Francis Drake getting ready to sail out against the Spanish Armada, doesn’t he, Monica?”

  “Is that so?” Kurbsky said. “Romantic tosh!”

  “Shut up and take these.” She opened a box and shook out two large pills. He examined them. “What are they?”

  “You don’t need to know.” She poured a glass of tap water. “You will take two each day. You will notice a darkening under the eyes, which will look like bruising. This will help in the illusion that you are on chemotherapy. They work very quickly.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’m in theater. It’s my business to know.”

  He shrugged and washed the pills down. “Now what?”

  “A sheet about his shoulders, Monica.” She turned to a selection of scissors. “So now I shall be Delilah and you Samson, I think. The beard first.”

  SHE WAS VERY expert, and quickly reduced the beard to the point where she was able to go to work with an electric razor. The clear chin and mouth really made a difference to the appearance. Then she started hacking the long hair off in handfuls. He made no complaint, even when she obviously hurt him, and finally it was reduced to a stubble. Now she spread foam over the skull, massaging it into the face also, and went to work with the electric razor again.

  Finally, she produced a cutthroat razor. “Good God, not that as well?”

  “It’s necessary, believe me.”

  And she was right. It had changed his appearance totally. The skull, the cheekbones well pronounced over hollow cheeks. She applied some sort of cream, massaging it under the eyes and into the scalp. “It’s making things darker already. In a little while, it will be even darker, but the drug is more permanent in that way. It helps with the haunted look.” She turned to Monica. “What do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. It’s just not the same person.”

  “And we haven’t even started on dress. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  TH E WARDROBES WERE as big as small rooms, and the three of them explored. “What am I supposed to look like?”

  “A street person, someone on welfare, a struggling student. In all these personas, there is a constant. You’re on chemotherapy and you have lung cancer. Roper has inserted you into the Royal Marsden Hospital ’s cancer records. If anyone checks, you’re there. He did the same at London University, where you took an English degree. You’ve worked for the Daily Express and the Mail. It says so in their records. Born in Torquay in Devon to a French doctor and an English mother. You lived in Paris for ten years, then your father was killed in a car accident-again, that’s all a matter of record-and your mother and you returned to England. You understandably have a tendency to a French accent.”

  “What’s happened to her?”

  “Breast cancer four years ago.”

  “I feel as if I should take it personally.” He started working his way through clothing. He finally settled on a drab-olive-green T-shirt and pulled it on. Next he discovered some baggy olive-green trousers with big patch pockets.

  “Ah, the military look,” Monica said.

  Katya said, “Not really. The kind of people I’m talking about wear stuff like this all the time. It’s extremely cheap. The sort of thing you can pick up in surplus shops.”

  He found a pair of French paratrooper boots next, which fitted well, and a large three-quarter-length combat jacket of some sort, once again with capacious pockets.

  “I may not have much, but even on the street I’ll need a bag of some sort.” Katya, rummaging on a high shelf, had the answer. Also olive green, it was a good size and had grab handles or a cross-body strap if preferred. She passed it to him, and he examined it. The interior base had an inside zip, providing, in effect, a secret compartment.

  “This will do me.”

  “Change of underwear, extra T-shirt, socks?” Katya said.

  “Now you’re spoiling me.” He slung the bag by the body strap across his chest and worked his way along the shelves. He found a black woolen hat and pulled it over his skull. “Will I do?” he asked Monica.

  “I suppose so, if you want a job on a building site.”

  He continued to search, found a reasonable pair of leather gloves, and put them in the bag. His back was turned, and as he rummaged further, he found a couple of black knitted ski masks staring up at him with empty eyes and wide mouths. He hesitated, then stuffed them in the bag too, along with a couple of British Army Field Service wound packs from a stack he found on the shelf.

  Katya said, “Is that it?”

  “I think so.” He walked out into the bathroom and looked at the stranger in the mirror, standing there in drab olive green, the bag hanging at his left side. “You were right about the haunted look.” He took the woolen hat from the bag and pulled it on. “God in heaven, I look worse.”

  “Walk slowly, take your time. Speak in a low sort of measured way. You don’t smile because you can’t smile.”

  “I get the point. I’m permanently weary.”

  “You’ve got it exactly,” Monica said. “I must say you don’t look like you at all. You’ve done a fabulous job, Katya. Let’s go and show the others.”

  KATYA AND MONICA found Svetlana in the safe-house apartment where Katya had left her. “What’s happening, my dear?” Svetlana asked.

  “General Ferguson and the others are meeting. He’d like us to join them.”

  “And what about Alexander?”

  “He’ll be there.”

  She gave Svetlana her arm and they went out, Monica following. Wh
en they went down the corridor, the doors of the viewing theater were open and Kurbsky was standing there in all his glory. He stared at them then, pulled off his woolen hat, and scratched his head.

  Svetlana barely looked at him and said, “Where are we going? Where is Alexander?”

  “The computer room,” Katya said. They carried on, and Kurbsky called, “No, he isn’t, you made your point. I’m here, Babushka.” They paused and turned. Svetlana gazed at him, puzzled.

  “I’m here,” he said again, and opened his arms.

  She screamed and cowered against Katya. “What is he saying? Where is Alexander?”

  She really was terribly upset, and the others came running from the computer room, Ferguson calling, “What the hell is going on?”

  They stopped dead, all staring, and then Roper arrived in his wheelchair. “My God, I’d never have believed it.”

  “And neither can she.” Katya hugged her tight. “It is Alexander, my darling. It’s just that I’ve changed him.”

  “It’s me, Babushka.” He reached to kiss her on the forehead. “It really is me.”

  “Can you change back?”

  “Not for the moment.”

  She shuddered. “Such a fright. I need a drink. I’ve never been so shocked in my life.”

  Ferguson gave her his arm. “Coming right up. We’ll all go to the bar and celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Well, if you can’t recognize him, it’s doubtful anyone else will.”

  SITTING THERE in the corner all together, Katya said, “I’ve got another idea. Could be rather clever. Not far from us in Belsize Park is an old-fashioned corner shop. We buy many things there. When Marek worked for us, he often shopped there.”

  “What are you getting at?” Kurbsky asked.

  “I think you should turn up there in the morning. You’re trying to find our house, but you’re not sure where it is. You’ll have a letter with you-which I’ll write before we leave. It will be an offer of employment to you saying that Marek recommended you to us. It’ll also say that we are aware of your medical condition and will allow you to come and go according to the requirements of your treatment.”