A Darker Place

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, he’s going to scramble to make sure you grace his table and no one else’s.’ He turned to Dunkley. ‘Isn’t that so, Professor?’

‘Don’t ask me, dear boy, I’m just going with the flow. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’

And then the Ambassador arrived.

The diplomat ended up with his wife seated on his right, Monica on his left, and Kurbsky opposite. Dunkley beamed away lower down the table, facing the French Ambassador and proving that an Englishman could speak the language perfectly. The whole thing was thoroughly enjoyable, but glancing across the table, Monica was conscious that Kurbsky had withdrawn into himself. He reminded her once again of Dillon in a way. For one thing the champagne intake was considerable, but there was an air of slight detachment. He observed, not really taking part, but then that was the writer in him, judging people, constantly assessing the situation in which he found himself.

He caught her eye, smiled slightly and raised his eyebrows, as if saying what fools they all were, and then silence was called for speeches and the Russian Ambassador led the way. It was as if it were international friendship week, nothing unpleasant was happening in the world, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan 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 ending 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. ‘I’ve got an early start, so I’m for bed.’

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said.

As he walked away to the lifts, 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 Honour nonsense. Did you know about it?’

‘Absolutely not, but what’s wrong, Alex? The Legion of Honour – 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.’