A Darker Place
‘Something like that, only we didn’t appreciate that Chechnya was to come. Two years of that, and that was just the first war.’
There was a long pause and he poured another vodka with a steady hand. She said, ‘What now – what next?’
‘I’m not sure. Only a handful of writers can achieve great success, and any writer lucky enough to write the special book will tell you the most urgent question is whether you can do it again or it was just some gigantic fluke.’
‘But you answered that question for yourself with Moscow Nights.’
‘I suppose, but…I don’t know. I just feel so…claustrophobic now. Hemmed in by my minders.’
She laughed. ‘You mean the bear-on-the-chain thing? Surely that’s up to you. When Svetlana cast off her chains and refused to return to Moscow, she had to defect. But things are different now. The Russian Federation is not dominated by Communism any longer.’
‘No, but it is dominated by Vladimir Putin. I am just as controlled as I would have been in the old days. I travel in a jet provided by the Ministry of Arts. I am in the hands of GRU minders, wherever I go. I don’t even handle my own passport. They would never let me go willingly.’
‘A terrible pity. Any of the great universities would love to get their hands on you. I’m biased, of course, but Cambridge would lay out the red carpet for you.’
‘An enticing prospect.’
He sat there, frowning slightly, as if considering it. She said, ‘Is there anything particular to hold you in Moscow?’
‘Not a thing. Cancer took my father some years ago, there are cousins here and there. Svetlana is my closest relative. No woman in my life.’ He smiled and shrugged, ‘Not at the moment anyway.’
‘So?’ she said.
‘They watch me closely. If they knew I was even talking this way to you, they’d lock me up.’ He nodded. ‘Anyway, we’ll see. Paris in a fortnight.’
‘Something to look forward to. You should be proud.’
She opened her purse and produced a card. ‘Take this. My mobile phone number is on it. It’s a Codex, encrypted and classified. You can call me on it whenever you like.’
‘Encrypted! I’m impressed. You must be well connected.’
‘You could say that.’ She stood up and said, ‘I mean it. Call me. Paris isn’t too far from Cambridge, when you think of it.’
He smiled. ‘If it ever happened…I wouldn’t want an academic career. I’d prefer to leave the stage for a while, escape my present masters perhaps, but vanish. I’d like to think that my escape would be total, so Moscow had no clue as to where I had gone. I wouldn’t appreciate the British press knocking on my door, wherever I was.’
‘I see what you mean, but that could be difficult.’
‘Not if I were able to leave quietly, no fuss at all. Moscow would know I’d gone, but the last thing they’d want would be for it to be public knowledge, which would create a scandal. They’d keep quiet, say I was working in the country or something on a new book, and try to hunt me down.’
‘I take the point and will pass it on to my friends. Take care.’
He caught her arm. ‘These friends of yours. They would have to be very special people who knew how to handle this kind of thing.’
She smiled. ‘Oh, they are. Call me, Alex, when you’ve had time to think.’
She went to the lifts, a door opened at once, she stepped in and it closed.
Four o’clock in the morning in London, but in the Holland Park safe house in London, Giles Roper sat as usual in his wheelchair, his screens active as he probed cyberspace, his bomb-scarred face restless. He’d slept in the chair for a couple of hours, now Doyle, the night sergeant, had provided him with a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. He ate the sandwich and was pouring a shot of Scotch when Monica’s voice came over the speaker.
‘Are you there, Roper?’
‘Where else would I be?’
‘You’re the only fixed point in a troubled universe. That’s one thing I’ve learned since getting involved with you people. Is Sean spending the night?’
‘Returned to a bed in staff quarters ages ago. How was your evening? Did Kurbsky impress?’
‘Just listen and see what you think.’
It didn’t take long in the telling, and when she was finished, Roper said, ‘If he’s serious, I can’t see why we couldn’t arrange something. I’ll speak to Sean and General Ferguson first thing in the morning. You, we should be seeing some time in the early evening.’
‘Exactly.’
She switched off. He sat there thinking about it for a while. Alexander Kurbsky doing a runner to England. My God, Vladimir Putin will be furious. He put Kurbsky up on the screen. Too good-looking for his own good, he decided morosely, then brought up his record and started going through it carefully.
