A Darker Place

by Jack Higgins

  Which he did, going to the one at the end of the coach and locking himself in.

  IN LONDON, Luzhkov was in his quarters in Kensington Palace Gardens, preparing for bed, when he received the call. He listened intently as Ivanov explained the situation.

  “It pains me to say this,” Ivanov said, “but Kurbsky seems to have defected. He knocked Kokonin unconscious and fled the hotel. It was only by chance that the chambermaid servicing our rooms saw him getting into a taxi as she came on shift, and heard his destination. That led us to the midnight express to Brest. We’re on the train now, and Kurbsky’s in first class drinking with a woman and two men. He doesn’t look like a prisoner.” Which Luzhkov could have confirmed, since he knew who the woman and the two men were.

  There was no way he could pull Ivanov’s coals out of the fire. He and his friends should have been left high and dry at the Ritz while Kurbsky disappeared into the night. The British, of course, would expect Russian security to try to recover him, and they would take appropriate action. Knowing Dillon and Billy Salter as he did, Luzhkov knew the reckoning would be harsh.

  He remembered Putin’s words in Moscow: “His defection must appear genuine at all times. His GRU minders in Paris should not be informed of the real facts. If they fall by the wayside, so be it.”

  He took a deep breath and said to Ivanov, “When they get off, follow them. That is all I can suggest. See where it leads you, then contact Major Gregorovich at the GRU safe house outside Moscow. Take care.”

  He sat there, thinking about it. Starling, Salter, and Dillon did not know Ivanov and the boys by sight, only Kurbsky did, so only he could alert the others of their presence on the train. But if Ivanov and the other two sat at the end of the train for the entire journey, keeping out of the way, they’d be able to follow Kurbsky at leisure when their quarry left the train.

  He had to alert Kurbsky, had no choice.

  Kurbsky had his phone in his right pants pocket on vibrate. Monica was reading a book. Dillon was reading Paris-Soir on the other side of the table, and Billy was dozing, his head back against a pillow by the open door to the connecting apartment.

  Kurbsky smiled at Monica, excused himself, got up and went to the lavatory at the end of the corridor, entered, and locked the door. He answered the phone, and Luzhkov said, “Thank God you answered.”

  “What is this? I told you I didn’t want to speak to you every five minutes.”

  “Shut up and listen.” Luzhkov explained quickly what had happened. “So you see, my friend, Ivanov and his two chums are on the train with you, and they now think you a defector and a traitor to the Motherland.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Kurbsky said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. If I tell the others, they’d need an explanation as to how I knew.”

  “You could say you’d taken a walk along the train and seen them.”

  “And they hadn’t seen me? Come on, get real, Boris.”

  “Well, you’d better think of something, because if this screws up the whole operation, you’ll not only be in deep shit, but your sister will be condemned to live out the rest of her days in the far north of Siberia.”

  Kurbsky fought hard to control himself and kept his voice low. “Damn you, don’t threaten me.”

  “Alex, I’m not. He’s got me by the balls, too, our glorious Prime Minister. There’s no either/or here. The great man hates being disappointed. He always gets his way. So what’s it to be?”

  “I don’t seem to have much choice,” Kurbsky said. “I’ll speak to you again. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  He left the lavatory, moved along the corridor through the dining room and the coaches behind, where most passengers were curled up in sleep. He was careful, paused at each connecting door and scanned the passengers inside, looking for his quarry, and finally reached the club car, and there they were at the far end. He withdrew and was approached by the headwaiter as he went back through the restaurant car. There were only about a dozen people eating.

  “Would you and your friends like a table, Monsieur?”

  “I’m not sure. When is the next stop?”

  “ Belleville, Monsieur, about an hour and a quarter.”

  “I’ll see what my friends think.”

  He returned to the compartment and found Monica asleep on one of the pull-down bunks, and Dillon and Billy with their heads down in the second compartment, so he picked up Monica’s book, something to do with the Roman army in Britain that she’d written herself, went back to the restaurant car, and took a table.

