A Darker Place (18 page)

“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.”

“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.”

“Am I really?” Kurbsky shook his head. “In personal terms, I look on myself as the invisible man, because no one sees the real me. I could write about that and what it’s like.”

“That’s certainly an interesting thought. I would think it would make an extraordinary book.”

“But first, I must experience it.” Kurbsky stood, picked up his bag, and slipped the carrying strap over his head so that the bag was on his right thigh. “I’ll tell you later.”

“You surely will. I’m part of the furniture. The Judas gate opens automatically when you approach because I’ve punched you into the system.”

 

 

WHICH IT DID. He stepped through and found himself on a quiet street, most of the properties Victorian, some walled, others in sizable gardens. It was dark now, streetlamps glowing, lots of parked cars, everything perfectly normal. The main road was extremely busy. He stood at the edge of the pavement and flagged down a black cab and told the driver to take him to Wapping High Street.

He sat there, looking out at the busy streets, the evening traffic, the buzz of what was still the greatest city in the world, remembering so much from his youth. He was aware of the driver glancing at him in the mirror occasionally and decided to say something, trying for just a hint of a French accent.

“You know the Dark Man on Cable Wharf at Wapping?”

“I certainly do.” The driver was obviously a Cockney.

“Just drop me off at the High Street end. I want to go to a shop there.”

“Fine by me. Watch it walking down to the Dark Man. It’s a great pub, but some of the streets leading down there are a problem. Bloody kids and their knives. The world’s gone mad. It’s all the drugs, I reckon.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that.”

The cabbie’s eyes flickered over him again. “Are you okay, mate? You don’t look too well.”

Kurbsky decided to go all the way. “Chemotherapy. It takes its toll.”

“Cancer? Christ, mate, I’m sorry. It must be bloody rough.”

He obviously felt subdued and said nothing more, all the way to the Tower of London and farther into Wapping High Street. He finally pulled in at the sidewalk under a streetlamp and Kurbsky alighted and leaned down to pay him.

The driver gave him his change. “Take care, mate.”

He drove away hurriedly, and Kurbsky turned and discovered a dress shop, mannequins in the window. There was also his reflection in a mirror, looking like a ghoul.

“My God, Alex, where did you go?” he said softly, walked a few yards, and came to a lane with the sign that read “Cable Wharf” above it. It was dark and somehow sinister, the streetlamps of the old London gaslight pattern, some broken. He didn’t feel the slightest fear, though. For one thing, he had the bone-handled gutting knife inside his right boot. He started to walk down.

 

 

IT HAD OBVIOUSLY been an area of thriving warehouses in its day, but most of them were decaying now and boarded up, waiting for the developers. He walked along the center of the street carefully, aware of voices up ahead and some sort of fire. As he got closer, he saw what it was, an old trash can with rubbish of some kind burning away in a courtyard behind a broken wall.

Two youths drinking from bottles were standing beside the fire, taking turns to kick an old ragged tramp who lay whimpering on the ground. There was an old woman in a beret and a layer of coats, a bag on the ground, its contents spilled. She was very drunk and crying.

“Stop it, you’ll kill him.”

The youths were laughing, and the tallest one shoved her away. “Piss off, you old cow.” He turned and kicked the man in the head again.

Kurbsky stood and watched. The youth said, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

“She’s got a point,” Kurbsky said, and unzipped the false bottom of his bag. There were two Walthers in there, and the one that had killed the GRU men on the train had some surgical tape he’d found in the bathroom around the butt.

The youth reached in his anorak, produced a flick knife, and sprang the blade. “My friend’s got one too,” he said as his companion produced a similar weapon. “Let’s see what you’ve got in the bag.”

“My pleasure.” Kurbsky took out the Walther from the train and hit him across the side of the head. The youth dropped his weapon with a cry of pain and fell on one knee, his friend backed away, and Kurbsky picked up the knife, closed the blade, and put it in his pocket. “This is a Walther PPK, the real thing, not an imitation. It has a fantastic stopping power.” He fired at a tin can among the rubbish, there was a dull thud, and the can jumped in the air. “Imagine what that could do to your knee. Now go away very fast.”

The undamaged one said, “Come on, for Christ’s sake, he means it.” He darted away up toward the High Street while the woman was piling her belongings into her bag and the old man was getting to his feet. The youth Kurbsky had injured had fallen to his knee again, and the old couple moved past him surprisingly fast. He came up slowly, a brick in his hand.

“You bastard, I’ll smash your skull.”

Kurbsky’s hand swung up, he fired, and the lower half of the youth’s left ear disintegrated. He screamed, and plucked at his ear, blood oozing between his fingers. He fell back against the wall.

Kurbsky said, “You never learn, people like you. Now clear off and find a hospital.”

He walked away, swallowed by darkness. The youth cried, “You fucking bastard,” then turned and stumbled away.

 

 

KURBSKY CAME OUT of the darkness and walked along Cable Wharf. On his left was the panorama of London on the other side, lights gleaming everywhere, the sound of distant traffic, a pleasure boat sailing by, all lit up. He came to a multistoried development of what looked like exclusive apartments, but the Dark Man standing beside it was a typical river pub that obviously dated from Victorian times. There was a car park and, beyond, several boats moored at the jetty. He went to the entrance, paused, then went inside.