“It’s become a staple diet on all the news programs today.”
“A dreadful man,” Svetlana commented. “Some of his deeds were unspeakable.”
“Did you know him?” Katya asked.
“He was one of the best-known Chechen generals and universally reviled. Yes, I knew him,” Kurbsky said. “A vile man who escaped retribution for many years, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s finally met a just end.” He got up. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed. God bless you both.”
After he had gone, Svetlana said, “I worry about him. Something weighs heavily on his spirit-I know these things.”
“He has a lot on his mind, a lot to contend with,” Katya told her, and kissed her on both cheeks. “Go to bed now and sleep well.”
“The things in his past, the years of war. Such terrible things must hang heavily on him. Some of the old film they showed today of the war in Chechnya, that dreadful man Basayev. Alexander was part of that.” She picked up her stick and got up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She went out, and Katya sat there, thinking about it, then went and found her laptop, sat with it on her knees, and tapped in “Alexander Kurbsky.” There was nothing secret there, just the career of a great writer, including an account of his military career and his medals and decorations. There were so many, and she felt a certain pride, aware that she was slightly in love with him. She started to read the citations, and the details leapt out at her of the officer who had jumped with his men over the Kuba Plateau in February 1995, a failed mission with only two survivors. The target had been Shadid Basayev.
She switched off, her heart beating, went to the sideboard, and poured a vodka and almost choked on it, her every instinct confirming what she did not wish to hear.
HER NIGHT WAS restless, but she finally fell asleep and awoke suddenly at seven-thirty to the sound of a motor outside. She got up, went to the window, opened it and looked out, and saw Kurbsky seated on the mower, cutting the grass in long swaths.
“Hello,” she called, and he stopped and looked up.
“Did I wake you? If so, I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine. So you’re getting in the swing of things?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Have you had any breakfast?”
“An apple and a glass of milk.” He laughed. “It’s fine. I want to get this side lawn finished. I’ll have a sandwich later.”
Svetlana often spent the morning in bed, soothing her arthritis and reading. Katya took her a tray of muesli, assorted fruit, toast, and black Russian tea.
“He’s started on the garden,” she said. “Mowing the grass.” She went to the window and looked out. “Bad March weather is not good for gardens. They lie still. Nothing happens.”
“Very Chekhovian, my dear, so it’s a season of sadness, but perhaps the gardener will find the exercise beneficial.” Katya handed her The Times, and Svetlana made a face. “More on that wretched Basayev.”
“It will be for a while, then something else will come along and replace it on the front page.”
“Another killing, a suicide bomb?” Svetlana shook her head. “What a world.”
“I suspect it always was,” and Katya went downstairs.
AT HOLLAND PARK, Roper sat at his desk, varying his screen images, turning from the autopsy report on Basayev, to the one on Josef, to the Scotland Yard forensic reports, taking it all in, tapping his desk with the flick knife Kurbsky had given him.
Doyle brought his tea and sandwich in. “That’s a nasty bit of work, Major. Where did you get that, then?”
“Just a present to open my mail.”
“It’ll open a bloody sight more than that, if you ask me.”
He left, and Kurbsky came in. “Did you have a good night?”
“I’m not sure if I know what that means anymore. What are you up to?”
“Gardening. I’m establishing my position at Chamber Court so the neighbors get used to me. I sat in the saddle of the tractor and let the mower do all the work. The lawns are looking good. Any more word on the Basayev business?”
“Not a thing. The autopsies, forensics, and all the usual nasty details are available, but-”
“But it doesn’t get us an inch further. To the media, it’s Russian perfidy as usual.”
“Which means there’s never a solution,” Roper told him. “That’s the trouble with you Russians, always getting away with things.”
There was an edge there that he hadn’t been able to resist. Kurbsky was aware of it at once, but kept his response light. “We are Social Democrats now these days. Communism is dead, my friend.”
“Tell that to Vladimir Putin.”
“I doubt he would wish to speak to me now.”
“You never know,” said Roper.
BLAKE JOHNSON WAS a handsome man in his late fifties, hair graying a little, a shade under six feet tall. He was always received courteously at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, not only because of his position, but also because the ambassador, Frank Mars, was a friend of many years and they’d served together in Vietnam.
A Marine captain escorted him upstairs and then went in search of the ambassador. Johnson would have welcomed a scotch after the flight, but with the NATO meeting coming up at the Ministry of Defence, he needed his wits about him. There was coffee on the sideboard, and he was savoring a cup when Mars walked in.
“Great to see you, Blake. I thought you’d be accompanying the Vice President back to Washington. It’s a a pleasure to see you.”
“It’s good to see you again, old friend.” Blake shook his hand. “This meeting could be extremely important.”
“I presume this has to do with the future deployment of our troops in support of NATO forces.”
“Something like that, Frank. At this stage, you could say I’m just testing the water for the President.”
Mars said, “Listen, about your accommodation tonight. We were going to put you up in the Embassy house, but I recall you had a slight problem there the other year.”
“Nothing worth mentioning,” Blake said. “But there is a hotel off South Audley Street called the Albany Regency. It’s old-fashioned, but I stayed there some years ago and liked it. I asked the Paris Embassy to book it for me, and they tell me I have a suite on the top floor, a view over the rooftops to Hyde Park and everything.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Good, I’ll be on my way. I just wanted to drop in and say hello.”
“Any idea when you’re flying back? Is there time to get together later?”
“Ah, well, possibly. I think you might have to put up with me a bit longer… but I can’t discuss it now, Frank. I’ll call you.” Blake left a chagrined Frank Mars with the distinct impression that he wasn’t getting the whole picture.
THERE WAS NOTHING new about the Basayev affair, so Roper, bored, began trolling around on the computer. Thinking of Basayev naturally led him to thinking of Kurbsky, and that led him back to Kurbsky’s history and the nightmare of his sister’s death.
Moscow in upheaval, over fifty thousand body bags home from Afghanistan, riots in the streets, hundreds of dead and dying, and among them, Tania Kurbsky. Her brother had been told that she was only wounded, and so he had rushed home and found her already dead and buried, a plot on his father’s part to get him back to Moscow.
A thoroughgoing bastard, Ivan Kurbsky, but then, he must have been to make colonel in the KGB. Also, a man with real influence to be able to get his daughter buried in Minsky Park Military Cemetery. Almost idly, he consulted the list of those buried at Minsky and there were over six thousand. He leaned forward, frowning, and tried again, but he had been right the first time. There was no Tania Kurbsky buried at Minsky Park.
