A Darker Place

by Jack Higgins

  “In my office.” Bounine was surprised. “Yes, of course I can talk.”

  “Did you see Shadid Basayev on BBC television last night?”

  “I sure did. The scum.”

  “Tell me, does he have a chauffeur named Josef?”

  “Yes, Josef Limov. He served under him in Chechnya. He’s been his personal hit man for years.”

  “Ah, that’s good, I don’t need to feel bad about killing him.”

  Bounine said, “Killing him? Are you crazy?”

  “I hope not. I’ve just shot him dead in the cemetery at St. Mary and All the Saints, along with Basayev, of course. He was my primary target. You know he said he liked to look in on his wife’s memorial every morning? I thought I’d say hello.”

  “Alex, there hasn’t been a word of this on radio or television.”

  “Because they haven’t found the bodies yet.”

  “But how could this happen? Is this something to do with Ferguson ’s people?”

  “They don’t know a thing about it, and that’s how it stays.” He lied now. “I’m very happy living in the safe house at Holland Park. I have an arrangement where I’m allowed out for a break on my own. They trust me completely.”

  “So you’re going back in there?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Tell Luzhkov I’ll be in touch again when I feel like it, I don’t want him trying to call me. This should make him look good in Moscow, don’t you think?”

  “What about your aunt?”

  “What do you mean? The whole idea was to guarantee my anonymity so that no one except Ferguson’s people know I’m here. Svetlana is the last person I’d want to involve. I don’t want her bothered, Yuri, you understand me?”

  He clicked off, and at the other end Bounine shook his head and smiled slightly. “Christ Almighty-Basayev. I hope he rots in hell.” He got up and went off to find Luzhkov.

  KURBSKY WALKED FARTHER until he finally came to Oxford Street. He was thinking of Svetlana and Katya now. It was time he made his way to Belsize Park, and then he came to a large bookstore, the windows full of displays and deals, and there was On the Death of Men. It was a new edition from his London publisher. On impulse he went in the store, took off his woolen hat and put it in his pocket, then wandered around a little before approaching the counter.

  The assistant he chose was a long-haired young man of studious appearance and intense. “Can I help you?”

  Kurbsky put on his French accent. “There is this novel, On the Death of Men by Alexander Kurbsky. I’ve read it in French, but I see you have a new edition in English? I would enjoy comparing the two.”

  The young man turned away and was back in a moment with a copy. “An excellent idea. I suppose it could be argued that to really get the essence of it, one should read it in Russian.”

  “I see your point,” Kurbsky said. “Have you read it?”

  “Good heavens, yes, who hasn’t? A remarkable man.”

  He had the book in his hand, and Kurbsky said, “The French edition I read had no photo.”

  “This one has, a most excellent one.” He showed it to him.

  Kurbsky nodded. “He looks like quite a character.”

  The young man smiled with real enthusiasm. “I only wish we could get him in here for a book signing. They’d be queuing round the block. Will you take it, sir?”

  “Certainly.” Kurbsky paid cash and, playing his role to the hilt, said, “I’m going in for more therapy. Reading it will help pass the time.”

  The young man’s face clouded. “I hope things go well for you.”

  “So do I.”

  He went out, dropped the book in his bag, and pulled his woolen hat back on. It was the ultimate test and he had passed it. Time to report in at Chamber Court. He decided to go on the underground and made for the nearest station.

  IT WAS AROUND that time that Father Patrick Meehan, after an hour of hearing confession in St. Mary’s, went into the vestry, found an umbrella, and went out through the side door to have a smoke. He had managed to get his consumption down to five a day. A desperate struggle, but he was trying hard. He lit up, turned into the cemetery, and almost fell over Josef.

  As someone who had served as a parish priest in Belfast during the Troubles, death was something he was extremely familiar with. Josef, with blood all over his face, was clearly gone, so he rushed to Basayev and saw immediately he was a lost cause too.

