A Darker Place (13 page)

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.

And when it was over and she stood there adjusting her dress, he got up and tried to embrace her at the door and she pushed him away. “Oh, no, you’ve had your ration. Anyway, you’re not leaving till Thursday morning.”

“That’s true.”

“I’ve got a split shift tomorrow, half in the afternoon, half at night. So I don’t start till eleven. Sort your friends out over the guarding business and maybe I’ll sneak into your room.”

He was thrilled and showed it. “I’ll fix it, I promise you. They’ll have to do as they’re told, especially after tonight.”

She opened the door, led the way out, and he went back to the suite and let himself in. All was quiet, and he tiptoed through to his room, leaving the door open, took off his jacket and shoes and lay on the bed, suddenly conscious that he’d never been so happy in his life, smiled, and fell asleep.

 

 

DILLON SPENT the night with Monica at Dorset Street and they drove out to Farley Field together in his Mini. Ten o’clock was the departure time for the flight to Paris, and Ferguson had come to see them off, as Harry had with Billy. Lacey and Parry wore the kind of navy blue uniforms that pilots did the world over, with a little gold braid to sharpen it up. It wasn’t a good morning, bad March weather, and they stood under the golfing umbrellas that Lacey had produced and chatted.

“What can I say?” Ferguson smiled. “It should be an easy one. You’ll be back before you know it. That’s when the really important part of the job starts, the transformation of Alexander Kurbsky.”

Lacey led the way to the Chieftain, where Parry was already at the controls, and Ferguson and Harry walked with him. Monica went first, then Billy. Ferguson said to Dillon, “Paul Blériot is waiting at Charles de Gaulle. He’ll put you up, provide everything you need. A good man. You can depend on him.”

Dillon ducked in and sat on the other side of the aisle from Monica opposite Billy, and Lacey closed the airstair door and joined Parry in the cockpit.

“Who is Blériot?” Monica asked.

“Very old chum of Ferguson’s. He’s his man in Paris when you need a helping hand.”

“Such as?”

“You’ll see.” He grinned at Billy. “Check that bar box, Billy, and see if they’ve slipped half a bottle of champagne in.”

Which they had, and Billy opened it and poured it into plastic cups. “So elegant,” Monica said.

“Just like a picnic.” Billy opened half a bottle of water.

“Well, let’s hope it stays a picnic.” Dillon toasted them: “To us.”

 

 

TH E FLIGHT was uneventful. The Chieftain landed and taxied to the private section of the airport, where they were off-loaded. Parry stayed at the controls and Lacey saw them out.

“Saint-Denis tomorrow,” he said, and heaved up the airstair door.

They had light luggage only, but a porter insisted on earning his tip by carrying it on a trolley to security and then out to the pleasant-looking man in his sixties wearing a tweed cap and an old leather coat. His eyes were very blue and he smiled a lot.

“Lady Starling, a sincere pleasure. I’ve always been enchanted by beauty and brains.”

“Good heavens, you are a charmer.” He took her hand and kissed it.

“I feel as if I know you all, having had your pictures thoughtfully faxed to me by my friend Charles. You already seem like old friends. I have a suitable vehicle waiting.” He nodded to the porter and led the way out to a Renault station wagon in the car park. The porter loaded the luggage, took his tip, and went off.

“Where to now?” Dillon asked.

“I have a club restaurant on the Seine. I thought you could spend the day with me. I’ve no idea why you’re here and I don’t want to know. Let’s keep it that way.”

 

 

LA BELLE AURORE, his place was called, quite charming and close to the Quai St. Bernard, with a fine view of Notre Dame. There was a basin for moorings close at hand, quite a few motor cruisers with winter covers on them, and a row of barges in which people lived.

“The red one is mine.” Blériot led the way along a narrow gangway, and they boarded and followed him below. It looked like it had everything that was needed for a comfortable life, an enormous stateroom running into an open kitchen area at one end, a shower room and two bedrooms at the other.