  He had a sort of Russian breakfast-vodka, caviar, smoked salmon and herrings and strong black bread, more vodka, and then black bitter tea. All this was provided with impeccable service. Monica’s book was fascinating and made the meal a true experience.

  The time had passed so quickly that when they started to slow, he was quite caught out, and then they were gradually stopping, and the headwaiter said, “ Belleville, Monsieur.”

  Kurbsky peered out. He saw only a small station and platform and a few decaying warehouses. Some people had got off to walk around, stretching their legs, ambling between stacks of railway sleepers. And then Kokonin and Burlaka walked past, hands in pockets, chatting to each other.

  There was a kind of inevitability to it, and Kurbsky moved along, found an open door, and went down the steps. They were over by a coppice of crowded trees and seemed to disappear. He hurried, half running, went around a corner, and found them standing at the edge of a deep ditch, half filled with water.

  He was upon them before they realized he was there, pulled his Walther from the belt clip at the small of his back. Kokonin said, “You!” and put a hand in his inside pocket. Kurbsky shot him between the eyes, the silenced Walther making a dull thud. He was blasted backward and fell half over the edge of the ditch. Burlaka actually got his gun out, but too late, as Kurbsky did exactly the same to him. He rolled first one, then the other, into the water, turned, and walked away around the coppice, joining the few people getting back onto the train.

  He returned to the restaurant car and found the book where he had left it. The headwaiter approached with the bill. Kurbsky paid him in euros and tipped well. “I’m obliged to you. It was excellent. When is the next stop?”

  “Another hour, perhaps more, Monsieur- Rennes.”

  Instead of returning to the compartment, he worked his way back to the club car and peered in. Ivanov was standing, talking to the car steward, upset. The steward was shrugging, obviously unable to satisfy him. So Kokonin and Burlaka had missed the train. Not his fault. They’d have to get the next one. That seemed the official attitude.

  Kurbsky turned and went back. From the first day you put on a uniform, you had to accept you could die wearing it. He was fighting in a war of sorts; he seemed to have done so all his life. He should have had a little pity for the two dead men perhaps, but he’d used that all up in Afghanistan and Chechnya.

  HE DIDN’T GO in when he got back to the compartments, simply checked to see that his three companions were still resting, turned, and started to make his way toward the rear of the train. It was time to finish the thing, whatever it took. The entire train seemed to be asleep, a passenger here or there with a magazine or a book.

  After midnight, when anything is possible and death is in the air. It wasn’t Shakespeare, he knew that, some minor writer from times past, not that it mattered. He had reached the club car. The car steward in his cramped booth was asleep and the passengers in their seats seemed well away too. He walked along between the seats to where Ivanov sat by himself, eyes closed, head back, arms folded. Kurbsky slid into the opposite seat, and Ivanov opened his eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Kurbsky said softly, “Don’t say a word. You’ve been caught up in a matter of the highest security to the State-we both have. Now, keep your voice down.”

  “What about Kokonin and Burlaka?” Ivanov whispered.

 
“Back at Belleville. I disarmed them and told them to run for it or else.”

  “But why did you do this?”

  “I am under orders, from Putin himself.” He stood up. “We can’t talk freely here. Come out on the viewing platform.”

  He went and opened the door that gave onto the platform with the ironwork rail; it was a spot much popular with smokers in these anti-cigarette times. Although there was a canopy, the rain blew in.

  Ivanov said, “We’re going to get soaked. What the hell is going on?”

  Kurbsky produced the silenced Walther, jammed the muzzle into him at close quarters, and shot him in the heart. He lurched back, half turning, and fell head down over the rail. Kurbsky toppled him the rest of the way over, and the body was swept away in the darkness and rain. He replaced the Walther in his belt clip, his iron composure clicking in, and calmly worked his way up the aisle to the end, where the car steward still dozed in his booth.