Kurbsky had found Bounine in the Volvo outside the Pierre and brought him up to speed. He smoked a cigarette. Bounine said, ‘So far, so good. It’s worked. She must be quite a lady.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘So, if they take the bait, we have Paris to look forward to. Colonel Luhzkov will be pleased.’
‘Only because he wants to please Putin, and if Paris works, you mustn’t be a part of it, Yuri. No one should know who you are. Luhzkov will work out something for you. Cultural attaché, for instance, would do you very well. Someone I can trust personally when I’m in London.’
‘I’m glad you still do,’ Bounine said.
‘It’s been a long time, Yuri. You’re the only GRU man I know who looks like an accountant. No one would ever dream you were in Afghanistan and Chechnya with the paratroopers.’
‘Whereas you, old friend, look like they found you in central casting. The smiler with the knife, they used to call you from that first year, remember?’
‘Quite right.’ Kurbsky got out and turned, holding the door. ‘I also write good books.’
‘Great books.’ Bounine smiled. ‘One thing is certain, Putin will be happy the way things have gone.’
‘Putin has many reasons to be happy with the way things are going these days,’ Kurbsky said. ‘Night, Yuri.’ He closed the door and went back into the hotel.
2
It had all started three weeks before with Colonel Boris Luhzkov, Head of Station for the GRU at the Embassy of the Russian Federation in London, being called. The summons to Moscow had come from Putin himself and could not be denied, although it had surprised Luhzkov that it had come from him and not from General Ivan Volkov of the GRU, Putin’s security adviser.
The reason became clear when he was driven to Berkley Down outside London, and found a Falcon jet waiting to fly him to Moscow, a luxury which should have warned him to expect the worst.
Two pilots were on board, the aircraft ready to go, and a steward, who introduced himself as Sikov, was waiting as he boarded. Luhzkov seated himself and belted in.
Sikov said, ‘A great pleasure, Colonel. The flight time is approximately seven hours. I was instructed to give you this from Prime Minister Putin’s office as soon as you arrived. May I offer you a drink?’
‘A large vodka, I hate takeoffs. I once crashed in Chechnya.’ Sikov had given him what looked like a legal file.
Sikov did it old-style, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. Luhzkov tossed it back and coughed, holding out his glass. Sikov poured another, then moved up to the small galley. Luhzkov swallowed the vodka and, as the plane started to roll, examined the file: several typed sheets stapled together, and an envelope addressed to him, which he opened.
The letter was headed: From the Office of the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation. It carried on: ‘Attention of Colonel Boris Luhzkov. You will familiarize yourself with the material contained in the enclosed report and be prepared to discuss it with the Prime Minister on your arrival.’
Luhzkov sat there, staring down at the report, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Falcon had risen fast to thirty thousand feet and the flight so far was very smooth. Sikov returned.
‘Would you like to order, Colonel?’
Business first. Better get it over with. More vodka was indicated. He suspected he was going to need it. In fact, it was worse than he could have imagined, although some of it was already familiar to him.
The report detailed an operation gone bad. General Volkov had hired a group of IRA heavies to strike at Ferguson and his associates, but instead it was Ferguson who had struck at them, killing them all at their base in Drumore in the Irish Republic. If that wasn’t bad enough, General Volkov himself and two GRU men had disappeared. It could only mean one thing.
On top of that, the attempted assassination of Harry Miller, the individual known as the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler, had been a botched job from the beginning and had only succeeded in killing his wife in error. And – the greatest shock of all – Volkov’s connection to Osama bin Laden, the shadowy man known only as the Broker, had been unmasked. It had turned out to be Simon Carter, the Deputy Director of the British Security Services. Luhzkov could hardly believe his eyes – he had known Carter for years! Needless to say, Carter was no longer in the picture, either.
Miller’s sister, Lady Monica Starling, had apparently played a part in the Drumore affair, too, and now she had an apparent relationship with Dillon. GRU agents, of whom there were twenty-four at the London Embassy, had sighted them together on a number of occasions.
