A Darker Place (32 page)

He glanced at his watch and said, “Right, Colonel, I’ll do as you say, but I’ve things to do. We’ll leave in twenty minutes.”

He went straight to his quarters, locked the door, went into the bathroom, and called Kurbsky on his mobile phone. “Please, please answer, Alex. If there’s a God in heaven, make him answer.”

And in Wapping, sitting in the Ford beside a decaying warehouse looking out over the Thames, Kurbsky was aware of the tremble and answered. “Is that you, Yuri? What’s happening?”

So Bounine told him.

 

 

WHEN THE STORY was finished, Kurbsky said, “It’s a hell of a pickle, Yuri. India Wharf. I’ll find where it is, and you and that bastard Luzhkov make your way there and we’ll meet up.”

“Do we speak to Ferguson or somebody like that?”

“They’re busy with the boat. Meanwhile, this Ali Selim is sitting waiting for you at India Wharf. We’ll simply make sure he doesn’t get to leave.”

 

 

AT CADOGAN PIER there was a kind of confusion, a buildup of traffic and people as guests started to arrive, and that bad March weather swept in across the Thames, reducing visibility considerably.

Ferguson was elsewhere, aiding the Prime Minister with the consultations being held by the Big Four at Downing Street, but Dillon and Monica were already on board the
Garden of Eden
, with Harry Salter cracking the whip over the management and crew.

Dillon left Monica in the lower lounge area, and he and Billy traveled the boat from stem to stern and deck by deck with a clutch of security and Secret Service people in tow, headed by a Colonel John Henry, who was directly responsible for the Vice President. The three of them finally ended on the bridge, where they found the Captain, Arthur Henderson, wearing an obviously brand-new uniform for the occasion.

It was Billy he addressed. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Salter?”

“It bleeding well is,” Billy told him. “A tight ship, Captain Henderson. My uncle will be well pleased.”

“And you gentlemen?” Henderson turned to Dillon and Henry.

“There isn’t a door that hasn’t been opened three or four times,” said Henry. “My only regret is the weather.”

“March, you see, Colonel, and when it rains on the Thames, it rains, believe me. I’m afraid it will get worse before it gets better.”

It was already pouring, with enough wind to drive it across the river in a gray curtain, making the view of the other side vague and ill defined. Billy looked down to the decks.

“Well, you’ve rolled out all the canopies you can. They can stand out under those, enjoying their drinks, when it gets too crowded inside.”

Down below on the approach to the pier, limousines were delivering guests and umbrellas were everywhere, as people pressed toward the pier, hurrying to get out of the rain.

“I must see how my boys are getting on,” Colonel Henry said, and left.

“Big day, Captain,” Billy said. “My uncle takes it very seriously.”

“So do we all, Mr. Salter.”

Billy led the way, Dillon followed, and they arrived at the deck lounge and bar. There was music playing, a jazz quartet set up on a dais in one corner, plenty of roving waiters on hand in white monkey jackets already offering champagne to early arrivals. Monica came toward them.

“Is everything okay?”

“Tight as a drum.” Dillon took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and handed her one. “Here’s to smooth sailing.”

“Here’s to the Big Four producing an accord that’s really going to make things better in Gaza,” Monica said.

“Well, it would be nice to think so.” Dillon managed a diplomatic smile. “Here’s to us, anyway.”

Harry arrived, and he was agitated. “Look at it, the bleeding weather, and where are we going to put them all?”

“Don’t worry, that’s why we have deck canopies,” Billy told him. “They can stand outside.”

Harry reached for a champagne himself. “I suppose so, if worse comes to worst.” He looked thoughtful. “I was wondering,” he said, “do you think I ought to put up one of those plaques commemorating today?”

Dillon laughed out loud, and Monica reached over and kissed Harry on the forehead. “I’ve said it before, Harry—you are a one-off.”

 

 

AT CHAMBER COURT, Katya and Svetlana sat in the conservatory discussing the Kurbsky situation.

“Do you really think he will return to us tonight?” Svetlana asked.

“I desperately hope so.”

