“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.
“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
R
oper remembered that year well, and not just because of his nine hours dismantling the Portland Hotel bomb. There had also been the mortar attack on Number 10 Downing Street. The Gulf War had been at its height, and the target had been the War Cabinet meeting at ten a.m. on February 7—an audacious attack, and the missiles had landed in the garden, just narrowly missing the house. It bore all the hallmarks of a classic IRA operation, although nobody ever claimed responsibility for the attack.
In Belfast, meanwhile, the war of the bomb continued remorselessly, and in spite of all the politicians could do, sectarian violence plowed on, people butchering each other in the name of religion, the British Army inured by twenty-two years to the Irish Troubles as a way of life.
For Giles Roper, scientific interest in the field of weaponry and explosives had drawn him in even during his training days as an officer cadet at Sandhurst, and on graduation, it had led to an immediate posting to the Ordnance Corps. In ’ninety-one, he was entering his third year as a disposal officer, a captain in rank and several hundred explosive devices of one kind or another behind him.
Most people didn’t realize that he was married. A summer affair with his second cousin, a schoolteacher named Elizabeth Howard, during his first year out of Sandhurst had turned into a total disaster. It was a prime example of going to bed on your wedding night with someone you thought you knew and waking up with a stranger. A Catholic, she didn’t believe in divorce and indeed visited his mother on a regular basis. He hadn’t seen her in years.
The ever-present risk of death, and the casualty rate among his fellows in the bomb-disposal business, precluded any kind of relationship elsewhere. He smoked heavily, like most of his kind, and drank heavily at the appropriate time, like most of his kind.
It was a strange, bizarre existence that produced obsessive patterns of behavior. On many occasions, he’d found himself dealing with a bomb and indulging in conversation, obviously one-sided, demanding answers that weren’t there. It was an extreme example of talking to yourself. A bomb, after all, couldn’t talk back except when it exploded, and that would probably be the last thing you heard. However, he still talked to them. There seemed some sort of comfort in that.
His father had died when he was sixteen. It was his uncle who had arranged for his schooling and Sandhurst, and maintained his mother at the extended family home in Shropshire. She was basically there as unpaid help, as far as Roper could see, but on army pay there wasn’t much he could do about it, until the unexpected happened. His mother’s brother, Uncle Arthur, a homosexual by nature and a broker in the city with a fortune to prove it, had died of AIDS and, lacking any faith in his sister’s ability to handle money, left a considerable fortune to Roper.
He could have left the army, but found that he didn’t want to, and when he tried to get his mother her own place, it turned out she was perfectly happy where she was. It had also become apparent that the perils of bomb disposal were beyond her understanding, so he settled a hundred thousand pounds on her, and the same on his wife, and left them to the joys of the countryside.
Before the Portland Hotel, he had been decorated with the Military Cross for gallantry, although the events surrounding it had only a tenuous link with his ordinary duties.
On standby, he had been based in a small market town in County Down, where there had been a spate of bomb alerts, mostly false, though one in four was the real thing. The unit had five jeeps, a driver and guard, and a disposal expert. On that particular day, a call came in over the radio and the jeeps disappeared, leaving only Roper and his driver, the unit being a man short. The first call was false, also the second. There was another, this time for Roper by name. There was something about it—the speaker had a Cockney accent that sounded wrong.