A Darker Place

by Jack Higgins

  “But nothing lives here. It’s a place of shadows, quietly passing, only an illusion,” said Monica.

  Katya had heard her as she came down the stairs and entered the kitchen. “There is life here and everywhere, believe me, fish in those creeks in the marsh, crabs, shellfish, geese in the winter from Siberia, wildfowl in plenty.”

  “But not to Monica’s taste, I think,” Svetlana told her. “Is all well?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “Then load up and we shall visit the inn at All Hallows.”

  TYPICALLY FOR SUCH a place, the inn, called Smugglers, was a relic of the early eighteenth century. Crouched on the edge of the estuary, it had a weather-beaten look to it, but the bar was friendly enough, with a beamed ceiling and a wide-open hearth and a log fire. The woman behind the bar was named Betty and greeted Svetlana warmly; both women seemed to be about the same age.

  Katya said, “No visitors around, then?”

  “A few bird-watchers as usual, the crazy type who go out in all weathers. Now, what’ll it be? You know me, ladies, one dish a day is my limit, and being Monday, it’s stew and dumplings.”

  “Which will suit us,” Svetlana said. “And a glass of red wine for me. I don’t know what the rest of you want.”

  “That’s fine,” Monica said. “His lordship here will undoubtedly hope for Irish whiskey.”

  “And I’ll stick to one glass of sherry, as I’m driving,” Katya said.

  They sat there, enjoying the warmth, waiting for the food, and Svetlana said, “Do you think your visit here tells you something more about my nephew?”

  “I’m not sure,” Monica said. “The man I met in New York was a handsome devil with a swagger to him, someone who seemed to face the world and say ‘I don’t give a damn what you think of me. Take me or leave me, I couldn’t care less.’ ”

  Svetlana nodded. “You must realize, I have to see this for myself.”

  Dillon said, “What did you think of the boy from Moscow who joined you in London but loved to come down here to this desolate world?”

  She opened her large handbag, rummaged in it, and produced a pack of cards. “Tarot,” she said to Monica. “I discovered I had a gift for these things many years ago. As I said, I am a sensitive. I won’t ask you if you believe. Shuffle the pack and give it back to me with your left hand.” Monica did as she was told, and Svetlana spread the pack in a half-circle facedown. “Three cards, that is all you need.” Monica eased them out, still facedown. They looked antique and were green and gold.

  Svetlana took Monica’s left hand in hers. “You thought you knew yourself, but something has happened of late to you that has changed your life irrevocably. You are no longer the person that you thought you were. Now choose one card and turn it over.”

  Monica did as she was told, her stomach hollow with excitement. The picture was a pool guarded by a wolf and a dog. Beyond it were two towers, and in the sky above, the moon.

  “This is good, my dear, for it is upright. It indicates a crisis in your life. All is changed utterly. Reason and intellect have no part in resolving your new situation. Only your own instincts will bring you through. You must at all times flow with the feeling. Your own feeling. This alone will present you with the true solution.”

  Monica felt drained and weak. “Good God,” she said faintly, and, reaching, found Dillon’s left hand and held it tight.

  “You wouldn’t be giving me any answers, would you?” he asked as Svetlana picked up the cards and dropped them back in her handbag.

  “One at a time is all I am capable of, my dear, it is so draining, but I can speak of the past. Almost twenty years ago, I sat here with Kelly and my nephew, and Alexander asked me, and not for the first time, to do the cards. I had always refused, I always had a bad feeling.”

  “But this time you agreed?” Monica asked.

  “Yes, but he asked for the double, one card on another. He insisted.”

  There was a long pause. Dillon said gently, “What was the result?”

  “The first card was a knight on horseback, a baton in his hand, a sign of someone who chooses the path of conflict for its own sake.”

  “And the second card?” Monica felt a strange chill.

  “Death. A skeleton with a scythe mowing not corn, but corpses.”

  “But that’s terrible, horrible.” Monica was truly upset.

  Katya said, “Even worse, when they returned to Chamber Court that evening, it was to receive the news from Moscow about Tania.”