“A new beginning for him perhaps?” Svetlana nodded. “Or should I say another new beginning. When you consider his life, his childhood, his time with Kelly and me here in Belsize must have been a special experience for him, a release from the Communist regime that had damned his life.”

Katya sighed. “All snatched away by his father’s wickedness.”

“No, my dear, that’s too simple. Yes, my brother was corrupted by his political beliefs, and his position in the KGB was more important to him than his children, but everything in this sorry business stemmed from Tania’s behavior. She was a wild child who was indulged by her father, and became even wilder as a student. The consequences we know. If she hadn’t involved herself in the student uprising of ’eighty-nine, had stayed home, Alexander would have carried on here, would never have found the military and undergone the appalling experiences of Afghanistan and Chechnya.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“But enough, I think. Let’s turn on the television and see what’s happening with the Big Four.”

 

 

KURBSKY FOUND India Wharf with no trouble, in a decaying area of dockland just twenty minutes downriver from Wapping. He braked on the edge of the basin, taking in the situation quickly—the barge, the motorboats, and the
Running Dog
berthed inside the archway.

He already had a Walther in the right-hand pocket of his coat. He quickly opened the secret compartment in his bag and found the .25 Colt. He couldn’t put on an ankle holster, the French paratroop boots were too high, and he had the gutting knife hidden in the right one. He slipped the Colt into the belt at the small of his back and got out.

There was the roar of an engine and the
Running Dog
reversed out of the archway, a man standing at the wheel. He smiled. “Hello there, what can I do for you?”

This had to be Ali Selim. Kurbsky knew that because Bounine had mentioned the orange boat and its strange name.

“I seem to be lost—it’s like a maze back there.”

The
Running Dog
taxied in beside the barge, and Ali Selim cut the engine and looped a line on a stanchion. He stepped across to the rear deck of the barge, and from there to the wharf.

“Where were you looking for?”

Kurbsky couldn’t think of a thing to say except Wapping High Street.

Ali had taken a pack of cigarettes out and was lighting one. “Hah, you couldn’t be more out of the way, man.” He walked forward two steps very fast and pushed Kurbsky off the wharf into the water.

 

 

HE WENT DOWN maybe ten feet, struggling, his left arm clumsy, and rose, pulling with his right, and surfaced to find Ali Selim squatting on his haunches, holding the Beretta and pointing it straight at him.

“Do exactly as I say or I’ll blow your fucking head off. Do you follow me?”

Half choking, Kurbsky nodded. “Yes.”

“Just come up those few steps and join me.”

The ladder was ancient and rusting, and stretched from the water three or four feet to the wharf. “I can’t,” Kurbsky said. “My left arm is injured.”

“Hmm. All right, you look like a serious man. I’ll believe you.” Ali tossed the end of a line down. “Loop it round and I’ll pull.”

Which he did, demonstrating his enormous strength, and Kurbsky ended up on his knees, spewing up water. Ali stood him up and did a quick search and discovered the Walther. “You’ve got taste, my friend, but a man like you would always have an ace in the hole. Ankle holder maybe?” He bent down and patted. “No? Let’s have a look at your waistband at the rear.” He found the Colt .25. “I approve, especially with hollow-point cartridges. I take care, my friend, I take care.”

“I can see that,” Kurbsky told him, thinking of the two mobile phones Ali had missed in his shirt breast pocket.

Ali said, “So your arm’s fucked? Take off your coat and prove it.”

Kurbsky did awkwardly, disclosing his heavily bandaged left arm minus a shirtsleeve. Ali nodded. “I see what you mean. What was the problem?”

“I didn’t duck fast enough. It was a knife.”

“I knew I was right about you. You can tell a fellow pro instantly—at least I can. A man like you would only be here on business.” He shrugged. “So I suppose I’d better put you back in the water permanently.” He raised the Beretta and paused, because Kurbsky’s woolen cap had come off in the water. “There’s something funny about your skull. You look like one of those Buddhist monks. Are you into Zen or something?”

Kurbsky saved his life, at least for the moment. “No, I’m into the death business. Chemotherapy.”

“You’ve got cancer?”

