A Darker Place Read Online Free PDF

was Afghanistan decided he was dead already, a walking zombie, who survived to go home and found himself a year later knee-deep in blood in Chechnya. You can make of that what you will.”
    “I’ll need to think about it. I’m not sure I understand.”
    Kurbsky laughed. “Remember the old saying: Avoid looking into an open grave because you may see yourself in there. In those old Cold War spy books, you always had to have a controller. Would that be you?”
    “Yes. I’m Head of Station for GRU at the London Embassy.”
    “That’s good. I’ll like that. I had an old comrade in Chechnya who transferred to the GRU when I was coming to the end of my army time. Yuri Bounine. Could you find him and bring him in on this?”
    “I’m sure that will be possible.”
    “Excellent. So if you’re available, let’s get out of here and go and get something to eat.”
    “An excellent idea.” Luzhkov led the way and said to the lieutenant, “The limousine is waiting, I presume? We’ll go back to my hotel.”
    “Of course, Colonel.”
    They followed him along the interminable corridors.
    “They seem to go on forever,” Luzhkov observed. “A fascinating place, the Kremlin.”
    “A rabbit warren,” Kurbsky said. “A man could lose himself here. A smiler with a knife could do well here.” He turned as they reached the door. “Perhaps the Prime Minister should consider that.”
    He followed the lieutenant down the steps to the limousine, and Luzhkov, troubled, went after them.
     
     
    OVER THE THREE weeks that followed, things flowed with surprising ease. They moved into a GRU safe house outside Moscow with training facilities. On the firing range, Kurbsky proved his skill and proficiency with every kind of weapon the sergeant major in charge could throw at him. Kurbsky had forgotten nothing of his old skills.
    Yuri Bounine, by now a GRU captain, was plucked from the monotony of posing as a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy in Dublin, where he was promoted to major and assigned to London, delighted to be reunited with his old friend.
    Kurbsky embraced him warmly when he arrived. “You’ve put on weight, you bastard.” He turned to Luzhkov. “Look at him. Gold spectacles, always smiling, the look of an aging cherub. Yet we survived Afghanistan and Chechnya together. He’s got medals.”
    Again he hugged Bounine, who said, “And you got famous. I read On the Death of Men five times and tried to work out who was me.”
    “In a way, they all were, Yuri.”
    Bounine flushed, suddenly awkward. “So what’s going on?”
    “That’s for Colonel Luzhkov to tell you.”
    Which Luzhkov did in a private interview. Later that day, Bounine found Kurbsky in a corner booth in the officers’ bar and joined him. A bottle of vodka was on the table and several glasses in crushed ice. He helped himself.
    “Luzhkov has filled me in.”
    “So what do you think?” Kurbsky asked.
    “Who am I to argue with the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation?”
    “You know everything? About my sister?”
    Bounine nodded. “May I say one thing on Putin’s behalf? He wasn’t responsible for what happened to your sister. It was before his time. He sees an advantage in it, that’s all.”
    “A point of view. And Vronsky?”
    “A pig. I’d cut his throat myself if I had the chance.”
    “And you look like such a kind man.”
    “I am a kind man.”
    “So tell me, Yuri, how’s your wife?”
    “Ah.” Bounine hesitated. “She died, Alex. Leukemia.”
    “I’m so sorry to hear that. She was a good woman.”
    “Yes, she was. But it’s been a while now, Alex, and my sister has produced two lovely girls—so I’m an uncle!”
    “Excellent. Let’s drink to them. And to New York.” They clinked glasses. “And to the Black Tigers, may they rest in peace,” Kurbsky said. “We’re probably the only two left.”
     
     
    NEW YORK CAME and New York went. The death of Igor Vronsky received prominent notice in The New York