  “You mean the false report that she was only wounded?” Dillon asked.

  Katya nodded, and Svetlana sighed. “Such is life, my dears.”

  Betty chose that moment to come in from the kitchen, a plate in each hand, and put them on the bar. “Get it while it’s hot,” she said, and returned to the kitchen. Katya got them and handed them down. Betty came back with two more.

  The outside door opened and three men with hooded anoraks entered, binoculars around their necks. They moved down to the other end of the bar by the fireplace and ordered beer.

  “Eat up, my dears,” Svetlana said, “and don’t be depressed, for all will be resolved in the end.”

  ON THE WAY back to London, Monica received another call from Kurbsky, who was in the bathroom in his apartment at the safe house.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Just a moment.” Monica asked Katya to pull in at the side of the road and got out of the station wagon. “You can speak now.”

  “I’ve enjoyed looking at you on the Internet. I found your Major Roper, too. Tell him I’ll call at midnight my time tonight, nine yours. This isn’t a request. I need answers.”

  The line went dead, and Monica got back in the station wagon and told Dillon. He said, “Well, it would be difficult to say no. Call in now and tell Roper. We’ll go back to Chamber Court with the ladies and then check in at Holland Park.”

  “You’ll keep us posted?” Katya said.

  “Absolutely. There are two important moves in this game. One, to get Kurbsky out of Paris, the second to get him safe in your hands at Holland Park so you can work your magic.” He smiled at Svetlana. “Don’t worry, my love, it’s going to be just fine. Trust me.”

  AS IT DREW closer to nine o’clock at Holland Park, they all sat waiting, for Ferguson had called in the Salters, too, and at nine precisely, Kurbsky came through. Roper adjusted Monica’s mobile and Kurbsky spoke.

  “Have you got the plan for me? We’re only three days away.”

  Roper said, “We will have two operatives arriving in Paris by private plane on Wednesday. Their names are Sean Dillon and Billy Salter. We’ve checked the order of events at the Élysée Palace. Seven o’clock, a glass of champagne as a welcome. Things get serious from eight, then comes the buffet meal. We figure you return to the Ritz for eleven-but it could be earlier.”

  “So what happens then?”

  “I’m handing you over to Dillon.”

  “How do your minders see to you?” Dillon asked.

  “They have a rota. One on guard at all times in my sitting room in the suite.”

  “You go to bed as soon as you get back, whatever time it is. I would imagine a man of your experience would have no difficulty handling the guard in your room.”

  “Then what?”

  “Straight downstairs, minutes only. There are always taxis at the rank outside. Tell the driver to take you to the Gare du Nord railway station. There is a train leaving for Brest at midnight. We’ll be waiting at the gate. We’ll even have a passport for you. You’re now Henri Duval.”

  “And where does this train take me?”

  “Overnight to Brittany, where a private plane waits to bring you to London.”

  “It’s so simple, it could work.”

  “It will work,” Roper cut in.

  “There is only one flaw. I am egotistical enough to assume that Dillon and Salter will recognize me. However, I haven’t the slightest idea what they look like.”

>   Ferguson, exasperated, said, “Of course they’ll recognize you. Dammit, man, they’ll approach you at the gate.”

  “And whisper in my ear?”

  Monica said, “Shut up, the lot of you. It’s perfectly simple. I’ll go with them. Will that serve, Alex?”

  “Good heavens, yes.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  Ferguson said rather lamely, “Well, I suppose it is.”

  “Excellent. I’m very grateful, Monica,” Kurbsky said. “I’m sure your two friends will look after you well.”

  “Nothing to look after. It’ll be a breeze.” She felt hugely elated and glanced at Dillon, who was smiling wryly.

  “One more thing, Major Roper-my future, my anonymity is assured?”

  “Believe me, old man, by the time we’ve finished with you, even you won’t recognize who you are.”

  Monica said, “Alex, can I have your mobile number?”

  “No, but I would like yours, Major Roper. At this stage in the game, it’s essential.”

