A Darker Place Read online

  A Darker Place

  Jack Higgins

  Dillon and company are back in the ultimate blockbuster from the 'legend' that is Jack Higgins Disillusioned with the Putin Government, famous Russian writer and ex-paratrooper Alexander Kurbsky decides he wants to disappear into the West. However he is under no illusions about how the news will be greeted at home – he has seen too many of his countrymen die mysteriously at the hands of the thuggish Russian security services, so he makes elaborate plans with Charles Ferguson, Sean Dillon and the rest of the group known informally as the "Prime Minister's private army" for his escape and concealment. It's a real coup for the West!except for one thing. Kurbsky is still working for the Russians. The plan is to infiltrate British and American intelligence at the highest levels, and he has his own motivations for doing the most effective job possible. He does not care what he has to do or where he has to go or whom he has to kill

  Jack Higgins

  A Darker Place

  Book 16 in the Sean Dillon series, 2009

  Once again, for Denise

  and Brewer Street

  Avoid looking into an open grave. You may see yourself there.

  – RUSSIAN PROVERB

  NEW YORK

  1

  Fresh from the shower, Monica Starling sat at the dressing table in her suite in the Pierre and applied her makeup carefully. She’d dried and arranged her streaked blond hair in her favorite style as she always did, and now sat back and gave herself the once-over. Not bad for forty, and she didn’t look that ancient, even she had to admit that. She smiled, remembering the remark Sean Dillon had made on the first occasion they had met: “Lady Starling, as Jane Austen would have Darcy say, it’s always a pleasure to meet a truly handsome woman.”

  The rogue, she thought, wondering what he was up to, this ex-enforcer with the Provisional IRA and now an operative in what everyone referred to as the “Prime Minister’s private army.” He was a thoroughly dangerous man, and yet he was her lover. Look at you, Monica, she thought, shaking her head-a Cambridge don with three doctorates, falling for a man like that. Yet there it was.

  She put on a snow-white blouse, beautifully cut in fine Egyptian cotton, and buttoned it carefully. Next came a trouser suit as black as night, one of Valentino’s masterpieces. Simple diamond studs for the ears. Manolo Blahnik shoes, and she was finished.

  “Yes, excellent, girl,” she said. “Full marks.”

  She smiled, thinking of her escort, dear, sweet old George Dunkley, professor emeritus at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, in European literature, bless his cotton socks and all seventy years of him, and thrilled out of his mind to be here tonight. Not that she wasn’t a little thrilled herself. When she’d accepted the United Nations’ invitation to this international scholars’ weekend, she’d had no idea who the guest of honor would turn out to be.

  Alexander Kurbsky-the greatest novelist of his generation, as far as she was concerned. On the Death of Men and Moscow Nights-astonishing achievements, born out of his experiences as a paratrooper in Afghanistan and then the years of hell during the first and second Chechen wars. And he was still only in his late thirties. Hardly anyone outside Russia had actually met him since the publication of those books, the government kept him on such a short leash, and yet here he was, in New York. It was going to be quite an evening.

  She turned from the mirror, and the phone rang.

  Dillon said, “I thought I’d catch you.”

  “What time is it there?”

  “Just after midnight. Looking forward to meeting Kurbsky?”

  “I must admit I am. I’ve never seen George so excited.”

  “For good reason. Kurbsky’s an interesting guy in lots of ways. His father was KGB, you know. When his mother died giving birth to his sister, an aunt raised them both for several years, and then one day Kurbsky just up and ran away to London. The aunt was living there by then, and he stayed with her, studied at the London School of Economics for two years, and then-gone again. Went back, joined the paratroops, and the rest is history or myth, call it what you like.”

  “I know all that, Sean, it’s in his publisher’s handout. Still, it should be quite an evening.”

  “I imagine so. How do you look?”

  “Bloody marvelous.”

  “That’s my girl. Slay the people. I’ll go now.”

  “Love you,” she said, but he was gone. Men, she thought wryly, they’re from a different planet, and she got her purse and went to do battle.