“Yours for the day, my friends. Freshen up and then we’ll have a lunch in the restaurant, but first, a present for you from Charles Ferguson.” He unlocked a cupboard, took out a travel bag, and put it down on the large coffee table in the center of the stateroom and said to Dillon, “Yours, I believe?”

Dillon opened it and discovered two Walthers with silencers and a Colt .25, also with silencer, which he handed to Monica. “How thoughtful of Ferguson. No good-looking woman should be without one, that’s what I always say. I hope it’s not too heavy for your handbag.”

“If you’re being a male chauvinist pig, Sean Dillon, it doesn’t suit you. I would remind you that I’ve used a Colt .25, and quite effectively, as you well know.”

“Don’t let him get to you, Monica,” Billy said as he checked a Walther. “I don’t think we’re into a shooting war this time.”

“Nothing, my friends, is ever certain in this life,” Paul Blériot said. “So let’s go and have a drink at La Belle Aurore, and you can decide how you would like to fill your day.”

 

 

AT THE RITZ HOTEL, Kurbsky was still having his breakfast in the suite with Ivanov when he received a request for an audience from the duty manager.

“May I ask why?” Kurbsky said.

“I deeply regret to inform you, Monsieur Kurbsky, it concerns irregularities in the behavior of your companions.”

“Indeed,” Kurbsky said. “Well, we can’t have that. Come on up.” He turned to Ivanov. “Trouble with the management about my companions? What’s been going on?”

“Two of them were so drunk they had to be put to bed by porters. One vomited in his bathroom.”

“How delightful,” Kurbsky said. “I’ve always said, put a peasant in uniform and he’s still a peasant. It hardly covers the Russian Federation with glory.” The doorbell rang. “Answer it.”

The manager was so apologetic that it irritated Kurbsky immensely. “Of course their behavior doesn’t meet the standards the Ritz expects. It doesn’t meet the standards I expect. They will be dealt with appropriately when we return to Moscow. As I’m due at the Élysée Palace this evening, I must request your indulgence. We are leaving in the morning, as you know.”

“I apologize for having to bring this to your attention, Monsieur, as I know you are to receive the Legion of Honor from our President this evening.”

Kurbsky felt like saying, “So what?” but contented himself with “Your consideration has been all that I would have expected from the Ritz.” The manager bowed himself out, and Kurbsky said to Ivanov, “In here now, both of them, and don’t bother to dress. Bath-robes will do.”

 

 

“WALKING DEAD MEN” was an apt description. They both looked dreadful and were experiencing the most appalling hangovers. They stood there in their robes, obviously very ill indeed.

Kurbsky said, “You are officers in the GRU, on assignment abroad, in one of the world’s greatest cities. You are representing your country. You are supposed to be showing some pride in the Motherland, and what do you do? Disgrace yourselves, disgrace Russia. You might as well have stood there and urinated against a wall in the Champs-Élysées, and, frankly, you are not fit to accompany me to the Palace this evening.”

“Please, sir, I don’t know what happened,” Burlaka croaked. “I think there was something in my drink.”

“The oldest excuse in the world. Get out of my sight, get yourselves downstairs to the Sports Club. See what the saunas and steam room can achieve.”

They backed out. Ivanov said, “What happens for the rest of the day?”

“Well, I’ve no intention of sitting here on my backside, and according to the rules, you’ve got to accompany me, which will probably bore you to death. I like art, great art, so the Louvre is a must. I might just allow you a cruise on the Seine or a trip up the Eiffel Tower, but that’s it.”

 

 

“FOUR FIRST-CLASS TICKETS on the midnight train for Brest from the Gare du Nord. They are private compartments linked by a door. Each compartment takes two in the sense that you can pull two bunk beds down, but with the connecting door, it will suffice for a party of four. Here are the tickets.”

Blériot put them on the table and Monica examined them. “Excellent. We’ll travel in style. There is a restaurant car, I presume?”

“Yes. I know the train well. It has a kind of faded splendor, and the rolling stock is charming, but old. For example, there is a toilet at each end of the corridor, nothing private.”

“Hardly the end of the world,” Monica said. She turned to Dillon. “So, what do we do now?”

