A Darker Place Read Free

Afghanistan had faded into obscurity, the only thing of any significance being this dinner in one of New York’s greatest hotels, with wonderful food, champagne, and beautiful women. Everyone applauded, and when Monica glanced again at Kurbsky, he had joined in, but with the same weary detachment there. As the applause died, the French ambassador rose.
    He kept it brief and succinct. He was pleased to announce that if Alexander Kurbsky would make himself available in Paris in two weeks’ time, the President of France would have great pleasure in decorating him with the Légion d’Honneur. Tumultuous acclaim, and Kurbsky stood and thanked the ambassador of France in a graceful little speech delivered in fluent French. It was a fitting end to a wonderful evening.
     
     
    LATER, AS PEOPLE dispersed, Monica and Dunkley hovered. There was no sign of Kurbsky.
    “What an evening,” Dunkley said. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.” They were on a Virgin flight to London in the morning, leaving at ten-thirty local time. “We’ve got an early start, so I’m for bed.”
    “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.
    He walked away to the elevators. Monica paused, still seeking a sign of Kurbsky, but there wasn’t one. In fact, he was outside the hotel, sitting in the Volvo talking to Bounine.
    “This Legion of Honor nonsense. Did you know about it?”
    “Absolutely not, but what’s wrong, Alex? The Legion of Honor—it’s the greatest of all French decorations.”
    “Do you ever get a ‘So what?’ feeling, Yuri? I’ve been there, done that.”
    “Are you saying no? You can’t, Alex. Putin wants it, the country wants it. You’ll be there in Paris in two weeks. So will I. God help us, you’ve got your own Falcon back to Moscow in the morning, and a Falcon’s as good as a Gulfstream.”
    “Is that a fact?”
    “Yes, old son. I’ll pick you up at ten sharp.”
    Kurbsky shrugged. “Yes, I suppose you will.”
    He got out, and Bounine drove away. Kurbsky watched him go, turned, and went back into the Pierre. The first thing he saw was Monica waiting for an elevator, and he approached, catching her just in time.
    “Fancy a nightcap, lady?”
    She smiled, pleased that he’d turned up. “Why not?”
    He took her arm and they went to the bar.
     
     
    THERE WEREN’T TOO many people. They sat in the corner, and he had Russian vodka, ice cold, and she contented herself with green tea.
    “Very healthy of you,” he told her.
    “I wish I could say the same to you, but I’m not sure about that stuff.”
    “You have to be born to it.”
    “Doesn’t it rot the brain?”
    “Not really. Drunk this way, from a glass taken from crushed ice, it freezes the brain, clears it when problems loom.”
    “If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”
    “No, it’s true. Now, tell me. I know about your academic accomplishments—the Ministry of Arts in Moscow is very thorough when one is attending affairs like this—but nothing about you. I’m puzzled that such a woman would not be married.”
    “I’m a widow, Alex, have been for some years. My husband was a professor at Cambridge, rather older than me and a Knight of the Realm.”
    “So no children?”
    “No. A brother, if that helps.” Her smile faltered for a moment as she remembered her brother, Harry, recuperating from the terrible knife wounds he had so recently suffered, and, even more, the terrible psychological wounds. To see his wife assassinated after being mistaken for him—the healing process would take a long time. . . .
    She brought the smile back. “He’s a Member of Parliament,” she said, making no mention of what he really did for the Prime Minister.
    Of course, Kurbsky actually knew all that, but he kept up the subterfuge.
    “But there must be a man in your life, a woman like you.”
    She wasn’t offended in the slightest. “Yes, there is such a man.”
    “Then he must count himself lucky.”
    He poured another vodka, and