by Jack Higgins
Roper said, “When you think of it, Kurbsky had an incredible motive to kill Basayev himself.”
“Himself? With his history? For God’s sake, Giles, this anonymity Kurbsky so prizes would be right out the window if he got involved with something like that.”
“All right, I take your point.”
“Try and get a good night’s sleep for a change.”
He was gone, and Roper, aching with pain, poured a large whiskey and drank it. “Sleep?” he said. “Who needs that?”
AT CHAMBER COURT, Kurbsky spoke into the voice box and let himself in with the control, walking through the garden. The lights were on in the conservatory, Katya standing at the open door and Svetlana on her wicker throne inside.
“So there you are,” Katya said. “Come and join us for a dish of tea.”
Which he did, taking off his coat and shaking rain from it. He kissed Svetlana’s forehead and took Katya’s hand for a moment.
“How are you, my dear?” Svetlana asked. “You look so ill.”
He laughed and said to Katya, “Can’t you persuade her that I’m supposed to look ill?”
He was handed a glass of tea, and Katya said, “What have you been up to, then? Did you visit the safe house? How was Roper?”
“Oh, the world of spooks is very worked up about the shooting of the Chechen general, Shadid Basayev, and his driver.”
“It’s become a staple diet on all the news programs today.”
“A dreadful man,” Svetlana commented. “Some of his deeds were unspeakable.”
“Did you know him?” Katya asked.
“He was one of the best-known Chechen generals and universally reviled. Yes, I knew him,” Kurbsky said. “A vile man who escaped retribution for many years, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s finally met a just end.” He got up. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed. God bless you both.”
After he had gone, Svetlana said, “I worry about him. Something weighs heavily on his spirit-I know these things.”
“He has a lot on his mind, a lot to contend with,” Katya told her, and kissed her on both cheeks. “Go to bed now and sleep well.”
“The things in his past, the years of war. Such terrible things must hang heavily on him. Some of the old film they showed today of the war in Chechnya, that dreadful man Basayev. Alexander was part of that.” She picked up her stick and got up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She went out, and Katya sat there, thinking about it, then went and found her laptop, sat with it on her knees, and tapped in “Alexander Kurbsky.” There was nothing secret there, just the career of a great writer, including an account of his military career and his medals and decorations. There were so many, and she felt a certain pride, aware that she was slightly in love with him. She started to read the citations, and the details leapt out at her of the officer who had jumped with his men over the Kuba Plateau in February 1995, a failed mission with only two survivors. The target had been Shadid Basayev.
She switched off, her heart beating, went to the sideboard, and poured a vodka and almost choked on it, her every instinct confirming what she did not wish to hear.
HER NIGHT WAS restless, but she finally fell asleep and awoke suddenly at seven-thirty to the sound of a motor outside. She got up, went to the window, opened it and looked out, and saw Kurbsky seated on the mower, cutting the grass in long swaths.
“Hello,” she called, and he stopped and looked up.
“Did I wake you? If so, I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine. So you’re getting in the swing of things?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Have you had any breakfast?”
“An apple and a glass of milk.” He laughed. “It’s fine. I want to get this side lawn finished. I’ll have a sandwich later.”
Svetlana often spent the morning in bed, soothing her arthritis and reading. Katya took her a tray of muesli, assorted fruit, toast, and black Russian tea.
“He’s started on the garden,” she said. “Mowing the grass.” She went to the window and looked out. “Bad March weather is not good for gardens. They lie still. Nothing happens.”
“Very Chekhovian, my dear, so it’s a season of sadness, but perhaps the gardener will find the exercise beneficial.” Katya handed her The Times, and Svetlana made a face. “More on that wretched Basayev.”
“It will be for a while, then something else will come along and replace it on the front page.”
“Another killing, a suicide bomb?” Svetlana shook her head. “What a world.”
“I suspect it always was,” and Katya went downstairs.
AT HOLLAND PARK, Roper sat at his desk, varying his screen images, turning from the autopsy report on Basayev, to the one on Josef, to the Scotland Yard forensic reports, taking it all in, tapping his desk with the flick knife Kurbsky had given him.
Doyle brought his tea and sandwich in. “That’s a nasty bit of work, Major. Where did you get that, then?”
“Just a present to open my mail.”
“It’ll open a bloody sight more than that, if you ask me.”
He left, and Kurbsky came in. “Did you have a good night?”
“I’m not sure if I know what that means anymore. What are you up to?”
“Gardening. I’m establishing my position at Chamber Court so the neighbors get used to me. I sat in the saddle of the tractor and let the mower do all the work. The lawns are looking good. Any more word on the Basayev business?”
“Not a thing. The autopsies, forensics, and all the usual nasty details are available, but-”
“But it doesn’t get us an inch further. To the media, it’s Russian perfidy as usual.”
“Which means there’s never a solution,” Roper told him. “That’s the trouble with you Russians, always getting away with things.”
There was an edge there that he hadn’t been able to resist. Kurbsky was aware of it at once, but kept his response light. “We are Social Democrats now these days. Communism is dead, my friend.”
“Tell that to Vladimir Putin.”
“I doubt he would wish to speak to me now.”
