No Survivors sc-2 Read online

  One of the gymnasium staff was walking toward the treadmill, a look of concern on his face as he ran his eyes over Carver’s scarlet face, his heaving chest, and his pale-gray T-shirt, darkened with puddles of sweat under his armpits and down the small of his back.

  “Maybe you should stop now,” he said.

  “No,” said Carver. “I want to keep running.”

  Across town a man was steeling himself to make a difficult call. He was way over six feet tall and beanpole-thin. His milk-skinned, freckled face, illuminated by gentle blue eyes, was topped by a starburst of red-blond dreadlocks.

  Thor Larsson took a deep breath and started pressing the buttons. He waited a few moments until the clinic’s switchboard had answered and then said, “Monsieur Marchand’s office, please.”

  He paced up and down, waiting to be put through to the finance director.

  “It’s about Monsieur Carver’s account…” Larsson began. “Please, can you just give me another few days? I think I may be able to get some money. Maybe not all the bill, but a lot of it, I assure you.”

  To his amazement, the voice on the other end of the line was reassuring, almost obsequious.

  “Monsieur, please, do not derange yourself,” said Marchand. “There is no need to be concerned. Monsieur Carver’s account has been settled in full and instructions have been left for any future expenses. He is welcome to stay as long as he likes.”

  “What? When did that happen?” asked Larsson.

  “Pah! Let me see… it must have been two days ago, I suppose.”

  “Who is paying the bill, then?”

  “I am sorry, monsieur, that I cannot say. We have simply received instructions to pass any outstanding invoices to a lawyer acting on behalf of a client. Who that client might be, well… this is Switzerland, monsieur. We respect people’s privacy here.”

  29

  The moment she walked into his office, Kurt Vermulen knew that Natalia Morley would be his new assistant. He’d already been impressed enough by her résumé. She was thirty years old, born in Russia, but carried a Canadian passport, thanks to her marriage (now dissolved) to an investment banker, Steve Morley. They’d met in Moscow, where they both worked for a Swiss investment bank-she was his boss’s assistant and she’d taken another high-level P.A. job when Morley had been posted to the bank’s head office in Geneva. They’d moved again to the States, where the marriage had broken up. Now she was looking to start a new life on her own. It didn’t look as if she would have too much trouble doing that. Her letters of recommendation were outstanding, and when he called the men listed as her references, they all sang her praises. Then he saw her, and he understood why.

  Natalia Morley was a head-turning, jaw-dropping beauty. Over the past few weeks, Vermulen had been on a couple of pleasant, but unexceptional dates with Megan, the lawyer he’d met that night at the Italian restaurant in Georgetown. Megan was a fine-looking woman. Natalia was in a totally different league.

  Even so, looks will get you only so far. Kurt Vermulen had the same basic instincts as any other heterosexual male, but he was also an intelligent, thoughtful man. What really hooked him was a deeper quality, something that suggested vulnerability, and even sadness, as though life had wounded her in some way. It could have been the divorce, he guessed, although, in Vermulen’s experience, that was more likely to induce anger or even bitterness in a woman. All he knew was that he sensed a personal loss in Natalia Morley that echoed his own bereavement.

  At one point in their first meeting he even found himself talking about Amy and her death. It was, he realized, an inappropriate subject for a job interview. But it happened so naturally, and Natalia was so gracious in her response, that he found himself wanting her to be in his life. The job offer was really just a means, even an excuse, to have her near him. She’d started the following Monday.

  Since then, her work had been impeccable. His appointments, correspondence, and travel arrangements were organized with flawless efficiency. The brutal murder of a general’s secretary, right in the heart of the capital, had attracted a fair amount of media attention, but Natalia had been adept at keeping even the most persistent reporters at bay. Knowing that there was no one at home to look after him, she saw to his dry cleaning, found contractors for his household chores and garden maintenance, and arranged for deliveries of fresh produce and deli items from the D.C. branch of Dean & DeLuca to his townhouse near Dumbarton Oaks. The rest of the staff at Vermulen Strategic Consulting seemed to like her, too, including the other women. That struck Vermulen as quite an achievement. He’d have expected them to resent her looks and her closeness to their boss.

  Then again, she’d never got that close. Natalia Morley was perfectly friendly. She laughed at his jokes, listened to his problems, and charmed any client who set foot in the office. If she ever had a bad mood, Vermulen never saw it. But neither did he see any evidence that she was as interested in him as he was in her. Her manner was always entirely proper. She didn’t flirt with him at all, and while her elegant clothes could not help but show off her figure, her skirts were knee-length and her blouses demure. If anything was going to happen, he would have to make the first move.

  Meanwhile, he still had a business to run and, most important of all, a false-flag operation to organize. Vermulen had persuaded himself that if he was right about the threat from Islamist terrorism, then it would be inexcusable to sit back and do nothing. Even if his actions were questionable, they were better than the alternative.

  His plans were beginning to form now. He was going to take a couple of months off from the business. If anyone asked, he’d tell them he was taking a break by traveling around Europe, combining a spell of R & R with the opportunity to make new contacts. He would not mention, however, that the contacts were those required to procure a nuclear bomb. His itinerary would take him to Amsterdam, Vienna, Venice, and Rome, to start with. After that, he’d see how things panned out. Natalia could book him transportation and hotels as he needed them.

