The accident man sc-1 Page 17

  Together, he and Alix had taken their costumes to an attic studio above a chocolate shop. It had taken a lot of persuasion and even more money to get the studio's obsessively painstaking Swiss proprietor to compromise his perfectionism and fix them two South African passports on a rush job. They'd changed into their new clothes, posed for photographs, packed their original garments, and Carver had placed two phone calls: one to the reservations department of one of Geneva's finest hotels, the other to Thor Larsson. Now he had one last errand to run, but he needed professional advice, and Dr. Dieter Schiller was the man to provide it.

  "One important detail: The whole thing has got to be soluble. It's going into a drink."

  Schiller smiled as he put the spectacles back on. "You know, Pablo, this is going to be some party. Can I come?"

  "Sorry, Dieter, this is strictly professional. And there's one other specification. The dose has got to be packaged so that my associate…"

  "Miss…?" Schiller raised his eyebrows, waiting for a name.

  "Miss None-of-Your-Damn-Business," Carver replied. "It's better for everyone that way. My associate needs to be able to deliver the dose easily, without being spotted. Okay?"

  Schiller shrugged, apparently unbothered by the lack of formal introductions. He was used to the concept of anonymity. In fact, he assumed that none of his clients ever supplied their true names. "That's no problem. A simple capsule will be sufficient. But what to put in it? To start with, for relaxation, I would suggest methylenedioxymethamphetamine-MDMA for short."

  "Ecstasy," said Alix.

  "Ah yes, the drug of choice for modern pleasure seekers. Makes you feel good, relaxed, full of love for the people around you. Of course, it may also make you psychotic in the long term, but that's not our problem right now. Immediate side effects can include feeling hot, sweaty, even a little sick. But we can take the edge off that."

  Schiller was sitting at a desk, like any other practitioner taking a consultation. His office was a back room in a private house. There was no brass plaque on the door, though his remarkable, if unorthodox approach to pharmacology attracted large numbers of wealthy clients who felt the need for personal prescriptions that would never be written by more conventional doctors. Behind him stood a series of wooden cabinets and, above them, shelves of glass bottles, plastic containers, and small white cardboard boxes.

  He swiveled in his chair, reached for one of the plastic pill jars, and brought it back to the table. "Soluble in water too, so that's no problem. Sadly, though, I can't say the same for Viagra, which many of my older clients like to combine with Ecstasy when entertaining their young ladies. We shall have to be more adventurous with this element of the formula. I would suggest bromocriptine."

  Another pill bottle appeared on the desk. "Unlike Viagra, it acts on the brain, rather than the penis, boosting dopamine-which is a neurotransmitter, you understand-and effectively promoting sexual desire. Strangely, this effect wears off after thirty or forty doses. But again, that is not our problem. Now, this substance is not soluble in water, but it is soluble in alcohol, so please bear that in mind. And the same applies to this…"

  He turned to the shelves one last time, reached inside a white box, and pulled out a rectangular piece of aluminum foil with eight clear blisters, each containing a small, diamond-shaped pill.

  "Flunitrazepam," Schiller continued. "Better known as Rohypnol, or 'roofies.' As you may know, this sedative, which is a first-rate treatment for anxiety or sleeplessness, has acquired an unsavory reputation as a so-called date rape drug. It diminishes inhibition and stress while promoting a sense of euphoria. It can also affect short-term memory. We must be careful not to give too high a dose or it will simply knock the patient out. But combined with the other two chemicals it should supply, I would say, a very interesting experience. Now tell me a little about the person who will consume this cocktail."

  "I've only met him once, and that was four years ago," Carver replied. "But he must be in his midforties, I'd say, medium height, quite stocky. Unless he's gone on a diet, he'll weigh the best part of two hundred pounds, ninety-odd kilos."

