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‘And what’s the payoff?’
‘Your sister’s release. She will be restored to life.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. How do I know it will be honoured?’
‘The Prime Minister’s word.’
‘Don’t make me laugh, he’s a politician. Since when did those guys keep their word?’
And Luhzkov said exactly the right thing. ‘She’s your sister. If that means anything, this is all you can do. It’s as simple as that. Better than nothing. You have to travel hopefully.’
‘Fuck you,’ Kurbsky said, ‘and fuck him,’ but there was the hint of despair of a man who knew he had little choice. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Igor Vronsky. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘Absolutely. The stinking bastard was in Chechnya and ran a story about my outfit. The 5th Paratroop Company, the Black Tigers. We were pathfinders and special forces. He did radio from the front line, blew the whistle on a special op we were on, and the Chechens ambushed us. Fifteen good men dead. It’s in my book.’
‘He’s working as a journalist in New York now. We want you to eliminate him, just to prove you mean business.’
‘Just like that.’
‘I believe you enjoyed a certain reputation in Chechnya. “The smiler with the knife”? An accomplished sniper and assassin who specialized in that kind of thing. A lone wolf, as they say. At least three high-ranking Chechen generals could testify to that.’
‘If the dead could speak.’
‘That story in On the Death of Men when the hero is parachuted behind the lines though he had never had training as a parachutist. Was it true? Did you?’ Luhzkov was troubled in some strange way. ‘What kind of man would do such a thing?’
‘One who at the age of nineteen in the hell that was Afghanistan decided he was dead already, a walking zombie, who survived to go home and found himself a year later knee-deep in blood in Chechnya. You can make of that what you will.’
‘I’ll need to think about it. I’m not sure I understand.’
Kurbsky laughed. ‘Remember the old saying, “Avoid looking into an open grave because you may see yourself in there”. In those old Cold War spy books, you always had to have a controller. Would that be you?’
‘Yes. I’m Head of Station for GRU at the London Embassy.’
‘That’s good. I’ll like that. I had an old comrade in Chechnya who transferred to the GRU when I was coming to the end of my army time. Yuri Bounine. Could you find him and bring him in on this?’
‘I’m sure that will be possible.’
‘Excellent. So if you’re available, let’s get out of here and go and get something to eat.’
‘An excellent idea.’ Luhzkov led the way and said to the lieutenant, ‘The limousine is waiting, I presume? We’ll go back to my hotel.’
‘Of course, Colonel.’
He led them along the interminable corridors.
‘They seem to go on forever,’ Luhzkov observed. ‘A fascinating place, the Kremlin.’
‘A rabbit warren,’ Kurbsky said. ‘A man could lose himself here. A smiler with the knife could do well here.’ He turned as they reached the door. ‘Perhaps the Prime Minister should consider that.’
He followed the lieutenant down the steps to the limousine and Luhzkov, troubled, went after them.
But over the three weeks that followed, things flowed with surprising ease. They moved him into a GRU safe house with training facilities outside Moscow. On the firing range, Kurbsky proved his skill and proficiency with every kind of weapon the sergeant major in charge could throw at him. Kurbsky had forgotten none of his old skills.
Yuri Bounine, by now a GRU captain, was plucked from the monotony of posing as a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy in Dublin and returned to Moscow, where he was promoted to major and assigned to London, delighted to be reunited with his old friend.
Kurbsky embraced him warmly when he arrived. ‘You’ve put on weight, you bastard.’ He turned to Luhzkov. ‘Look at him. Gold spectacles, always smiling, the look of an ageing cherub. Yet we survived Afghanistan and Chechnya together. He’s got medals.’
Again he hugged Bounine, who said, ‘And you got famous. I read On the Death of Men five times and tried to work out who was me.’
‘In a way, they all were, Yuri.’
Bounine flushed, suddenly awkward. ‘So what’s going on?’
‘That’s for Colonel Luhzkov to tell you.’
Which Luhzkov did in a private interview. Later that day, Bounine found Kurbsky in a corner booth in the officers’ bar and joined him. A bottle of vodka was on the table and several glasses in crushed ice. He helped himself.
‘Luhzkov has filled me in.’
‘So what do you think?’ Kurbsky asked.
‘Who am I to argue with the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation?’
‘You know everything? About my sister?’
