“Yes, and the word under the counter is the killings are definitely the work of a professional hit man who knew what he was doing. Basayev really asked for it, advertising to the world that he liked to visit his wife’s memorial at that church every morning.”
“It’s got to be the Russians. Putin will be over the moon.”
“That’s what Kurbsky said.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“We watched Basayev in that television appearance last night. After all, Kurbsky was the other side in Chechnya. When I spoke to him today at Belsize, he suggested the SVR as a possibility.”
“Do you think that?” Ferguson asked.
“Too direct. As we know better than anyone, they used to give their dirty work on contract to the IRA, or some Muslim faction or other like Al Qaeda. They like to be able to blame someone else.”
“True enough. And due to Britain’s kindness in operating an open-door policy these days, there are an awful lot of real asylum-seekers here, real victims, any one of whom might have relished the thought of shooting that animal.”
“And perhaps did,” Roper said.
“Well, to other matters. It won’t have escaped your attention that the American Vice President, Grant Hardy, is in Paris at the NATO meeting.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it on the news, and seen Blake Johnson with him. He said in an interview that Blake would be coming to London to discuss NATO matters with the Ministry of Defence. Does that involve you, Charles?”
“Amongst others. But it raises the question again of when we can tell Blake and President Cazalet about Kurbsky.”
“You gave your word, Charles, to preserve his anonymity. Therefore, the choice is his, not yours.”
“Is he coming in?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Do me a favor and raise the matter with him, that’s all I ask.”
“Consider it done.”
“Where’s Dillon?”
“He’s gone to stay with Monica for a few days in Cambridge.”
“How the mighty are fallen.”
Roper poured a scotch and tapped into the news of the Basayev investigation. The fact that he and his chauffeur had both been armed had leaked and was being made much of. The Russian ambassador had denied any involvement in the matter, and so had Moscow.
So, with no more story, television had to fall back on fill-in stuff, clips from the war coverage in Chechnya, Basayev in the thick of it, dirty and unkempt and thoroughly ruthless. What was bad wasn’t just the carnage of war, but the bodies tumbling into open graves, filmed for real as machine guns did their deadly work, actual footage of Basayev standing there gloating like some Nazi. It was to be expected that he was a hate figure to the Russian Army. And yet Kurbsky had seemed curiously indifferent.
On impulse, Roper tapped into Kurbsky’s details again, particularly his war record with the Black Tigers. There were his decorations, and God knows, there were enough of them. Six in all, and a short citation with each one.
On the 5th of February, 1995, this officer, with no previous parachute training, jumped with his men over the Kuba Plateau in an attempt to apprehend General Shadid Basayev. The mission failed, but Lieutenant Kurbsky and Sergeant Yuri Bounine succeeded in rejoining the army, the only survivors of the unit.
Roper sat there looking at it, and Sergeant Doyle came in with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich. “There you go, sir.”
“Tony, what if I told you I had a man who dropped into action by parachute without any parachute training? What kind of man would do that?”
“A bleeding loony, sir, or a bloody hero. I remember one example I read about: the biggest paratroop drop in history, Arnhem in 1944. One of the outfits lost their doctor with a broken ankle just before boarding, and another young doctor who had no training took his place. They strapped on his chute in the plane and he did the business.” He paused at the door. “Some people will do anything for a laugh.”
He went out and Roper sat there, then tapped in “Sergeant Yuri Bounine.” Decorated twice, once for the same operation as Kurbsky. Transferred to GRU. Present rank Major. Commercial attache at the Dublin Embassy.
He phoned Kurbsky. “Where are you?”
“Sorting a few things out in my new quarters over the garage. I spoke to that guy at the local shop up the road. He’s Indian-Hitesh Patel. An interesting guy, actually-a fourth-year medical student minding the store while his parents are in Bombay.”
“What are you up to this evening?”
“I thought I might come and see you. Is that okay?”
“I’m certainly not planning on going anywhere else. The television’s been full of the Basayev shooting. Some of the old footage from the Chechen war shows him in a less-than-flattering light. Was that your opinion, too?”
Roper knew something, it was obvious from his tone. The finest way of handling that was to tell the truth. Kurbsky said, “He was a vile, sadistic monster, evil in every way. Even the Devil would reject him from Hell. And am I happy that somebody shot the bastard? I couldn’t be more delighted.”
“Well, that’s plain enough.”
“By the way, Katya’s given me a Ford van of the kind gardeners use, to help with my cover. It’s green, and I’ll give you the number.”
Roper took it. “I’ll see you later, then.”
They rang off. Kurbsky sat there, then called Bounine and found him in his quarters. “It’s Alex, Yuri. How did Luzhkov take it?”
“He was terribly put out at first, but phoned Putin on his special number. The Prime Minister was delighted and apparently approves of you making fools of Ferguson’s people. Luzhkov says he’s going to leave contact with you to me, because I’m the only person you trust.”
“That’s good, but I have Roper to contend with-a difficult man to fool. Tell me, Yuri, if you bring up your career details on computer does it show the London posting?”
“No, that’s classified information because of the peculiarities of the job. It’s word of mouth only. As far as my records are concerned, I’m still commercial attache at Dublin.”
“Excellent. I’ll speak to you whenever.”
“Just a minute. Something’s come up and it affects someone who’s a friend of Ferguson and his people.”
“Go on.”
“His name is Blake Johnson, and he’s head of personal security for President Cazalet, so he’s big stuff and, according to Luzhkov, very close to Ferguson’s group. When he was in London the other year, Luzhkov hired somebody to assassinate him, but it was foiled by this man Dillon and somebody else. Luzhkov’s still got a bee in his bonnet about him, don’t know why. Anyway, Johnson is apparently coming to London tomorrow on NATO business-and Luzhkov’s thinking of kidnapping him.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m not involved, but I sat in. He’s using Petrovich and Oleg to do it-you remember them from the safe house outside Moscow?”
“I do indeed. They’d shoot a dog, those two. But anything that touches on Ferguson and his friends touches me, too, so I’m concerned about this. This seems like madness, Yuri!”
“I agree, but Luzhkov’s intent on it. You should have seen his face. Must be some old bad blood.”
“Well, keep me informed. Don’t let Luzhkov know I know. Keep this to yourself.”
“Of course, Alex, you come first.”
HE WENT THROUGH the garden to the house and entered the conservatory, where Svetlana sat playing Patience with a background of Rachmaninov’s Fourth Piano Concerto. Katya stood at her easel, doing a pastel drawing of Monica.
“That’s excellent,” he said.
“Not at all. I’ve got the face, but where’s the soul?”
“I’ve no answer to that. I’m going out for a while down to Holland Park. I was going to drive, but I’ve been