  He took out his mobile and called for an ambulance, then informed the police. He returned to Josef and felt for a pulse, just to be sure. There was none, but in the circumstances, his duty as a priest was clear. He began to recite the prayers for the dying: “Go, Christian soul, from this world in the Name of God the Father Almighty who created thee.”

  Soon sirens sounded, and not one, but two ambulances braked hard outside the church and the paramedics came on the run.

  THE GENERAL STORE that Katya had mentioned to Kurbsky carried a sign: “Patel & Son.” It was what the English were fond of calling the Corner Shop, a place that was always open and sold everything. It was quiet, no customers, elevator music playing softly, and the young man sitting behind the counter was Indian, wearing jeans and a black bomber jacket, and he was reading a book, which he put down when Kurbsky appeared.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” Kurbsky said. “A friend of mine, a Polish guy named Marek, had a job at a house near here with two ladies? He worked in the garden, did odd jobs, and they let him live over the garage.”

  “That’s right. I knew Marek well. I’m Hitesh Patel.” He offered his hand.

  Kurbsky shook it. “I’ve had a letter from them offering me the job, now that he’s gone back to Poland. Marek recommended me.”

  He produced it. Hitesh read it and nodded. “I see. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not sure if I’ve got the right house. I’m new to London, and I seem to have gotten all turned around.”

  Hitesh came around the counter, took him to the door, and pointed. “It’s right there, with the high walls. They’re big on security. Front gate or side gate, there’s a voice box, so you speak to let them know you’re there. They’re really nice ladies. You’ll do well there.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Hitesh was concerned. “So you need regular chemotherapy?”

  “That’s right. Lung cancer.”

  “I’m sorry. You’ve really got to take it easy. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? We’ve got the machine there.”

  “I’d rather have tea.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  They sat on either side of the counter, and Kurbsky said, “You’re not very busy.”

  “Not during the lunch hour-it’s all local trade.”

  “There’s just you, then?”

  Hitesh laughed. “My father and mother have gone home to Bombay for three months, and I’m sitting in for them. A couple of local ladies come in part-time.”

  “What do you usually do?”

  “I’m a medical student, just starting my fourth year.”

  “Where did you go to university?”

  “Here in London.” He laughed. “A great disappointment to my father, because I’m not a businessman. I’m too English for them. I was born here.”

  “I know the feeling. I have a French father and I was born in Devon. I read English at London University, then I worked as a journalist, before…” He gave an excellent performance. “Well, you know what I mean. Look, thanks a lot. I’ll see you again.”

  “Take care,” Hitesh told him, and Kurbsky left.

  HE APPROACHED THE house from the mews. Katya answered, opened the gate, and he walked through the garden and found her waiting on the terrace. She took his hands and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “We were getting worried. We expected you earlier.”

  “I’ve just been having a cup of tea with Hitesh Patel and showed him your letter. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Svetlana’s waiting.”

>   They went into the conservatory and found her in her usual wicker chair. She reached up to kiss him “We were worried for you.”

  “No need, Babushka. Last night I went down to the Salters’ pub at Wapping and had supper. I got a taxi and then walked the streets. This morning, I did the same. Actually, I had a funny experience on Oxford Street.”

  “What was that?” Katya asked.

  He told them about the episode in the bookstore. “Isn’t it wonderful?” he said. “Even with my photo on the book he was holding, he still didn’t recognize me.”

  Katya said, “There was a call for you.”

  “There couldn’t have been,” he said.

  “Sorry, I mean the call was through me. Major Roper gave me one of those encrypted Codex mobiles. He said he’d been trying to get you but couldn’t get a response.”

  “I’ve had mine on vibrate. I’ll speak to him.”

  “I’ve got chili con carne for lunch. I’ll show you the room over the garage afterwards.”

  “But first, there’s champagne,” Svetlana told him. “A celebration of your return after all these years.”

  “Just give me a moment,” he said. “I must call Major Roper.”