“Of the lung.” He started to shake from the bitter cold, standing there in the pouring rain, the visibility so bad on the Thames that you couldn’t see the other side, confronting this dangerous madman, and he knew that his life dangled from a thread.

“Lung cancer?” Ali Selim said. “That’s a bad deal. I’ve got cancer too.” He paused, looking at Kurbsky. “Oh, hell, let’s get you below and find you something warm to wear. If I’m going to shoot you, at least you’ll be comfortable. Right? Right?” And he started to laugh.

I was right, Kurbsky thought, he’s crazy as a loon. He took his time going below, clutching the banister with his right hand. There was still the gutting knife in his paratrooper’s boot and the two mobiles in his shirt pockets. Any attempt to use one of those would lead to instant death; he had never been more certain of anything in his life.

Ali Selim followed close behind, shooed him down to the end of the table, went behind the bar, and found a towel, which he tossed to him. “Go on, dry yourself a little,” which Kurbsky did. “When I’m hurting, I find cognac helps. What about you?”

“Vodka.”

“Ah, so you’re another Russkie? I might have known, with that bastard Luzhkov involved.” He put a bottle of vodka on the table and three glasses. “Help yourself.”

“Three glasses?” Kurbsky said.

“We’re expecting company, aren’t we? Come on, you wouldn’t kid a kidder.” Kurbsky had a large one and poured another. “Were you an army man?”

“That’s right, Afghanistan and Chechnya.”

“Heh, I’m half Afghanistan and half Cockney—isn’t that a hell of a mixture?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Ali Selim opened a long cupboard in the corner by the bar and rummaged, his eyes not leaving Kurbsky for a moment. He produced a navy blue linen sailing smock with wide sleeves. “Help yourself.”

Kurbsky said, “Thank you, I will.”

He pulled it on, then poured another large vodka and swallowed it down and it started to burn, and it suddenly occurred to him that there was absolutely nothing he could do about his situation.

Ali Selim said, “That Major Bounine who was with Luzhkov—is he a friend of yours?”

“You could say that.”

“I thought so, but I don’t think he likes Luzhkov.” He poured a touch more cognac in his glass. “They are coming, aren’t they?”

It would have been pointless for Kurbsky to deny it. “Yes, that was the general idea, Luzhkov is coming.”

“Well, he would be, because he wants something from me, something very important.”

“So I believe.”

Ali nodded. “You interest me. I’m not sure how you fit in.”

“Just helping a friend out.”

“Bounine. I can’t see a man like you finding much to interest him in a worm like Luzhkov.”

There was the sound of a car engine outside. “So here they are.” He poured vodka into Kurbsky’s glass and cognac in his own. “Here’s to you, my friend.” He emptied his glass. “In the end, all roads lead to hell.”

“You could be right.” Kurbsky swallowed the vodka. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Up on deck and we’ll greet them properly. You first.” And Ali Selim pushed him to the door of the companionway.

A
t Belsize, Katya and Svetlana sat watching the television, and the weather was even more disastrous than ever. The Thames was totally shrouded. The congestion to the Cadogan Pier had been reinforced by the rain and the motor cavalcade bearing the Big Four had arrived a little while ago. The cameras were covering the boat, but also roamed over the river, and as the commentators kept saying, it was impossible to see a thing.

“It’s a washout, if you ask me,” Katya said.

“It would appear so. I’m glad we’re not there.”

Roper was glad too, high and dry as he viewed everything on his screen. He spoke to Billy, who was wearing an earpiece.

“All the world and his wife there.”

“And all putting the booze away like it’s no tomorrow. The Vice President just made an announcement that everything’s been worthwhile and we look to the future with hope.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Roper said.

“And he remembered to thank the Prime Minister for the use of the hall and his warm support.”

“Did he remember to thank Harry for the use of the
Garden of Eden
?”

“Piss off, Roper. We’ll be leaving downriver in half an hour. See you later.”

 

 

TH E MERCEDES WAS parked at the end of the wharf. Bounine got out and stood looking at them. Kurbsky said, “I can’t help, Yuri, he’s already had me in the water.”

Ali Selim said, “Don’t stand there looking at me as if this is the Gunfight at the OK Corral, or I just might shoot you.”