“You never know,” said Roper.
BLAKE JOHNSON WAS a handsome man in his late fifties, hair graying a little, a shade under six feet tall. He was always received courteously at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, not only because of his position, but also because the ambassador, Frank Mars, was a friend of many years and they’d served together in Vietnam.
A Marine captain escorted him upstairs and then went in search of the ambassador. Johnson would have welcomed a scotch after the flight, but with the NATO meeting coming up at the Ministry of Defence, he needed his wits about him. There was coffee on the sideboard, and he was savoring a cup when Mars walked in.
“Great to see you, Blake. I thought you’d be accompanying the Vice President back to Washington. It’s a a pleasure to see you.”
“It’s good to see you again, old friend.” Blake shook his hand. “This meeting could be extremely important.”
“I presume this has to do with the future deployment of our troops in support of NATO forces.”
“Something like that, Frank. At this stage, you could say I’m just testing the water for the President.”
Mars said, “Listen, about your accommodation tonight. We were going to put you up in the Embassy house, but I recall you had a slight problem there the other year.”
“Nothing worth mentioning,” Blake said. “But there is a hotel off South Audley Street called the Albany Regency. It’s old-fashioned, but I stayed there some years ago and liked it. I asked the Paris Embassy to book it for me, and they tell me I have a suite on the top floor, a view over the rooftops to Hyde Park and everything.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Good, I’ll be on my way. I just wanted to drop in and say hello.”
“Any idea when you’re flying back? Is there time to get together later?”
“Ah, well, p
ossibly. I think you might have to put up with me a bit longer… but I can’t discuss it now, Frank. I’ll call you.” Blake left a chagrined Frank Mars with the distinct impression that he wasn’t getting the whole picture.
THERE WAS NOTHING new about the Basayev affair, so Roper, bored, began trolling around on the computer. Thinking of Basayev naturally led him to thinking of Kurbsky, and that led him back to Kurbsky’s history and the nightmare of his sister’s death.
Moscow in upheaval, over fifty thousand body bags home from Afghanistan, riots in the streets, hundreds of dead and dying, and among them, Tania Kurbsky. Her brother had been told that she was only wounded, and so he had rushed home and found her already dead and buried, a plot on his father’s part to get him back to Moscow.
A thoroughgoing bastard, Ivan Kurbsky, but then, he must have been to make colonel in the KGB. Also, a man with real influence to be able to get his daughter buried in Minsky Park Military Cemetery. Almost idly, he consulted the list of those buried at Minsky and there were over six thousand. He leaned forward, frowning, and tried again, but he had been right the first time. There was no Tania Kurbsky buried at Minsky Park.
This was nonsense. Roper had seen a family photo of Colonel Kurbsky by grave 6007, the headstone engraved with Tania Kurbsky’s name and dates. Very quickly, Roper explored the list of graves on his computer and there was number 6007 meticulously recorded by some clerk as… empty.
It took a lot to get Giles Roper excited these days, but he was now, a surge of energy spreading through him. January 1989, Tania Kurbsky, apparently dead but not in her grave. So where are you? He poured himself another whiskey and started to find out.
KURBSKY LET IT go until well into the afternoon before phoning Bounine. “How are things at your end?” he demanded.
“Crazier than ever. We have an asset in Paris who works for the office that books Embassy travel arrangements there. Before he left, Johnson made arrangements for a hotel called the Albany Regency in London. Our people have checked it out and he’s definitely booked. It’s a top-floor suite.”
“So how are they going to proceed?”
“Apparently, they’ve got hold of a truck from the firm that does laundry pickups and deliveries to hotels in the area. The idea is they grab him in his room and wheel him out under a pile of sheets or towels. They drive him to Berkley Down, where the Falcon awaits, and the rest you know.”
“This is going too far,” Kurbsky said. “When is it supposed to happen?”
“I don’t know. Apparently, Oleg and Petrovich are going to park outside and wait for the right moment.”
“Why they think the result will be different from the last time Luzhkov tried to have Johnson assassinated, I don’t know. Ferguson’s people keep a close eye on Johnson at all times. Thank God you aren’t involved, Yuri.” He hung up.
Thinking about it, it was reasonable to suppose that the most likely time to find Johnson at the hotel would be late afternoon or early evening. The stupidity of the whole idea was obvious, but on the other hand it was also so absurdly simple that it might just succeed, and he couldn’t have that.
He walked around the garden, checking his handiwork. He’d done well and it had needed it. Katya appeared and called to him, and he joined her.
“Your aunt is so pleased. She loves her garden. Come and have a drink. You’ve earned it.”
So he went, and she poured three vodkas and they toasted him. “You look better, Alexander,” Svetlana said. “Happier in yourself, I think. Full of energy and life under all that camouflage.”
He couldn’t very well tell her why. “To work with one’s hands, plants, trees, the whole gardening thing-it’s good for the soul, I think.”
“Will you eat with us tonight?” Katya asked.
“My thanks, but there are things I need to do at the safe house. But I won’t be too late.”
He went out to the terrace and away. Svetlana said, “You like him, my dear, don’t you?”
“And I fear for him,” Katya said.