  “YOU WERE TRYING to get me,” he said when Roper answered.

  “Yes, there was no response, so I got worried.”

  “I put my Codex on vibrate, and it’s easy to miss that faint tremble, especially when you’re walking in the crowds of Oxford Street. What did you want?”

  “There’s a breaking story on all the news shows. Shadid Basayev and his driver, a man named Josef Limov, were stiffed at that church in Mayfair where he has a memorial to his wife.”

  “And when was this?”

  “The priest, a Father Meehan, came across the bodies in the church cemetery not much more than an hour ago.”

  “So information will be thin on the ground at the moment. What do you think, a Russian connection? SVR perhaps,” he said, naming the Foreign Intelligence Service, which was in many ways a successor to the KGB.

  “I’m not so sure. In the old days, they often hired the IRA to do their dirty work. These days, Muslims are popular.”

  “Mind you, he was a bad one, Basayev,” Kurbsky said. “He won’t be missed.”

  “I’ll give it some thought. We’ll speak again.”

  “I might drop in to see you.”

  “You know where I am.”

  LUZHKOV HEARD WHAT Bounine had to say, was shocked and delighted. There was no point in holding back on the story, and as it started to break, he contacted the Prime Minister’s suite at the Kremlin and spoke to Putin.

  “I am obviously pleased that Basayev has finally met his end, but the manner of it gives me pause for thought.”

  “I can see that, Comrade Prime Minister. He treads a dangerous path. You don’t want to make fools of Ferguson and his people.”

  “On the other hand, it’s a brilliant stroke if he gets away with it.” Putin laughed. “I like it. Let it ride, Colonel, and we’ll see where it leads.”

  Bounine, sitting opposite him, said, “How was he?”

  “Delighted. I think the idea of Kurbsky making fools of Ferguson’s company actually pleases him. I won’t try to speak to Kurbsky. I’ll leave it to you, Yuri, you’re the man he trusts.”

  THE LIVING QUARTERS over the garage were not quite as he remembered them. The bathroom had been improved, but the big room where Kelly had taught Kurbsky judo had been developed into another apartment, a kitchen area in one corner, a living room in another, and a wide window looking out over the garden. It was nicely furnished and in good order.

  “I had cleaners in after Marek left, and a plumber to improve the bathroom and kitchen. It’s linked to the central heating system in the main house,” Katya said. “Svetlana wants this to work, Alex, and so do I.”

  “Sit down for a minute.” She faced him across the table, and he took her hand. “You’ve been great to me, your input in this affair has been fabulous, and I know you’re a true friend to my aunt. It seems to be working, my new identity. As I’ve told you, I’ve been out and about, and I feel that Alexander Kurbsky is the invisible man. I can come and go at Holland Park as Henri Duval. Let’s take it a day at a time.”

  “Good,” she said. “Regarding your new identity, I hesitate to bring this up, but-”

  “But you think I’d better actually do some gardening now and then, to fit my cover story, right?”

  “Right,” she said with relief. “I’ll just show you the garage and the equipment and we’ll go back to Svetlana.”

  Downstairs she pressed a button, and the garage door lifted. There was a riding mower, garden tools of every description, and a small Ford van in dark green. “It doesn’t look like much, but I use it as a general runaround. It’s been in here for years. Just use it as you see fit. The right documents are in the glove compartment, and they include Henri Duval’s name. The key’s in there also, and a hand control to let you in or out at the front gate.”

  “Excellent.” He smiled. “Let’s go back to the conservatory and help Svetlana finish that bottle of champagne.”

  SHORTLY AFTER THE news came out of the bloodbath at St. Mary and All the Saints, Ferguson had spoken to Roper. “It’s like Belfast on a bad Saturday night in the old days. The Prime Minister and the Cabinet Office are not pleased.”

  “People like Basayev shouldn’t be allowed in our country just because they’ve got a few hundred million or a billion or so and it suits the City of London and the Treasury.”

