Jack Higgins - A Darker Place

“I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

“Too bad, Colonel. I’ll be in touch when I have something to say.”

The line went silent. Luzhkov said, “The bastard.”

Bounine looked bewildered. “Something wrong?”

“Very much so. Kurbsky is suddenly turning awkward.” He shook his head. “I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this whole business.”

AT HOLLAND PARK, Roper was having a sandwich around ten o’clock in the evening when Dillon and Monica dropped by.

“Good film?” Roper asked.

“Not bad.” Dillon helped her off with her coat.

“We thought we’d have a drink with you on the way home,” she told him.

“Home, is it?” Roper said as she sat beside him and Dillon went to the icebox and got a bottle of champagne. “You’re almost becoming a family man, Dillon.”

“Get stuffed,” Dillon said amiably, and poured. “What’s happening?”

“Kurbsky’s on the fourth floor of the Ritz, his suite interconnecting with a bedroom next door. Two other separate rooms along the corridor. I’ve got some interiors, restaurants, bars, and so on up there.” He gestured at the screens. “Have a look. They’ve been having dinner in the main dining room.”

“How do you know that?” Monica asked.

“We’ve got an asset at the Ritz.”

“What do you mean?”

“An asset is a reliable source whom you pay for information in our game. This one is on the concierge staff. Very junior, but okay for general information. Burlaka and Kokonin have gone to a strip joint in Montmartre. Kurbsky booked the car for them. My information is very recent. He’s in the bar with Ivanov.”

“So Ivanov has missed the joys of the strip show?”

“Rules of the game. One of them must be with Kurbsky at all times.”

“What a shame.” She accepted the glass of champagne from Dillon.

“Just to complicate things, Ivanov and his chums are booked in under false names. It’s common practice for GRU operatives operating under cover on foreign soil.”

Monica sighed. “I don’t know how you keep up with it all, and I’m sorry for Ivanov, or whatever you call him, missing out on all the fun.”

IN FACT, it wasn’t strictly true, for Ivanov had just had a most charming surprise. He’d gone upstairs with Kurbsky, who’d decided to retire to his suite early. Kurbsky unlocked the door of his suite and entered. Ivanov was going to follow him, when the door of his room, the interconnecting one, opened and a young woman, blond and more than presentable in the uniform of a chambermaid, appeared, carrying a few crumpled sheets.

One of the reasons he had been chosen for the assignment was that he spoke reasonable French. He said, “Hello, is there a problem?”

She answered him in Russian. “I’m Ukrainian. Call me Olga. I do night shifts only here, but it’s the Ritz and the money’s good and I get to meet interesting people-like you, for instance. I know all about you and your boss, in from Moscow.”

There was a cheeky insolence to her, and Ivanov said, “What’s the problem?”

“The day maid, a bitch from Warsaw called Anya, has made a disgusting mess of the bed, so I’ve got to change it fast, because if the supervisor finds out, I’ll get sacked. Is it okay?”

“Of course it is.” He was excited, and then she looked beyond him, which made him turn, and there was Kurbsky leaning in his doorway, arms folded, smiling slightly.

“You appear to be in control of the situation. I’ll leave you to it.” He moved back and closed his door.

Ivanov went into his bedroom, which was incredibly elegant by the standards he was used to. There was a four-poster bed, a desk on one side of the room, a reasonable seating area on the other with two comfortable easy chairs, and a wardrobe area beside the connecting door to Kurbsky’s suite.

He was aroused, no question of that, and went and sat by the window, got himself a vodka miniature from the room bar, and waited. She returned with fresh sheets and attacked the bed, and Ivanov watched as she stretched and turned, her skirt rising over her thighs as she leaned to smooth the sheets.

He ran a hand up her right leg. She straightened. “Now, that is naughty.”

He stood, his hands all over her, turning her, kissing her passionately. She responded, but when he started to make free with his hands, she said, “No, not now, I’ve got things to do. Later, I’ll see you later.”

He pulled away. “Yes, I’m being silly. I’ve got to go next door for a while.”

“Is he a queer or something?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m supposed to guard him from a chair in the sitting room. It’s orders. He’s a very important man.”

“So you sit here all night?”

“Well, no. It’s a shift system with the other two, but they’ve gone out on the town at the moment.”

“Well, you’d better hope they get back in good condition so they can do their shift. I’m on till eight in the morning. Who knows?”

She plumped the pillows, turned down a corner of the duvet, patted his face, and walked out.

Ivanov took a deep breath, got up, knocked on the connecting door, opened it, and walked into Kurbsky’s sitting room. There was no sign of him, although the television was on. Kurbsky appeared in pajamas, wearing a hotel bathrobe.

“I said the chambermaids at the Ritz would excite you.”

“She’s a Ukrainian called Olga.”

Kurbsky was amused. “For some reason, I find that very funny. You poor bastard, duty before a good shag. I admire you. Go, get a drink from my bar and watch television. I’m for bed.”

IVANOV DID as he was told, had another vodka and then another, caught up in an old movie about French paratroopers in the Algerian War. Finally, he fell asleep in the armchair and came awake to find it was half past two. He went in the bathroom and splashed his face, then went and listened at the bedroom door. Everything was still, so he let himself out into the quiet corridor and tapped on Kokonin’s door. There was no response, and neither was there from Burlaka. He was bitterly angry, and then a staff door marked “Service” opened and Olga appeared.

“Looking for your friends? They arrived back an hour ago, drunken pigs both of them. They had to have a couple of porters bring them up and help them into their rooms. One was sick in his bathroom. The porters had to do a cleaning-up job. I’ve got a passkey if you want to take a look.”

“Yes, I would, if you don’t mind.”

In spite of the porters’ good work, there was a whiff of vomit in Kokonin’s room. Ivanov got out quickly and she let him into the next room, where Burlaka sprawled on his bed half naked, snoring hugely.

“Bastards,” Ivanov said. “A disgrace to the uniform. I hope they’ve caught the pox.”

It was very quiet there in the corridor at that time in the morning. He felt awkward and helpless, and it showed. She said, “Poor old boy.” She kissed him briefly.

“Careful, we’re probably on CCTV,” he told her.

“Not on this section of the corridor.” She took his hand. “Let me show you something.”

She opened the door marked “Service,” and he saw that it was a small room, shelved and stacked with bedding of every kind. “It’s nice in here, nice and warm, and cut off from everything, don’t you agree?”

When she closed the door, the light faded to a red glow and she was a creature of infinite mystery as she pushed him back onto a bolt of duvets, hoisted her uniform skirt, and straddled him. Her hands opened things up expertly, and it occurred to him that she had probably done this before and in the same place, but he didn’t care, didn’t care at all, and he simply lay there, allowing her to ride him.