The accident man sc-1 Read online

  "Did they love you?" She was powdering her face.

  "I don't know. They never said so, not out loud. But I think they cared for me. You know, in their own way."

  "And what about you? Did you love them?"

  Carver sighed. He got up off the bed and walked over to a chair, near to the dressing table. "Well, I didn't dislike them," he said as he sat down. "And I was grateful to them. I knew they were making sacrifices for me; I appreciated that. But I don't think I really knew how to love, not from the heart. I mean, why would I? If you don't get that from your mother, you never find out about love until much, much later and then, suddenly, it's like, oh… right… so that's what they were talking about. Comes as quite a shock."

  "And then you lost her too."

  "Yeah. Not so good, that."

  Alix twirled her mascara brush through her eyelashes.

  "So, how old were you when you went away to school?"

  "Eight."

  "Bozhe moi!… And the English think they are civilized!"

  "You don't know the half of it. The school was in this ancient country house, miles from anywhere. The first morning, we all got woken up at seven o'clock. We got dressed and the dormitory captain led us downstairs to the lawn at the back of the school. And we did drills, proper military drills. Quick march! Left turn, right turn, stand to attention, stand a-a-a-t… h'ease! It makes me laugh now, it was so bloody mad."

  "Yet you became a soldier?"

  "Well, schools like that have been churning out upmarket cannon fodder for centuries. They were specifically designed to produce reasonably intelligent, physically fit, emotionally screwed-up young men who'd travel to the world's hottest, nastiest places, do their duty, and lay down their lives when required."

  "And you are one of these people?"

  "When I'm working."

  "And when you're not working?"

  "I don't know. That's what I'm trying to sort out."

  For a few moments they were silent. Alix concentrated on her lipstick. With her newly painted face, done in a style unlike anything Carver had seen on her before, her bald head, and her half-naked body, she looked oddly impersonal, like a showroom dummy waiting for its costume. Then she reached for the other bag and took out her wig. She pulled it over the skullcap, brushed it and sprayed it, and suddenly Carver was looking at a completely different woman.

  He expected her to get straight up and cross the room to the closet where her clothes were hanging. Instead she sat there hesitantly, her eyes vague and unfocused, as if her concentration had been broken by some inner uncertainty.

  "There was something I didn't tell you yesterday, about my past," she said.

  Carver sat back in his chair, caught her eye in the mirror.

  "I said that everything about it was bad. But that's not true. I had special privileges because of what I did for the State. At home in Perm, women wore horrible, shapeless sacks. They ate stale food that tasted of nothing. They worked so hard. When my mother was only forty, she was already old, like a woman of sixty in the West. But in Moscow I was dressing in Armani, Versace, Chanel. I had never before owned more than two pairs of shoes, always made of plastic. Now I had a closet filled with shoes from Paris and Milan.

  "Sometimes I would take men back to my apartment. There were beautiful Italian sheets on my bed. There was Scotch whisky in the drinks cabinet. You cannot imagine. No one in Russia lived like that-no one outside the highest levels of the Party. I loved those things. It did not matter what I had to do, I would never have given them up. I sold my soul."

  Carver leaned forward. "Did you like my flat?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Did you like my flat? I mean, it's nice, isn't it? You haven't seen my car, but that's pretty nice too. So's the boat I keep on the lake. And I think you know how I paid for them."

  "So what are you saying, that you are as bad as me?"

  "I guess. But who's to say what's good or bad? People get on their high horses. They sit in their comfortable, safe little lives and they talk about moral standards. But any idiot can come out with this week's socially acceptable bullshit when they don't have to face any consequences or get their hands dirty. I spent years watching good friends get blown to pieces, their guts torn apart for politicians who lied through their teeth. I know there are bad guys out there and I know what they can do. That changes your perspective, big-time.

  "Sorry, got a bit carried away," Carver offered, grimacing.

  "No," she said, "I understand. And I like it when you get passionate. I like seeing who you really are."

  "Christ, do you think that's the real me?"

  She was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Carver went to answer it, picking up his gun from the bedside table along the way. He opened the door a couple of inches and then relaxed when he recognized who was on the other side.