KURBSKY CONSULTED his maps and discovered where the Albany Regency was. In the garage he had found an old pair of black overalls, and he changed clothes now, putting them on. There was a tweed cap, which he appropriated, and a khaki scarf, which he looped around his neck.
He had the gutting knife safe in his boot and now took the Walther from the secret compartment in his bag and slipped it into a patch pocket up the right leg of the overalls with an extra clip. In the left patch pocket, he stuffed one of the black ski masks. Some cash, gloves, and he was ready.
Down in the garage, he checked out the Ford van. Among the tools in the back was a “Man at Work” sign and three yellow cones, which could he helpful. There was nothing else to do except get on with it, and he drove out a couple of moments later.
Katya, who had been watching from the trees, went back into the conservatory. “He’s gone,” she said. “But to where?”
“All will be well,” Svetlana said. “If this is necessary, he will be good in spite of himself, I am certain of it.”
ROPER GOT HIS first breakthrough on his search for Tania by trawling the hospitals in central Moscow during the period covering the worst violence. There she was, a bullet in the left lung, another in the side, narrowly missing a kidney.
It was surprising they’d bothered to treat her, considering the attitude of the authorities in those troubled times, but somewhere there had been doctors and nurses who took their work seriously in spite of party officials, and Tania Kurbsky had lived. The next mention of her name was on a warrant for crimes against the State.
Roper got the feeling that it was then that things had changed. He suspected that her father probably hadn’t been aware of what had happened to her at first. She had probably appeared to have disappeared in all the turmoil, but then she’d been arraigned for treason against the State, the penalty for which was death.
Yet Tania Kurbsky was not executed. More work produced a special court hearing, the testimony of Colonel Ivan Kurbsky, and a new sentence: exile to Station Gorky in perpetuity. The numbered grave at Minsky Park was left in place, in consideration of Colonel Kurbsky’s services to the State.
Roper switched the computer off, feeling so desperately sorry at what he had found. This was not what Alexander Kurbsky believed to be true for so many years. How could he possibly be told? And even more, told that his sister might still be a prisoner in one of the worst places in the world.
He switched back on, and tapped in “Station Gorky.”
12
It was one of the most unpleasant things Roper had ever done. There was something reminiscent of the Nazis about the details of those incarcerated at Station Gorky, of Heinrich Himmler’s insistence on records of deaths, executions, gassing, so meticulously kept that eventually those who had committed the deeds were condemned in open court by their own records.
It was the same now with Station Gorky. The archives, long buried, were now available on the computer, lists written by hand or on cheap, old-fashioned typewriters, thousands of names.
For a long time, he seemed to be getting nowhere and it was hard going, but in the end, sitting back, easing his pain with more whiskey, the breakthrough came from a single phrase entered in the court documents referring to her sentence: in perpetuity. It was so simple in the end, like a code word, and when he tapped in “Station Gorky” and followed it with the dread phrase, one list after another was revealed. There were hundreds of them, with dates of incarceration and, in most cases, dates of death over the years.
He tapped in one or two as a start and found sparse entries, usually no more than two or three lines and a photo of the convict, shaven-headed for both men and women, eyes lifeless, all hope gone.
And Tania Kurbsky, admitted January 25, 1989, looked exactly the same, just like all the others, a creature beyond despair. To die of typhoid on March 7, 2000, must have been a blessing.
Roper sat back, totally depressed. For years, Alexander Kurbsk
y had accepted that his sister was dead, buried in Minsky Park Military Cemetery. To be told now that she had lived for eleven appalling years in the worst gulag in Siberia would be a terrible thing to have to come to terms with, but then, did Kurbsky need to know? What purpose could there be in telling him? None that he could see, but that would mean keeping the whole rotten business from everyone, and that included Ferguson.
He buried his face in his hands, and Doyle came in. “You all right, Major? Have you been overdoing it again? We can’t have that.”
Roper smiled. “Here we go again, the old Jamaican charm offensive.”
“The old Jamaican Cockney charm offensive. How about I take you to the wet room and you have a bloody good shower?”
Roper poured a whiskey and tossed it back. “You know what, Tony, that’s a good idea.”
KURBSKY REACHED THE Albany Regency Hotel and discovered that the normal parking area had been temporarily extended. A substantial building had been demolished next door and there was room for more cars until construction began. Many vehicles had taken advantage of the situation.
Kurbsky took a spot in a corner and noticed a manhole. He backed up against it, opened the rear door, found a crowbar among the tools and levered up the manhole, then positioned the yellow cones around it and propped the “Man at Work” sign against the Ford’s windshield. Now he was set for a while.
There was no sign of a laundry van. It was just after five, a certain gloom in the air as evening approached. He continued to search among the parked cars, and then he saw a notice on the wall: “Trade vehicles at rear entrance.” An arrow pointed to a narrow footway through an archway, and he hurried along.
BACK FROM HIS meeting, Blake Johnson had been dropped at the front entrance of the hotel only fifteen minutes before Kurbsky arrived, and Igor Oleg saw it. He was wearing a green uniform, the name of a laundry company printed on the back. His companion, Petrovich, was waiting in the courtyard at the rear of the building.