Papin had been through the footage. Even if they had hidden their faces from the camera, he would have recognized them by their clothes or the way they walked.
So what does Carver do?
Papin got up from his seat and walked over to the small table where his cafetière was standing, poured out the last dregs into his dirty cup, and grimaced at the feel of the cold, gritty liquid on his tongue. He was about to spit it out into his wastebasket when the solution suddenly struck him. Of course! Papin’s face broke into a triumphant grin. Unless he had led his girl on a mad dash across the railway tracks, Carver must have got on whatever train was waiting on the platform opposite the one to Milan. Papin reached for a timetable and there it was, departing at thirteen minutes past seven, the express service to Lausanne, Switzerland. Carver and the girl had been on that train, he was absolutely certain of it.
As reluctant as he was to ask for help from any of his rivals in Paris, Papin had no hesitation in making a late-night call to Horst Zietler, of the Swiss Strategischer Nachrichtendienst, or Strategic Intelligence Service. Zietler had nothing to gain by screwing him. Papin got straight to the point.
“Horst, I need your help. I’m trying to find two people—a man and a woman. I think they arrived in Lausanne by train from Paris earlier today.”
“Anyone I need to be concerned about?”
“No, they’re no danger whatsoever to Switzerland. But . . .”
“They’re an embarrassment to France?”
Papin chuckled wearily. “Something like that. Let’s just say I’d like to know where they went once they arrived in your country.”
“So, what do you need?”
“Cooperation in Lausanne, interviews with any station staff who were on duty yesterday, maybe a look at security footage from, say, ten a.m. to noon. But, you understand, this is unofficial, off-the-record.”
“I’ll have a quiet word with the station manager in the morning. I’ll tell him you’re from the federal interior ministry, following up on a possible visa irregularity—purely routine, nothing to worry about. Your name will be Picard, Michel Picard. You’ll need an ID. I’ll e-mail a template: Work from that.”
“Thanks, I owe you.”
“Certainly, but I’m sure you can find a way of paying me back. . . .”
Papin laughed again, this time with genuine amusement. “Well, now that you mention it, there’s a house we’ve been watching by the Parc Monceau, filled with remarkably beautiful girls. It’s attracted some very interesting clients with impressively exotic, imaginative sexual tastes. Perhaps I should send you some of the video footage to see if any Swiss citizens are involved. Purely as a matter of international cooperation, you understand.”
“Of course,” agreed Zietler. “What other reason could there be? As always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Pierre. The documentation you need is on its way.”
Papin was on the early-morning flight out of Charles de Gaulle to Geneva. He planned to be in Lausanne by the time the station manager arrived for work.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
31
Carver woke just after three in the morning. It took him a second to work out where he was. He was lying on the sofa, still dressed, but someone had draped a duvet over him. He pondered the significance of the gesture. It certainly seemed like a good sign. Faced with a choice between killing him as he slept or making him comfortable and tucking him in, Alix had reached for the duvet.
So where was she? There was no one in the kitchen, nor in Carver’s office. The bathroom was empty, though a pair of women’s underpants was drying on the towel rack. That left only one possibility. Carver opened his bedroom door as quietly as possible and padded across the room.
She was in his bed. He could see the outline of her body under the sheet, the shock of her pitch-black hair against the white pillow. One arm was flung out in front of her, half- covering her face. As she breathed she let out an occasional soft, barely audible snuffle.
Carver smiled then shook his head as he recognized a long-forgotten emotion: affection.
Fancying a woman was one thing. But when you heard her snore and thought she was cute, well, then you knew it was serious.
It took an effort of will to turn around and leave the room. As he walked back down the hallway, Carver thought about everything Alix had said earlier. He believed the stuff about her joining the KGB. But the very fact that she had been trained to deceive men made him doubt the rest of her story.
She’s working behind the desk at a fancy hotel when some thug comes along and says, “Do a highly dangerous, top-secret mission with me in Paris, or I will tell the world you were a hooker?” No, that just didn’t sound credible. On the other hand, it didn’t automatically make her his enemy. There were all sorts of reasons why she might want to lie about her real identity and purpose. God knows he did it enough.
He checked his phones and office computer to see if she’d tried to talk to anyone or send any messages while he was asleep. His phones were routed through a sequence of relays that made it impossible for anyone to track where he was. The system also tracked any activity. There had been none at all. He logged on to his ISP mail server—nothing there either.
That left the stolen laptop. It was conceivable that Alix had used it. The bag was still on the kitchen chair where Carver had left it when they arrived at the flat. It looked untouched. But that meant nothing. She would have been smart enough to leave everything exactly as she’d found it.
Carver opened the padded black nylon case and pulled out the laptop. It was a Hitachi, another gray plastic box just like a million others. Carver opened it, pressed the power button, and waited while the operating system booted up. A box immediately appeared, demanding a password. Carver didn’t have a clue what Max had chosen as his personal open sesame, and he’d bet his bottom dollar Alix didn’t either. So no one had sent anything from this computer since the last time Max had used it. Carver closed the Hitachi again. He certainly wasn’t any kind of techno-wizard. But the next person who opened up this laptop would be.