  "Thor! Good to see you. Come in."

  Larsson's tall, gangly figure-all arms, legs, and hair-ambled into the room. He was carrying two large nylon bags, suspended from his shoulders. He saw Alix getting up from her makeup table and stopped.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I had no idea." A shy smile spread across his face and his blue eyes creased in private amusement. "Am I interrupting?"

  "Not at all," said Carver, "We were just getting ready. So, Thor Larsson, this is Alexandra Petrova."

  "Call me Alix," she said, standing on tiptoe to give Larsson a peck on the cheek.

  "Uhh, yeah… call me Thor," he answered, as his face flushed beneath his freckles.

  Her smile gently teased Larsson for his embarrassment yet welcomed him as a friend. "Okay, Thor, please excuse me. I think I should get dressed."

  The two men stood watching her for a second as she flitted across to her clothes. It took an effort of will for Carver to drag his eyes and his thoughts away from Alix and force himself to concentrate on the gear Larsson had brought in his bags.

  "Right," Carver said. "Assume that this room is the command center. I'll be here-in the first phase, at least-monitoring communications. Then we need a wire on Alix, handheld remote video that you'll have to control, and a complete sound-and-vision setup for the other room, the one where Alix will take the guy we're going for."

  "No problem," said Larsson. "I've got everything you'll need." He rummaged in one of the bags and pulled out a couple of cigarette packs. "These should do the trick."

  Carver looked unconvinced. "Are you sure? I can't afford for this to go wrong. It's the only chance I've got."

  "Relax," said Larsson, patting Carver's shoulder. "Have faith. I know what I'm doing. And by the way…" He bent down till his face was right in front of Carver's, and murmured, "I want to talk about that other job you asked me to do, the decryption. Call me later tonight. We need to speak… alone."

  45

  Papin stood at the foot of the steps in front of the ancient cathedral. It was four minutes past five. No one had arrived. Or perhaps they had. Perhaps he'd been set up and they were watching him now, waiting to see where he went next, trying to get their hands on the goods for free.

  He gazed across the square. He didn't see the man with the shaven head, holding a metal briefcase, walk out of the cathedral's main door and head down toward him. He didn't know the man was there until he felt the crushing weight of a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice behind him growl, "Charlie sends regards," in a Russian accent that made it sound like,"Chully syends rigards."

  Papin gave a twitch of surprise and turned around to face his contact. He had been expecting an Englishman, or perhaps a Swiss, at any rate someone with whom he could conduct business in a civilized fashion. But this Russian just stood there, massive and brutish, gazing at Papin with blank implacability.

  A few seconds passed in silence, then the Russian said, "Okay, wrong man," and took a step back up the steps.

  "No! No! Right man!" Papin exclaimed, suddenly panicked. "I hope Charlie is well!"

  Grigori Kursk looked at him, shook his head, spat on the
ground, then grunted, "Yeah, is better now."

  Papin glanced down at the case. "Do you have the money?"

  Kursk gave a single nod.

  "Give me the first installment."

  "Don't understand."

  "The money, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Give it to me."

  "Not here. Everyone see. In car. We go to car."

  Kursk walked away. Papin waited a couple of seconds, then followed him over to a black BMW parked on the uphill side of the square. There were three men inside, crammed into the backseat.

  "I said no backup. Just me and you. No one else," Papin insisted.

  Kursk opened the passenger door. "In!" he commanded.

  The Frenchman knew that it had all gone wrong. There would be no money in the case. The only issue now was his own survival. If he tried to run, he had no doubt the Russian would follow him and kill him. But he still had the information they needed. As long as he could keep it from them, that would be his edge.

  Kursk glared at him. "Okay. Now where to go?"

  Papin said nothing.

  Kursk kept his left hand draped on the wheel. But the right reached out, gripped Papin around the neck, and started squeezing. Papin writhed in his seat, trying to escape the Russian's grasp. But it made no difference. He could not break free and the effort just made him suffocate even faster. Surely the man had to stop. Surely he wouldn't kill him now. Papin was desperate for breath, the blood pounding in his ears, his eyes popping, vision blurring. Still the fist closed around his neck. He could feel his vocal cards being crushed by the pressure. When his resistance finally gave way, he could only croak, "Okay… okay… I'll tell you."