  And then a thought struck him. If he was in Europe and she was back in D.C. it would always be tricky keeping in touch and ensuring that everything ran smoothly. It would really be much more efficient if she was with him, right there on the spot, looking after him day to day. Obviously he couldn’t tell her who the people he was meeting really were, and he’d have to send her home well before the final phase of the operation. In the meantime, though, they’d be thrown together in some of the world’s most romantic cities. If nothing happened then, it never would.

  Vermulen could simply have ordered Natalia to accompany him, but that wasn’t the best way to go if he wanted her to feel good about him. He’d be asking her to spend several weeks away from home, on call 24/7, with only him for company. If she didn’t want to do that voluntarily, he wasn’t going to gain anything by forcing her.

  When he asked her to come into his office, his heart was pounding. He felt like a nervous kid summoning up the courage to ask for a prom-night date.

  As always, Natalia looked poised and imperturbable as she awaited his instructions.

  Vermulen reminded himself that he was a decorated combat veteran who had faced enemy fire on three separate continents and had commanded thousands of fighting men. How tough could it be to face one beautiful woman?

  “As you know,” he said, adopting what he hoped was a relaxed but businesslike air, “I will be spending some time in Europe this spring. I need a break, need to get away-it’s been a tough few years.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I quite understand.”

  “Good… good… Anyway, as you know, I will be doing some business while I’m away, taking meetings and so forth, so there’ll be a fair amount of administration required, which would best be handled on the spot. I was wondering, therefore, whether you would be willing to accompany me on the trip. It would be in a purely professional capacity, of course, and I would compensate you financially for the loss of weekends and free time while you were away. Doe
s that sound, ah… agreeable to you?”

  She looked at him for a moment, frowning slightly.

  “Do you want me to arrange separate tickets for myself, coach class?”

  “Oh, no, that wouldn’t be right. You can travel first class, like me.”

  She seemed surprised.

  “That’s very kind, sir, thank you. And accommodation?”

  “We’d stay at the same hotels. So, are you interested?”

  She thought for a second.

  “I will have to change some personal arrangements. And I would need to arrange for someone to cover for me here while I am away. But that should be possible, so, yes, I would be happy to travel with you, sir.”

  “Outstanding,” said Kurt Vermulen.

  That evening, Alix Petrova met the FSB agent who was her Washington handler on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

  “The assignment is proceeding as planned,” she said. “Vermulen is clearly infatuated. He has asked me to go with him on a trip to Europe. He is telling everyone, including me, that he is taking an extended vacation, but I am certain that there is more to it than that.”

  She handed over a plain white envelope.

  “The itinerary for the first three weeks is in there, including flight numbers and hotels. It should not be difficult to arrange meetings and drops at any of the places we will be visiting.”

  “Excellent,” said her handler. “So, what is he like, this General Vermulen?”

  “If you want to know,” she replied, “he is a very fine man. I like him, which only makes me despise myself even more for what I am doing to him.”

  The handler raised an eyebrow.

  “I think I will leave that last observation out of my report to the deputy director.”

  “No,” said Alix, “please don’t. It will make her happy to think that I am suffering.”

  30

  A week later, Kurt Vermulen was in Amsterdam. He’d given the woman he knew as Natalia Morley the day off. Now he was standing on a piece of scrubland down by the docks, where weeds grew between the boats pulled up onto the shore, and an old barge rusted in the water at the end of the plot. He was about to put a face to a name he’d known for a decade or more, an old Defense Intelligence Agency case file transformed into a live human being.

  A car turned off the road, drove past him, and pulled up about fifteen yards beyond. A thin man in a black suit, lank hair falling over the collar, emerged, smoking a cigarette. He threw the stub onto the damp, gravelly earth and crushed it with his heel, immediately lit another, then walked toward Vermulen. They didn’t bother to shake hands.

  “Jonny Koolhaas?” asked Vermulen.

  The man shrugged. He angled his head and blew a plume of smoke into the air, away from Vermulen, still looking at him from the corner of his eye.

  “So what do you want?”

  “A supplier of untraceable weapons and equipment, accessible at short notice. I’ll need pistols, submachine guns, grenades, plastique. Nothing fancy. Also vehicles. Untraceable, of course.”

  “And why would a respectable American officer want all that?”

  There was a glint of amusement in Koolhaas’s eye. It always pleased him to watch upright, law-abiding citizens having to trade in his criminal world.

  “Well, perhaps you will tell me when it is over,” he said, when Vermulen had not answered. “But yes, I can arrange for those goods to be available at any time.”

  “That’s good. Does your network cover Eastern Europe?”

  “I have associates in the East, yes.”

  “How about the former Yugoslavia?”

  Koolhaas stubbed out the cigarette.

  “Possibly, yes.”

  The following day, Vermulen transferred the first installment of Koolhaas’s payment to an account in the Dutch Antilles. Natalia Morley had accompanied him to the bank, where he made the transfer.

  He took her arm as they walked away.

