A Darker Place. Jack Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ and let himself out.

      ‘He never books a cab,’ Bounine had said. ‘It’s only a step into Columbus Avenue, where he can have them by the dozen.’

      So Kurbsky waited in the shadows for Vronsky to emerge, stand for a moment under the light of the doorway to his apartment building, then advance to the left, pulling up his collar against the rain. As he passed, Kurbsky reached out and pulled him close with considerable strength, his left arm sliding round the neck in a chokehold, the blade of his bone-handled gutting knife springing into action at the touch of the button. Vronsky was aware of the needlepoint nudging in through his clothing, the hand now clamped over his mouth, the blade seeming to know exactly what it was doing as it probed for the heart.

      He slid down in a corner of the doorway and died very quickly on his knees. Kurbsky took out a fresh handkerchief, wiped the knife clean and closed it, then he leaned over the body, found a wallet and mobile phone, turned and walked to where Bounine waited. He got in to the Volvo and they drove away.

      ‘It’s done,’ Bounine said.

      Kurbsky opened the glove compartment and put the wallet inside, plus the mobile phone. ‘You’ll get rid of those.’

      ‘Just another street mugging.’

      ‘He was on coke.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘I’m sure.’ He took out a pack of Marlboros.

      Bounine said, ‘Does it bother you?’

      Kurbsky said calmly, ‘Did Chechnya bother you?’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway I’m not in the mood for discussion. I’ve got a performance to give. Let’s get the great Alexander Kurbsky on stage.’

      As they moved along Columbus Avenue, Bounine said, ‘Is that all it is to you, Alex?’

      ‘Yuri, old friend, I’m not into Freud at the start of a dark winter’s evening in good old New York. Just get me to the Pierre where my fans are waiting.’

      He leaned back, staring out at the sleet, and smoked his cigarette.

      When Monica Starling and Professor Dunkley went into the reception at the Pierre, it was awash with people, the surroundings magnificent, the great and the good well in evidence. The US Ambassador to the United Nations was there, and his Russian counterpart. The champagne flowed. Monica and Dunkley took a glass each, moved to one side and simply observed the scene.

      ‘There seem to be a few film stars,’ Dunkley said.

      ‘There would be, George, they like to be seen. There seems to be a pop star or two, as well. I suppose they feel an affair like this touches them with a certain…gravitas.’

      ‘He’s there,’ Dunkley said. ‘Talking to the French Ambassador, Henri Guyon, and the Russian – what’s his name again?’

      ‘Ivan Makeev,’ Monica told him.

      ‘They seem very enthusiastic about something, their heads together, except for Kurbsky.’

      ‘He looks bored, if anything,’ Monica said.

      ‘We’ll be lucky to get anywhere near him,’ Dunkley told her mournfully. ‘Look at all those people hovering like vultures, waiting for the ambassadors to finish with him so they can move in. We’ve had it.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She stood there, her left hand on her hip, her black suede purse dangling from it, and as he turned, she caught his eye and toasted him, glass raised, and emptied it. He knew her, of course, but she didn’t know that, and he gave her a lazy and insolent smile as he walked over.

      ‘Lady Starling, a pleasure long overdue.’ He relieved her of her empty glass and waved for a passing waiter. ‘How are things in Cambridge these days? And this will be Professor George Dunkley, am I correct? I’ve read your book on the other Alexander.’

      Dunkley was stunned. ‘My dear chap.’ He shook hands, obviously deeply affected.

      ‘The other Alexander?’ Monica inquired.

      ‘An early work,’ Dunkley told her. ‘“An analysis of Alexandre Dumas and his writing salon.”’

      ‘All those assistants and Dumas prowling up and down the aisles like a schoolmaster in a black frock coat,’ Kurbsky said.

      He resonated charm, throwing it off as if it was of no account, his voice pleasantly deep, only a hint of a Russian accent.

      ‘Was it really like that?’ Monica asked.

      ‘But of course, and look what it produced. The Three Musketeers, The Man in the Iron Mask, The Count of Monte Cristo.’

      Dunkley said, breathless with enthusiasm, ‘The literary establishment in Paris in his day treated him abominably.’

      ‘I agree. On the other hand, they really got their faces rubbed in it when his son turned out one of the greatest of French plays, La Dame aux Camellias.’

      ‘And then Verdi used the story for La Traviata!’ Dunkley said.

      Kurbsky smiled. ‘One would hope Dumas got a royalty.’

      They laughed and Dunkley said, ‘Oh, my goodness, Captain Kurbsky, my seminars would be so crowded if my students knew you were going to attend.’

      ‘That’s an enticing prospect, but Cambridge is not possible, I’m afraid – and Captain Kurbsky belongs to a time long gone. I’m plain Alexander now.’ He smiled at Monica. ‘Or Alex, if you prefer.’

      She returned his smile, slightly breathless, and an aide approached and said formally, ‘The Ambassador is ready. If you would form the party, dinner is served.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Kurbsky said. ‘These two will be sitting with me.’

      The aide faltered, ‘But, sir, I don’t think that would be possible. It’s all arranged.’

      ‘Then rearrange it.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, if there is a problem, we could sit at another table.’

      ‘No, of course not, sir,’ the aide said hastily. ‘No need – no need at all. I’ll go and make the necessary changes.’

      He departed. Dunkley said, ‘I say, old chap, we seem to be causing a bit of a problem.’

      ‘Not at all. I’m their Russian Frankenstein, the great Alexander Kurbsky led out like a bear on a chain to astonish the world and help make Mother Russia seem great again.’

      All this was delivered with no apparent bitterness, and those cold grey eyes gave nothing away. They reminded Monica uncomfortably of Dillon’s, as Kurbsky continued, taking Monica’s hand and raising it to his lips; ‘If you glance over my shoulder you may see the Russian Ambassador approaching to see what the fuss is about.’

      ‘Quite right,’ Monica told him. ‘Is he going to be angry?’

      ‘Not at all. The moment he claps eyes on the most beautiful woman in the room, СКАЧАТЬ