The Accident Man Read online

  “Hang on a second,” said Carver, putting out a hand to hold Alix back.

  Six images of the Alma Tunnel filled the shop window. The camera zoomed into the tunnel, where an ambulance was parked by the crumpled wreck of a black Mercedes.

  Alix stood next to Carver, watching the same images with a look of incomprehension that gave way to shock as their meaning struck her. “Dear God. Is that the car? The one we . . .”

  “Yeah. That’s what I did to it after you and Kursk whipped it in my direction. But what the hell’s that doing there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The ambulance. I can’t believe anyone got out alive. But if they did, surely they’d be in the hospital by now. I mean, the crash was”—he looked at his watch—“an hour ago. What are they hanging around there for?”

  “An hour?” she murmured, half to herself. “Is that all?”

  The pictures had changed. They’d cut back to the studio. A news anchor was sitting behind her desk, a picture of the Princess of Wales inset into the screen. She said a few words, then the picture cut to footage of the princess lounging on a massive yacht, surrounded by smaller boats packed with people trying to get her picture. Carver shook his head. He had nothing against the princess. She’d visited his unit once and charmed every man on the base. When he’d served under an oath of loyalty to the Crown, he’d taken that oath seriously. He’d never had any interest whatever in gossip columns or celebrity gossip.

  “Come on, this isn’t going to tell us anything we need to know,” he said, moving on down the road.

  He walked to the edge of the pavement and watched the late-night traffic cruising down the Rue de Rivoli.

  “We need a cab,” he said.

  The impish, cheeky grin that broke across her face brought an unexpected light to her eyes. “Leave that to me,” she said.

  15

  Jack Grantham sipped bad coffee from a plastic cup and wondered just how much worse his weekend could possibly get. Still in his thirties, he was one of the highest flyers at the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6 as it was known to the world outside. But stardom had its drawbacks. He’d been dragged into Whitehall for a crisis meeting at one in the morning, which was bad enough. But there was more, much more. The crisis involved a terrible accident, a beautiful princess, and the entire world’s media. And then, of course, there were his fellow civil servants.

  Looking around the table, Grantham could see some typically unctuous undersecretary from the foreign office oozing oily Old Etonian smugness, and next to him the flinty, tight-mouthed, sharp-eyed presence of Dame Agatha Bewley from MI5. So now the infighting would begin. Each department would do its best to avoid the shit storm that would burst upon them just as soon as the great British public discovered what had happened to their beloved Queen of Hearts, while ensuring they dumped as much crap as possible on everyone else. Well, that would be fun. And just to make life really enjoyable, Ronald bloody Trodd had decided to stick his oar in.

  Grantham had more faith in hard facts than in Freudian psychology. But he couldn’t help thinking of Ron Trodd as the foul-mouthed, unrestrained id that lurked beneath the prime minister’s bright and shiny ego. He was the ultimate henchman, always ready to do anything, no matter how distasteful, so that his master could keep his lily-white hands clean.

  The foreign office man spoke first. “Well, as you know, our ambassador is already at the hospital. The French are terribly embarrassed, as you can imagine. Not the sort of thing one likes having in one’s backyard, as it were. Naturally, we’ve made it clear we don’t hold them responsible. Meanwhile, we’re making preparations to get His Royal Highness out to Paris as soon as possible. He’s at Balmoral. I gather the young princes have already been informed that their mother has been in an accident.”

  “Thank you, Sir Claude,” said Trodd, with a contempt that made the knighthood sound more like an insult than an honor. “Jack, what has SIS got?”

  “Total chaos,” said Grantham, trying to work out how much to reveal, and when. “Someone’s turning Paris into a war zone. There’ve been reports of muffled explosions coming from somewhere underground, just across the Seine from the scene of the crash. An apartment got blown to smithereens, south of the river. The police are telling the locals it was a gas leak, but a car was seen driving away at high speed. Fifteen minutes later, the same car exploded in the courtyard of a mansion in the Marais district. A team of armed police got inside the house a few minutes ago. They found bodies everywhere. And several of them seem to be British.”

