punched you into the system.”
WHICH IT DID. He stepped through and found himself on a quiet street, most of the properties Victorian, some walled, others in sizable gardens. It was dark now, streetlamps glowing, lots of parked cars, everything perfectly normal. The main road was extremely busy. He stood at the edge of the pavement and flagged down a black cab and told the driver to take him to Wapping High Street.
He sat there, looking out at the busy streets, the evening traffic, the buzz of what was still the greatest city in the world, remembering so much from his youth. He was aware of the driver glancing at him in the mirror occasionally and decided to say something, trying for just a hint of a French accent.
“You know the Dark Man on Cable Wharf at Wapping?”
“I certainly do.” The driver was obviously a Cockney.
“Just drop me off at the High Street end. I want to go to a shop there.”
“Fine by me. Watch it walking down to the Dark Man. It’s a great pub, but some of the streets leading down there are a problem. Bloody kids and their knives. The world’s gone mad. It’s all the drugs, I reckon.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that.”
The cabbie’s eyes flickered over him again. “Are you okay, mate? You don’t look too well.”
Kurbsky decided to go all the way. “Chemotherapy. It takes its toll.”
“Cancer? Christ, mate, I’m sorry. It must be bloody rough.”
He obviously felt subdued and said nothing more, all the way to the Tower of London and farther into Wapping High Street. He finally pulled in at the sidewalk under a streetlamp and Kurbsky alighted and leaned down to pay him.
The driver gave him his change. “Take care, mate.”
He drove away hurriedly, and Kurbsky turned and discovered a dress shop, mannequins in the window. There was also his reflection in a mirror, looking like a ghoul.
“My God, Alex, where did you go?” he said softly, walked a few yards, and came to a lane with the sign that read “ Cable Wharf ” above it. It was dark and somehow sinister, the streetlamps of the old London gaslight pattern, some broken. He didn’t feel the slightest fear, though. For one thing, he had the bone-handled gutting knife inside his right boot. He started to walk down.
IT HAD OBVIOUSLY been an area of thriving warehouses in its day, but most of them were decaying now and boarded up, waiting for the developers. He walked along the center of the street carefully, aware of voices up ahead and some sort of fire. As he got closer, he saw what it was, an old trash can with rubbish of some kind burning away in a courtyard behind a broken wall.
Two youths drinking from bottles were standing beside the fire, taking turns to kick an old ragged tramp who lay whimpering on the ground. There was an old woman in a beret and a layer of coats, a bag on the ground, its contents spilled. She was very drunk and crying.
“Stop it, you’ll kill him.”
The youths were laughing, and the tallest one shoved her away. “Piss off, you old cow.” He turned and kicked the man in the head again.
Kurbsky stood and watched. The youth said, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
“She’s got a point,” Kurbsky said, and unzipped the false bottom of his bag. There were two Walthers in there, and the one that had killed the GRU men on the train had some surgical tape he’d found in the bathroom around the butt.
The youth reached in his anorak, produced a flick knife, and sprang the blade. “My friend’s got one too,” he said as his companion produced a similar weapon. “Let’s see what you’ve got in the bag.”
“My pleasure.” Kurbsky took out the Walther from the train and hit him across the side of the head. The youth dropped his weapon with a cry of pain and fell on one knee, his friend backed away, and Kurbsky picked up the knife, closed the blade, and put it in his pocket. “This is a Walther PPK, the real thing, not an imitation. It has a fantastic stopping power.” He fired at a tin can among the rubbish, there was a dull thud, and the can jumped in the air. “Imagine what that could do to your knee. Now go away very fast.”
The undamaged one said, “Come on, for Christ’s sake, he means it.” He darted away up toward the High Street while the woman was piling her belongings into her bag and the old man was getting to his feet. The youth Kurbsky had injured had fallen to his knee again, and the old couple moved past him surprisingly fast. He came up slowly, a brick in his hand.
“You bastard, I’ll smash your skull.”
Kurbsky’s hand swung up, he fired, and the lower half of the youth’s left ear disintegrated. He screamed, and plucked at his ear, blood oozing between his fingers. He fell back against the wall.
Kurbsky said, “You never learn, people like you. Now clear off and find a hospital.”
He walked away, swallowed by darkness. The youth cried, “You fucking bastard,” then turned and stumbled away.
KURBSKY CAME OUT of the darkness and walked along Cable Wharf. On his left was the panorama of London on the other side, lights gleaming everywhere, the sound of distant traffic, a pleasure boat sailing by, all lit up. He came to a multistoried development of what looked like exclusive apartments, but the Dark Man standing beside it was a typical river pub that obviously dated from Victorian times. There was a car park and, beyond, several boats moored at the jetty. He went to the entrance, paused, then went inside.
It wasn’t particularly crowded. The bar was very Victorian: mirrors, lots of mahogany and marble. The beer pumps were porcelain. The Salters were sitting in a corner booth, two hard-looking men leaning against the wall behind listening to the conversation. As he discovered later, they were Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, Harry Salter’s minders. Nobody noticed him, and he hesitated and turned to the bar, where an attractive blonde was serving. She looked curiously at him, as did two or three customers standing enjoying a drink together.
“What’s your pleasure, love?” she asked.
“Vodka, if you please, Madame.”
“Tonic?”
“No, as it comes.”
She put the glass before him and he took off his woolen hat. She winced perceptibly. “Are you all right, love?”
“Absolutely.” He took the vodka straight down.
Billy appeared. “Henri, my old friend, we’d just about given you up. You’ve met our Ruby, Mrs. Moon? She’s captain of the ship, keeps us all in order. Henri Duval, Ruby.”
She seemed uncertain, and Kurbsky said, “You have been very kind, Madame.”
Billy whisked him away, and she watched as Harry greeted him, and Baxter and Hall were introduced, and then Billy returned. “Another large vodka for him and a scotch for Harry.”
“Is he all right?” she said. “Or does he have what I think he has?”
“Answering your first question, he gets by, and yes, he has lung cancer. He’s on chemotherapy at the Marsden.”
“So he’s French?”
Billy proceeded to give her Henri Duval’s background, which included his lack of relatives. “He normally lives in Torquay, but he needed to be in London for the treatment. His mother was a cousin of Harry’s.”
“I see. I feel so sorry for him.”
“Well, you’ve got a good heart, Ruby, we all know that.”
She took the drinks across and said to Kurbsky. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Billy’s been telling me all about you. When you feel like something to eat, let me know. Steak-and-ale pie tonight.”
“Sounds marvelous,” Kurbsky told her.
“We’ll all have a go at that,” Harry said.
Ruby nodded and went away, and Baxter and Hall drifted to the other end of the bar and joined two men drinking there.
Harry nodded at the vodka. “Should you be drinking that in your condition?”
“I’ve checked it out. It varies with people.” He took it down, Russian style. “I suppose it reminds me that
