Читать книгу A Darker Place - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 10

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?’

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.

‘Oh my goodness, I’ve missed you.’

‘You’ve only been away four days.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ she said. ‘Ten minutes, and if you take more, there’ll be trouble,’ and she turned and ran up the stairs.

He changed in one of the spare bedrooms, put on a terrycloth robe and joined her in her suite. He’d found a tenderness with her that he’d never known he had – he’d surprised himself as their relationship blossomed – and they made slow careful love together.

Afterwards she drifted into sleep and he lay there, a chink of light coming through the curtains from a lamp in the street. On impulse, he slipped out of the bed, put on the robe, padded downstairs to the drawing room, took a cigarette from a box on the table, lit it, then sat by the bow window, looking out and thinking about Kurbsky. After a while, Monica slipped in, wearing a robe.

‘So there you are. Give me one.’

‘You’re supposed to have stopped,’ he said, but gave her one anyway.

‘What are you thinking of?’ she said. ‘Kurbsky?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I thought you might. He reminded me of you.’

‘You liked him, I think?’

‘An easy man to like, just as you are an easy man to love, Sean, but like you, there’s the feeling of the other self always there, like a crouching tiger just waiting to spring.’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘What were you thinking?’

‘What on earth would we do with him if we got him?’ He stubbed his cigarette out and got up. ‘Come on, back to bed with you.’ He put a hand round her waist and they went out.

It was ten thirty when Roper found himself back in his chair in the computer room at Holland Park. Sergeant Doyle said, ‘You’ve everything you need to hand, Major, so I think I’ll have a lie down in the duty room.’

‘You should be entitled to a night off, Tony. What about Sergeant Henderson?’

‘He’s on ten days’ leave.’

‘And the Royal Military Police can’t find a replacement?’

‘But we wouldn’t want that, would we, sir? A stranger in the system? I’ll get a bit of shut-eye. If you need me, give me a bell.’

Roper lit a cigarette and set his main screen alive, bringing up Svetlana Kelly. In her early years, she’d been a member of the Chekhov Theatre in Moscow, which meant she was well grounded in classical theatre. She hadn’t been much of a beauty, even when young, but he saw handsomeness and strength there. There was a selection of photos from the early years, and then London in 1981. A Month in the Country at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. Fifty-five and never married, and then she’d met Patrick Kelly, an Irish widower and professor of literature at London University. Roper looked at Kelly’s photos – he was strong, too, undoubtedly and yet there was a touch of humour about his mouth.

Whatever the attraction, it was strong enough for them to marry at Westminster Register Office within a month of meeting and for Svetlana to cut herself free of the Soviet Union. She would be seventy-one now. It was eleven o’clock, and yet on sheer impulse, Roper phoned her. He stayed on speakerphone, he always did, and there was an instant answer.

‘Who is this?’ It was a whisper in a way, and yet clear enough, the Russian accent undeniable.

‘Mrs Kelly, my name is Giles Roper – Major Giles Roper.’ He spoke fair Russian, product of an Army total-immersion course just after Sandhurst, and he’d kept it up since. ‘Forgive the intrusion at such a time of night. You don’t know me.’

She cut in. ‘But I do. I attended a charity dinner for the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital last year. You spoke from your wheelchair. You are the bomb disposal expert, aren’t you? The Queen herself pinned the George Cross to your lapel. You’re a hero.’

It was amazing the effect of that voice, so soft, like a breeze whispering through the leaves on an autumn evening. Roper’s throat turned dry, incredibly touched. It was like being a child again.

He said in English, ‘You’re too kind.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘May I come to see you tomorrow morning?’

‘For what reason?’

‘I’d like to discuss a matter affecting your nephew. I’d have a woman with me, a Cambridge don who has just met Alexander in New York.’

‘Major Roper, be honest with me. What is your interest in my nephew? You must know I haven’t seen him in sixteen years.’

To this woman, one could only tell the truth. Roper knew that nothing else would do. ‘I’m with the British Security Services.’

There was a faint chuckle. ‘Ah, what they call a spook these days.’

‘Only on television.’

‘You intrigue me. Tell me of your companion.’ Roper did. She said, ‘The lady sounds quite interesting. If you’re a spook, you know where I live.’

‘Chamber Court, Belsize Park.’

‘Quite right. My husband died ten years ago and left me well provided for. Here, I live in Victorian splendour supported by my dear friend and fellow Russian, Katya Sorin, who takes care of the house and me and manages to find time to teach painting at the Slade as well. I’ll see you at ten thirty. Your chair will not prove a problem. The garden is walled, but the entrance in the side mews has a path that will give you access to French windows leading into a conservatory. I’ll be waiting.’

‘Thank you very much, Mrs Kelly. I must say, you seem to be taking me totally on trust.’

‘You fascinated me at that luncheon. Your speech was excellent, but modest, and so afterwards I looked you up on the internet. It was all there. Belfast in 1991, the Portland Hotel, the huge bomb in the foyer. It took you nine hours to render it harmless. Nine hours on your own. How can I not take such a man on trust? I’ll see you in the morning.’

It was quiet sitting there, staring up at his screens, and he put on some background music. Just like comfort food, only this was Cole Porter playing softly, just as it had been all those years ago in the Belfast safe house not far from the Royal Victoria Hospital. It was a long time ago, a hell of a long time ago, and he lit a cigarette and poured a Bushmills Irish whiskey for a change and remembered.