  IN A ROOM on the floor below, Alexander Kurbsky examined himself in the mirror and ran a comb through his shoulder-length dark hair, the tangled beard suggesting a medieval bravo, a roisterer promising a kiss for a woman and a blow for a man. It was his personal statement, a turning against any kind of control after his years in the army. He was a shade under five ten, much of his face covered by the beard, and his eyes were gray, like water over stone.

  He was dressed totally in black: a kind of jersey with a collar fastened by a single button at the neck, black jacket and trousers, obviously Brioni. Even his pocket handkerchief was black.

  His mobile phone, encrypted, buzzed. Bounine said, “Turn left out of the entrance, fifty meters, and I’m waiting. Black Volvo.”

  Kurbsky didn’t reply, simply switched off, went out, found the nearest elevator, and descended. He went out of the entrance of the hotel, ignoring the staff on duty, walked his fifty meters, found the Volvo, and got in.

  “How far?” he asked.

  Bounine glanced briefly at him and smiled through gold-rimmed glasses. He had thinning hair, and the look of somebody’s favorite uncle about him, except that he was GRU.

  “Fifteen minutes. I’ve checked it.”

  “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  Kurbsky leaned back and closed his eyes.

  IGOR VRONSKY WAS thirty-five and looked ten years older, but that was his drug habit. His hair was black and a little too long, verging on the unkempt. The skin was stretched too tightly across a narrow face with pointed chin. A paisley neckerchief at his throat and a midnight-blue velvet jacket combined, by intention, to give him a theatrical look. His notoriety in Moscow these days didn’t worry him. The government loathed him for his book on Putin’s time in the KGB, but this was America, he had a new job writing for The New York Times, and they couldn’t touch him. The book had brought him fame, money, women-to hell with Moscow.

  He smiled at himself in the bathroom mirror, then leaned down to inhale the first of two lines of cocaine that waited. It was good stuff, absolutely, and he followed it with the second line. He was dizzy for a moment, then slightly chilled in the brain and suddenly very sharp and ready for the great Alexander Kurbsky.

  There was an old Russian saying: There is room for only one cock on any dunghill. He had no illusions that Kurbsky would be the star attraction at this soiree, but it might be amusing to knock him off his pedestal. He moved into the untidy living room of the small fifth-floor apartment, found a raincoat, and let himself out.

  “HE NEVER BOOKS a cab,” Bounine had said. “It’s only a step into Columbus Avenue, where he can have them by the dozen.”

  So Kurbsky waited in the shadows for Vronsky to emerge, stand for a moment under the light of the doorway to his apartment building, then advance to the left, pulling up his collar against the rain. As he passed, Kurbsky reached out and pulled him close with considerable strength, his left arm sliding around the neck in a choke hold, the blade of his bone-handled gutting knife springing into action at the touch of the button. Vronsky was aware of the needle point nudging in through his clothing, the hand now clamped over his mouth, the blade seeming to know exactly what it was doing as it probed for the heart.

  He slid down in a corner of
the doorway and died very quickly on his knees. Kurbsky took out a fresh handkerchief, wiped the knife clean, and closed it; then he leaned over the body, found a wallet and mobile phone, turned, and walked to where Bounine waited. He got in the Volvo and they drove away.

  “It’s done,” Bounine said.

  Kurbsky opened the glove compartment and put the wallet inside, plus the mobile phone. “You’ll get rid of those.”

  “Just another street mugging.”

  “He was on coke.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He took out a pack of Marlboros.

  Bounine said, “Does it bother you?”

  Kurbsky said calmly, “Did Chechnya bother you?” He lit a cigarette. “Anyway, I’m not in the mood for discussion. I’ve got a performance to give. Let’s get the great Alexander Kurbsky on-stage.”

  As they moved along Columbus Avenue, Bounine said, “Is that all it is to you, Alex?”

