A Darker Place

by Jack Higgins

  “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.”

  He leaned forward.

  “Then the Wall came down and Communism was kicked to the side. In its place, all the evils of capitalism flourished, the greed spilled over, touching every country in the world. Those who taught me the virtues of Communism at my village school were right then and right now. Chaos is what we must create. Chaos, disorder, fear, poverty, and unrest in the Western world, because that will, more than anything, cause a breakdown in society, working people will revolt, and Communist order will be restored!”

  There was a long silence, because Bounine couldn’t think of a thing to say. That Luzhkov believed every word he’d said was obvious. That the man was a dangerous lunatic was also obvious, at least to Bounine. But he dared not disagree. Better to wait and listen…

  “What would you like me to do, Colonel?”

  “This is now a priority. The moment it is confirmed that a riverboat is to be used for the meeting, I am to be notified. The moment we know which boat, I am to be notified. Every scrap of information must be evaluated.”

  Bounine turned to Greta, who had stood almost to attention during Luzhkov’s outburst, completely riveted. “You’ve heard the Colonel, Greta. Do you understand what’s expected?”

  “Absolutely, Major.”

  “Get on with it, then.”

  She went out, and he turned to Luzhkov. “What next, Colonel?”

  “We need a man, Bounine, to deal with our problem satisfactorily. A bad man who is also a madman.” He chuckled at his rhyme. “A man who speaks of God but thinks more of money. A man who doesn’t care and who looks upon each day as the day he may die.”

  “And you know of such a man?”

  “Yes, I know of such a man. Go and get your coat, make sure you have a pistol in your pocket, and I will introduce you to him.”

  13

  The cab dropped Katya at the mews, and she let herself in and walked through the garden. She paused on the terrace and looked at the garage, and there was no light. In fact, Kurbsky was up and watching her through a crack in the curtains. His arm felt numb, but not unpleasantly so. He wore a bathrobe and smoked a cigarette, wondering about Katya and where she had been.

  He could see through the trees into the conservatory, saw her standing and talking to Svetlana. It was enough. He went downstairs, found a scarf in the hall to put around his neck, and went out and walked cautiously through the trees. The door stood open to the terrace; he could hear the voices, but not distinctly, and moved carefully, keeping low in the rhododendron bushes until he was close. He had missed part of the exchange, but Svetlana’s words made it plain what it had been about.

  “So you say the man in the hood who saved this American, Johnson, was Alexander. Can this be true?”

  “Johnson said the man in the hood was cut on the left arm and that he tied his khaki scarf about it. That was how Alex was when he came home. Hitesh will confirm it.”

  “Why would he be involved in such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, Svetlana. Maybe just a good deed in a bad world. He saved the American from an awful fate.” Katya’s voice faltered. “But there’s more, much more, and maybe I shouldn’t tell, because it will hurt you terribly, but I feel that I must. It will hurt him terribly too, but what can I do?”

  She was crying so much, so very much, and the old lady took her hands. “What is it, my dear?”

  “You thought Tania died in January 1989 and was buried in Minsky Park Military Cemetery. In fact, she was sentenced to life at Station Gorky in Siberia. She was admitted on January 25, 1989. Roper discovered it.”

  “Dear God, that such a thing could be. That my wretched brother should permit such a thing.” Tears were running down Svetlana’s cheeks. “She’s still there after all these years, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No, she’s dead now, God rest her soul.” The tears made her choke. “Died of typhoid in that terrible place on March 7, 2000.”

  There was a groan from outside and Kurbsky appeared in the doorway. “For God’s sake, no. It can’t be true.”

  She went to him then, putting her arms about him and holding him. “Oh, Alex, my dearest, it is true. Roper broke into all the files and it’s all there, everything that happened to her.”

  Svetlana put her hands out. “Come to me, my dear one, come to me.”

  He went to her, falling on his knees in anguish. “You don’t understand. They lied to me. She was supposed to be still alive.”

  Katya crouched on the other side of Svetlana’s chair. “Who lied to you, Alex? Who?”

  “Putin himself, Boris Luzhkov,” and as Svetlana held him close, he told them everything.

  BOUNINE WAS DRIVING as they turned out into Kensington High Street. “Just follow my directions,” Luzhkov told him. “It’s by the river. The great and mighty Thames. I adore history, you know, it’s a passion. Roman ships with slaves at the oars crept up this river two thousand years ago and made the city out of a tribal encampment.”

  In between his lecturing, he managed to give Bounine instructions on their route.

  “There was a time when it was the biggest port in the world, crammed with ships, queuing to get a berth. Hundreds of cranes, docks all over the place. Now so many are in a state of decay, warehouses boarded up. It’s a real tragedy.”

  “You’ve been here for a long time,” Bounine said.

  “Thirteen years. The best posting I’ve ever had. I love the place. I spend a lot of my time sightseeing, particularly the run-down areas. It’s amazing what you find. Every race under the sun, every color, you’ll find them here like nowhere else in the world, down by the river, tight racial groups, a few streets each, shops, houses.”

  They were close to the river, and it started to rain as they drove down narrow cobbled streets, many of the properties around them boarded up, and then they emerged onto an anchorage that had a sign, “India Wharf,” edged by tall Victorian warehouses, most boarded. In the basin were several moored boats, including an old Thames barge. A curved entrance ran from the basin into one of the warehouses, and moored inside was a large orange motorboat with a huge outboard motor.

  They parked t
he Mercedes and got out. “That thing looks fast,” said Bounine.

  “It is fast. He gave me a run in it once.”

  “Who did?”

  “Come and meet him.”

  He led the way along the wharf. There were lights at the windows of the barge, a gangplank stretching to a companionway leading below. It was closed by two mahogany doors, which Luzhkov opened.

  “Ali Selim, are you there?”

  “Who the fuck is that?” The voice was very Cockney.

  “Boris Luzhkov.”

  “Have you brought any money with you? If not, you can piss off.”

  “My dear Ali, when have I ever let you down?”

  Luzhkov went down and Bounine followed, finding himself in a surprisingly well-ordered interior. The cabin was comfortably furnished, with padded benches down each side, pictures on the walls where there was room, small curtains at the portholes. There was a kitchen area behind a bar, an archway behind obviously leading to sleeping quarters. The man sitting at one end of the table was of mixed blood and looked to be in his fifties, an aggressively handsome man with a hooked nose and the look of a predatory hawk about him. He had taken an old Luger pistol to pieces, spread them on a cloth before him, and was carefully cleaning them. Close to his hand was a Beretta pistol that he could have picked up in a second. His hair was very black and tied in a ponytail that hung to the small of his back, and the only Muslim thing about him was an Egyptian white cotton shirt with wide sleeves.

  He paused at what he was doing and looked Bounine over. “Who’s this?”

  “Major Yuri Bounine, my second in command.”

  “Another one? Boris, you old bastard, they come and go, but you go on forever. I don’t know how you manage to survive, your lot being the fucking maggots they are.”

  “You will forgive Ali’s rather colorful language. His father, an Afghan, a deckhand on a cargo ship, landed in the Pool of London around fifty-five years ago and formed a relationship with a Cockney lady from Stepney.”

  “Get it right, Boris. She might have been pregnant, but they did marry in church, so my old mum was a lady. It would displease me to think of you putting it about otherwise.”