A Darker Place (15 page)

She followed him out into the corridor. “You don’t have to tell me. Do you really think you can get him back?”

“I’m not sure, but if we can get close enough to kill the bastard, that would be just as good.”

He turned and ran to the elevator, where Kokonin was holding the door, and it closed on him. Olga stood there, thinking about him. A nice boy and she’d liked him, but so what? Life could be cruel sometimes, but the last thing she needed was any kind of trouble with Russian intelligence. She turned and went into the linen cupboard and got on with her work.

 

 

KURBSKY FOUND THEM waiting outside the gate, the sight of Monica like an old friend. She came toward him, glowing, hands reaching out. “Alex, this is wonderful.” She kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him fiercely. “Are you all right?”

“Never better. Introduce me to your friends.”

Which she did. Dillon said, “We have plenty of time, forty minutes. Let’s have you straight on board and we’ll get you a drink. I think you’ve earned it. Was it difficult?”

“Not at all. Astonishingly simple.”

They walked along the platform, station noises echoing, people’s voices sounding strangely distorted, a whistle in the distance, a train across the platform starting up and moving forward.

“Everybody seems to be going somewhere,” Kurbsky said.

“Well, you certainly are. Just follow me.” She got in the coach, and he went after her.

Billy paused as Dillon made a call on his mobile, which Roper received in Holland Park. “Our package has arrived safely. Just under half an hour or so, and we’ll be off.”

“Did he kill anybody?” Roper asked.

“Not that he mentioned.”

 

 

IVANOV HAD PROMISED the taxi driver double fare, which worked in spite of the night and rain. They reached Gare du Nord with fifteen minutes to spare, and Ivanov led the way to the nearest ticket window and slapped his credit card down.

“The train is quite full, gentlemen,” the young woman said. “All first class has gone.”

“That’s okay,” Ivanov told her. “Anything will do.”

“I can manage three club car seats, so you can at least have refreshments, but you’ll have to sit up for the night.”

Within five minutes, they were passing through the gate and starting along the platform. Ivanov pulled his black hat down over his eyes. “You two keep to the other side of the platform, I’ll scan the windows of the train. I’ll join you farther along.”

It was actually easier than he thought it would be. The three first-class coaches were at the front behind the engine, with a fourth that was a bar and restaurant. Walking past, his head slightly averted, Ivanov found Kurbsky sitting opposite a good-looking woman, two men on the other side of them at a bar table. It was enough. He hurried back along the platform to Kokonin and Burlaka at the rear of the train.

“He’s there, sitting with a woman and two men in the bar in first class. We’ll board, find our seats, and think this thing out.”

 

 

OVER THE CHAMPAGNE, Kurbsky went over the events of the evening with the others. He even found the Legion of Honor in its box and offered it to Monica for a look.

“A remarkable souvenir of today,” she said. “What was it like, the award ceremony?”

“Crowded and noisy and bizarre. A very old white-haired nuclear physicist sitting next to me asked me what I did, and when I told him, he said he’d never heard of me, which brought me down to earth considerably. So much so that I found myself asking what in the hell was I doing there.”

“What about the Ritz?” Dillon asked. “You said it was astonishingly simple.”

“Well, I didn’t have to kill anyone. I had young Kokonin sitting on guard. I knocked him cold, an old unarmed combat trick, grabbed my coat, and quite simply ran for it. I was being handed into a taxi by the doorman about four minutes later.” He smiled. “The rest you know.”

The train was moving, gliding along, picking up a little speed as it left the station, a melancholy whistle echoing into the gloom.

“I love trains, especially at night,” Kurbsky said. “I once did the Trans-Siberian all the way to Vladivostok. An amazing experience. I got some interesting poetry out of it.”

“I didn’t know you wrote poetry,” Monica said.

“Bad poetry, I think, so I don’t advertise it.” As if to prevent any further discussion of the matter, he said, “I’d like to freshen up. Can we return to the compartment?”

“Of course,” Monica said. “It has a pull-down basin to wash your face or shave, but no toilet. Those are at each end of the corridor.”