  Schiller reached across his desk and grabbed a pestle and mortar set. "A standard dose of each drug will be fine." He popped three pills into the stone bowl and started grinding them down with the wood-handled pestle. "Just like an old-fashioned apothecary, huh?" he said, looking up at his clients. Then he opened one of the small brass-handled drawers in the chests behind him and rummaged around until he found a small, clear plastic capsule. He squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger, splitting it in two. Very carefully, he poured the powdered pills from the mortar through a plastic funnel into one half of the capsule before pressing the other half back onto it.

  "There," said Schiller, handing Carver the completed capsule. "That will be fifteen hundred Swiss francs."

  "That's a lot for one dose, Dieter."

  Schiller smiled. "It isn't the dose you're paying for."

  Outside on the street, Alix asked, "Now what?"

  "Now we go and pick up those passports. Then we check into our hotel."

  38

  The four directors met around a glass table and sat on plain metal chairs. The tabletop was free of paper and writing implements: No minutes were ever taken of the board's meetings. Security was absolute. There were no phones on the table, no pictures on the wall, nowhere to hide any kind of listening device. The air-conditioning vent was plastered directly into the ceiling and could not be unscrewed. The light fixtures were sealed units, fitted with long-life bulbs. The sound- and bulletproof windows were hidden behind blackout blinds. The men had left their phones, wallets, keys, and loose change in plastic trays, then passed through a scanner before they entered the room.

  The chairman got right down to business. "Gentlemen, thirty-six hours have passed since the Paris operation. In one important respect, it was a success. The mission's main objective was attained. There are, however, a number of loose ends that need to be tied up."

  "It's a little worse than that, isn't it?"

  "I'm sorry, Finance, is there something you'd like to say?"

  "Yes there is, actually." The man's appearance was impeccably tailored, but his voice was tense, teetering on the edge of panic. "The whole thing's turning into a bloody nightmare. The country's gone mad with grief, the republicans are having a field day, and the monarchy's facing the biggest crisis since the abdication. Meanwhile, we've got an assassin on the loose. He could be anywhere in the world by now. And if he talks, we're done for."

  The chairman sat perfectly still, letting the finance director say his piece. Then he continued as if the words had never been spoken. "As I was saying, there are a few loose ends. My information suggests that the security services are under extreme pressure to find out what happened. The PM's pet hooligan, Trodd, has declared that he does not want a newspaper beating him to the truth. This administration is obsessed by headlines, of course…"

  A third voice, its accent Australian, entered the conversation. "Mate, you can hardly blame them. Headlines don't get any bigger than this."

  "Indeed not, Communications. News management will play an extremely important role over the next few days and I'll be looking to you to make sure that we don't see any unwelcome headlines. It's in no one's interests for the actual events or their participants to be made public. I'm sure we can reach some kind of discreet, even anonymous accommodation with the government. If they are given Carver's name, and a credible assurance that he has already been dealt with, that should keep the wolves from our door. Perhaps the operations director would like to update us on his progress."

  "I've spent the day trying to put a crew together. It hasn't been easy to get people of the caliber we'll need. As you know, we exclusively use freelance operatives, hired at arm's length, and we lost a number of our best contractors over the weekend, but I'm confident that we'll be ready to move within the next twenty-four hours. First we've got to find him, of course."

&nb
sp; "Well, that should be a cinch," sneered the finance director. "I'm sure he'll send us a postcard to let us know where he is."

  The chairman frowned at the consortium's moneyman, wondering whether it was time to replace him. He would put his mind to the problem once the Carver issue had been resolved.

  He turned back to the operations director. "Are we any closer to tracking him down?"

  "Yes, chairman, I think we are. He left Paris yesterday morning by train from the Gare de Lyon. He may well have been accompanied by one of the Russians, who had, of course, been ordered to kill him-a woman, Alexandra Petrova. If she is indeed with him, it's not clear whether she intends to carry out her assignment or has genuinely defected, as it were. Either way, I'm certain Carver's still in Europe. He bought tickets for Milan but didn't take that route. I'd guess he's somewhere in eastern France, or maybe Switzerland. It doesn't really matter. I don't think he'll try to run. I'd expect him to be much more assertive."