  “Bugger!” Trodd slammed the tabletop in fury. “Tell me this isn’t a bunch of your lads on some kind of private mission. Have you been pissing about, off the books?”

  “No, we have not. We had people in Paris, of course, but it was purely a matter of surveillance. None of them were involved in any dirty work. I can assure you of that.”

  “Of course, it’s possible that we’re acquainted with whoever did do it.” Agatha Bewley’s voice was as dry as her appearance.

  Trodd frowned in her direction. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, we all use outside assistance from time to time. People who do odd jobs. These people may have attacked the princess on their own account. They might have been hired to do it by some other client. The boyfriend might have been the main target. His father had plenty of enemies. Then again, it may indeed just be a terrible accident.”

  “Surely that’s what one is assuming,” said Sir Claude. “Is anyone really suggesting that this was some kind of assassination attempt?”

  “We don’t know, do we?” said Trodd. “For public consumption, this was an accident. That’s the story, and I bloody well hope it happens to be true, because if it isn’t, the fallout will screw us all. But if some bastard has taken out the mother of the future king of England, I don’t want to wake up one morning and read all about it in the Sun. I want to be the first to know.”

  “And the prime minister?” asked Sir Claude.

  “Let me worry about that. For now, I want the Foreign Office to stick to the party line: terrible accident, condolences all round. Stay cozy with the Frogs.”

  The diplomat winced. “Of course, of course . . . but we really must wait until the foreign secretary decides how to proceed.”

  “The foreign secretary will proceed exactly as I bloody well tell him. Now, where was I? Yeah, Jack, I want SIS to find out what really happened in Paris. And Agatha, I want a list of anyone in this country who might have had a motive for taking out the world’s most popular woman and who they’d have used to do it. And by the way . . .” Trodd leaned forward and looked around the table. “If you find the bastards who did this, deal with them. Permanently. And keep Number Ten well out of it.”

  Trodd got up without another word and stalked out of the room. Sir Claude followed close behind.

  Grantham tried to busy himself, putting his notepad and ballpoint pen away in his briefcase, but he could feel Agatha Bewley’s falcon gaze burning into him.

  “You have an idea who’s behind this, don’t you?”

  “Come on, Agatha, you know it’s not that simple. There are crews all over Europe, half of them right here in London, who could have carried out the operation. And, as you suggested, plenty of people could have commissioned them.”

  She held his gaze for a moment, then spoke in a lower, almost confiding tone. “I think you have people in mind, and I don’t like the feeling that I’m being kept out of the loop. I’m sorry, Jack, but I’m not prepared to stay silent for very long. The reputation of my department is at stake.”

  “This is no time for us to be fighting among ourselves,” said Grantham, trying to mollify her. “Besides, if I did, hypothetically, have an idea of who it might be, I don’t have anything that even approaches evidence, let alone proof.”

  Dame Agatha looked at him silently, pursing her lips in a way that suggested both skepticism and disapproval.

  “All right,” acknowled
ged Grantham, “I’ll admit there are one or two possibilities that come to mind. I’ll have a quiet word with Percy Wake. In the old days, before the Wall came down, he helped the service solve a few tricky problems. It was all above my pay-grade, I never sat in on anything, but the legend was, Wake had a genius for seeing ways to get things done. Knowing who to get, predicting how things would play out. He’ll deny it, of course, but if there’s been any conspiratorial hanky-panky, dear old Percy will have an idea who’s responsible.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of his reputation,” said Dame Agatha, coldly. “I had my own dealings with Wake. I never knew anyone with more influence in Whitehall, whatever the government of the day. And not just there: He had connections in Washington, Moscow, Beijing—the man had an amazing instinct for backing the right men at the right time. But don’t forget for a moment that for all the patriotism and principle he displays so proudly, Sir Percy’s greatest loyalty is to himself. And Trodd—what are we going to tell him?” she asked, softening her tone just a fraction.