  At last the hand relaxed. Papin's chest heaved as he dragged air into his lungs, each breath burning like poison gas as it passed through his ravaged throat. "Go to the end of the road, turn right." He gestured feebly to show what he meant. Kursk started the car and began to drive.

  They turned right across a small square and weaved their way along a series of narrow, intersecting cobblestoned streets. Finally, Papin pointed to the side of the road. There was a parking space. "Pull up behind that red car," he said. The BMW came to a halt alongside the curb.

  Papin turned his head toward Kursk. The Russian regarded him with the cloudy, dead-fish stare of a man incapable of remorse.

  "Across the road," Papin said. "You see the alley? It's through there. He has the top apartment."

  "Are they in apartment?"

  "No."

  "They come back?"

  "Yes, I think so. Tonight, maybe."

  "Is only one way in?"

  "I think so."

  Papin slumped back in his seat. The exhaustion that had weighed on him all day seemed to be dragging him down, robbing him of any energy or will. When Kursk reached out again, both hands this time, Pierre Papin hardly moved a muscle as his life ebbed away.

  When it was over, Kursk got out of the car. He stood on the cobblestones, leaning on the BMW as he lit a cigarette and looked up and down the street. It was deserted. He gazed up at the buildings around him. There were no faces at any windows, no sign that he was being observed, just some kids playing in front of a cafe down the street.

  He knocked on the rear window and waited as it rolled down.

  "Okay," he said to the men in the backseat. "Time you did some work." In the passenger seat of a car parked at the end of the little side street, a man was looking through the hefty telephoto lens of a high-res digital camera. His finger was pressed to the shutter. The camera was on a sports setting, the shutter whirring, firing off several shots a second. Next to him a woman spoke into a mobile phone. "Two of them have crossed the street. They're going up to an apartment building. I think they just forced the front door. I can see the Frenchman in the front seat of the car, but he's not moving. I'm pretty sure they've killed him."

  Grantham sighed. "That stupid, greedy bastard. Well, he can't say he wasn't told."

  "What do you want us to do, sir?"

  "Nothing. Just keep watching. We offered Papin our help, and he wouldn't take it. That's his problem. Our priority remains what it always was. We keep watching."

  "Yes, sir. I understand."

  "Good. Keep me informed of any further developments."

  "Absolutely."

  Jennifer Stock hung up and put the phone back in her handbag.

  "Just spoken to the boss," she said to the photographer. "He says forget the Frenchman. Get those shots through to London. Then carry on as you were. Wait and watch."

  Stock wriggled in discomfort. It was hot inside the car. Her blouse and skirt were getting creased against the seat. She cursed under her breath. If she'd known she was going to spend half the day on a stakeout, she'd have worn a T-shirt and trousers.

  46

  Magnus Leclerc did check on the Panamanian Mercantile Registry, on which all offshore companies had to be registered. Sure enough, Topograficas SA was there, as were three nominated directors, none of whom was Mr. Vandervart. That was no surprise: Why have a Panamanian company at all if not to be invisible? Nor were there any published accounts. There wouldn't be: The lack of any requirement to keep books or records of any kind was another advantage of Panamanian corporate law. So he knew no more than he had known before, but then, he hadn't expected to. It was hardly unusual for his clients to wish to cover their tracks, and the possibility of wasting an hour in a bar seemed a small price to pay for the chance of landing a nine-figure account.

  He arrived at the Hotel Beau-Rivage shortly after six, asked for Vandervart at the reception desk, and was informed by the receptionist that his host apologized profusely but he was tied up in a meeting and would be a few minutes late. In the meantime, if monsieur would care to make his way just across the atrium to the bar, M. Vandervart would join him there soon.