  "By which you mean…?"

  "That he'll try to come after us before we can get to him."

  "You don't sound too concerned about this prospect."

  "Well, he doesn't know who we are. And it's going to be very hard for him to find out without alerting us to his presence. Besides, I may have a lead on his precise whereabouts. I have a contact in Paris, name of Pierre Papin, works for French intelligence. He has been tracking Carver and Petrova's movements using railway-station surveillance systems. He says he knows where they went."

  "So why hasn't he told you?"

  "He wants money for his information."

  "How much?"

  "Half a million U.S. dollars. I think we should go for it."

  "That's ridiculous!" exclaimed the finance director.

  "Really?" replied the chairman. "What makes you say that? Some would call it quite a modest price for keeping us all alive and getting the government off our backs."

  The man in the pin-striped suit took a deep breath and smoothed back his hair, clearly embarrassed by his loss of control. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, more assured, the voice of a man used to giving orders rather than taking them.

  "I simply question whether we can afford to expend many more resources without being certain that the benefits justify the cost. The Paris operation involved a significant financial downside. Of course, we were able to save a great deal by withholding fees from some of the personnel involved. But even so, there were major logistical outlays, not to mention considerable sums spent purchasing influence within a number of French institutions. We lost several men, whose families will have to be compensated and kept quiet. Massive damage was sustained to two properties, which will have to be repaired at great cost. I therefore believe that any further expenditure should be considered very carefully."

  The chairman nodded. Perhaps the finance director was not beyond salvaging after all. "A very persuasive argument. As you said, Operations, Carver will be obliged to show himself. So make sure that when he emerges from hiding, we are ready and able to deal with him."

  The operations director glared at the moneyman, who had undermined him, then turned back to his boss. "But what are we going to do about Papin? If we don't pay him, he'll try to give Carver to someone else. And there's another thing. He's got our computer. It's protected by passwords, encryption, and firewalls. There's no way Carver's broken into the files just yet. But he's a resourceful individual. He'll find a way of cracking them eventually. And we can't let that happen."

  "No," agreed the chairman, "We certainly can't have that." He thought for a while, tapping his fingers against the surface of the desk, then continued. "How are we supposed to make contact again?"

  "He's calling at twelve thirty our time."

  "Fine, then have his call patched through to me. I shall persuade our French friend that he has more to gain by keeping us happy in the long term than by making a fast buck now."

  "And if he isn't persuaded?"

  "I shall make him pay for his stubbornness."

  39

  Bill Selsey, a twenty-two-year veteran at MI6, a man whose chief ambitions were a steady career and a solid pension at the end of it, sidled up to Jack Grantham's glass-fronted office at the far end of one of the open-plan offices that lent MI6 headquarters a deceptive appearance of corporate normality.

  "Busy, Jack?"

  Grantham looked up from the screen where he was checking files on the world's professional hit men and wondering why so many of their whereabouts were listed as "Unknown." What was the point of knowing about the bad guys if you didn't have the resources to keep proper tabs on them?

  "Nothing urgent. What can I do for you?"

  Selsey parked his ample backside on the edge of Grantham's desk, ignoring his colleague's disapproving frown.

  "There's an interesting development in the Paris investigation," he said. "We just received a call from one of our European partners-Papin, one of the more interesting characters in the French intelligence community. He seems to float around without any formal job title, but he has a habit of popping up in unexpected places."

  "So?"

  "So, he says he knows where to find the people responsible for the crash in the Alma Tunnel."

  Grantham sat up in his chair, his mood changing in an instant from polite indifference to total concentration. "Really? Where does he say they are?"

  "Well, that's the catch. He wants us to pay for the information. Says he won't consider anything under half a million dollars."

  "He wants us to pay? Bloody hell, even by French standards that's a bit steep. Whatever happened to interservice cooperation?"