  After midnight, when anything is possible and death is in the air. It wouldn’t go away, went around and around in his brain. He had killed three men without a hint of pity, but he’d have to put that behind him, as he had with so many others over the years. He was clear now to follow the future mapped out for him, however uncertain.

  Back in first class, he went into the lavatory and called Luzhkov, who had not been able to sleep, waiting for news.

  “It’s done, Boris. I’ve killed all three.”

  “Will there be repercussions?”

  “I shouldn’t imagine they’ll be found for a while. Their bodies aren’t on the train, if that’s what you mean. By the time anybody finds them, we should be flying out from Saint-Denis.”

  “Did it give you any problem, Alex?”

  “Boris, people like you, acting on behalf of the State, have sent people out to do your killing for years. When did you ever ask if it gave them a problem?”

  He rang off, paused, and then called Roper.

  ROPER ANSWERED IMMEDIATELY. “How are you? Dillon called just before the train left, saying you were in good hands. How’s the trip so far?”

  “It turned out to be rather lively.” Kurbsky started the lying now. “The others were having a sleep, and I went into the restaurant car for a bite to eat. We stopped at Belleville for fifteen minutes, a few people got off, and to my astonishment I saw Kokonin and Burlaka, two of my GRU minders, having a stroll.”

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  “Pure bad luck. I found out later some chambermaid saw me get into the taxi, heard where I was going, and told them. They got their act together and followed me to the station. They must have just caught the train.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “At Belleville? I slipped off the train, followed them to a suitable spot, and braced them.”

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “I shot them both, left them in a ditch, and got back on board.”

  “What about the third man?”

  “Ivanov. When we got going again, I searched the train and found him in the club car. I think he thought they’d simply missed the train. I told him we were all victims of a complicated plot direct from Putin himself.” He lied again. “When I asked him how he’d got on my tracks so quickly, he told me about the chambermaid.”

  “And where did this confrontation take place?”

  “On the viewing platform at the end of the train. It’s a smokers’ paradise these days, but not so much for him.”

  “You killed him too.”

  “Of course, and put him over the rail. I had to, Roper, you can see that. Those GRU idiots would have cocked things up big-time. By the way, speaking of the GRU, has Boris Luzhkov turned up at the London Embassy yet?”

  “So I hear,” Roper said. “What were Dillon and Billy doing while all this was going on?”

  “Sleeping the sleep of the righteous.”

  “And it didn’t occur to you that they might have appreciated the chance to join in?”

  “You have a point, but there was Monica to consider, and frankly, I thought it’d be more efficient if I took care of it myself. I’ll leave you to break the news to Dillon.”

  He left the lavatory and paused to look in at the compartment, where Monica was sitting up now and swinging her legs to the ground.

  “Have you had a good trip?”

  “At least I slept.” Sean and Billy were stirring next door. “What about you?” she said.

  “Trains and planes, I can never sleep on them,” he said. “I had a great meal in the restaurant car and read your book on the Roman army in Britain.”

  “And what was the verdict?”

  “Wonderful. Action and passion, that’s what I like. I’ll go down and get a table for breakfast. I’ll see you there.”

  Billy was at the washbasin and Dillon had his mobile to his ear and looked serious, so Kurbsky got out fast.

  FIVE O’CLOCK and still dark outside, rain driving against the window. The headwaiter provided the black bitter tea. “Would you care for vodka with it, Monsieur?”

  “Why not?” Dinner, breakfast-his time scale was seriously out of joint. He swallowed some tea, knocked the vodka back, and examined the passport and papers Dillon had given him when he’d first boarded the train. Dillon arrived, still looking serious. Billy, on the other hand, was full of excitement.

  “Three at one blow, Kurbsky! I always thought that was for flies on a slice of bread and jam.”

  Dillon said, “Damn it, Billy, this is serious.” He turned to Kurbsky. “I understand discovering Kokonin and Burlaka was a shock, but you should have called us in. That’s what we’re here for.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Kurbsky told him. “I needed to act fast.”