  “Absolutely.” Roper gave it to him. “Take care.”

  “But I always do.” Kurbsky clicked off, and there was only silence.

  LONDON / PARIS

  6

  In London, the Embassy of the Russian Federation was situated in Kensington Palace Gardens. There was a safe house close by, where Boris Luzhkov had privileged quarters, and Bounine, now a major, was also well looked after. Included in all this were the joys of Kensington High Street and the pub on the other side. It was just after noon on Tuesday when Bounine went out through the main gate, waited for a break in the traffic, and darted across to keep a lunch appointment with Luzhkov.

  Luzhkov had a favorite window seat and was reading the early edition of the Evening Standard. “So there you are,” he said. “How are you finding it?”

  “A posting to London at last,” Bounine said. “I like it very well.” He turned as a young waitress approached. “A large vodka, please.”

  Luzhkov swallowed the rest of his wine and gave her the glass. “Another for me, and two shepherd’s pies.” He folded the newspaper. “Always read the Standard, it’s an institution, and almost anything on the menu here is excellent. This city is a spy’s heaven, Yuri. At least twenty-four GRU people are here-posing as something else, of course. To be frank, nobody wants to go home from a London posting. What was Dublin like?”

  “Great city and great people. The problem was that the ambassador wanted me not only to act like a commercial attaché-but be one.”

  “What a bore. Still, life has taken on a new meaning for you now. This Kurbsky business. Very special indeed. A great opportunity for both of us.”

  “What’s our next move?”

  “Not ours, Kurbsky’s. Right about now, his Falcon is leaving the Motherland for Paris.”

  His mobile trembled in his shirt pocket, and he answered. “Alexander, my friend, how are you?”

  “As good as I’ll ever be. Just taking off from Moscow. How are you and Yuri settling in?”

  “He can’t believe his luck. We’re enjoying lunch in my favorite pub across the street from the Embassy.”

  “Good for you, and now to business. You’re aware that idiot Gregorovich informed me we would be staying at the Ritz because the Ministry did not want to shame the Motherland by its frugality. Naturally, the lads are rather worked up at the prospect of French chambermaids.”

  “To say that I seriously doubt the competence of Ivanov, Kokonin, and Burlaka is putting it mildly, and the chambermaids they lust after will probably turn out to be Polish. I’ve given young Ivanov my personal mobile number so that he may call me at any time if he has a problem. So what have Ferguson ’s people got planned?”

  “I return to the hotel after the Élysée Palace affair is over. By then it will be late, so I retire to bed, having an early start for Moscow in the morning. As usual, I’ll have one of the lads on guard in the sitting room by the suite. I’m to deal with him.”

  “Permanently?”

  “That would seem extreme. Only if it’s necessary.”

  “And then?”

  Kurbsky told him of the train to Brittany, and Luzhkov said, “Nice and simple. Dillon and Salter are very good, but I suppose the woman could complicate things.”

  “Not really. It should all be perfectly straightforward. Let’s get one thing clear: When I get to London safely and find myself in Ferguson ’s hands, I’m going to go with the flow, step by step, and evaluate what they’ve worked out for me. I won’t be calling you every five minutes, and if I turn my phone off, you’ll just have to accept that. By the way, I’ve turned off my recording facility.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

  “Too bad, Colonel. I’ll be in touch when I have something to say.”

  The line went silent. Luzhkov said, “The bastard.”

  Bounine looked bewildered. “Something wrong?”

  “Very much so. Kurbsky is suddenly turning awkward.” He shook his head. “I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this whole business.”

  AT HOLLAND PARK, Roper was having a sandwich around ten o’clock in the evening when Dillon and Monica dropped by.

  “Good film?” Roper asked.

  “Not bad.” Dillon helped her off with her coat.

  “We thought we’d have a drink with you on the way home,” she told him.

  “Home, is it?” Roper said as she sat beside him and Dillon went to the icebox and got a bottle of champagne. “You’re almost becoming a family man, Dillon.”