“I’m sure we’ll get by.”

Dillon and Billy went first, Monica next, and Kurbsky followed, and Ivanov and his friends watched through the glass door at the other end. “Back to our seats now,” Ivanov said, and led the way to the club car at the rear of the train.

They had the end table, four chairs grouped around it, but the fourth was vacant. When the steward came with a drinks cart, they ordered half a bottle of vodka and ice. Ivanov heavily overtipped the man.

“We prefer privacy, my friends and I.”

“I take your point, Monsieur.” The steward produced a “Reserved” notice, smiled, and moved on with his cart.

“What are we going to do?” Kokonin demanded.

“Let’s assess the situation. We’ve no idea who these three people with Kurbsky are,” Ivanov said. “But they don’t know who we are. Only Kurbsky does.”

Kokonin said, “I don’t see how we could do anything much on the train anyway. As long as Kurbsky stays up there in first class and we stay down here, we’ll get by. We’re armed, all three of us. That’s in our favor. We can wait until they get off.”

Ivanov held up a timetable. “I’ve found this in the seat pocket. The train doesn’t go nonstop to Brest, it drops off at several places. Rennes, for example. They could get off anywhere.”

“Exactly, and maybe we wait for that,” Ivanov said. “But I’m going to speak to Colonel Luzhkov and discuss it with him. He gave me his mobile number. I’ll go in the toilet so no one can hear.”

Which he did, going to the one at the end of the coach and locking himself in.

 

 

IN LONDON, Luzhkov was in his quarters in Kensington Palace Gardens, preparing for bed, when he received the call. He listened intently as Ivanov explained the situation.

“It pains me to say this,” Ivanov said, “but Kurbsky seems to have defected. He knocked Kokonin unconscious and fled the hotel. It was only by chance that the chambermaid servicing our rooms saw him getting into a taxi as she came on shift, and heard his destination. That led us to the midnight express to Brest. We’re on the train now, and Kurbsky’s in first class drinking with a woman and two men. He doesn’t look like a prisoner.” Which Luzhkov could have confirmed, since he knew who the woman and the two men were.

There was no way he could pull Ivanov’s coals out of the fire. He and his friends should have been left high and dry at the Ritz while Kurbsky disappeared into the night. The British, of course, would expect Russian security to try to recover him, and they would take appropriate action. Knowing Dillon and Billy Salter as he did, Luzhkov knew the reckoning would be harsh.

He remembered Putin’s words in Moscow:
“His defection must appear genuine at all times. His GRU minders in Paris should not be informed of the real facts. If they fall by the wayside, so be it.”

He took a deep breath and said to Ivanov, “When they get off, follow them. That is all I can suggest. See where it leads you, then contact Major Gregorovich at the GRU safe house outside Moscow. Take care.”

He sat there, thinking about it. Starling, Salter, and Dillon did not know Ivanov and the boys by sight, only Kurbsky did, so only he could alert the others of their presence on the train. But if Ivanov and the other two sat at the end of the train for the entire journey, keeping out of the way, they’d be able to follow Kurbsky at leisure when their quarry left the train.

He had to alert Kurbsky, had no choice.

Kurbsky had his phone in his right pants pocket on vibrate. Monica was reading a book. Dillon was reading
Paris-Soir
on the other side of the table, and Billy was dozing, his head back against a pillow by the open door to the connecting apartment.

Kurbsky smiled at Monica, excused himself, got up and went to the lavatory at the end of the corridor, entered, and locked the door. He answered the phone, and Luzhkov said, “Thank God you answered.”

“What is this? I told you I didn’t want to speak to you every five minutes.”

“Shut up and listen.” Luzhkov explained quickly what had happened. “So you see, my friend, Ivanov and his two chums are on the train with you, and they now think you a defector and a traitor to the Motherland.”

“Holy Mother of God,” Kurbsky said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. If I tell the others, they’d need an explanation as to how I knew.”

“You could say you’d taken a walk along the train and seen them.”

“And they hadn’t seen me? Come on, get real, Boris.”

