by Tom Cain
Carver recognized Vermulen because he’d instantly matched the man and his boat to Grantham’s photo file. But he knew that the woman was Alix on a far deeper level, that animal instinct that makes one instantly aware of a lover’s presence with an intensity that burns with excitement and pain in equal measure.
She was wearing a simple summer dress. Every so often the wind would catch it, fluttering the skirt, or pressing the fabric to her body, outlining the lines of her thighs and the curves of her hips and breasts. Carver felt the stirrings of sexual desire reawaken in him, like an old friend returning after a long journey to a faraway destination. Finally, Alix was real, there in the flesh, and this mission wasn’t just a challenge thrown down to him by Grantham. It was a compulsion. He had to get her back.
Down at water level, a door slid open at the stern of the vessel and two crewmen appeared, maneuvering a speedboat, maybe fifteen feet long, that was lowered into the sea at the end of a line. Vermulen pointed this out to Alix and the two of them went back inside before reappearing a minute or so later beside the crewmen, down by the water.
The general was carrying a black leather briefcase. He was about to get into the speedboat when Alix stopped him and adjusted the collar of his pale-blue shirt, fiddling with it for a moment until it was exactly to her satisfaction. It was a very feminine, proprietorial gesture: a woman taking possession of her man before she kissed him good-bye and let him loose in the world.
Carver felt an acid stab of jealousy, then told himself, Get a grip. That’s what she does—she makes men believe that she cares. But with you it’s real.
As Alix waved him off, Vermulen jumped into the speedboat, which brought him to a jetty at the foot of the cliffs. He came ashore, then made his way up a steep set of stone steps from the jetty to the restaurant.
Carver got to his feet to greet him. He wanted to be eye to eye with the man who had been sleeping with his woman, the man he might soon have to kill. He wanted to know exactly what kind of competition he faced.
Close up, Vermulen’s face was a little fuller than it was in his army photograph, the jawline less cleanly defined. His full head of hair, swept back from his forehead, was as much silver as gold, and he was carrying a very slight paunch. But none of these flaws detracted from the aura of purpose and energy that seemed to charge the atmosphere around him. In fact, they added to the effect, giving him the imperious air of a man who was living life to the utmost, taking everything the world had to offer, certain of his ability to master any circumstance or individual he might encounter.
The general stuck out a tanned forearm and gave Carver a crushing handshake. “Hi. Kurt Vermulen,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Kenny Wynter,” said Carver. “Likewise.”
Vermulen gave Carver his own once-over, looking him up and down as if he were a soldier at a parade-ground inspection. The two men sat down, the briefcase on the floor between them. The general summoned a waiter.
“Just get us a nice selection of seafood—lobster, oysters, whatever’s fresh and good today. We’ll take some green salad with that, some bread and butter.” He looked around the table. “You okay with that?”
It was strictly a rhetorical question. The officer was taking command. Carver shrugged his assent.
“Good,” said Vermulen. “I don’t consume alcohol at lunchtime. We’ll take a large bottle of still water, please. Unless you want some wine, Mr. Wynter . . .”
“No worries,” Carver replied, thinking his way into the character: the north London street kid whose brains had got him into Oxbridge, and whose criminal instincts had bought him a life of confident, class-less wealth. “I’m here for business, not booze.”
“And your business is taking things that are not your own?”
Wynter wouldn’t have let that one go, so Carver didn’t, either.
“I thought the U.S. Army was in that business, too.”
Vermulen laughed. “Touché, Mr. Wynter.”
They talked some more, sparring, each seeing what the other was made of. Then the food arrived, a great plate heaped with half-lobsters, langoustines, oysters, squid, and fillets of the Mediterranean sea bass the French call loup de mer, the wolf of the sea. Once plates were filled and glasses of iced water poured, Vermulen became more serious.