  For the first time since he had entered the room, Grantham felt a smile crossing his face. “Nothing. I think it’s time someone showed that saloon bully who really runs the country. Don’t you agree?”

  Dame Agatha nodded. “Yes, I rather think I do.”

  16

  The last time Carver looked, there hadn’t been a cab visible anywhere. But no sooner had Alix stepped up to the curb than a white Peugeot 406 with a Taxi Parisien sign on its roof was screeching to a halt beside her. She smiled again, this time at the driver, who beamed back. He looked North African. His head was pumping back and forth to the sound of Arab dance music pounding at top volume from the tiny stereo.

  “Rai,” he said, thumbing at the stereo. “Good music!”

  Carver was about to ask him to turn it down, but changed his mind. The noise would make it impossible for the driver to overhear any conversation he might have with Alix.

  “Sure,” he said. “Good music. Gare de Lyon, s’il vous plaît.”

  The grand old station, with its clock tower that resembled a miniature French version of Big Ben, served as the starting point for trains to the Alps, Switzerland, and Italy. “Attendez ici un moment,” Carver told the cabbie when they arrived. He grabbed the computer case, half-opened the door, and then turned back to Alix. “Give me your bag, I’ll stow it too. Won’t be a minute.”

  She rummaged in the bag and took out her cigarettes, lipstick, a compact, and mascara. “Essential supplies,” she said. “I must fix my face. And you know, you should do the same. Use the bathroom while you are in there.”

  Carver gave her a puzzled shrug, then got out of the car. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said before walking into the station, toward the left luggage lockers.

  Afterward, as he looked into the men’s room mirror under the harsh neon light, he realized what Alix had meant. His face was streaked with grime and sweat and there was concrete dust in his hair. No wonder Max had been so mocking about his appearance—he was a total mess. He splashed himself with cold water, ran wet fingers over his scalp, then took another look in the mirror. Big improvement.

  Back in the cab, Alix was applying her lipstick. She checked her glossy scarlet mouth in the mirror of her powder compact, then handed all her makeup to Carver with a mock-ingratiating smile. He noticed she had somehow persuaded the driver to turn the music down a fraction.

  “Okay,” she said, as he stuck her makeup in his pockets. “Where are we going?”

  He grinned. “Good question. Let’s see if our man here has any ideas.” He leaned forward and spoke to the cabbie. To Alix’s surprise, Carver’s French was fluent. He could chat to the driver, even crack a couple of jokes. Between them, they seemed to come up with a satisfactory answer. Carver gave the North African a last encouraging pat on the shoulder and sat back in the seat. “He says he knows just the place.”

  “So,” he continued, turning to face her, looking her straight in the eye, “why did you come back? You know, back at the house. Why didn’t you just run away?”

  “Where to?”

  She glanced at the driver, then leaned toward Carver to make sure she could not be overheard. Her voice was low and urgent. Carver caught a glimpse of the driver’s face, looking at them in the rearview mirror, assuming theirs was just another lovers’ backseat conversation.

  “When you ran up the stairs, you went so fast I could not keep up,” she explained. “Then I heard the shots and realized there were people up there. I thought, okay, maybe I can go back out through the gates, but the car was in the way, about to explode. So then I did not know what to do. I guess I was in a panic. I could hear the shouts from outside, then the man running down the stairs. I had to hide, so I just went through the door the other men had come out of. The men you shot. . . .”

  She paused for a second.

  “Anyway, I went through there and I could see some stairs in front of me and I remembered about the place having back stairs. I thought I would take those and find out what had happened to you. If I could help you escape, maybe we would have a chance. And, well, you know about the rest. . . .”

  “Well, I’m glad you did, anyway.”

  “So am I. I mean . . . that sounds terrible. People are dead. But I am glad. Does that make me a bad person?”

  “No worse than the rest of us,” he said.

