not know where he was. He could also make calls that could not be traced.
So he, who had been a prisoner of his own people, was now in a strange way free to do what his people wanted or to refuse. It was absolutely beautiful, and then he remembered Tania at Station Gorky and realized that his thoughts of freedom had only been an illusion.
There were voices down below on the track, and he emerged from the ruins and ran down the hill and confronted them. “Were you looking for someone?”
They seemed put out, then Ivanov laughed. “Damn you, you’ve been playing with us again.”
“Well, there isn’t much else to do round here, but there’s Paris to look forward to. Great chambermaids at the Ritz. You never know, you could get lucky.”
They smiled at that, but Ivanov said, “Chance would be a fine thing. One of us has always got to be on guard in your suite.”
Kurbsky, who had expected such a thing, said amiably, “And how are you going to manage that?”
“I have to work out a rota,” Ivanov said.
“Well, that’s okay. It means that when one of you is busy watching me, the other two can play.” He grinned. “I’m starving. Lunchtime, lads, so race me back.” He ran away from them very fast.
THE ONE TIME he was assured of total privacy was when he stayed in the house, using the bar facilities or the gymnasium and swimming pool or the extensive library, which included computers. Luzhkov had provided him with codes offering access to classified GRU information, and after lunch he sat down, brought up a screen, and accessed the British Security Services.
There was plenty of history there-the traitors who had worked for the KGB, for instance: Philby, Burgess, Maclean, and many, many more than the general public in Britain had probably ever known about. One thing wasn’t there, though-nowhere in the files was there any mention of General Charles Ferguson and his organization. The security force known in the trade as the Prime Minister’s private army simply did not exist.
He tried another approach, accessing individuals, and struck it lucky. The George Cross Database came up with Major Giles Roper. It was all there, the George Cross and Military Cross, his service in Ireland, the Portland Hotel bomb, the final explosion that had left him in a wheelchair. Apparently, he now worked in the computer industry.
“Computer industry, my arse,” Kurbsky said softly. “But what a man.”
But that was all he could find on Ferguson and his crew. For want of something better to do, he tapped in “Monica” and reviewed her life. Her photo was excellent, and he smiled. A remarkable lady, and he liked her.
Finally, he typed in “Svetlana,” something he had never done, and was amazed at the wealth of information. There was an early photo from the Moscow days of her and Kurbsky and Tania, his father in KGB uniform. A few lines on these early days and much more about her defection and London marriage. A list of her London stage appearances. A photo of Kelly, a mention that her companion was now the artist Katya Zorin, and then a whole page on her famous nephew.
Kurbsky clicked into “Katya Zorin” and discovered her life in theater and art. There was a photo of her and Svetlana, obviously taken recently. He smiled, touched, and switched off.
LACEY AND PARRY appeared at Holland Park and found Roper. “The boss has filled us in. Dillon and Billy are going to snatch somebody important in Paris Wednesday night and spirit him away,” Lacey said.
“One Henri Duval, according to the passport,” Parry added, “though if you believe that, you’d believe anything.”
“Absolute top priority,” Lacey said.
“As big as it gets.” Roper drank a little scotch and lit a cigarette.
“Well, if you say that, I really do believe it,” Lacey said. “So let’s look at France.”
Roper brought it up on a screen, focusing on Paris. “It can’t be Charles de Gaulle or any of the small airfields operating in the Paris area.”
“Look, aren’t you being a bit overcautious?” Parry asked. “A quick in-and-out. What’s wrong with that?”
“Total anonymity. Ferguson wants this man swallowed whole. It must be as if he’s never been.”
“It’s not a kidnapping, is it?” Lacey asked.
“Absolutely not. He wants to disappear into the depths of France -that way, his own people might think he was still in France, simply hidden away somewhere.”
“So Dillon and Billy pick him up by car and whisk him off somewhere,” Lacey said. “Overnight to another part of the country, where we’ll be waiting at some suitable airfield to fly out to the UK.”
Roper enlarged the map. “What about Brittany?”
“Lots of places we could use there, fly out across the Channel Islands, Isle of Wight, straight up to Farley Field. Long way to go, Brittany.”
“Not if you went by rail. There’s a line all the way down to Brest marked on the map.”
“And Brest is a hell of a long way,” Parry said.
“I’m not suggesting you go all the way. The line goes through Rennes, for example. That’s not far from Saint- Malo, the Channel Islands, Jersey. I’ll bring up flying facilities for that area.”
There were several. Lacey and Parry murmured together and finally made a choice. “ Saint-Denis. There’s an excellent flying club there. They have a tarmac runway to attract business travel, so jets can get in.” Lacey nodded. “We could do that. We could drop Dillon and Billy at Charles de Gaulle Wednesday morning, then fly down to Saint- Denis and overnight.”
“Now for the train.”
Roper tapped his requirements in and sat back. “There you are. Overnight for Brest, departing midnight. Apartments available, first class, can seat four.”
“Well, there you are,” Lacey told him.
“What plane will you use?” Roper asked.
Lacey looked at Parry. “What do you think?”
“Gulfstream’s too flashy. Let’s go for the sober look. The old Chieftain turboprop. Plenty of legroom, great seats.”
“I agree.” Lacey turned to Roper. “A done deal. You take care of your end, we’ll fix up Charles de Gaulle and Saint-Denis, and we’re in business.”
Parry added, “Could it get rough in Paris for Sean and Billy?”
“Let’s put it this way. They’re up against people who will do everything in their power to stop them.”
“Duval must be very important.”
“When you recognize him, remember to forget you’ve seen him.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Dillon and Monica accompanied Svetlana on a day out by invitation. They went in an old Ford station wagon, Katya driving, the weather brooding.
“The time of year, my dears,” Svetlana said. “But I wanted you to see Holly End. It meant a great deal to Alexander when he was here. He used to go down for the weekends with Kelly all the time. Katya loves to paint there.”
“When the weather is right,” Katya told them.
They went through the city to Greenwich, following the river. Monica said, “ London seems never-ending.”
“It all changes quite soon now,” Katya said, and she was right, for beyond Gravesend, with the rain that had threatened starting to pour, they moved into a bleak landscape of fields and marshland edged by mudflats swallowed up by the waters of the Thames estuary.
Way beyond, half glimpsed through the mist and rain, ships moved out to sea. Katya said, “Look, way over there on the horizon is something you seldom see these days. A lightship, permanently moored on chains.”
“So strange, this place, and so close to the city,” Dillon said. There were reeds now higher than a man, the road a raised causeway, and they came to a village of a dozen old-fashioned seaside wood bungalows, mostly painted green, with corrugated iron roofs. It looked totally desolate, not a soul in sight.
“Who on earth lives here?” Monica asked.
“No one, my dear,” Svetlana told her. “They are holiday homes for rent. People get their supplies from Gravesend or perhaps Rochester.”
“And you must remember to fill up with petrol there, too,” Katya said.