He was sure now that Alix had not been able to communicate with anyone since he left her mobile on the Milan train. For now, at least, their presence in Geneva was still secret.
Carver suddenly realized he was starving. He went to a cupboard and pulled out a box of cornflakes. They were at least three weeks old, but that was too bad. At least the milk was fresh and cold.
He ate the cereal sitting at the kitchen island. After a couple of spoonfuls, he reached for the TV remote control and turned on the set. They were still talking about the princess, showing the same crash-site footage, the same holiday memories. There was a picture of her in a swimsuit that made her look unusually thick around the middle. Some guy on CNN was speculating that she might have been pregnant. Other reporters were commenting on the absence of CCTV footage. Twelve cameras covered the roads between the Ritz Hotel and the Alma Tunnel, but not one of them had produced a single image of the Mercedes at any stage of its journey. He sighed. Whoever had set this up had powerful friends. But he had a few friends too.
Carver washed his bowl and put it on the draining board. He wiped the milk and cereal splatters off the counter, using these simple domestic chores as a means of clearing his mind. He stood by the phone for a second, his hand hovering over the handset. Finally he picked it up and dialed a number. It rang several times, then there was a grunt of irritation at the other end of the line.
He grinned. “Wakey-wakey. It’s Carver.”
“Uhhh . . . what time is it?”
“Half past three. Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. But this is urgent. We need to meet. Can you be at Jean-Jacques in twenty minutes?”
There was another grunt, of assent this time. Carver grabbed the computer, pulled a leather jacket from a peg in the hall and headed out the door. He walked downhill towards the lake, through the commercial district by the shoreline and onto the Pont des Bergues, a V-shaped bridge whose two arms me
t by a small island jutting out toward the lake. A walkway linked the bridge and the island, which was planted with trees and illuminated by spotlights. At the far end there was a statue of a man in Roman robes seated on a chair, looking out across the lake with a frowning, thoughtful expression. This was Geneva’s most famous son, the eighteenth-century philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
As Carver reached the statue, he heard a voice from the shadows. “‘Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.’ Well, Monsieur Rousseau, you got that right.”
Carver laughed. “Now, now, Thor, stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
An extraordinary figure walked into the light. He was well over six feet tall, rake-thin, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and topped with an explosion of blond dreadlocks. He rubbed his face with his hand to emphasize his exhaustion. “Aww, come on, man,” he said, in a singsong Scandinavian accent. “You wake me up in the middle of the night and make me come running like a poodle. How do you expect me to feel?”
“Come and rest your weary bones on this park bench,” said Carver. “See if I can make it worth your while getting out of bed.”
He’d met Thor Larsson four years back, at a bar where they’d both gone to hear a visiting American blues guitarist. They’d got to talking over a couple of beers. By the fifth or sixth round, Carver had discovered that this golden-haired Rasta was both a professional software engineer and a former lieutenant in the Norwegian army’s intelligence corps. “National service,” he’d said, apologetically. “I didn’t have any choice.”
“That’s nothing,” Carver had replied. “I did a dozen years in Her Majesty’s royal marines. And I bloody volunteered.”
They’d listened to the blues, talked, drank many more beers. Larsson became his tech-man. He never asked precisely why Carver needed untraceable e-mail and telephone accounts, computers that were at least eighteen months ahead of anything available on the open market, and guaranteed penetration of any network, anywhere. He just did the work and accepted the extravagant amounts of cash Carver paid him for his skill and his discretion.
“What’s the big deal, then?” the Norwegian asked.
“This,” said Carver, holding up the computer case. “There’s a laptop in here that I need to get into, past all the encryption and password protection. But here’s the problem: There are people who want this computer and the information on it. And they want it badly. If they ever discover you’ve got it, or even that you had it and you know what was on it, they won’t piss around. They’ll come after you.”
“So what’s the good news?”
“I’m going after them, which is why I’d really like to know of any names and addresses listed on this thing.”
“You mean, there are people out there, trying to kill you, and you don’t even know who they are?”
“I’m working on it.”
“No, apparently I’m working on it. So, this laptop, is it gonna be a challenge?”
“Oh yeah. One thing I do know about these guys, they’re very well-connected. They’ll be using military, maybe even NSA-level encryption. Don’t ask me about the details, but it’s bound to be real high-end stuff.”
Larsson gave a rueful smile. “Don’t say that, man. You know it only tempts me.”
Carver grinned back. “Well, if you don’t think you’re up to it, I understand. . . .”
The Norwegian shook his great shaggy head. “This is going to cost you, big-time.”
“Doesn’t it always?”
Carver handed over the case. Larsson turned to leave, but Carver stopped him. “Seriously, Thor, this could get tricky. Keep your eyes open. If you even suspect that someone’s after you, grab the computer and get out. Don’t hang around, you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“And if you get anything out of that address book, contact right away. It could save both our asses.”
Larsson gave a nod of acknowledgment. They walked together, not speaking, back up the path to the bridge. When they got there, Larsson turned right, toward the more modern side of the city. Carver made his way back to the Old Town, following the familiar winding streets up the hill until he arrived at his building.
