“I’m so sorry to hear that. She was a good woman.”
“Yes, she was. But it’s been a while now, Alex, and my sister has produced two lovely girls-so I’m an uncle!”
“Excellent. Let’s drink to them. And to New York.” They clinked glasses. “And to the Black Tigers, may they rest in peace,” Kurbsky said. “We’re probably the only two left.”
NEW YORK CAME and New York went. The death of Igor Vronsky received prominent notice in The New York Times and other papers, but in spite of his books and his vigorous anti-Kremlin stance, there was no suspicion that this was a dissident’s death. It seemed the normal kind of mugging, a knife to the chest, the body stripped of everything worth having.
On the day following his death, Monica Starling and George Dunkley flew back to Heathrow, where Dunkley had a limousine waiting to take them back to Cambridge. She hadn’t breathed a word about what had happened between her and Kurbsky, but Dunkley hadn’t stopped talking about him during the flight. It had obviously affected him deeply. She kissed him on the cheek.
“Off you go, George. Try and make it for High Table. They’ll all be full of envy when they hear of your exploits.”
There was no sign of her brother’s official limousine from the Cabinet Office or of Dillon. She wasn’t pleased, and then Billy Salter’s scarlet Alfa Romeo swerved to the curb and he slid from behind the wheel, and Dillon got out of the passenger seat.
He came around and embraced her, kissing her lightly on the mouth. “My goodness, girl, there’s a sparkle to you. You’ve obviously had a good time.”
Billy was putting her bags in the trunk. “A hell of a time, from what I heard.”
“You know?” she said to Dillon. “About my conversation with Kurbsky?”
“What Roper knows, we all end up knowing.” He ushered her into the backseat of the Alfa and followed her. “ Dover Street, Billy.”
It was the family house in Mayfair where her brother lived. “Is Harry okay?” she asked as they drove away.
“Nothing to worry about, but he’s been overdoing it, so the doctor has given him his marching orders. He’s gone down to the country to Stokely Hall to stay with Aunt Mary for a while. Anyway, this Kurbsky business has got Ferguson all fired up. He’d like to hear it all from your own fair lips, so we’re going to take you home, wait for you to freshen up, then join Ferguson for dinner at the Reform Club. Seven-thirty, but if we’re late, we’re late.”
“So go on, tell us all about it,” Billy said over his shoulder.
“Alexander Kurbsky was one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever met,” she said. “End of story. You’ll have to wait.”
“Get out of it. You’re just trying to make Dillon jealous.”
“Just carry on, driver, and watch the road.” She pulled Dillon’s right arm around her and eased into him, smiling.
IT WAS A quiet evening at the Reform Club, the restaurant only half full. Ferguson had secured a corner table next to a window, with no one close, which gave them privacy. Ferguson wore the usual Guards tie and pin-striped suit, his age still a closely kept secret, his hair white, face still handsome.
The surprise was Roper in his wheelchair, wearing a black velvet jacket and a white shirt with a knotted paisley scarf at the neck.
“Well, this is nice, I must say.” She kissed Roper on the forehead and rumpled his tousled hair. “Are you well?”
“All the better for seeing you.”
She wore the Valentino suit from New York, and Ferguson obviously approved. “My word, you must have gone down well at the Pierre.” He kissed her extravagantly on both cheeks.
“You’re a charmer, Charles. A trifle glib on occasion, but I like it.”
“And you’ll like the champagne. It’s Dom Perignon-Dillon can argue about his Krug another time.”
The wine waiter poured, remembering from previous experiences to supply Billy with ginger ale laced with lime. Ferguson raised his glass and toasted her. “To you, my dear, and to what seems to have been a job well done.” He emptied his glass and motioned the wine waiter to refill it. “Now, for God’s sake, tell us what happened.”
WHEN MONICA WAS finished, there were a few moments of silence and it was Billy who spoke first. “What’s he want, and I mean really want? This guy’s got everything, I’d have thought. Fame, money, genuine respect.”
“But is that enough?” Dillon said. “From what Monica says, he’s lacking genuine freedom. So the system’s different from the Cold War days, but is it really? I liked his description of himself to you, Monica, about being like a bear on a chain. In Russia he’s trapped by his fame, by who he is. In the cage, if you like. The Ministry of Arts controls his every move because they themselves are controlled right up to the top. From a political point of view, he’s a national symbol.”
Ferguson said, “Obviously, I’ve read his work and I’m familiar with his exploits. It all adds up to a human being who hasn’t the slightest interest in being a symbol to anyone.”
“He just wants to be free,” Monica agreed. “At present, every move he makes is dictated by others. He’s flown privately when visiting abroad, he’s carefully watched by GRU minders, his every move is monitored.”
“So let him claim asylum here,” Billy said. “Would he be denied?”
“Of course not,” Ferguson said. “But he’s got to get here first. This Paris affair, the Legion of Honor presentation, presents an interesting possibility.”
“They’d be watching him like a hawk,” Dillon said. “And there’s another problem. You know what the French are like. Very fussy about foreigners causing a problem on their patch, and that applies big-time to Brit intelligence.”
“Still, it looks to me like a straightforward kidnap job with a willing victim,” Billy said. “It’s once he’s here that he’d need looking after. They’d do something even if they couldn’t get him back. How many Russian dissidents have come to a bad end in London? Litvinenko poisoned and two cases of guys falling from the terraces of apartment blocks, and that was in the same year.”
Roper beckoned the wine waiter. “A very large single-malt. I leave the choice to your own good judgment.” He smiled at the others. “Sorry, but the joys of champagne soon pall for me.”
“Feel free, Major,” Ferguson said. “I notice that you haven’t made a contribution in this matter.”
“Concerning Kurbsky?” Roper held out his hand and accepted the waiter’s gift of the single-malt. He savored it for a moment, then swallowed it down. “Excellent. I’ll have another.”
“Don’t you have any comment?” Monica asked.
“Oh, I do. I’d like to meet his aunt, this Svetlana Kelly. Yes, that’s what I’d like to do. Chamber Court, a late- Victorian house on Belsize Park. I looked it up.”
“Any particular reason?” Ferguson said.
“To find out what he’s like.”
“Don’t you mean ‘was’ like?” Monica asked. “As I understand it, she last saw him in 1989. When you think of what he’s gone through since then, I’d suppose him to be completely different.”
“On the contrary. I’ve always been of the opinion that people don’t really change, not in any fundamental way. Anyway, I’ll go to see her tomorrow, if you approve, General?”
“Whatever you say.”
Monica jumped in. “Would it be all right if I came with you? I don’t need to be back in Cambridge till Friday.”
“No, that’s fine. I don’t think we should overwhelm her.”
Dillon said, “Old Victorian houses aren’t particularly wheelchair friendly.”
“I’ll phone in advance. If there’s a problem, perhaps we can meet somewhere else.”
“Fine. I’ll leave it in your hands,” Ferguson said. “Now, I don’t know about you lot, but I’m starving, so let’s get down to the eating part of the business.”
LATER, THEY WENT their separate ways. Sergeant Doyle had waited for Roper in the van that held the rear lift for the wheelchair. Ferguson had his driver, and Billy gave Dillon and Monica a lift to Dover Street in the Alfa.