“You are an educated man, Mr. Wynter, so you will appreciate my meaning when I say that I feel that we are living in a time akin to Ancient Rome at the end of the fourth century A.D. Our civilization is still intact. Our comforts are greater than ever. But our will is crumbling. We lack the guts and determination to defend ourselves. And all around us, a dark age is drawing on. Enemies are prowling; populations are on the move. They sense our weakness and they await the moment to strike.”
The rhetoric sounded grand enough, but to Carver it seemed hypocritical, coming from a man in a luxury restaurant, not a warrior on the front line.
“You’re the one who left a military career,” he retorted. “You stopped fighting. How can you blame the rest of us for not doing our bit?”
For a second, Carver could sense Vermulen prickling at this assault on his self-regard. But then he recovered his composure.
“On the contrary, I left the U.S. Army precisely because our defense and foreign-policy establishment was not prepared to fight the necessary battle, the one that I believe will determine the fate of the West: the battle against radical Islam.”
That took Carver by surprise.
“What are you, some kind of Crusader?”
“Absolutely not: I don’t want any war at all. But I fear it’s coming anyway. It began in Afghanistan. It’s being fought in Chechnya right now, and in the former Yugoslavia. Islamic terrorists are aiming to create a radical Muslim state in Kosovo, able to stab a knife right into Europe’s guts. And the States will be next.”
“You reckon?” said Carver. “What’s that got to do with why I’m here?”
“Because you are going to acquire something I need very badly for our struggle. And by getting it, you’re also going to deny it to our enemy. Now, you come to me highly recommended, so let me make you a serious offer. You bring me what I want, in pristine condition, and I will pay you five hundred thousand dollars, half in advance, in any form you want, into any account you name.”
“What is it you want?”
“A document. Don’t ask me about its contents, because I will not reveal them. All I can say is that they could be vital to the future peace of the world.”
Carver looked as indifferent as Wynter would have.
“You say that as if I should care. So where is this document?”
Vermulen leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Sitting in a plain brown file, secured by a wax seal. This seal must be intact when you return it to me, or I will refuse to pay the rest of your money. The file is currently being kept inside a safe, located in a house about a dozen miles from here, in the hills above a village called Tourrettes-sur-Loup, due west of the town of Vence. It is guarded by armed men and trained attack dogs, as well as motion detectors, inside and out. There are alarms on the ground-level doors and windows. I have no information as to the model of the safe, or the exact nature of its lock. The combination, if there is one, is also unknown. You’d better assume, though, that it is protected by palm- or eye-scanners, in addition to that combination.
“The occupants of the house are ethnic Georgian gang members, based in Russia. Their leader is a man named Bagrat Baladze. He doesn’t like to stay too long anywhere, so his people and his document will only be at this location for the next ninety-six hours maximum, maybe less. I do not know where they plan to go next and cannot be certain of tracking them. That means it has to be done now. Are you interested?”
Carver didn’t look too impressed. “I’m not sure about that. See, I like to plan my work thoroughly. It can take weeks, even months. But thorough planning prevents stupid mistakes. That’s why I’m sitting here with you, not rotting in a cell.”<
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“The exact same principle applies in the military,” Vermulen agreed, speaking normally again. “But equally, there are times when speed is of the essence. This is one of them. So can you do it, or do I need to consider other options?”
“Depends. Tell me about the building where these muppets are staying.”
“There are detailed plans in the case.”
“Maybe, but give me the gist of it, all the same.”
“The layout is typical of vacation properties in this area. It’s an old farmhouse, newly renovated. It hasn’t even gone on the rental market yet, not officially anyway.”
“So the builders have only just moved out?”
“I imagine so.”
“Okay, that could be useful. Now tell me about the setting—what’s the size of the grounds? Are there a lot of other properties close by? How about topography and cover—trees, bushes, rocks, that kind of thing.”
“The property is right at the northern edge of the village. It has been chosen for its seclusion and privacy. There are no other houses within five hundred feet in any direction. The lot covers about two and a half acres. It’s on the lower slopes of a four-thousand-foot hill—”
“In Britain, four thousand feet is a mountain,” Carver interrupted.