Bounine nodded. ‘May I say one thing on Putin’s behalf? He wasn’t responsible for what happened to your sister. It was before his time. He sees an advantage in it, that’s all.’
‘A point of view. And Vronsky?’
‘A pig. I’d cut his throat myself if I had the chance.’
‘And you look such a kind man.’
‘I am a kind man.’
‘So tell me, Yuri, how’s your wife?’
‘Ah.’ Bounine hesitated. ‘She died, Alex. Leukaemia.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that! She was a good woman.’
‘Yes, she was. But it’s been a while now, Alex, and my sister has produced two lovely girls – so I’m an uncle!’
‘Excellent. Let’s drink to them. And to New York.’ They clinked glasses. ‘And to the Black Tigers, may they rest in peace,’ Kurbsky said. ‘We’re probably the only two left.’
New York came and New York went. The death of Igor Vronsky received prominent notice in the New York Times and other papers, but in spite of his books and his vigorous anti-Kremlin stance, there was no suspicion that this was a dissident’s death. It seemed the normal kind of mugging, a knife to the chest, the body stripped of everything worth having.
On the day following Vronsky’s death, Monica Starling and George Dunkley flew back to Heathrow, where Dunkley had a limousine waiting to take them back to Cambridge. She hadn’t breathed a word about what had happened between her and Kurbsky, but Dunkley hadn’t stopped talking about him during the flight. It had obviously affected him deeply. She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Off you go, George. Try and make it for high table. They’ll all be full of envy when they hear of your exploits.’
There was no sign of her brother’s official limousine from the Cabinet Office or of Dillon. She wasn’t pleased, and then Billy Salter’s scarlet Alfa Romeo swerved into the kerb and he slid from behind the wheel while Dillon got out of the passenger seat.
He came round and embraced her, kissing her lightly on the mouth. ‘My goodness, girl, there’s a sparkle to you. You’ve obviously had a good time.’
Billy was putting her bags in the boot. ‘A hell of a time, from what I heard.’
‘You know?’ she said to Dillon. ‘About my conversation with Kurbsky?’
‘What Roper knows, we all end up knowing.’ He ushered her into the back seat of the Alfa and followed her. ‘Dover Street, Billy.’
It was the family house in Mayfair where her brother lived. ‘Is Harry okay?’ she asked as they drove away.
‘Nothing to worry about, but he’s been overdoing it, so the doctor has given him his marching orders. He’s gone down to the country to Stokely Hall to stay with Aunt Mary for a while. Anyway, this Kurbsky business has got Ferguson all fired up. He’d like to hear it all from your own fair lips, so we’re going to take you home, wait for you to freshen up, then join Ferguson for dinner at the Reform Club. Seven thirty, but if we’re late, we’re late.’
‘So go on, tell us all about it,’ Billy said over his shoulder.
‘Alexander Kurbsky was one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever met,’ she said. ‘End of story. You’ll have to wait.’
‘Get out of it. You’re just trying to make Dillon jealous.’
‘Just carry on, driver, and watch the road.’ She pulled Dillon’s right arm around her and eased into him, smiling.
It was a quiet evening at the Reform Club, the restaurant only half full. Ferguson had secured a corner table next to a window, with no one close, which gave them privacy. Ferguson wore the usual Guards tie and pinstriped suit, his age still a closely kept secret, his hair white, face still handsome.
The surprise was Roper in his wheelchair, wearing a black velvet jacket and a white shirt with a knotted paisley scarf at the neck.
‘Well, this is nice, I must say.’ She kissed Roper on the forehead and rumpled his tousled hair. ‘Are you well?’
‘All the better for seeing you.’
She wore the Valentino suit from New York and Ferguson obviously approved. ‘My word, you must have gone down well at the Pierre.’ He kissed her extravagantly on both cheeks.
‘You’re a charmer, Charles. A trifle glib on occasion, but I like it.’
‘And you’ll like the champagne. It’s Dom Perignon – Dillon can argue about his Krug another time.’
The wine waiter poured, remembering from previous experience to supply Billy with ginger ale laced with lime. Ferguson raised his glass and toasted her. ‘To you, my dear, and to what seems to have been a job well done.’ He emptied his glass and motioned the wine waiter to refill it. ‘Now, for God’s sake, tell us what happened.’