“Go for a walk, see the sights. Does that suit you, Billy?”

“Absolutely.”

“Remember you may use my barge as much as you want. There’s a lot of time to fill before your train leaves, and you’ll need a couple of the restaurant umbrellas. It’s not exactly the best time of the year to go walking by the Seine. I’ve things to do. I’ll see you later.” Blériot got up and went.

“There’s always the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame.”

“Been there, done that,” Monica said. “What about you, Sean?”

“My dear girl, I used to live in this great city years ago, in the days of my wicked past. I even had a barge like Blériot’s.” He turned to Billy. “What about you?”

“I’ve never been to Paris, the Louvre isn’t my cup of tea, and I’m not into cathedrals. The Eiffel Tower, though, is something I always wondered about when I was a kid.”

“Right,” Dillon said. “We’ll get a cab and go. Afterwards, I’ll take you somewhere special.”

 

 

THEY DIDN’T KNOW that they had missed Kurbsky and Ivanov by only forty minutes at the top of the Eiffel Tower. In any case, the visit was something of a non-event because of the rain mixed with mist that draped itself across the city.

“I enjoyed Blackpool Tower more,” Billy said as they descended in the elevator.

“Spoken like a true Englishman,” Dillon told him, approached a taxi rank, and in rapid and fluent French told the driver to take them to Quai de Montebello opposite the Île de la Cité.

“Now what?” Billy demanded.

“Wait and see.”

A short while later, they parked at the side of a cobbled quay. “What’s all this?” Monica asked, getting out and putting up an umbrella.

“Bateaux mouches,”
Dillon told her. “Floating restaurants. Sail up the river and have a meal and a bottle of wine, see the sights. It’s a regular thing. They follow a timetable.”

“In this bloody weather?” Billy said.

“If you notice, there are ample deck awnings, and you can sit inside if you prefer.”

“Don’t be a grouch, Billy, it looks like fun,” Monica told him.

Two deckhands were about to pull up the gangway, but paused to let them on board. A waiter approached, smiling.

“Will you be dining?”

“If it’s not too late for lunch,” Dillon answered in French.

“Of course, Monsieur, we never close. Not too many customers today. It’s the time of the year and the weather. Choose where you would like to sit and I will start with a drink for you.”

They went up to the upper deck, but the sides were open and the rain was blowing in, so they went back down and found a nice table by the stern window so they could see all the sights as they passed. Dillon and Monica had champagne, grilled Dover sole, and Lyonnaise potatoes, Billy a large bowl of bouillabaisse.

“I’ve got to give it to you, Dillon,” Billy said. “This stew is the business. I’m really enjoying the whole thing. Notre Dame looks great up there, the barges. It’s nearly as good as the Thames.”

Monica patted his hand. “There’s no answer to that. My fish was marvelous. All I’d like now would be coffee.”

The waiter, hovering, started to clear the plates. “At once, Madame.”

Dillon lit a cigarette, passed it to her, and lit another. “They’re French,” he said. “Nobody’s going to throw us off the boat.”

“How do you think things are going?” Billy said. “With Kurbsky?”

“Kurbsky seemed confident in his ability to handle the guard in his room tonight,” said Dillon. “Considering his military experience, he should be.”

“I suppose I’m just nervous because we’ve got nothing to do except wait for him at the gate for that midnight train at the Gare du Nord,” Billy said.

The waiter brought coffee. Billy asked for English breakfast tea and Dillon a Bushmills whiskey. Monica said, “I’m still fascinated by the whole venture, the future. I can’t get my head round what’s supposed to happen to Kurbsky.”

“Maybe he can’t either,” Billy said. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

 

 

KURBSKY HAD BEEN slightly surprised to discover that the dress for the ceremony was not black tie. The new President had decided to open things up, and business suits were the order of the day. It was five-thirty when Kurbsky finished dressing and examined himself in the mirror in the bedroom wardrobe. Very much as he had done in New York, he wore black and had to confess it looked good. He went and kicked on the door of the connecting room, then went and found his jacket.