  "He's not doing this for his service, Jack. This one's strictly off the books."

  "Do we trust him?"

  "Of course not, he's French. Which means he's self-centered, unscrupulous, and couldn't give a monkey's about anything except his own immediate advantage."

  "But is he any good?"

  "Not bad. Yeah. If he says he knows where these people are, I believe him."

  "All right, but if he thinks we've got half a million dollars to chuck his way, he's obviously not been informed about our budget cuts. Can we get to him for free?"

  Selsey's hangdog face brightened. "Ah, that's the good news. Not only is he working off the books, he's sending his message from a humble payphone rather than one of DGSE's secure lines-presumably doesn't want any record of his communications with us and the other bidders appearing on their logs."

  "Bit amateur. We'll have much less trouble tracking that."

  "Perhaps greed is getting the better of him. It's amazing what the prospect of easy money does to the human brain. And he probably underestimates our ability to track him. We only let the Frogs see a fraction of our signals intelligence, after all. Their officers won't necessarily realize just how powerful Echelon and GCHQ really are."

  "Can we find him?"

  "Working back to the site of his call is tricky but not impossible. We may manage it. But our real chance will come when he calls back. We've got to conduct some sort of negotiation. If we keep him talking, we'll get an exact position."

  "He's not going to be that daft, surely?"

  "He stands to make half a mill. He might take a risk for that."

  Grantham frowned. "I can see why he's not worried about us. Even if we don't shell out any cash, we're hardly going to hurt a fellow professional from a country that's one of our allies."

  "Even if he is French?"

  "No, not even then. But there'll be other people out there who are a lot less scrupulous. Papin's got to get his money, take his clients to the killers' location, then get out in one piece himself. Tell you what, Bill, you said this guy's not bad."

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, he's going to have to be a hell of a lot better than that to pull this one off."

  40

  Alix watched Carver as he worked his way through an enormous helping of venison stew and noodles in the restaurant of the Hotel Beau-Rivage. It was called
Le Chat-Botte.

  "That means Puss in Boots," Carver had said with a cheeky, naughty schoolboy glint in his eye. There was something boyish about the gusto with which he attacked his food too, as though he didn't have a care in the world, nothing to think about except for the plate in front of him and the glass of red wine at its side. His appetite seemed completely unaffected by the prospect of what they had to do in a few hours' time. Then again, he wasn't the one who'd have to squeeze into a tight-cut skirt.

  Even as they went upstairs to his suite, she was still trying to figure Carver out, to uncover the true self he kept so carefully hidden-from himself as much as everyone else. So many men she had known had struggled to be even one-dimensional, but not this one. He was so assured in his own world, so uncertain in hers; so cold at some moments, so emotional at others. Yet it sometimes seemed to her as though Carver's emotions were obvious to everyone but him.

  She wondered if he knew how powerfully his eyes expressed his feelings. In the short time she had known him, she had seen icy rage and aching tenderness, ebullient laughter and exhausted vulnerability. She thought of the books, records, and paintings in his apartment, the consideration he could show when he was at ease. Then she thought of him walking into the mansion in Paris, gunning down two men, finishing them off with a shot to the head, and walking away from their bodies without a second glance. She remembered lying on the ground by that bus stop, her face pressed against the sidewalk, his knee digging into her spine. How could she reconcile that man with the one who had lain beside her that morning, who was taking her in his arms again this afternoon?

  She pulled away a fraction. "Should we be doing this? I thought we were here on…" she tried to find the right words. "On business."

  "We are," he replied. "We have one chance to find out what we need to know. In a few hours, Magnus Leclerc is going to walk into the bar downstairs. You are going to seduce him. I am going to scare him witless. Then I'm going to start asking him questions. Leclerc is our only lead. If we can make him talk, we can find the people who betrayed us. If not, well, it's just a matter of time till they find us, no matter how far or fast we run."