“Well, you’d better think of something, because if this screws up the whole operation, you’ll not only be in deep shit, but your sister will be condemned to live out the rest of her days in the far north of Siberia.”

Kurbsky fought hard to control himself and kept his voice low. “Damn you, don’t threaten me.”

“Alex, I’m not. He’s got me by the balls, too, our glorious Prime Minister. There’s no either/or here. The great man hates being disappointed. He always gets his way. So what’s it to be?”

“I don’t seem to have much choice,” Kurbsky said. “I’ll speak to you again. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

He left the lavatory, moved along the corridor through the dining room and the coaches behind, where most passengers were curled up in sleep. He was careful, paused at each connecting door and scanned the passengers inside, looking for his quarry, and finally reached the club car, and there they were at the far end. He withdrew and was approached by the headwaiter as he went back through the restaurant car. There were only about a dozen people eating.

“Would you and your friends like a table, Monsieur?”

“I’m not sure. When is the next stop?”

“Belleville, Monsieur, about an hour and a quarter.”

“I’ll see what my friends think.”

He returned to the compartment and found Monica asleep on one of the pull-down bunks, and Dillon and Billy with their heads down in the second compartment, so he picked up Monica’s book, something to do with the Roman army in Britain that she’d written herself, went back to the restaurant car, and took a table.

He had a sort of Russian breakfast—vodka, caviar, smoked salmon and herrings and strong black bread, more vodka, and then black bitter tea. All this was provided with impeccable service. Monica’s book was fascinating and made the meal a true experience.

The time had passed so quickly that when they started to slow, he was quite caught out, and then they were gradually stopping, and the headwaiter said, “Belleville, Monsieur.”

Kurbsky peered out. He saw only a small station and platform and a few decaying warehouses. Some people had got off to walk around, stretching their legs, ambling between stacks of railway sleepers. And then Kokonin and Burlaka walked past, hands in pockets, chatting to each other.

There was a kind of inevitability to it, and Kurbsky moved along, found an open door, and went down the steps. They were over by a coppice of crowded trees and seemed to disappear. He hurried, half running, went around a corner, and found them standing at the edge of a deep ditch, half filled with water.

He was upon them before they realized he was there, pulled his Walther from the belt clip at the small of his back. Kokonin said, “You!” and put a hand in his inside pocket. Kurbsky shot him between the eyes, the silenced Walther making a dull thud. He was blasted backward and fell half over the edge of the ditch. Burlaka actually got his gun out, but too late, as Kurbsky did exactly the same to him. He rolled first one, then the other, into the water, turned, and walked away around the coppice, joining the few people getting back onto the train.

He returned to the restaurant car and found the book where he had left it. The headwaiter approached with the bill. Kurbsky paid him in euros and tipped well. “I’m obliged to you. It was excellent. When is the next stop?”

“Another hour, perhaps more, Monsieur—Rennes.”

Instead of returning to the compartment, he worked his way back to the club car and peered in. Ivanov was standing, talking to the car steward, upset. The steward was shrugging, obviously unable to satisfy him. So Kokonin and Burlaka had missed the train. Not his fault. They’d have to get the next one. That seemed the official attitude.

Kurbsky turned and went back. From the first day you put on a uniform, you had to accept you could die wearing it. He was fighting in a war of sorts; he seemed to have done so all his life. He should have had a little pity for the two dead men perhaps, but he’d used that all up in Afghanistan and Chechnya.

 

 

HE DIDN’T GO in when he got back to the compartments, simply checked to see that his three companions were still resting, turned, and started to make his way toward the rear of the train. It was time to finish the thing, whatever it took. The entire train seemed to be asleep, a passenger here or there with a magazine or a book.

After midnight, when anything is possible and death is in the air.
It wasn’t Shakespeare, he knew that, some minor writer from times past, not that it mattered. He had reached the club car. The car steward in his cramped booth was asleep and the passengers in their seats seemed well away too. He walked along between the seats to where Ivanov sat by himself, eyes closed, head back, arms folded. Kurbsky slid into the opposite seat, and Ivanov opened his eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin.