A Darker Place (28 page)

“I was attacked by two teenage muggers. One of them cut me, I knocked them about, and they cleared off. I’m a judo expert. I just don’t want to get involved with the police. On the other hand, you’re a young guy just into his career, and I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Well, you won’t.” Hitesh said to Katya, “Find me a big bath towel to cover the table with, some hand towels. I note that the central heating is on, so that means plenty of hot water is available. When you go for those, bring pajamas and a robe and I’ll get him out of his filthy overalls.”

 

 

TH E WOUND PACK had everything, including morphine ampules, and he snapped the glass tip off one and jabbed it in. “Is that all right?”

“Sure, it’s kicking in.”

“You know what a cicatrix is?”

“Of course—a scar.”

“From an old wound. You have several.” Hitesh smiled. “Whatever else you are, you are an interesting man, Henri Duval. Anyway, the kit supplies needles and thread and surgical-tape butterflies. I shall try four spaced stitches and fill them in with the butterflies.”

“Then do it.” Kurbsky turned to Katya, who had been listening without a word. “I think another large vodka is definitely indicated here.” She gave it to him, and he tossed it down. “Okay, let’s get on with it.”

 

 

NOT MUCH MORE than half an hour later, Hitesh finished his careful and neat bandaging, tightly held together with surgical tape.

“I would suggest a sleeping pill, which I shall give you, and a good night’s sleep,” he said.

Katya had left them to go and speak to Svetlana, and she now returned. “She is quite concerned. Would you care to eat something with us?” she asked.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take the advice of my excellent doctor and go to bed.”

“I think you’re wise,” Hitesh said. “Here’s your sleeping pill, swallow it now. I’ll also leave you some pills, strong painkillers that will help you for the next three or four days. Just read the instructions. I’ll leave you to it.”

“You’re a star, Hitesh.” Katya kissed him.

He walked to the door, opened it, and smiled. “Of course, I haven’t been here. No one saw me, right? But I’ll check on him tomorrow.”

“He’s a lovely young man,” she said.

“I’m indebted to him.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “And you.” He kissed her gently on the mouth. “I am a great worry to you, I know this, and I’m sorry it has to be this way. However, I’m going to bed and to hell with everything for a while.”

She waited for him to climb the stairs safely and called, “Night bless, Alex.”

But he was already gone, the only sound his bedroom door closing softly, so she was not aware of him going to his bathroom and spitting out the sleeping pill.

She went across to the conservatory and joined Svetlana. “He’s gone to bed, Hitesh gave him something to make him sleep.” She handed Svetlana a vodka and joined her.

“You’re still worried about him?”

“He lied to me about having been at the safe house. I’m sure he’s not telling the truth about how he came to be cut with a knife.”

“Then do as I say. Go and see Roper and tell him you’re worried.”

“You know, I think I will.”

“Only send for a cab. You’ve been drinking.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course.”

She phoned for a cab, got her coat on, and called Roper, getting him at once. “Hello,” he said. “Did our wandering boy turn up?”

“I’d like to see you.”

“What now?”

“Don’t say no, Roper. I need to talk. I’m worried about him.”

“Why is that?”

“Because when he got back tonight and I asked where he’d been, he told me the safe house. And he had a knife wound in his arm.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I sent for a cab. I think it’s here now.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She looked in on Svetlana. “My cab’s here.”

“Take your time. I’ll wait up for you.”

 

 

THE CAB DROPPED her at Holland Park twenty minutes later, the Judas gate admitted her, and Doyle met her at the entrance. “Nobody else here but me and the Major, miss. How about a cup of tea? It might persuade him to have one.”

“That would be nice, Sergeant.”

She went and kissed Roper on the forehead and said, “Good of you to see me so late.”

“We never close. How’s Kurbsky?”

“I worry about him—too much, I think.”

“No, that’s me.”

“Why would you?”

He almost came straight out with it. His discoveries about Tania Kurbsky had preyed on his mind and would not go away. Was there any point in revealing this most painful of truths to Kurbsky after so many years? But that would mean keeping the facts to himself, and in a way, that was a burden and not to be shared with anyone.

Doyle brought the tea in, a mug each. “Military style, miss.” He withdrew.

“Tell me,” Roper said.

“I think I’ve rather fallen for him, silly me. I mean, I’m hardly into the first bloom of youth.”

“A woman to die for, most men would think.”

“Anyway, because I think of him slightly like that, I feel I’ve an instinct about him, and it tells me things are not right. Something’s going on in that head, and Svetlana agrees. He lies to me about where he’s been, and when I know he’s lied, that makes me doubt everything.”

“You said he lied to you this evening?”

“He’d been out for some hours, drove away in the old Ford van wearing navy blue overalls and a tweed cap. When he got back, I asked him where he’d been and he said the safe house, which I knew wasn’t true. And—he’d been stabbed. I found him in the kitchen above the garage trying to treat himself.”

Roper was suddenly very serious. “Go on,” he said.

 

 

“YOUNG PATEL is obviously a man of parts,” he said when she was finished.

“Yes, a good chap.”

Roper said, “Katya, we’re sitting here with the midnight hour approaching, the shank of the night when all things seem possible and only because they look highly improbable, and I’m going to take a chance on you. By chance, I found out something totally devastating about Alexander Kurbsky today. It’s these damn computers, you see, and I have a gift for them, and if you have that, there are no secrets left in this life.”

“And how does this refer to Alex?”

So he told her about Tania and what he had discovered.

 

 

“A TERRIBLE BUSINESS,” she said when he was finished. “And to learn all that would truly open old wounds for him.”

“I saw it as a burden the moment I discovered the details. Now I’ve shared that burden with you, and without your permission.”

“You needn’t worry,” she told him. “It’s the knowing what to do about it that’s the problem. Whether to tell him or not—but is that so important?” She suddenly shivered. “I don’t like us having to discuss him like this. Will you tell anyone else?”

“Ferguson?” He shrugged. “I haven’t mentioned the matter to him, you’re the only one, but something else has come up which he does know about.”

“And does it concern Alex?”

“It concerns a friend of ours, an American called Blake Johnson.” He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured. “Listen and learn. You might find it interesting.”

 

 

IT TOOK SOME time, for she needed to have the whole background of past events laid out for her, and of a number of individuals on both sides of the coin. When he was finished, she sat there considering what he had told her.

“So Blake Johnson has been targeted twice in plots devised by this Colonel Boris Luzhkov. The first time he was saved by Sean Dillon and Billy Salter.”

“That’s right, a couple of years ago.”

“And this time he was kidnapped by GRU operatives on Luzhkov’s orders and saved by a Russian in a black hood.”

“A man in a black hood who spoke Russian, which Dillon does, and rather well, only Dillon wasn’t responsible for this gig. I’ve spoken to him, and so has Ferguson. He’s still in Cambridge with Lady Monica Starling.”

Katya said calmly, “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“Blake did say the man in the hood was cut with a spring-blade knife and bound it up with his scarf. Does that sound familiar?”

“But why would he do such a thing?”

“It was a good deed in a naughty world from Blake’s point of view, and first-class professional job from ours. No police involved, no dramatic story for the media.”

“And Luzhkov and his people get away with it?”

“It never happened, Katya, it’s a game we play. We know that they know, and they know that we know.”

“Does Ferguson know about Alex’s involvement?”

“I’ll have to tell him in the morning.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“The thing is, there are big events happening in the next few days, things even the media don’t know about. I was only told a bit about it earlier by Ferguson. Blake’s involved, but I can’t tell you how.”

“I see.” She got up and reached for her coat. “I must be getting back. I’ve got a lot to think about. Can I call for a cab?”

“Sergeant Doyle will run you home. I insist on it.” He buzzed for Doyle and followed her to the door. “A strange business, so many questions unanswered, including the biggest of all.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“How on earth did he know about the attempt to kidnap Blake and when it was taking place?”

