“Very useful,” Monica told him as they moved through Mayfair. “You being a nondrinker.”
“I get stopped now and then,” Billy said. “Young guy in a flash motor like this. I’ve been breathalyzed plenty. It’s great to see the look on their faces when they check the reading.” He pulled in outside the Dover Street house. “Here we are, folks. You’re staying, right?” he asked Dillon.
“What do you think?”
“You’re staying.”
When Billy was gone, they paused at the top of the steps for Monica to find her key and went in. She didn’t put the light on, simply waited for him to lock the door, then put her arms around his neck and kissed him quite hard.
“Oh my goodness, I’ve missed you.”
“You’ve only been away four days.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said. “Ten minutes, and if you take more, there’ll be trouble,” and she turned and ran up the stairs.
He changed in one of the spare bedrooms, put on a terry-cloth robe, and joined her in her suite. He’d found a tenderness with her that he’d never known he had-he’d surprised himself as their relationship blossomed-and they made slow, careful love together.
Afterward, she drifted into sleep and he lay there, a chink of light coming through the curtains from a lamp in the street. On impulse, he slipped out of the bed, put on the robe, padded downstairs to the drawing room, took a cigarette from a box on the table, lit it, then sat by the bow window, looking out and thinking about Kurbsky. After a while, Monica slipped in, wearing a robe.
“So there you are. Give me one.”
“You’re supposed to have stopped,” he said, but gave her one anyway.
“What are you thinking of?” she said. “Kurbsky?”
“That’s right.”
“I thought you might. He reminded me of you.”
“You liked him, I think?”
“An easy man to like, just as you are an easy man to love, Sean, but like you, there’s the feeling of the other self always there, like a crouching tiger just waiting to spring.”
“Thanks very much.”
“What were you thinking?”
“What on earth we are going to do with him if we get him.” He stubbed his cigarette out and got up. “Come on, back to bed with you.” He put a hand around her waist and they went out.
IT WAS TEN-THIRTY when Roper found himself in his chair back in the computer room at Holland Park. Sergeant Doyle said, “You’ve everything you need to hand, Major, so I think I’ll have a lie-down in the duty room.”
“You should be entitled to a night off, Tony. What about Sergeant Henderson?”
“He’s on ten days’ leave.”
“And the Royal Military Police can’t find a replacement?”
“But we wouldn’t want that, would we, sir? A stranger in the system? I’ll get a bit of shut-eye. If you need me, give me a bell.”
Roper lit a cigarette and set his main screen alive, bringing up Svetlana Kelly. In her early years, she’d been a member of the Chekhov Theatre in Moscow, which meant she was well grounded in classical theater. She hadn’t been much of a beauty, even when young, but he saw handsomeness and strength there. There was a selection of photos from the early years, and then London in 1981. A Month in the Country at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. Fifty-five and never married, and then she’d met Patrick Kelly, the Irish widower and professor of literature at London University. Roper looked at Kelly’s photos-he was strong too, undoubtedly, and yet there was a touch of humor about his mouth.
Whatever the attraction, it was strong enough for them to marry at Westminster Registry Office within a month of meeting and for Svetlana to cut herself free of the Soviet Union. She would be seventy-one now. It was eleven o’clock, and yet on sheer impulse, Roper phoned her. He stayed on speakerphone, he always did, and there was an instant answer.
“Who is this?” It was a whisper in a way, and yet clear enough, the Russian accent undeniable.
“Mrs. Kelly, my name is Giles Roper-Major Giles Roper.” He spoke fair Russian, product of an army total- immersion course just after Sandhurst, and he’d kept it up since. “Forgive the intrusion at such a time of night. You don’t know me.”
She cut in. “But I do. I attended a charity dinner for the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital last year. You spoke from your wheelchair. You are the bomb-disposal expert, aren’t you? The Queen herself pinned the George Cross to your lapel. You’re a hero.”
It was amazing the effect of that voice, so soft, like a breeze whispering through the leaves on an autumn evening. Roper’s throat turned dry, incredibly touched. It was like being a child again.
He said in English, “You’re too kind.”
“What can I do for you?”
“May I come to see you tomorrow morning?”
“For what reason?”
“I’d like to discuss a matter affecting your nephew. I’d have a woman with me, a Cambridge don who has just met Alexander in New York.”
“Major Roper, be honest with me. What is your interest in my nephew? You must know I haven’t seen him in nearly two decades.”
To this woman, one could only tell the truth. Roper knew that nothing else would do. “I’m with the British Security Services.”
There was a faint chuckle. “Ah, what they call a spook these days.”
“Only on television.”
“You intrigue me. Tell me of your companion.” Roper did. She said, “The lady sounds quite interesting. If you’re a spook, you know where I live.”
“ Chamber Court, Belsize Park.”
“Quite right. My husband died ten years ago and left me well provided for. Here, I live in Victorian splendor supported by my dear friend and fellow Russian, Katya Zorin, who takes care of the house and me and manages to find time to teach painting at the Slade as well. I’ll see you at ten-thirty. Your chair will not prove a problem. The garden is walled, but the entrance in the side mews has a path that will give you access to French windows leading into a conservatory. I’ll be waiting.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Kelly. I must say, you seem to be taking me totally on trust.”
“You fascinated me at that luncheon. Your speech was excellent, but modest, and so afterward I looked you up on the Internet. It was all there. Belfast in 1991, the Portland Hotel, the huge bomb in the foyer. It took you nine hours to render it harmless. Nine hours on your own. How can I not take such a man on trust? I’ll see you in the morning.”
It was quiet sitting there, staring up at his screens, and he put on some background music. Just like comfort food, only this was Cole Porter playing softly, just as it had been all those years ago in the Belfast safe house not far from the Royal Victoria Hospital. It was a long time ago, a hell of a long time ago, and he lit a cigarette and poured a Bushmills Irish whiskey for a change and remembered.
ROPER / BELFAST
1991
3