  It was a perfect example of an upmarket European watering hole: ornate plasterwork on the walls, gathered green silk blinds over the windows, reproduction antique chairs grouped around white-clothed tables. Leclerc walked to the bar and ordered a vodka martini from the gray-haired man behind the counter. He collected his drink and walked across to a corner table. The only other customers were an elderly American couple. The man was already ordering his second bourbon: His wife was pursing her lips. It looked like the start of a long night of marital hell.

  He knew all about that. Leclerc took a sip of his martini and contemplated the ritual display of martyrdom and resentment that awaited him when he got home. Marthe would depict herself as shattered after her long day of doing precisely nothing apart from playing tennis, spending his money, and undertaking the minimal amount of child care required by two independent-minded teenagers. He had warned her he might be home late and told her not to worry about his supper, but that wouldn't count for much. She'd make a point of wearing the most shapeless, unappealing tracksuit she could find. She'd sigh theatrically, roll her eyes, and tell him the food was ruined. She'd…

  Mon Dieu!

  A woman had just walked into the bar. She was tall with a beautiful face framed in a brunette bob. She was wearing a softly cut white blouse over a tight dark blue skirt. Her long legs were tanned. Her high heels exactly matched her skirt, as did her elegant little shoulderbag. She looked absolutely respectable yet totally desirable. Leclerc spotted the ancient American ogling the girl as she cast her eyes around the bar, evidently looking for someone. The American's wife hissed and slapped the back of a mottled, ring-burdened hand across the sleeve of his jacket, redirecting his attention back to her.

  Leclerc winced in sympathy at the old boy's suffering, and it was then that the brunette caught his eye. Her face suddenly lit up with a smile, letting him know she'd recognized him and that nothing at all could have made her happier. She walked across to him and stopped beside his table.

  "Monsieur Leclerc?" She held out elegant fingers whose smooth, unblemished skin was a delightful contrast to the gnarled claw of the old harridan, who was now casting poisonous looks in
their direction. "I'm Natasha St. Clair, Mr. Vandervart's assistant. He's still tied up, I'm afraid."

  "Enchante, mademoiselle," replied Leclerc. "I am Magnus Leclerc. But please, Natasha, call me Magnus. Can I persuade you to join me, while we wait for monsieur Vandervart?"

  "Are you sure? I mean, if you think it's all right…"

  "But of course, I insist."

  "Thank you, that would be very nice. I just hope I haven't intruded on you."

  She blushed a little as she sat down opposite him, smoothing her skirt over her perfect thighs. She then gave a regretful little shake of her head and a frown of concern.

  "You know, Mr. Vandervart is a wonderful man, but I really think he should take it easier. It's not my place to say anything, of course, but men like him work too hard. Of course, they want to do the best for their families, but sometimes they should think more about themselves. Don't you agree?"

  Magnus Leclerc would happily have agreed with any proposal the girl cared to put to him. "Absolutely," he said, with an enthusiastic nod.

  The girl smiled, as if grateful for his approval. She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward slightly, letting her scent waft across the table and accidentally giving Leclerc the tiniest glimpse of cleavage as her breasts were squeezed between her upper arms.

  "Mmm," she purred, "that martini looks so tempting. It's very naughty of me to have a drink while I'm still supposed to be working, but could you get one for me too? Is that all right?"

  "But of course, I'd be delighted," said the banker.

  As he got up from the table and walked toward the bar, he realized that his pulse was racing. He ordered a drink and adjusted his tie in the mirror behind the bar. When the martini was ready, the barman raised an eyebrow in a gesture of wry acknowledgment, one man to another. Leclerc smiled back, gave the barman a friendly slap on the arm, and left him a ten franc tip. Then he turned around and carried the drink back to the girl. She didn't like to admit it, but Alix was enjoying herself. She'd felt the eyes following her as she crossed the foyer-the lust of the bellhop and the concierge; the envy of the plain receptionist; the considered, competitive assessment of the pretty one. When she walked into the bar, she'd had to suppress a smile at the comic spat between the old man and his wife. Then she'd watched the banker trying not to gawk at her like a goggle-eyed sixteen-year-old virgin, and she'd known this was going to be easy.