  They were driving up the Boulevard de Sebastopol when Carver saw the green neon sign of an all-night pharmacy and told the driver to stop.

  “Sorry,” he said to Alix. “One last interruption.”

  He walked into the store and bought some eyeglasses—the weakest prescription he could find—a pair of scissors, and three packs of wash-in hair color: black, brunette, and red. Alix was going to lose that long blond mane. It was a pity, but it might just keep her alive.

  “What did you get?” she asked him when he got back into the cab. “A little protection, maybe? In case you get lucky tonight?”

  “Protection, yeah, for you.” He showed her his purchases in their paper bag. “You can be anything you like, but not blond.”

  He said it like a man who expected an argument. But Alix didn’t fuss. “Okay. I’m not the same woman I was an hour ago. I’m not wearing the same clothes. Why should I have the same hair?”

  They got to the destination Carver had negotiated with the cabbie, a club just off Sebastopol. There was no name visible anywhere, but the entrance was underneath a high arch. Two golden statues of women in classical robes held up lanterns on either side of the door. A throng of people pressed up against the gold-tipped black railings in front of the club, begging to get in. From the looks on their faces, most of them were begging in vain.

  “Damn!” muttered Carver. “Should’ve thought of that.”

  Alix said nothing. She seemed completely unperturbed. She just got out of the cab, smoothed down her dress, tossed back her hair, and walked straight through the crowd to the entrance.

  There was a bouncer at the door: 250 pounds of West African muscle in a silver gray suit. He took one look at Alix and unhooked the rope that was keeping the masses at bay. She swept in like a movie star. Carver tried to follow her.

  The bouncer stopped him. Carver leaned forward and said a few words in French. Then he tucked something into the breast pocket of the bouncer’s jacket. The man paused a moment, letting Carver sweat, then waved him in too.

  “What were you saying?” asked Alix.

  “I told him I was your bodyguard. Then I slipped him a hundred bucks.”

  “Hey! It was me who saved your life, remember?”

  “Sorry. That bit of the story slipped my mind. Come on, let’s eat.”

  Within seconds of walking into the club, Carver had noted three possible exit routes. He’d spotted two groups of men who might be threats. And he’d discovered there was some kind of restaurant upstairs. Another hundred-dollar bill for the maître d’ bought them a corner table with clear sightlines. If anybody came for them, C
arver would get plenty of warning. He handed Alix the scissors and dye.

  “Go and do, you know, whatever it takes.”

  “I could be a while.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Carver watched Alix disappear toward the ladies’ room. Then he summoned a waitress and ordered a double Johnnie Walker Blue Label, no ice. He didn’t know how many more drinks he’d get to have. He might as well stick to good ones.

  17

  The ladies’ room looked like the last days of Rome. A couple was screwing in one of the cubicles. Two girls were kissing passionately up against a wall. Another cubicle was being used as a market stall for a scrawny North African guy in an Iron Maiden T-shirt, who was selling speed, cocaine, and smack.

  Women were chopping powder into lines on the edge of the sink basins, snorting it, then using their fingers to dab stray dustings of snow from their nostrils onto their tongues. A few more conventional types were peeing, checking their makeup, and gossiping about the men they’d left behind in the club.

  Alix found a spare basin. She looked at her reflection for a second in the mirror that ran along the wall. Then she started cutting. A few women looked at her. One of them started talking in French. Alix looked at her and mimed incomprehension.

  “You crazy?” the woman repeated in English. “You cut that beautiful hair, your man, he won’t recognize you.”

  “Exactly,” said Alix, and smiled.

  The woman laughed. “But chérie, there must be an easier way of escaping from him, no?”

  “Maybe it’s not him I want to escape.”

  “Okay, a woman of mystery!”

  Alix went back to her cutting. She stopped once her hair had been reduced to a neat blond bob that fell halfway down her neck. She ran her hands through her new cut, tossing her head from side to side to feel how it moved and fell. “No,” she muttered to herself. “Too boring.” She picked up the scissors again.