previous day he’d insisted on making an inspection of his sector of Grozny standing in the turret of a tank and a Chechen sniper had shot him in the head.
The desk colonel controlling things while waiting for a new general to arrive told Kurbsky and Bounine to put their report in writing, which they did. He actually read it, shaking his head.
“Nine guys, just like that. These Chechens are animals. As for Shadid Basayev, we’ll put him on the most wanted list as a war criminal.”
“And us?” Kurbsky asked.
“There’s a shortage of good people in intelligence these days, and it seems you’ve got a law degree, Bounine, which interests the GRU. You’re going to leave all this shit behind. It’s Moscow for you, and there’s a commission waiting.”
“But I don’t want a commission, Comrade.”
“What you want isn’t the point, Bounine, it’s what your country wants.”
“And me, Comrade?” Kurbsky asked.
“You stay, Lieutenant-or should I say Captain? You’re promoted. You stay here in the killing ground of Grozny. I’d say it suits your particular talents to perfection.”
And to that, of course, there was no answer.
HOLLAND PARK / MAYFAIR
10
Bad memories led to an extremely disturbed night for Kurbsky, who didn’t fall asleep until the early hours. He came awake suddenly, surprised to discover it was eight o’clock. He tried to rouse himself with a good shower, but it didn’t have much effect, and when he examined himself in the mirror, the circles around the eyes really did look much darker. He dressed and went in search of life and discovered Roper, in the computer room as usual, who looked him over.
“You look satisfactorily ill,” he said. “That’s the only way to describe it. Bad night?”
“You could say that.”
“It’s not surprising. You’ve been through it in a big way in the last day or two. I’d get yourself to the dining room. There you’ll find a lady named Mrs. Maggie Hall, the pride of Jamaica, whose specialty is the great English breakfast. If that doesn’t revive you, nothing will.”
“Sound advice, and I’ll take it.”
He came back dressed for the street, his bag slung from his shoulder, his gutting knife stuffed down his right boot. The knife he’d taken from the youth at Wapping the previous night, he took from his pocket and placed on Roper’s desk.
“Present for you.”
Roper pressed the button and the blade jumped. “Nasty,” he said. “Where did you get that?”
“Unlooked-for gift. I thought you might find it useful as a letter opener. I’ll be on my way.”
“Give the ladies my regards and take your time, Alex. I’m here for you day or night in this damn chair. It’s the one constant in an uncertain world.”
“My anchor?” Kurbsky said.
“If you like.”
“I’ll try and remember that.” He turned and went out.
HE WALKED DOWN past Holland Park, thinking about it. Svetlana and Katya would be expecting him at Chamber Court, and he needed to visit the local shop to establish his credentials, but that could wait. He glanced at his watch. It was just before nine and he knew where he wanted to be, had to be, if you like, and he emerged onto the main road, flagged a black cab, and told the driver to take him to Marble Arch.
He’d already taken the first step on a journey for which there was no going back. In the apartment at Holland Park he’d found a paperback of London AZ, with maps, streets, everything you needed to know. He’d already checked on church listings and discovered St. Mary and All the Saints in Hive Street, Mayfair. He’d chosen to alight at Marble Arch so as to be inconspicuous, and a brisk fifteen-minute walk brought him to St. Mary’s. Rain started to fall and it occurred to him that it might possibly put Basayev off, but if so, there would be other days. He pulled up the hood of his combat jacket.
The church looked familiar to him from the television report. He didn’t go in by the main doors, which had a pseudo-medieval look about them, oak banded by iron, but followed the side path, which brought him around to the cemetery at the rear.
There were cypress trees, rhododendron bushes, pine trees. Not much in the way of flowers, but that was the season of the year. On the other hand, this was Mayfair and the paths and grass verges were scrupulously kept.
Kurbsky had always rather liked cemeteries and their melancholic atmosphere, and St. Mary’s was a superb example: Victorian Gothic tombs, winged angels, poignant effigies of the children of the rich, and symbols of death on every hand.
The television footage helped him find Basayev’s wife’s grave quickly too. It was neat enough, a curve of speckled marble rising in the center to a portrait of a handsome, dark-haired woman in a circle of glass. “In Memoriam Rosa Rossi Basayev. Never Forgotten,” was the inscription in gold lettering, followed by a date.
Kurbsky stepped back to the other side of the path, where there was a marble doorway, a bench across it, a standing cross behind. He sat down, opened his bag, and found the silenced Walther. He cocked it and held it by his side, remembering Kuba, the monastery, and what Basayev had done so long ago. He felt calm, quite detached, and it was quiet, just the rain rushing down. Maybe Basayev wouldn’t come after all, but that was all right. He could come back.
THE MERCEDES pulled in at the front of the church. The chauffeur had served under Basayev in Chechnya, had been his driver for years. He had an umbrella on the floor beside him, which he took with him as he went to assist his master. He opened it and handed it to Basayev as he got out.
A few yards from the church on the corner of a side street, a young woman sat under a canopy with flowers for sale. “The usual, Josef, bring them to me,” Basayev told him.
He turned into the side path to the cemetery, and Josef got another umbrella from the back of the car and approached the girl.
BASAYEV WAS QUITE close to his wife’s memorial before he noticed Kurbsky, and he slowed. “What are you doing here?” He spoke in English. “What do you want?”
“You,” Kurbsky told him in Russian. “It’s been a long time since Kuba. Remember the monastery, the courtyard, the nine Black Tigers who weren’t dancing on air because you’d butchered them before you hung them up? It was raining then, too.”
“What in the hell are you talking about? Who are you?”
“Alexander Kurbsky, and don’t tell me that name hasn’t meant something to you over the years. Remember the cellar in the monastery where you persuaded me to surrender? You gave me your word, one soldier to another, that the articles of war would be strictly observed at all times, then you butchered nine of my men.”
At that moment, Josef came around the corner with the bunch of flowers in one hand, the umbrella in the other. “Here I am, boss,” he said in Russian.
Basayev turned and shouted, “Help me, Josef, he’s going to kill me.”
Josef dropped both the flowers and the umbrella and drew a pistol. Kurbsky, with no option, shot him in the heart and turned to find Basayev already scrambling away through the gravestones. He shot him in the back of the head, fragments of bone and brain spraying out as he fell on his face. He walked back up the path to Josef, still dying, and finished him off with a head shot.
He stood listening for a moment, but everything was still, no evidence of any disturbance, thanks to the