Alix was still asleep. It was half past four. Carver got undressed and lay back down on the sofa, obeying one golden rule of military life: Never miss a chance to eat, sleep, or shit. The next thing he knew, the apartment was filled with light, a hand was gently shaking his shoulder, and a soft, slightly breathy woman’s voice was saying, “I forgot. Do you take milk and sugar in your coffee, or not?”
32
Carver opened one eye and held up a hand to shut out the morning sun streaming in through the open window. “Uh, hi,” he mumbled. “Um, I’ll have it strong, just a drop of milk, two sugars, thanks.” A thought struck him out of nowhere and he pulled his hand down to cover his mouth. “Christ, I haven’t brushed my teeth. Hope I’m not too toxic.”
Alix laughed. “I think I’ll survive.”
She stood there, outlined by a glowing halo of light. She was still wearing his old T-shirt, just that and a pair of underwear, her hair still tousled from bed, not a scrap of makeup on her face. Carver had never seen anything so beautiful.
“Bloody hell, you’re gorgeous,” he said. He sounded surprised, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was there.
“Silly man,” she said, and ruffled his hair. The touch of her fingers on Carver’s scalp sent thrilling shock waves through his entire body. “Go and brush your teeth. I’ll bring you your coffee.”
Carver didn’t know how he was going to get off the couch without revealing just how pleased he was to see her. He grabbed the blanket to cover himself and scuttled from the room, both of them laughing, sharing the knowledge of what was happening.
He dived under the shower, quickly washed with the water as hot as he could take it, then swung the thermostat back the other way and stood for twenty seconds under a blast of water as pure and cold as a waterfall. Now he was properly awake.
He’d brushed his teeth and was dragging a razor over his chin when she walked in, holding a cup of coffee. He caught her eye in the mirror and smiled, just for the pleasure of seeing her there. She walked up to him from behind, handing him the coffee with one hand and running a finger down his spine with the other. He took the cup, placed it on the basin, then turned around and leaned toward her, but she lifted the finger up to his lips, holding him back with the barest touch of her skin against his.
“No,” she murmured, her voice much throatier now. He could see her nipples outlined against the T-shirt’s flimsy, faded cotton. His skin felt electric, craving the touch of her body, but she gently turned him back to the mirror. “Finish shaving. Drink some coffee. We have time.”
She stood behind him, leaning up against the wall and watching him with forensic attention as he finished shaving, rinsed his face, and dried with a hand towel that was hanging next to the sink.
He chucked the towel onto the floor beside him, then he turned around. Carver stood stock-still, unsmiling, just looking at the girl. Her eyes narrowed, meeting his gaze and matching it, neither one of them backing down.
He crossed the room in two strides and lifted her bodily off the floor, pressing her up against the wall as he kissed her with a passion that had been caged inside him for too long. She answered his intensity with her own, pushing her mouth against his, wrapping her arms around his neck, and gripping his waist with her thighs.
Carver brought his arms around under her and held her up to him, never breaking away from their kiss as he carried her through the door into the bedroom. He put her down on the floor beside the bed, breaking away for just long enough to slide the T-shirt over her head as she stood with her arms up, arching her back and bringing her breasts up toward him. Then he was running his tongue around a nipple and she was ripping the towel from his waist and they were rolling onto the bed and at last their hunger could be satisfied.
The second time around, the frenzy was replaced by
tenderness, the urgency by a lazy, indulgent, mutual exploration; getting to know the taste, the smell, the feel of each other; each beginning to learn what the other needed most.
Later, as they were lying together, her head nestled against his shoulder, he felt her body turning. She looked up at him, her chin resting on his chest.
“I had forgotten it could be like that,” she whispered.
He stroked her hair, gently circling a thumb around her temple. “It’s been a long time for me too.”
“Who is she? The girl in the picture.”
“Her name was Kate. We were supposed to get married.”
“Did she leave?”
“She died,” he said softly
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, it’s time I talked about her. I’ve spent the past five years trying not to. That hasn’t got me very far.”
She nodded. “Fine, then tell me about Kate. In fact, tell me everything. You promised yesterday, remember?”
“I was hoping you’d forgotten.”
“I am a woman. I never forget.”
Carver laughed. “This KGB training you did, was interrogation part of the curriculum?”
“No, it comes naturally.”
He grinned. “You’re great, you know? Just great.” He ran a hand along her body, relishing every contour. “And I’m not just saying that because you’ve got a perfect ass.”
She slapped his hand away in mock annoyance. “Kate!” she said.
“Okay, Kate . . . well, I’d been a marine for, I dunno, ten years or so. Typical soldier boy—you know, love ‘em and leave ‘em, nothing serious. But with Kate, I don’t know why, it was much more serious, right from the get-go. I met her at a party. We started talking and we didn’t stop till it was morning. We just cuddled up in this big old armchair and told each other pretty much everything about ourselves. By the end of the night, I knew she was the woman I was going to marry.”
Tom Cain Page 15