  She didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he was making progress.

  Another three days had passed, and they were taking their places in the magnificent white-and-gold horseshoe of boxes that rings the auditorium of the State Opera House, Vienna. The performance that night was Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Vermulen, however, hadn’t come for the music.

  Vienna was the city where Pavel Novak conducted his business, trading people, weapons, and information. It was no coincidence at all that Vermulen and Alix happened to bump into Novak and his wife, Ludmilla, in the bar before the performance. After introductions had been made, while the ladies were complimenting each other on their dresses, Novak stepped close to Vermulen and spoke into his ear, the way you do when you’re middle-aged and it’s getting harder to make out what someone’s saying over a background roar of conversation. Or when you’re passing on secrets about weapons of mass destruction.

  “The sale of documents has been confirmed. The vendor is a Georgian, Bagrat Baladze. He is paranoid, out of his depth. He refuses to put his goods in a bank, insists on having them in his possession at all times. He is also terrified that another, bigger gangster will find out what he has and take it from him. So I have arranged for him to go into hiding at a series of locations while the sale is arranged. In four weeks’ time, he will arrive at a converted farmhouse in the South of France. That will be your best opportunity. I will give you exact details nearer the time…”

  Novak glanced back at the ladies with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

  “You are a lucky man, Kurt. I love my Ludmilla, of course. But to have a woman like that in my bed, well… I envy you.”

  Vermulen shook his head.

  “No need-she’s not in my bed.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Kid you not…”

  He gave Novak a hearty pat on the back.

  “But believe me, pal, I’m working on it.”

  In the first interval, Alix walked to the nearest ladies’ room. A line had already formed. In front of Alix stood a silver-haired Viennese matron, plumped up by a lifetime of chocolate cakes and whipped cream. Alix gave her a polite smile, then took up her position, idly looking around at the operagoers in their dinner jackets and evening gowns.

  She was wearing a simple, floor-length column of pearl-colored satin, with a matching sequined evening purse in her hand. Suddenly, something or someone caught her eye. Her eyes lit up and she turned to wave, lifting the hand that held the purse, just at the exact moment that a slender brunette in her early forties, her cheeks hollow with dieting and nervous energy, arrived in the line behind her. Alix’s arm swept into the woman, whose own bag, a silver metallic-leather clutch, was knocked to the floor. It was a total accident, but Alix was overwhelmed by embarrassment. As the other woman hissed with irritation, she dropped to the red carpet, picked up the clutch, which had fallen open, and, having snapped it shut, returned it to its infuriated owner.

  “I’m so sorry,” Alix said, her eyes pleading for forgiveness. “I really didn’t mean to-”

  She was met by a volley of incomprehensible German insults that had the portly matron, her ears burning, barely suppressing a squeal of delighted horror: Here was a story to tell her companions when she got back to her seat! Then the brunette turned on her stiletto heel and stalked off in search of a more civilized place to pee.

  But Maria Rostova, whose diplomatic accreditation listed her as a first secretary in the trade and investment section of the Russian Federation Embassy, Vienna, did not stop when she came to the next facility. Instead, she went down the stairs and out through the magnificent arched loggia to the Opernring outside. A car pulled up as she reached the side of the road. Rostova got in and, as the car moved away, opened her bag. She rummaged around inside it and removed a small tube of rolled-up paper, about the size of a cigarette, stuck in place by a small square of adhesive tape. She prized open the tape and unrolled the tube, which revealed a page torn from a onetime code pad, covered in rows of numbers written in three-digit groups.


  Rostova put the paper back in her bag, then took out a mobile phone and dialed a Moscow number. When she got through she simply said, “I have this week’s delivery.”

  31

  It was shortly before five-thirty in the afternoon and Clément Marchand was about to leave his office at the Montagny-Dumas Clinic when he received a call from a man with a Russian accent. Marchand was informed that his wife was being held hostage. By way of confirmation, the receiver was held up to her face just long enough for him to be certain that the few sobbed words he heard had come from his Marianne.

  “Please, don’t hurt her,” he stammered. And then, “What do you want?”

  Marchand was given a very simple set of instructions. First, he was assured that this was not a conventional kidnapping. His wife’s captors did not want any money. As a consequence, they had no incentive to keep her alive. If he refused to do as they told him, at exactly the specified time, or made any attempt to contact the authorities, they would kill her.

  “Anything!” he pleaded. “Just tell me what I must do.”

  “Work late,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Invent an excuse. At precisely half past eleven tonight, you will call the duty nurse on the third floor of your clinic. You will tell her that you need to see her. If she protests, you will insist. Say that you have uncovered an irregularity in the records of drugs administered to patients. Say anything you like. All that matters is this: The nurse must be in your office, in your presence, away from her station, between eleven-thirty and eleven forty-five. After that time, she can return to her post. At midnight, you may leave the clinic and drive home. If all goes well, your wife will be waiting for you, unharmed.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” Marchand was almost weeping with relief.

  “Do not thank us until you have completed your task,” said the voice. “And one more thing. If you should ever decide to tell anyone about this conversation, or what has happened to your wife, we will know. And you will both be killed.”