13
The cab dropped Katya at the mews, and she let herself in and walked through the garden. She paused on the terrace and looked at the garage, and there was no light. In fact, Kurbsky was up and watching her through a crack in the curtains. His arm felt numb, but not unpleasantly so. He wore a bathrobe and smoked a cigarette, wondering about Katya and where she had been.
He could see through the trees into the conservatory, saw her standing and talking to Svetlana. It was enough. He went downstairs, found a scarf in the hall to put around his neck, and went out and walked cautiously through the trees. The door stood open to the terrace; he could hear the voices, but not distinctly, and moved carefully, keeping low in the rhododendron bushes until he was close. He had missed part of the exchange, but Svetlana’s words made it plain what it had been about.
“So you say the man in the hood who saved this American, Johnson, was Alexander. Can this be true?”
“Johnson said the man in the hood was cut on the left arm and that he tied his khaki scarf about it. That was how Alex was when he came home. Hitesh will confirm it.”
“Why would he be involved in such a thing?”
“I don’t know, Svetlana. Maybe just a good deed in a bad world. He saved the American from an awful fate.” Katya’s voice faltered. “But there’s more, much more, and maybe I shouldn’t tell, because it will hurt you terribly, but I feel that I must. It will hurt him terribly too, but what can I do?”
She was crying so much, so very much, and the old lady took her hands. “What is it, my dear?”
“You thought Tania died in January 1989 and was buried in Minsky Park Military Cemetery. In fact, she was sentenced to life at Station Gorky in Siberia. She was admitted on January 25, 1989. Roper discovered it.”
“Dear God, that such a thing could be. That my wretched brother should permit such a thing.” Tears were running down Svetlana’s cheeks. “She’s still there after all these years, is that what you’re telling me?”
“No, she’s dead now, God rest her soul.” The tears made her choke. “Died of typhoid in that terrible place on March 7, 2000.”
There was a groan from outside and Kurbsky appeared in the doorway. “For God’s sake, no. It can’t be true.”
She went to him then, putting her arms about him and holding him. “Oh, Alex, my dearest, it is true. Roper broke into all the files and it’s all there, everything that happened to her.”
Svetlana put her hands out. “Come to me, my dear one, come to me.”
He went to her, falling on his knees in anguish. “You don’t understand. They lied to me. She was supposed to be still alive.”
Katya crouched on the other side of Svetlana’s chair. “Who lied to you, Alex? Who?”
“Putin himself, Boris Luzhkov,” and as Svetlana held him close, he told them everything.
BOUNINE WAS DRIVING as they turned out into Kensington High Street. “Just follow my directions,” Luzhkov told him. “It’s by the river. The great and mighty Thames. I adore history, you know, it’s a passion. Roman ships with slaves at the oars crept up this river two thousand years ago and made the city out of a tribal encampment.”
In between his lecturing, he managed to give Bounine instructions on their route.
“There was a time when it was the biggest port in the world, crammed with ships, queuing to get a berth. Hundreds of cranes, docks all over the place. Now so many are in a state of decay, warehouses boarded up. It’s a real tragedy.”
“You’ve been here for a long time,” Bounine said.
“Thirteen years. The best posting I’ve ever had. I love the place. I spend a lot of my time sightseeing, particularly the run-down areas. It’s amazing what you find. Every race under the sun, every color, you’ll find them here like nowhere else in the world, down by the river, tight racial groups, a few streets each, shops, houses.”
They were close to the river, and it started to rain as they drove down narrow cobbled streets, many of the properties around them boarded up, and then they emerged onto an anchorage that had a sign, “India Wharf,” edged by tall Victorian warehouses, most boarded. In the basin were several moored boats, including an old Thames barge. A curved entrance ran from the basin into one of the warehouses, and moored inside was a large orange motorboat with a huge outboard motor.
They parked the Mercedes and got out. “That thing looks fast,” said Bounine.
“It is fast. He gave me a run in it once.”
“Who did?”
“Come and meet him.”
He led the way along the wharf. There were lights at the windows of the barge, a gangplank stretching to a companionway leading below. It was closed by two mahogany doors, which Luzhkov opened.
“Ali Selim, are you there?”
“Who the fuck is that?” The voice was very Cockney.
“Boris Luzhkov.”
“Have you brought any money with you? If not, you can piss off.”
“My dear Ali, when have I ever let you down?”
Luzhkov went down and Bounine followed, finding himself in a surprisingly well-ordered interior. The cabin was comfortably furnished, with padded benches down each side, pictures on the walls where there was room, small curtains at the portholes. There was a kitchen area behind a bar, an archway behind obviously leading to sleeping quarters. The man sitting at one end of the table was of mixed blood and looked to be in his fifties, an aggressively handsome man with a hooked nose and the look of a predatory hawk about him. He had taken an old Luger pistol to pieces, spread them on a cloth before him, and was carefully cleaning them. Close to his hand was a Beretta pistol that he could have picked up in a second. His hair was very black and tied in a ponytail that hung to the small of his back, and the only Muslim thing about him was an Egyptian white cotton shirt with wide sleeves.
He paused at what he was doing and looked Bounine over. “Who’s this?”
“Major Yuri Bounine, my second in command.”
“Another one? Boris, you old bastard, they come and go, but you go on forever. I don’t know how you manage to survive, your lot being the fucking maggots they are.”
“You will forgive Ali’s rather colorful language. His father, an Afghan, a deckhand on a cargo ship, landed in the Pool of London around fifty-five years ago and formed a relationship with a Cockney lady from Stepney.”
“Get it right, Boris. She might have been pregnant, but they did marry in church, so my old mum was a lady. It would displease me to think of you putting it about otherwise.”
“Heaven forbid that I should think such a thing.”
“Is this business or pleasure?”
“Very much business, my friend. This could be a very big payday for you.”
“Well, just let me fix this, and then we’ll have a drink and you can tell me all about it.”
Suddenly, with incredible speed and as if it were a game, he put the pieces of the Luger together. Bounine was amazed. “That was truly remarkable.”
“What would you know? You GRU guys sit on your arses in some Embassy office.”
“Major Bounine was a paratrooper in Afghanistan and also served in Chechnya,” Luzhkov informed him.
“Really?” Ali Selim turned to Bounine and extended his hand. “Now, that I respect. A man who went to Afghanistan and came back in one piece I truly respect. Sit down and we’ll have a drink. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He went out, and Bounine said, “Quite a character.”
“A killer of the first water. Served Al Qaeda in Iraq and Beirut. He makes big money in the drug business running heroin along the Thames. He still has family links back in Afghanistan, which helps with the poppy trade.” His mobile sounded and he answered. He held it out to Bounine. “It’s Greta. You take it on deck. I’ll handle Ali.”
Bounine went up and stood under a canopy in the rain. “Tell me,” he ordered.
“It is a riverboat, a new one built a couple of years ago, called the Garden of Eden. It is very luxurious, three decks, a bit tropical in its ambience.”