When Monica was finished, there were a few moments of silence and it was Billy who spoke first. ‘What’s he want, and I mean really want? This guy’s got everything, I’d have thought. Fame, money, genuine respect.’
‘But is that enough?’ Dillon said. ‘From what Monica says, he’s lacking genuine freedom. So the system’s different from the Cold War days, but is it really? I liked his description of himself to you, Monica, about being like a bear on a chain. In Russia he’s trapped by his fame, by who he is. In the cage, if you like. The Ministry of Arts controls his every move because they themselves are controlled right up to the top. From a political point of view, he’s a national symbol.’
Ferguson said, ‘Obviously I’ve read his work and I’m familiar with his exploits. It all adds up to a human being who hasn’t the slightest interest in being a symbol to anyone.’
‘He just wants to be free,’ Monica agreed. ‘At present, every move he makes is dictated by others. He’s flown privately when visiting abroad, he’s carefully watched by GRU minders, his every move is monitored.’
‘So let him claim asylum here,’ Billy said. ‘Would he be denied?’
‘Of course not,’ Ferguson said. ‘But he’s got to get here first. This Paris affair, the Legion of Honour presentation, presents an interesting possibility.’
‘They’d be watching him like a hawk,’ Dillon said. ‘And there’s another problem. You know what the French are like. Very fussy about foreigners causing a problem on their patch, and that applies big-time to Brit intelligence.’
‘Still, it looks to me like a straightforward kidnap job with a willing victim,’ Billy said. ‘It’s once he’s here that he’d need looking after. They’d do something even if they couldn’t get him back. How many Russian dissidents have come to a bad end in London? Litvinenko poisoned and two cases of guys falling from the terraces of apartment blocks, and that was in the same year.’
Roper beckoned the wine waiter. ‘A very large single malt. I leave the choice to your own good judgment.’ He smiled at the others. ‘Sorry, but the joys of champagne soon pall for me.’
‘Feel free, Major,’ Ferguson said. ‘I notice that you haven’t made a contribution in this matter.’
‘Concerning Kurbsky?’ Roper held out his hand and accepted the waiter’s gift of the single malt. He savoured it for a moment, then swallowed it down. ‘Excellent. I’ll have another.’
‘Don’t you have any comment?’ Monica asked.
‘Oh, I do. I’d like to meet his aunt, this Svetlana Kelly. Yes, that’s what I’d like to do. Chamber Court, a late-Victorian house in Belsize Park. I looked it up.’
‘Any particular reason?’ Ferguson said.
‘To find out what he’s like.’
‘Don’t you mean was like?’ Monica asked. ‘As I understand it, she last saw him in 1989. When you think of what he’s gone through since then, I’d suppose him to be completely different.’
‘On the contrary. I’ve always been of the opinion that people don’t really change, not in any fundamental way. Anyway, I’ll go to see her tomorrow, if you approve, General?’
‘Whatever you say.’
Monica jumped in. ‘Would it be all right if I came with you? I don’t need to be back in Cambridge till Friday.’
‘No, that’s fine. I don’t think we should overwhelm her.’
Dillon said, ‘Old Victorian houses aren’t particularly wheelchair friendly.’
‘I’ll phone in advance. If there’s a problem, perhaps we can meet somewhere else.’
‘Fine. I’ll leave it in your hands,’ Ferguson said. ‘Now I don’t know about you lot, but I’m starving, so let’s get down to the eating part of the business.’
Later, they went their separate ways. Sergeant Doyle had waited for Roper in the van that had the rear lift for the wheelchair. Ferguson had his driver, and Billy gave Dillon and Monica a lift to Dover Street in the Alfa.
‘Very useful,’ Monica told him, as they moved through Mayfair. ‘You being a non-drinker.’
‘I get stopped now and then,’ Billy said. ‘Young guy in a flash motor like this. I’ve been breathalysed plenty. It’s great to see the look on their faces when they check the reading.’ He pulled up outside the Dover Street house. ‘Here we are, folks. You staying, right?’ he asked Dillon.
‘What do you think?’
‘You’re staying.’
He cleared off, they paused at the top of the steps for Monica to find her key, and went in. She didn’t put the light on, simply waited for him to lock the door, then put her arms around his neck and kissed him quite hard.