  “That’s as may be, but it doesn’t look good in the papers.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m heartbroken, I really am.”

  “So who’s responsible? Have you spoken to Lord Arthur Tilsey?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have, and the Security Services are just as mystified as the rest of us.”

  “It’s the Russians. It’s got to be. They tried to collar Basayev in Moscow. That’s why he fled here in the first place. Have you had words with Special Branch at Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes, and the word under the counter is the killings are definitely the work of a professional hit man who knew what he was doing. Basayev really asked for it, advertising to the world that he liked to visit his wife’s memorial at that church every morning.”

  “It’s got to be the Russians. Putin will be over the moon.”

  “That’s what Kurbsky said.”

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “We watched Basayev in that television appearance last night. After all, Kurbsky was the other side in Chechnya. When I spoke to him today at Belsize, he suggested the SVR as a possibility.”

  “Do you think that?” Ferguson asked.

  “Too direct. As we know better than anyone, they used to give their dirty work on contract to the IRA, or some Muslim faction or other like Al Qaeda. They like to be able to blame someone else.”

  “True enough. And due to Britain’s kindness in operating an open-door policy these days, there are an awful lot of real asylum-seekers here, real victims, any one of whom might have relished the thought of shooting that animal.”

  “And perhaps did,” Roper said.

  “Well, to other matters. It won’t have escaped your attention that the American Vice President, Grant Hardy, is in Paris at the NATO meeting.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it on the news, and seen Blake Johnson with him. He said in an interview that Blake would be coming to London to discuss NATO matters with the Ministry of Defence. Does that involve you, Charles?”

  “Amongst others. But it raises the question again of when we can tell Blake and President Cazalet about Kurbsky.”

  “You gave your word, Charles, to preserve his anonymity. Therefore, the choice is his, not yours.”

  “Is he coming in?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Do me a favor and raise the matter with him, that’s all I ask.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Whe
re’s Dillon?”

  “He’s gone to stay with Monica for a few days in Cambridge.”

  “How the mighty are fallen.”

  Roper poured a scotch and tapped into the news of the Basayev investigation. The fact that he and his chauffeur had both been armed had leaked and was being made much of. The Russian ambassador had denied any involvement in the matter, and so had Moscow.

  So, with no more story, television had to fall back on fill-in stuff, clips from the war coverage in Chechnya, Basayev in the thick of it, dirty and unkempt and thoroughly ruthless. What was bad wasn’t just the carnage of war, but the bodies tumbling into open graves, filmed for real as machine guns did their deadly work, actual footage of Basayev standing there gloating like some Nazi. It was to be expected that he was a hate figure to the Russian Army. And yet Kurbsky had seemed curiously indifferent.

  On impulse, Roper tapped into Kurbsky’s details again, particularly his war record with the Black Tigers. There were his decorations, and God knows, there were enough of them. Six in all, and a short citation with each one.

  On the 5th of February, 1995, this officer, with no previous parachute training, jumped with his men over the Kuba Plateau in an attempt to apprehend General Shadid Basayev. The mission failed, but Lieutenant Kurbsky and Sergeant Yuri Bounine succeeded in rejoining the army, the only survivors of the unit.

  Roper sat there looking at it, and Sergeant Doyle came in with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich. “There you go, sir.”

  “Tony, what if I told you I had a man who dropped into action by parachute without any parachute training? What kind of man would do that?”

  “A bleeding loony, sir, or a bloody hero. I remember one example I read about: the biggest paratroop drop in history, Arnhem in 1944. One of the outfits lost their doctor with a broken ankle just before boarding, and another young doctor who had no training took his place. They strapped on his chute in the plane and he did the business.” He paused at the door. “Some people will do anything for a laugh.”

  He went out and Roper sat there, then tapped in “Sergeant Yuri Bounine.” Decorated twice, once for the same operation as Kurbsky. Transferred to GRU. Present rank Major. Commercial attaché at the Dublin Embassy.