It was all a bit too much for Luhzkov’s whirling brain, but he turned the page and found the next one was headed ‘Solutions’. He started to read, pouring himself another vodka, and gagged on it as his own name came up. He read the paper several times, phrases like ‘the Prime Minister’s final decision in this matter’ floating before him. Finally, he came to the last page, headed ‘Alexander Kurbsky’. It began: ‘Kurbsky is a man of extraordinary talents, who has served his country well in time of war. To use these talents again in the present situation would be of great use to the State. If he objects in any way, the enclosed DVD and the additional attached information should persuade him.’
There was a small DVD screen on the back of the seat in front of Luhzkov, and after reading the information, he inserted the DVD and switched on. It only lasted five minutes or so, and when it was finished, he switched off and removed it.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said softly and there was sweat on his brow. He took out a handkerchief and mopped it. Sikov approached. ‘Something to eat, Colonel?’
‘Why not?’ Boris Luhzkov said wearily. ‘Why not.’
They landed on time, and a limousine with a uniformed GRU driver at the wheel was waiting. The streets were dark, frostbound, a city of ghosts, snow drifting down – angel’s wings, his mother used to call them when he was little – and he sat there, thinking of what awaited him as they passed the great entrance of the Kremlin and moved through narrow streets to the rear, coming to a halt in a paved yard. Steps up to an entrance, a blue light over it. The door swung open and a young lieutenant in GRU uniform admitted him.
‘Please to follow me, Colonel.’
Luhzkov had never in his entire career been to Putin’s suite and he followed in a kind of awed trance, one gloomy corridor after another, the decorations finally becoming more ornate, oil paintings in gold frames on walls. Everything was subdued, no sign of people, not even an echoing voice. And then they turned left and discovered two individuals in good suits seated in high chairs one on either side of a large gilded door. Each of them had a machine pistol by their right hand on a small table. They showed not the slightest emotion as the lieutenant opened the door and ushered Luhzkov through.
The room was a delight: panelled walls painted in seventeenth-century style, heavily gilded furniture of the correct period, portraits of what were probably obscure Tsars confronting each other across the room, a large ornate desk in the centre.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ Luhzkov said. ‘Astonishing.’
‘This was General Volkov’s private office,’ the lieutenant informed him. The use of the past tense confirmed Luhzkov’s misgivings. ‘The Prime Minister will be with you directly. Help yourself to a drink.’
He withdrew and Luhzkov, in a slight daze, moved to the sideboard bearing a collection of bottles and vodka in an ice bucket. He opened the bottle, filled a glass and drank it.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ he murmured. ‘Just hang on to that thought.’ He turned, glass in hand, as a secret door in the wall behind the desk opened and Vladimir Putin entered. ‘Comrade Prime Minister,’ Luhzkov stammered.
‘Very old-fashioned of you, Colonel. Sit down. My time is limited.’ He sat himself and Luhzkov faced him. ‘You’ve read my report.’
‘Every word.’
‘A great tragedy, the loss of General Volkov. My most valued security adviser.’
‘Can he be replaced, Comrade Prime Minister?’
‘I shall handle as much as I can myself, but on the ground, I need a safe pair of hands, particularly in London. You will now be reporting directly to me. You agree?’
‘It’s…it’s an honour,’ Luhzkov stammered.
‘More and more, London is our greatest stumbling block in intelligence matters. We must do something about it. These people – Ferguson, Dillon, those London gangsters of theirs, the Salters. What is your opinion of them?’
‘The London gangster as a species is true to himself alone, Comrade Prime Minister. I’ve employed them myself although they wrap themselves in the Union Jack and praise the Queen at the drop of a hat.’
‘This Miller has suddenly become a major player. Do you think they’ll appoint him to Carter’s post?’
‘I don’t see him wanting the job. More likely, it’ll be Lord Arthur Tilsey. He held that post years ago, and was awarded his peerage for it. He’s seventy-two, but still very sharp, and he’s old friends with Ferguson. He’ll do for the interim at least.’
‘And Miller’s sister, Lady Starling. You think there is something in this attachment with Dillon?’
‘It could be so.’
Putin nodded. ‘All right. It is clear we need to infiltrate this group, people at the highest level of security in the British system. You’ve read my suggestion. What do you think?’
‘Alexander Kurbsky? An astonishing idea, Comrade Prime Minister. He is so…infamous.’
