other man.”
She tapped on her keyboard, the head moved into full screen, and within moments the beard had gone-the mouth area, the chin, clear of all facial hair.
There was silence for a moment, then Dillon said, “Amazing. How accurate is this?”
“Well into the ninety-percent range,” Katya said.
“How different to see the firm chin, the mouth,” Svetlana said. “And the cheeks so hollow, a hint of the boy I knew.”
“It’s a revelation,” Monica whispered.
“One can make further adjustments-and remove the smile, for instance,” Katya said, and did just that. “Now he is much more somber. Not quite the Alexander Kurbsky people are used to.”
Roper said, “I’d say a great many people looking at him like that wouldn’t recognize him at all.”
“Certainly not the general public,” Dillon said.
“And let’s take it further. The extravagant hair.” Katya had the head image turning, the hair shortening to a neat conservative style, and stabilized it. “Now we’ll change clothes from the bomber jacket and jeans.” She punched away at the keys until the figure on the screen wore a dark single-breasted suit, white shirt, and striped tie.
“My God, he could be something in the city, a banker or accountant,” Monica said.
“He certainly isn’t Alexander Kurbsky,” Dillon said. “I think you’ve demonstrated that.” He looked at Roper. “What about you?”
“Katya said ninety percent and I’d accept that, even a little more. But we’re up against professionals here. I’d never underestimate Russian intelligence. The GRU are as good as it gets. That’s something we have to accept.”
“So you want more?” Katya asked. “I thought you might. I told you I would treat this as a performance, and it will require Kurbsky to adopt a new identity so different from his own that anyone would accept him, even the most skilled operatives of the GRU. Remember our conversation about the best place to hide the letter, Major Roper?”
“In plain sight.”
“So, what if I suggested that Alexander Kurbsky be lodged here in plain sight? That he use the flat over the garage and work as Svetlana’s gardener and odd-job man just like Marek, the Pole. Observe.” Katya manipulated the screen again, stripping Kurbsky of his clothes, substituting loose hospital scrubs for them. The hair was removed totally, the image now of a gaunt human being with sunken cheeks and a shaved skull.
“That’s how chemotherapy leaves you when you have treatment for lung cancer, which is why he has been residing at that wonderful hospital, the Royal Marsden. He’s of French extraction-through his father, perhaps? I understand he speaks excellent French, but that would be up to you people. What do you think?”
“You’re a genius,” Roper said. “I’d defy anyone to look at that man on the screen and identify it in any way with Kurbsky.”
“I agree,” Monica said. “What about you, Sean?”
“Remarkable. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.” He turned to Svetlana. “And you?”
“I want him safe, I want him close to me again, and if this is the only way, so be it.”
“That’s it, then,” Roper said. “We’ll report back. Is there anything else?”
“Now we wait,” Svetlana said. “The rest, I suppose, is up to you.”
“I’ve got time off from the university.” Monica gave her a kiss. “I’ll stay in close touch.”
Katya came all the way down to the gate with them. “Now comes the hard part, I think. Paris. They’ll be guarding him closely. The Russians can be very difficult.”
“Don’t worry. We can be difficult too.” Dillon smiled, and he and Monica followed Roper out.
MOSCOW / LONDON
5
On the firing range in the cellars of the GRU safe house outside Moscow, the three men who were to be responsible for Kurbsky’s protection in Paris stood facing the target area, supervised by a hardened sergeant major with a cropped head named Lermov. Kurbsky, dressed in a tracksuit and woolen hat, sat on a stool, watching, and smoked a cigarette. The three GRU men were in uniform.
“Six single shots, and take your time. Kokonin first. First two head shots, then four in the heart and chest area.”
The lights came on in the gloom, the target figure moved from right to left, pausing, and Kokonin loosed his shots. His first round chipped an ear, the next went through the left cheek, the chest grouping was widely dispersed.
Kokonin was a junior lieutenant in rank, but Lermov didn’t take prisoners. “If that’s the best you can do, I wonder how you handle your cock, sir. Stand back. Next.”
Which was Burlaka, who managed to catch the head once, but his grouping in the chest was very poor.
“Even worse,” Lermov said, and called to Burlaka, “Just fire six times at the body,” which Burlaka did, peppering the torso area.
Lermov shook his head. “Terrible.”
Burlaka was angry and said, “I did the job, Sergeant Major-hit whoever it was six times.”
Lermov laughed harshly. “That’s one point of view, sir.” He turned to Kurbsky. “ Afghanistan, Chechnya, it’s all gone. They’re sitting behind desks these days, doing everything by computer. What’s happened to the world? Where did it all go?”
“We’re dinosaurs, Sergeant Major.”
The three young GRU officers were angry. Ivanov put his pistol on the table after removing the clip. “If you can do any better, show us. I’m tired of being put down like this. If you’re so much better, let’s see it. And what about you, Comrade?” he said to Kurbsky. “Your books make a lot of claims.”
Kokonin said, “Maybe that’s all it ever was.”
There was a moment’s silence. Kurbsky dropped his cigarette on the floor and stood. Lermov picked up a Stechkin. “I’ve got a certain affection for this. I’ve had it since Afghanistan. It should take you back, Comrade.”
“It certainly should,” Kurbsky said.
He held it against his right thigh. Two targets swung up. He double-tapped, shooting the left target twice in the heart, then twice in the forehead. He swung right, double-tapping the heart, then a single shot through each eye. There was silence.
Kurbsky handed the Stechkin back to Lermov, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. “I must say you keep it in perfect working order, Sergeant Major. My compliments. Now I’m going to go for my run.”
He went out, and Lermov turned to the other three. “What was it you were saying, sir?” he asked Ivanov. He shook his head. “He’s not like other people, he’s a one-off, but don’t let it get you down. I’m going to give you your most important lesson.” He pushed a fresh clip in the butt of the Stechkin. “Come with me, all of you.”
He led the way down to the range and stopped three paces away from the targets. “Watch this.” He raised the Stechkin and shot the target in the heart, then in the forehead. He handed the weapon to Ivanov. “Now you.” The shots slammed home, and he said, “Let the others do it.”
They obeyed him one after another. “Perfect.” He held out his hand, and Burlaka passed him the pistol again. “Now you know-get that close if possible. There’s only one alternative that’s better.”
“What’s that, Sergeant Major?” Ivanov asked.
Lermov replaced the clip on the Stechkin, stepped close to the target, rammed the muzzle into it, and fired several times.
“There you go, Comrades, a job well done. But that’s enough. I believe your task is never to leave Alexander Kurbsky for a moment, and there he is running through the orchards on his own.”
Ivanov looked hunted. “Come on, you bastards.” He rushed out, followed by the others.
In fact, as they emerged into the entrance hall, they discovered Kurbsky talking to a man in an old-fashioned
