Jack Higgins - A Darker Place

“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. When 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.”

“I get the point,” Dillon said. “If anyone makes inquiries at the local shop about Duval, they’ll get an acceptable answer.”