  “Yuri, old friend, I’m not into Freud at the start of a dark winter’s evening in good old New York. Just get me to the Pierre, where my fans are waiting.”

  He leaned back, staring out at the sleet, and smoked his cigarette.

  WHEN MONICA STARLING and Professor Dunkley went into the reception at the Pierre, it was awash with people, the surroundings magnificent, the great and the good well in evidence. The U.S. ambassador to the United Nations was there, and his Russian counterpart. The champagne flowed. Monica and Dunkley took a glass each, moved to one side, and simply observed the scene.

  “There seem to be a few film stars,” Dunkley said.

  “There would be, George, they like to be seen. There seems to be a pop star or two, as well. I suppose they feel an affair like this touches them with a certain… gravitas.”

  “He’s there,” Dunkley said. “Talking to the French ambassador, Henri Guyon, and the Russian-what’s his name again?”

  “Ivan Makeev,” Monica told him.

  “They seem very enthusiastic about something, their heads together, except for Kurbsky.”

  “He looks bored, if anything,” Monica said.

  “We’ll be lucky to get anywhere near him,” Dunkley told her mournfully. “Look at all those people hovering like vultures, waiting for the ambassadors to finish with him so they can move in. We’ve had it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She stood there, her left hand on her hip, her black suede purse dangling from it, and as he turned, she caught his eye and toasted him, glass raised, and emptied it. He knew her, of course, but she didn’t know that, and he gave her a lazy and insolent smile as he walked over.

  “Lady Starling, a pleasure long overdue.” He relieved her of her empty glass and waved for a passing waiter. “How are things in Cambridge these days? And this will be Professor George Dunkley, am I correct? I’ve read your book on the other Alexander.”

  Dunkley was stunned. “My dear chap.” He shook hands, obviously deeply affected.

  “The other Alexander?” Monica inquired.

  “An early work,” Dunkley told her. “An analysis of Alexander Dumas and his writing salon.”

  “All those assistants, and Dumas prowling up and down the aisles like a schoolmaster in a black frock coat,” Kurbsky said.

  He resonated charm, throwing it off as if it was of no account, his voice pleasantly deep, only a hint of a Russian accent.

  “Was it really like that?” Monica asked.

  “But of course, and look what it produced. The Three Musketeers, The Man in the Iron Mask, The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  Dunkley said, breathless with enthusiasm, “The literary establishment in Paris in his day treated him abominably.”

  “I agree. On the other hand, they really got their faces rubbed in it when his son turned out one of the greatest of French plays, La Dame aux Caméllias.”

  “And then Verdi used the story for La Traviata!” Dunkley said.

  Kurbsky smiled. “One would hope Dumas got a royalty.”

  They laughed, and Dunkley said, “Oh, my goodness, Captain Kurbsky, my seminars would be so crowded if my students knew you were going to attend.”

  “That’s an enticing prospect, but Cambridge is not possible, I’m afraid-and Captain Kurbsky belongs to a time long gone. I’m plain Alexander now.” He smiled at Monica. “Or Alex, if you prefer.”

  She returned his smile, slightly breathless, and an aide approached and said formally, “The ambassador is ready. If you would form the party, dinner is served.”

  “Yes, of course,” Kurbsky said. “These two will be sitting with me.”

  The aide faltered. “But sir, I don’t think that would be possible. It’s all arranged.”

  “Then rearrange it.” He shrugged. “Of course, if there is a problem, we could sit at another table.”

  “No, of course not, sir,” the aide said hastily. “No need-no need at all. I’ll go and make the necessary changes.”

  He departed. Dunkley said, “I say, old chap, we seem to be causing a bit of a problem.”

  “Not at all. I’m their Russian Frankenstein, the great Alexander Kurbsky led out like a bear on a chain to astonish the world and help make Mother Russia seem great again.”

  All this was delivered with no apparent bitterness, and those cold gray eyes gave nothing away. They reminded Monica uncomfortably of Dillon, as Kurbsky continued, taking Monica’s hand and raising it to his lips.