  “Get stuffed,” Dillon said amiably, and poured. “What’s happening?”

  “Kurbsky’s on the fourth floor of the Ritz, his suite interconnecting with a bedroom next door. Two other separate rooms along the corridor. I’ve got some interiors, restaurants, bars, and so on up there.” He gestured at the screens. “Have a look. They’ve been having dinner in the main dining room.”

  “How do you know that?” Monica asked.

  “We’ve got an asset at the Ritz.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An asset is a reliable source whom you pay for information in our game. This one is on the concierge staff. Very junior, but okay for general information. Burlaka and Kokonin have gone to a strip joint in Montmartre. Kurbsky booked the car for them. My information is very recent. He’s in the bar with Ivanov.”

  “So Ivanov has missed the joys of the strip show?”

  “Rules of the game. One of them must be with Kurbsky at all times.”

  “What a shame.” She accepted the glass of champagne from Dillon.

  “Just to complicate things, Ivanov and his chums are booked in under false names. It’s common practice for GRU operatives operating under cover on foreign soil.”

  Monica sighed. “I don’t know how you keep up with it all, and I’m sorry for Ivanov, or whatever you call him, missing out on all the fun.”

  IN FACT, it wasn’t strictly true, for Ivanov had just had a most charming surprise. He’d gone upstairs with Kurbsky, who’d decided to retire to his suite early. Kurbsky unlocked the door of his suite and entered. Ivanov was going to follow him, when the door of his room, the interconnecting one, opened and a young woman, blond and more than presentable in the uniform of a chambermaid, appeared, carrying a few crumpled sheets.

  One of the reasons he had been chosen for the assignment was that he spoke reasonable French. He said, “Hello, is there a problem?”

  She answered him in Russian. “I’m Ukrainian. Call me Olga. I do night shifts only here, but it’s the Ritz and the money’s good and I get to meet interesting people-like you, for instance. I know all about you and your boss, in from Moscow.”

  There was a cheeky insolence to her, and Ivanov said, “What’s the problem?”

  “The day maid, a bitch from Warsaw called Anya, has made a disgusting mess of the bed, so I’ve got to change it fast, because if the supervisor finds out, I’ll get sacked. Is it okay?”

  “Of cou
rse it is.” He was excited, and then she looked beyond him, which made him turn, and there was Kurbsky leaning in his doorway, arms folded, smiling slightly.

  “You appear to be in control of the situation. I’ll leave you to it.” He moved back and closed his door.

  Ivanov went into his bedroom, which was incredibly elegant by the standards he was used to. There was a four-poster bed, a desk on one side of the room, a reasonable seating area on the other with two comfortable easy chairs, and a wardrobe area beside the connecting door to Kurbsky’s suite.

  He was aroused, no question of that, and went and sat by the window, got himself a vodka miniature from the room bar, and waited. She returned with fresh sheets and attacked the bed, and Ivanov watched as she stretched and turned, her skirt rising over her thighs as she leaned to smooth the sheets.

  He ran a hand up her right leg. She straightened. “Now, that is naughty.”

  He stood, his hands all over her, turning her, kissing her passionately. She responded, but when he started to make free with his hands, she said, “No, not now, I’ve got things to do. Later, I’ll see you later.”

  He pulled away. “Yes, I’m being silly. I’ve got to go next door for a while.”

  “Is he a queer or something?”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’m supposed to guard him from a chair in the sitting room. It’s orders. He’s a very important man.”

  “So you sit here all night?”

  “Well, no. It’s a shift system with the other two, but they’ve gone out on the town at the moment.”

  “Well, you’d better hope they get back in good condition so they can do their shift. I’m on till eight in the morning. Who knows?”

  She plumped the pillows, turned down a corner of the duvet, patted his face, and walked out.

  Ivanov took a deep breath, got up, knocked on the connecting door, opened it, and walked into Kurbsky’s sitting room. There was no sign of him, although the television was on. Kurbsky appeared in pajamas, wearing a hotel bathrobe.

  “I said the chambermaids at the Ritz would excite you.”