‘Exactly. Just like in the Cold War days, he defects. Who on earth would doubt him? It fits like a glove. The UN wants him for some gathering in New York. Lady Starling will also be there. All Kurbsky has to do is approach her and turn on the charm. A colossal talent, a much-decorated war hero and handsome to boot – he can’t go wrong. She’s the key – her links to her brother and Ferguson and now Dillon – they make everything possible. If she passes the information to her friends, they’ll think of Paris, and the right arrangements will be put in hand, I’m certain of it.
‘But Luhzkov – make sure you don’t tell his GRU minders in Paris what’s going on. His escape must at all times appear genuine to the British. If the minders fall by the wayside, so be it.’
‘Of course,’ Luhzkov said hastily.
‘Finally, Kurbsky makes it a clear condition that his defection attracts no publicity. He will demand a guarantee of that. Otherwise he won’t do it.’
‘And you think Ferguson and company will accept that?’
‘Absolutely, because he knows what jackals the British press are. We stay quiet about the whole matter, but all our security systems go through the motions of trying to recover him. As far as the general public knows, he’s working away somewhere, faded from view. Any questions?’
‘I was just wondering…this suggestion regarding the journalist Igor Vronsky in New York? That Kurbsky eliminate him?’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No,’ Luhzkov said hastily. ‘I was just wondering, would this set a precedent? I mean would that kind of thing be part of his remit?’
‘If you mean would I expect him to assassinate the Queen of England, I doubt it. On the other hand, should a more tempting target present itself, who knows? I doubt it would bother him too much. He was in the death business for long enough, and in my experience few people really change in this life. Was there anything else?’
‘Only that everything hinges on him actually agreeing to this plan, Comrade Prime Minister.’
Putin smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem, Luhzkov. In fact, I expect him any minute now. I’ll leave him to you.’
And he disappeared back behind the secret door. Moments later, the door behind Luhzkov opened and Alexander Kurbsky entered, the GRU lieutenant hard on his heels.
An hour earlier, Kurbsky had been delivered to the same door at the rear of the Kremlin by Military Police. Although he had been drinking when they picked him up at his hotel, he’d been enough in control to realize that when the Kremlin was mentioned, it meant serious business. He’d been led into a small anteroom next to the main office, with chairs and a TV in the corner.
He said, ‘All right, I bore easily, so what is this about?’
The lieutenant gave him the DVD. ‘Watch this. I’ll be back.’ He opened the door and paused. ‘I’m a great fan.’
The door closed behind him. Kurbsky frowned, examining the DVD, then he went and inserted it, produced a pack of cigarettes, lit one and sat down. The screen flickered. A voice quoted a lengthy number and then said Subject Tania Kurbsky, aged 17, born Moscow. He straightened, stunned, as he saw Tania, his beloved sister, but not as he remembered her. She was gaunt, hair close cropped, with sunken cheeks. The voice droned on about a court case, five dead policemen in a riot, seven students charged and shot.
Then came the bombshell, Tania Kurbsky had been given a special dispensation obtained by her father, Colonel Ivan Kurbsky of the KGB. Instead of execution, she’d been sentenced to life, irrevocable, to be served at Station Gorky in Siberia, about as far from civilization as it was possible to get. She was still living, aged thirty-six. There followed a picture that barely resembled her, a gaunt careworn woman old before her time. The screen went dark. Kurbsky got up slowly, ejected the DVD and stood looking at it, then he turned, went to the door and kicked it.
After a while, it was unlocked and the lieutenant appeared. One of the guards stood there, machine pistol ready. Kurbsky said, ‘Where do I go?’
‘Follow me.’ Which Kurbsky did.
In the next room, he looked Luhzkov over. ‘And who would you be?’ Behind him, the lieutenant smiled.
‘Colonel Boris Luhzkov, GRU. I’m acting under Prime Minister Putin’s orders. You’ve just missed him. How are you?’
‘For a man who’s just discovered that the dead can walk, I’m doing all right. I’ll be better if I have a drink.’ He went to the cabinet and had two large vodka shots, then he cursed. ‘So, get on with it. I presume there’s a purpose to all this.’
‘Sit down and read this.’ Luhzkov pushed the file across the desk, and Kurbsky started.
Fifteen minutes later, he sat back. ‘I don’t write thrillers.’
‘It certainly reads like one.’
‘And this is from the Prime Minister?’
‘Yes.’
‘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?’