Jack Higgins - A Darker Place

“I’ll go and type the letter now-if I may use your office, General?”

Monica said, “So you’ll stay here tonight?”

“Move into Chamber Court tomorrow, that’s the general idea.”

Dillon said, “Take it easy, take time to settle in.”

“I intend to. Look, Sean, I was a paratrooper, then special forces, and a final year with GRU.”

“Military intelligence?” Monica said.

“A license to murder, and just like you, the rules were no rules.”

“I read Moscow Nights,” Dillon put in. “And it occurred to me it wasn’t art imitating life, but probably the other way round.”

“Very astute of you.” Katya returned with an envelope. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gave Svetlana a hug. “Let Katya take you home, Babushka. You’ll get too tired.”

She kissed him and patted his cheek. “Be a good boy.”

They went, and Dillon said to Monica, “I’ll run you home. You haven’t had a chance to freshen up. We’ll see you again, Alex.”

Monica kissed him on the cheek. “Stay cool,” she said, and went out with Dillon.

The Salters followed, pausing on the way, and Harry said, “Listen, if you want to look in at our pub, the Dark Man, just give us a bell. We’re at Wapping, Cable Wharf.”

Billy cut in, “It would be like testing the water.”

“That’s a thought. I’ll see.”

They went, and he looked in at the computer room, where Ferguson and Roper were talking. Ferguson said, “I’ve got to go, I’ve got a meeting at the Ministry of Defence. Roper’s in charge now. He’s your control officer. Anything you need, he’ll supply. Take tomorrow as it comes and we’ll talk again.”

Suddenly, it was quiet, just he and Roper, a quiet buzz to things. Roper poured a whiskey. “I drink a lot. The bomb that didn’t succeed in killing me left a great many of its fragments in my system. They hurt, sometimes intolerably. The cigarettes help, and so does whiskey in large quantities. No wild, wild women, though.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Do you have any special requirements?”

“Money, weapons. All I have is a knife. I had a Walther, but after I dealt with Ivanov, I tossed it away as the train was passing a convenient river. It seemed the smart thing to do.” A lie, of course, for the Walther was already in the secret compartment in his bag.

“No problem. I’ve got a credit card for Henri Duval here in this drawer. You can draw cash from any bank’s hole-in-the-wall for as much as one thousand pounds a day.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“Weapons for our people are standard. A silenced Walther, and a Colt.25 for ankle use. Anticipating your request, I had Sergeant Doyle draw them for you. There’s also a bulletproof vest. Everything is in the drawer here together, with five hundred pounds to get you started. Help yourself.”

Kurbsky did, unzipped the false bottom of his bag and placed them inside, putting forty pounds into one of his pockets. He said, “Don’t you get bored just sitting there and watching computer screens all the time?”

“You couldn’t be more wrong. I roam the world to steal people’s secrets. There’s always something. For instance, see this, a report from French railway police in Brittany to headquarters in Paris -it appears that a badly damaged body has been discovered at the side of a track on the direct line to Brest. His papers indicate he was a Russian named Turgin. That would be Ivanov, I assume.”

“Yes. The GRU directs that all operatives operating on foreign soil use false papers.”

“Which will make any investigation by the French police difficult,” Roper said. “As I say, it’s amazing what these screens can disgorge.” His fingers danced over the keys. “Alexander Kurbsky, for example.” The screen filled before their eyes. A current photo, the wild one that went on the back of books, and early, small photos-his mother, his father in KGB uniform, and Tania, her seventeen-year-old face frozen in time, with a line that read: “Deceased, March 15, 1989.”

Kurbsky felt a kind of surge in his chest and banged his fist on the counter. “No, not that, if you don’t mind.”

Roper switched it off at once. “I’m damn sorry. It must be hard for you, remembering the circumstances.”

“That my father used her death as a weapon to get me back? An old story.” Kurbsky got up. “Look, I didn’t sleep at all last night. Can I go and find a bed?”

“Use the apartment your aunt was in. I’ll see you this evening.”

AT THE EMBASSY, Colonel Boris Luzhkov looked up at the knock on the door, and it opened as Bounine looked in.

“Come and sit down,” Luzhkov said. “Here’s something you should know. French police have discovered a body in Brittany bearing false papers in the name of Turgin.”

“And so?”

“It was by the rail track. Turgin is Ivanov.”

“So Kurbsky killed Ivanov? What’s Moscow doing about it?”

“Putting out a story of rogue elements in the military, deserters.

It will be embellished when the other two bodies turn up, as they surely will. False papers, of course. A chambermaid who serviced their rooms, a Ukrainian named Olga Soran, has already been visited by our people in Paris and sent home on the first plane available.”

“So what happens now? Are you going to try and speak to Kurbsky?”

“I think we’ll leave him to settle in. They’ve undoubtedly taken him to Ferguson ’s headquarters in Holland Park. That’s where they will debrief him.”

“And then what?”

“Who knows? They could keep him there in complete comfort and privacy for as long as they like.”

“But he won’t want that, a man like Kurbsky. He’ll get too restless.”

“I agree. We must wait for Kurbsky to contact us. Charles Ferguson is an extremely clever man, Bounine. Kurbsky is a problem to which a solution must be found. There won’t be a quick one, so we wait, but this doesn’t mean a holiday for you, my friend. This is your first posting here, so use your time wisely. Take Oleg as your driver, he knows the city. He’s been here two years. Get him to show you the sights, as it were. You’re Major Bounine now. Use your authority.”

“Thank you, Colonel, I’ll do that.” Bounine turned and withdrew.

IT WAS JUST after six when Kurbsky returned to the computer room. Roper sat there alone, music playing softly. “Cole Porter?” Kurbsky said. “You like that kind of music?”

“It’s a comfort,” Roper told him. “How do you feel?”

“The sleep did me good.”

Roper reached for the whiskey. “A drink?”

“Not at the moment. The Salters invited me to call in at their pub, this Dark Man on Cable Wharf.”

“The first joint Harry owned. He’s got millions in property now. So you fancy spreading your wings?”

“Billy said it would be like testing the water.”

“He could be right. Past the Tower of London, Wapping High Street, down to the river.”

“I remember Wapping well. Those two years I spent with Svetlana at the university, I got to know the city backwards. Seventeen to nineteen is exactly the right age for that, and already I’m remembering it all. Tell me about this place we’re in now.”

“Local people think we’re some sort of sanitarium. Of course, people in the business, like Boris Luzhkov, know very well who we are, but we’re protected by all sorts of security-double blinds, secret exits and entrances, the works.”

“So I could simply walk out?”

“If you want to. Two hundred yards past Holland Park to the main road, plenty of cabs cruising, and the world’s your oyster.”

“And it would be all right?”

“Not for Alexander Kurbsky, but okay for Henri Duval. If you want to test the water, my friend, do it.” He lit a cigarette. “What is it you want? You’ve jumped over the wall, you’re free.”