“Well, it’s just a damn hill to me,” Vermulen replied. “Called the Puy de Tourrettes, faces south, toward the sea. The house is at the highest point of the property, to maximize the views, with a pool directly below the house and an access road that leads downhill to the nearest road. There are trees in front of the house and around the pool; otherwise the ground is virtually bare, denying cover to intruders and providing clear fields of fire. But above the house, on the hillside, you’ve got light woodland and undergrowth. That’s where I’d put my observation post, if I were you.”
That’s where Carver was planning to put it, too.
“Sounds about right,” he said.
Carver’s plate was empty. He pushed it away from him. Then, to Vermulen’s evident surprise, he got to his feet.
“Okay, give me ten minutes,” he said. “I’m going for a walk—helps me think. When I come back, I’ll tell you if I can do the job, what I’ll need, and how much it’ll cost.”
“I already named the fee.”
“But I didn’t agree to it. See you in ten.”
58
Carver had walked past the swimming pool, ringed by deserted lounge chairs, and up through the hotel’s wooded grounds. He was gone a shade over eleven minutes.
“Well?” said Vermulen, as Carver returned to his seat.
“You’re on. But the price is a million, sterling, same half-and-half split, now and on delivery of the item. Take it or leave it.”
Before Vermulen could answer, Carver went on. “And there’s one other thing. I came out here on a commercial flight, expecting to take a meeting. So I wasn’t carrying the gear for the job. Some I can get myself. But some you’re going to have to supply.”
Vermulen looked to either side, to check that he could not be overheard.
“What are we talking about: weapons, specialist equipment?”
“That kind of thing,” agreed Carver. “I need nonfatal weapons, specifically a multiple-shot forty-millimeter grenade launcher, preferably an MGL Mark One. I want six rounds of CS gas for the launcher plus three M-eighty-four stun grenades, a collapsible twenty-one-inch baton, a lightweight ballistic-grade protective vest, a combat-level gas mask, and twenty-five-milligram Valium tablets . . .”
“You don’t look like the nervous kind,” Vermulen observed.
“Yeah, well, looks can be deceptive. Now, I want every item within forty-eight hours. Leave it as poste restante in the post office at Vence. And, finally, I’m going to be spending a lot of time over the next few days keeping out of people’s way, nice and quiet. So all communications will be via text-messaging—no calls unless I decide otherwise. I’ll give you a number to use, and I’ll need you to give me one, too.”
Vermulen’s jaw tightened. His face darkened with anger, like the shadow of a cloud scudding across the ground.
“You know, Mr. Wynter, you have quite an attitude for a hired hand. I don’t know that I like being given orders by a man who’s working on my dollar.”
“I’m not giving you orders, General. I’m explaining the way things have to be if you’re going to get the item you’ve ordered, and I’m going to walk away unscathed.”
“I could determine another way of doing the job. I have men of my own.”
“The matelots on your boat? Bunch of sailor boys in shorts? I don’t think so.”
“That wasn’t who I was thinking of,” said Vermulen. He looked at Carver, his eyes narrowed. “You know, that’s an interesting word, ‘matelot.’ ”
“It’s French,” said Carver, knowing he’d just made a stupid, careless, amateur mistake, still a few percent off his best.
“That it is. Also happens to be the slang that British marines use for regular naval personnel. I’ve heard them say it myself. So I’m wondering how come you know that word, and also seem to be so familiar with the designations for military ordnance: MGL grenade launchers, M-eighty-four grenades. If I recall correctly, you have no military experience. So perhaps you could tell me how a civilian came to be so familiar with all that soldier talk?”
Carver shrugged. “I get around.”
Vermulen said nothing. He wasn’t convinced. Carver went all out.
“All these years, doing what I do, you think I don’t know the tools of my trade? And ‘matelots’—that’s what my dad always used to call sailors. Dunno where he got it from. National Service, maybe? Or more likely down the nick, doing porridge with some old bootneck. See, that’s more slang. I can do some Cockney rhyming for you, if you like.”