  “If you glance over my shoulder, you may see the Russian ambassador approaching to see what the fuss is about.”

  “Quite right,” Monica told him. “Is he going to be angry?”

  “Not at all. The moment he claps eyes on the most beautiful woman in the room, he’s going to scramble to make sure you grace his table and no one else’s.” He turned to Dunkley. “Isn’t that so, Professor?”

  “Don’t ask me, dear boy, I’m just going with the flow. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.”

  And then the ambassador arrived.

  THE DIPLOMAT ENDED up with his wife seated on his right, Monica on his left, and Kurbsky opposite. Dunkley beamed away lower down the table, facing the French ambassador and proving that an Englishman could speak the language perfectly. The whole thing was thoroughly enjoyable, but glancing across the table, Monica was conscious that Kurbsky had withdrawn into himself. He reminded her once again of Dillon in a way. For one thing, the champagne intake was considerable, but there was an air of slight detachment. He observed, not really taking part, but then that was the writer in him, judging people, constantly assessing the situation in which he found himself.

  He caught her eye, smiled slightly, and raised his eyebrows, as if saying what fools they all were, and then silence was called for speeches and the Russian ambassador led the way. It was as if it were international friendship week, nothing unpleasant was happening in the world, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan had faded into obscurity, the only thing of any significance being this dinner in one of New York’s greatest hotels, with wonderful food, champagne, and beautiful women. Everyone applauded, and when Monica glanced again at Kurbsky, he had joined in, but with the same weary detachment there. As the applause died, the French ambassador rose.

  He kept it brief and succinct. He was pleased to announce that if Alexander Kurbsky would make himself available in Paris in two weeks’ time, the President of France would have great pleasure in decorating him with the Légion d’Honneur. Tumultuous acclaim, and Kurbsky stood and thanked the ambassador of France in a graceful little speech delivered in fluent French. It was a fitting end to a wonderful evening.

  LATER, AS PEOPLE dispersed, Monica and Dunkley hovered. There was no sign of Kurbsky.

  “What an evening,” Dunkley said. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.” They were on a Virgin flight to London in the morning, leaving at ten-thirty local time. “We’ve got an early start, so I’m for bed.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.

  He walked away to the elevators. Monica pa
used, still seeking a sign of Kurbsky, but there wasn’t one. In fact, he was outside the hotel, sitting in the Volvo talking to Bounine.

  “This Legion of Honor nonsense. Did you know about it?”

  “Absolutely not, but what’s wrong, Alex? The Legion of Honor-it’s the greatest of all French decorations.”

  “Do you ever get a ‘So what?’ feeling, Yuri? I’ve been there, done that.”

  “Are you saying no? You can’t, Alex. Putin wants it, the country wants it. You’ll be there in Paris in two weeks. So will I. God help us, you’ve got your own Falcon back to Moscow in the morning, and a Falcon’s as good as a Gulfstream.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes, old son. I’ll pick you up at ten sharp.”

  Kurbsky shrugged. “Yes, I suppose you will.”

  He got out, and Bounine drove away. Kurbsky watched him go, turned, and went back into the Pierre. The first thing he saw was Monica waiting for an elevator, and he approached, catching her just in time.

  “Fancy a nightcap, lady?”

  She smiled, pleased that he’d turned up. “Why not?”

  He took her arm and they went to the bar.

  THERE WEREN’T TOO many people. They sat in the corner, and he had Russian vodka, ice cold, and she contented herself with green tea.

  “Very healthy of you,” he told her.

  “I wish I could say the same to you, but I’m not sure about that stuff.”

  “You have to be born to it.”

  “Doesn’t it rot the brain?”

  “Not really. Drunk this way, from a glass taken from crushed ice, it freezes the brain, clears it when problems loom.”

  “If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”

  “No, it’s true. Now, tell me. I know about your academic accomplishments-the Ministry of Arts in Moscow is very thorough when one is attending affairs like this-but nothing about you. I’m puzzled that such a woman would not be married.”