It was so silly, yet so obvious, that it hadn’t occurred to her. “I see what you mean.” Doyle appeared in the van, and she ruffled Roper’s hair. “You’ve been good to me. I’ll speak to you in the morning.”

 

 

AT THAT MOMENT, Boris Luzhkov sat in the living room of his quarters at the Embassy with much vodka taken and angrier than he had ever been. Yuri Bounine, sitting in an easy chair opposite him, had been emptying his glass into a convenient wastepaper basket for some time.

“You know, Yuri, thank God I kept the whole damned affair from the Prime Minister. I meant it to be a surprise, my gift to him. Those idiots, Oleg and Petrovich. I’ll have them transferred to a penal battalion, I swear it.” He poured another vodka and slopped it down. “Ferguson and his damned Prime Minister’s private army and that bastard Dillon. They’ve done it again.”

“So you believe the man in the hood was Dillon?” Bounine said.

“Who else? Shooting off half of Oleg’s ear is typical of Dillon. He’s famous for it, and everybody knows that he’s a linguist. Anyway, who else would it be? The history of our dealings with these people speaks for itself.”

There was a knock on the door and a young woman entered. She had tightly bound blond hair and a trim black suit, and was clutching a piece of paper. “Hah, it’s you, Greta, on the night shift again? What’s happening?”

“Something unexpected, Colonel, so I thought you’d like to hear it straightaway. It’s from our Paris Embassy.”

“Well, get on with it—tell me.” He poured another vodka.

“As you know, Vice President Hardy is due to depart tomorrow for Washington. At the last moment, however, his plane will divert to London. He and the British Prime Minister are meeting with the Israeli Prime Minister and the President of Palestine to broker a deal over Gaza.”

Luzhkov almost choked on his vodka and sat up. “Can this be true?”

“It comes from a highly confidential source in French intelligence who’s on the GRU payroll in Paris.”

Bounine held out his hand and the girl gave him the sheet. “Major.”

He read it quickly and nodded. “Yes, exactly as Greta says.”

“There hasn’t even been a hint of this—in the media, in government circles, anywhere. What the hell are they playing at?” Luzhkov asked.

“Politics, it’s as simple as that. Catch your opponents on the wrong foot. Everything revolves around the Americans.”

Luzhkov’s immediate response was antagonism. “Who says so?”

“The world says so.” Bounine suddenly felt tired, the lawyer in him sticking its head out again. Where did the regime find such people? Everything seemed to be run by a layer of colonels with half-brains. It was something to do with Communism devouring the country for all those years—had to be.

“America is still the world’s greatest superpower. Sure, it makes mistakes, but it can still knock heads together and bring about solutions. Public negotiations can be endlessly time-consuming. Much better to pull a rabbit out of the hat. Everyone’s watching the President because the media are like leeches onto every move he makes, so send the Vice President on normal business to Paris, then divert him to London, and presto! Everyone gathers on a boat in the Thames and scores the public relations coup of the year.”

Luzhkov seemed to have sobered up, his eyes gleaming, his face full of purpose. “What is this about a boat on the Thames?”

Bounine examined the message again. “Actually, it says: ‘Our information is that the meeting will probably take place on a riverboat on the Thames.’ I presume they’re thinking of the security aspect there. Make it harder for terrorists.”

“What a target, though.” Luzhkov clenched a fist. “What a sensation the death of the four of them would make. It would rock the world.”

“I should imagine it would,” Bounine said acidly, and then he stopped. “Major, you’re not thinking of—”

Luzhkov now seemed like another man. “Listen, Bounine. I am sixty-five years of age. I was born in 1943, during the greatest war in Russian history, when we were brought out of hell to victory by the iron will of Josef Stalin. My father, a foot soldier, died in the war, and my mother took me to live with her parents. They were village peasants, but the school was good and it led to the army, which saw I had a brain and educated me further. Eventually, I was commissioned, rising steadily over the years thanks to one thing: the Communist system. It became my religion during the Cold War, and it is my religion still.”