A wry smile crossed Vermulen face. “Okay, you win. So, assuming you get the goods, when and where will you make the delivery?”
“It’ll be right here, at the hotel bar, just off the front hall, either three or four nights from now—I’ll text the exact time once the mission has been accomplished. There was a bird on your boat—sorry, a woman . . .”
“Yes, my secretary.” There was a hint of suspicion in Vermulen’s voice.
“You trust her?” asked Carver.
“Of course.”
“Good—then she can do the pickup. You and I can’t meet again—we’ve taken enough of a risk as it is. So what’s going to happen is a nice, respectable woman is going to meet an old friend in the bar of a hotel. What’s her name, by the way?”
“Natalia Morley.”
“Natalia . . . very nice. Anyway, Natalia and Kenneth will say hello, how are you, all that stuff. They’ll have a nice little drink. She’ll ask him what he’s been up to, he’ll take out the file, and she’ll cast an eye over it politely. At some point, she’ll take a call from her ‘husband’—that’s you, obviously—and she’ll tell him that she’s just bumped into good old Kenny. Then, when you’ve asked her if I’ve got the goods, she’ll hand the phone over to me, like you’re just dying to have a word with your old mate. You’ll tell me that you’ve wired the outstanding payment into my account. When I’ve got confirmation from my bank, I’ll pass Natalia the document, nice and discreet, and she’ll put it in her handbag. Then we finish our drinkies, say good night, and go our separate ways. All right?”
“I don’t want Miss Morley placed in any danger.”
“Nor do I, General. If she’s in danger, so am I.”
“Okay, but I need to make sure she’s comfortable with this. Let me speak with her.”
Over the past half-minute, Carver had taken out a black Moleskine notebook from his jacket pocket and written something on one of its pages.
“You do that,” he said, tearing the page out of the book and handing it to Vermulen. “But before you do, this is the sort code for my bank and the number of my account. I’d appreciate it if you transferred the first installment now. Neither of us is leaving this
table till I’ve got my half-million.”
Vermulen did not even glance at the torn page.
“Once again, Mr. Wynter, your attitude won’t make you any friends.”
“It’s not personal, General. I’ve just learned the hard way not to deliver my side of a deal until I know for certain that the other side is delivering his.”
Vermulen made the call. Carver got his confirmation. He immediately transferred the money to another account before Vermulen could attempt to cancel the transaction: That was another lesson that had cost him millions.
There wasn’t much left to do. Vermulen handed Carver an envelope containing plans to the house and a detailed map of the surrounding area. He called “Miss Morley” and obtained her agreement to pick up the document. Carver could just make out Alix’s voice on the other end of the line. The sound of her tore at his heart. When he heard her call Vermulen “darling,” he had to grab a glass of water and look out to sea, so as not to give himself away.
When everything had been sorted out, Carver got up from the table. He reckoned this was about the time that Wynter, having got what he wanted, would turn the charm back on. So he held out his hand with a smarmy smile.
“Thank you, General—that was an excellent meal. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
Vermulen got up and shook hands, but he wasn’t going to get carried away.
“Good-bye to you, Mr. Wynter. If you don’t mind, I’d rather reserve my judgment until our business is complete.”
“You do that, General. And send my regards to Miss Morley. . . .”
59
On the way to Tourrettes-sur-Loup, Carver made a detour to Cannes. He dumped the piece of junk he’d hired at the airport and went to one of the specialist luxury car-rental companies that cater to the assorted stars, producers, and account-toting executives from the entertainment industry who flock to the town’s festivals and sales conventions. There he hired an Audi S6 sedan, his personal transport of choice. He loved it for looking as dull as a Ford Mondeo but driving as fast as a Ferrari—faster, in fact, on many roads, thanks to the grip produced by its four-wheel drive: the perfect getaway vehicle.