“She lives with a woman friend, Katya Zorin, in Chamber Court. Kelly died years ago, but I suppose you knew that.”
“Not until afterwards. So, if you talked to my aunt, I presume the question of my desire to flee was raised?”
“She made an assumption it was impossible to deny. So she and her friend are aware of what’s intended, but obviously they’re trustworthy.”
“I accept that. I would trust Svetlana with my life, but I don’t want her involved in this business in any way. She’s an old woman. I would not wish to bring any kind of threat to her. So you think you can snatch me in Paris? I fly in privately with three GRU minders, and they’ll dog my every step.”
“We’ll think of something.”
“Is your boss there?”
“Yes, General Charles Ferguson.”
“I sensed there might be somebody. Put him on.”
Ferguson said, “Kurbsky, what a pleasure.”
“I must go, but titbits for you. I spoke to Putin personally. He made it clear how important I am to dear old Mother Russia. I used to be handled by a General Volkov, who was in charge of security. Does that mean anything to you?”
“It does indeed.”
“It seems Volkov is no more and Putin intends to handle the security side himself. Does that interest you?”
“Very much.”
“And does the name Luzhkov strike a chord?”
“Certainly. Station Head of GRU at the London Embassy.”
“Putin spoke to him in my presence. Told him that London was the top hot spot and he was promoting him to full colonel and sending him back there.”
“That is interesting.”
“I must go. I’ve been hiding in the toilet too long. I’ll be in touch. I won’t give you my number this time. I don’t want you calling me at an inconvenient moment.”
He was gone, and Roper was smiling all over his ravaged face. “Well, how about that, then?”
“How about that indeed?” Ferguson turned to Dillon and Monica. “Thank you, and I’d love to join you for dinner in Shepherd’s Market.”
IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock at the Minsky Hotel in Moscow, and Kurbsky was sitting with Bounine and Luzhkov in a corner by the bar.
“Wonderful things, mobile phones.”
“Well, if they’re not encrypted, they can be a stone in the shoe,” Luzhkov said, “but ours are good. Play the recording back.”
Kurbsky did as he was told and turned the sound up. Afterward, Bounine said, “Hah, you must be pleased to hear about your aunt. Christ, you used to talk about her in Afghanistan.”
“She was the only mother I knew, a wonderful person. Was I okay?” he asked Luzhkov.
“Amazing to hear Roper and Ferguson. I know them so well. And the information you gave them was harmless-they’d find out anyway, and every little bit helps to establish your credentials. The magic name of Putin will certainly excite them.” He turned to Bounine. “I go back to London on Thursday night-you come with me. If Ferguson ’s people are keeping an eye out on Alexander in Paris, we can’t have you anywhere near him.”
“Who have you selected for the minders team?”
“Ivanov, Kokonin, and Burlaka.”
“I’m surprised. I’d say they’ve got a lot to learn,” Bounine commented.
“And they aren’t in on the plot. That’s definite?” Kurbsky asked.
“Whatever Ferguson ’s people do, they’ll expect your minders to defend you. If they didn’t, they’d smell a rat.”
“So they could get killed?”
“My dear Alexander, they’re expendable. That’s the name of the game.”
“So they play their part and die for the Motherland?”
“A great honor,” Bounine said. “I thought you’d have learned that by now.” He got up. “It’s late. Let’s turn in. It’s been a long day.”
TH E DAY BOUNINE and Luzhkov boarded their flight for London, Monica returned from Cambridge to Dover Street. Her brother was still unwell and remained at Stokely in the care of Aunt Mary and the servants. She phoned Roper at Holland Park.
“I’m back. No further word from Kurbsky. How’s Sean?”
“He’s here somewhere. I’ve had a message from Katya Zorin. She wants us to call. Apparently, she’s got something she wants to run by us. Are you doing anything at the moment?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll come straight round. Ask Sean if he wants to come with us. I think he should meet them.”
AN HOUR LATER, Tony Doyle delivered them to Chamber Mews, three of them this time, and they followed the path and found Katya waiting on the terrace at the open door. Inside, Svetlana sat in her wicker chair like a queen on a throne.
“So this is your Irishman?” she said to Monica, and held out her hand to Dillon for a long moment. “A good man, but two men are inside you and one fights the other. However, you are better than you think, my friend, in spite of yourself. I should do a Tarot reading.”
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, spare me that, ma’am.” He turned to Katya. “Miss Zorin.” He shook hands. “I went to RADA as a boy and was an actor for a while. I admire your work. The Macbeth you designed, the Nazi one. Jesus, if ever there was a tour de force, it was that.”
“We were just having tea Russian-style. Everyone join in.” She gestured to the samovar, the cups. Svetlana said, “What is your birthday, Mr. Dillon?”
“January the thirteenth.”
“Capricorn. Among your aspects, you have Jupiter in the House of Marriage and the Moon in good aspect with Venus.” She turned to Monica. “And yet he isn’t married. This is most unusual.”
“Perhaps he’s just been waiting for me?” Monica said.
There was general laughter. Katya said, “If you’d all come into the drawing room, I’d like to show you something which may interest you.”
Dillon helped Svetlana up and gave her his arm. They went through, and Katya settled them in front of the large television screen. She had a keyboard control in one hand.
Roper said, “Before you start, I should tell you that Alex phoned Monica the other night. He’s confirmed that he wants us to help him defect in Paris.”
Katya said, “Then it is even more important that I explain what I intend. Pay attention, please.”
She pointed the control, pressed a button, and the large screen was filled with a full-length picture of Alexander Kurbsky in a bomber jacket and jeans, hands in his pockets, face calm, smiling slightly.
“So here we have the man as he is, the man the world knows, for appearance is everything in this life. A gallant soldier, a star, if you like to put it that way, with a swagger to him. A sort of Renaissance man, with the hair almost to his shoulders, the beard as if basing himself on the heroes of those books by Alexandre Dumas we are told he so loved as a boy. Everything about him says ‘Look at me.’ ”
“I take your point,” Monica said. “But couldn’t he really be hiding his real self? The extravagant appearance would argue that to me.”
“Possibly, there are two sides to any coin, but the important thing here is to change him into something else.”
“Change his appearance?” Dillon said.
“Yes, but not just that. We must change the inner man as well. It will require a performance. But first, the