  “And Ivanov?”

  “Look, I knew him, so I knew how to handle him. It’s done now. How’s Monica?”

  “Upset,” Dillon said.

  “She’ll get over it,” Billy put in. “She shot an IRA bastard dead in the Drumore affair, and she didn’t have any trouble getting over that. Let’s order breakfast.”

  “I’ll go and get her,” said Kurbsky. “Would that be all right with you?”

  “I don’t own the lady,” Dillon told him.

  “Tell the headwaiter I’ll have the same as I did before.”

  She was standing at the washbasin in the compartment, looking in the mirror and applying her lipstick. “Well, here I am,” he said. “Are you angry with me?”

  “Not anymore. Let me just ask you: Was it necessary?”

  “They’d have tried to take me back by force, and it could have been very messy.”

  She nodded. “That makes sense. This venture you’ve embarked on, that we’re all involved in, it was bound to bring demands and consequences we didn’t perhaps anticipate.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I know I am, Alex, and this may not be the last of them. But that’s in the future. Right now, let’s join the others for breakfast.” She brushed past him and led the way down the corridor.

  THEY PASSED THROUGH Rennes and, twenty miles later, pulled up at Saint-Denis, a small station in a pleasant market town. It was six-thirty, still that bad March weather, daylight now, a slate-gray sky and the eternal rain. There was quite a press of people waiting to board, obviously going to Brest, the nearest big city.

  Parry was waiting with an umbrella and approached them at once. “I’ve got a car waiting with a driver. The airfield is eight miles from here, and we’ve had an order from General Ferguson only an hour ago to bring our departure forward. I don’t know what’s up, but he wants you out of here as soon as possible.”

  They piled in the car, and Billy said as they drove away, “You think Roper’s had words with Ferguson?”

  “Of course he has,” Dillon said. “And wants us clear of French soil.”

  They were at the airfield very quickly, and the driver, obviously obeying instructions, drove straight to the end of the runway where the Chieftain waited.

&nbs
p; Parry said, “Straight on board. We have friends here. It’s taken care of.”

  So five minutes later, he was heaving up the airstair door and passing along the aisle to join Lacey in the cockpit. They were at ten thousand feet before they knew it, still bad weather, the Chieftain rocking in the turbulence but making steady progress out over the Channel Islands and pushing on toward the Isle of Wight to England.

  Parry came back after a while. “Coffee’s back there, a bottle of champagne, Cokes, the usual things.”

  “You certainly got us out of there fast,” Billy said. “Good thinking.”

  “Billy, I don’t know what you’ve been up to and I don’t want to know, but we had an order from Ferguson to get you out with the fastest extraction since we saved your hides in Iraq.”

  He moved away, and Dillon opened the bar box and found the bottle of champagne. As he opened it, he said, “ Ferguson was just being careful. He wanted to get us out of the war zone quickly, as it were. It should be a day or so before those bodies are found. Then it’ll take a while to identify them as Russian GRU and sort out what the hell they have been doing operating in a friendly nation. The lies will start, the deceit, the demands for the bodies, and the story will fade because the public won’t be particularly interested anyway.”

  He poured and passed the first plastic glass to Monica, and Billy said to Kurbsky, “There’s a lesson for all of us. We said it would be smooth as silk, dead simple, and it would have been if that bird, the chambermaid, hadn’t happened to be clocking on shift by the taxi rank and seen you.”

  “Saw me and heard me, because the doorman asked for my destination to tell the taxi driver.”

  “That’s what doormen in top hotels do.” Dillon handed him a glass. “It’s called service.”

  Billy raised his glass. “Anyway, we’ve been there and done that. Here’s to what comes next.” He smiled at Kurbsky. “Who knows? You might grow to like it.”

  Kurbsky said sharply, “You obviously know what is intended for me. What does come next?”

  “That’s for General Charles Ferguson to tell you-he’s the boss.”