Tom Cain

by Samuel Carver 01 - The Accident Man (v5)

  He made his way back to the street. There were three police cars and a couple of ambulances jamming the road outside the café. A forensics man was taking pictures of the two bodies on the sidewalk. A few feet away there were two other men, having some sort of an argument. They were speaking in French, but as Carver walked by, he realized one of them had a pronounced English accent.

  “I must insist on being allowed to inspect the bodies,” the man was saying. “I represent Her Majesty’s government. These were my colleagues. They may be carrying official documents, which I must retrieve.”

  “I bet you must,” thought Carver. The only government officials who went on stakeouts in foreign countries were MI6 agents. They’d moved faster than he’d expected. Now he’d have to move faster still.

  At the end of the road, he stopped by his own car, an Audi RS6. It looked like a perfectly normal example of Audi’s solid, ultrareliable midrange model, but appearances were deceptive. Beneath its bland steel gray exterior lay a 4.2-liter V8 engine that would rocket it up to sixty miles per hour in a hair over four seconds. It had four-wheel drive that clung to the road like iron filings on a magnet. There wasn’t a police vehicle in Europe whose driver would give it a second glance. But if any cop ever tried to chase it, he’d discover he couldn’t get within glancing distance anyway.

  Carver slipped behind the wheel and got the hell out of town.

  55

  Yuri Sergeyevich Zhukovski was not an impressive physical specimen: no more than medium height with a narrow face, his short, graying hair starting to thin on top. His charcoal suit, white shirt, and nondescript patterned tie suggested a man who had no interest whatsoever in looking fashionable or making a show of his wealth. He could easily be taken for an intellectual of some kind, an academic, perhaps, or a scientist. His voice was quiet and unassuming. But the steely chill of his eyes and the directness of his gaze revealed the truth about his ruthlessness, his ambition, and his desire for power. If the former colonel Yuri Zhukovski of the KGB spoke quietly, it was not because he was too meek to shout. It was because he had absolute confidence that his merest whisper would instantly be obeyed.

  His day had begun with an eight a.m. meeting in Moscow, discussing the purchase of the last aluminium smelter in Russia that was not yet in his hands. His negotiating tactics were very simple: He named a purchase price, then informed the vendors that if they did not accept it, they would be dead within the week. That was the way business worked in the frontier economy of the new Wild East, and it suited Zhukovski very well. Not all his business interests, however, were proceeding quite so smoothly. Not all his partners were quite so open to intimidation.

  In the Challenger jet that had flown him to Switzerland that afternoon, Zhukovski had taken a call from an African president. He was an old comrade from Communist days, who’d been KGB-tutored in Kiev like so many members of Africa’s late-twentieth-century ruling class. But there was nothing comradely about him now. He was trying to renege on a hundred-dollar million order. And it wasn’t for aluminium.

  “My dear Yuri,” intoned the raddled despot, whose holdings in Zurich precisely matched the aid that had poured into his country over the past three decades, down to the last billion, “as I have explained to you many times in recent weeks, this isn’t personal. This is politics. We just can’t be seen to be purchasing the type of product you are proposing to sell us.”

  He spoke English in a voice that combined the sonorous musicality of African speech with the languid self-confidence of an English gentleman. After Kiev, he had completed his studies at the London School of Economics. This too was typical of his caste.

  “I am not proposing anything, Mr. President. I am honoring the contract we both signed,” Zhukovski said patiently.

  “A contract signed under very different circumstances, when a very different mood prevailed in Western governments. The simple fact is, we have been under intense pressure to alter certain aspects of our defense procurement and strategy. People have even threatened to withhold the aid my people need so desperately.”

  Zhukovski’s eyes closed in mute frustration as he made his reply. “Please, Mr. President, spare me the heartfelt speeches. We made a deal. I’d be obliged if your nation would stick to it.”

  “I’m afraid that will be impossible,” said the president. “But don’t blame me. Blame that damn woman, parading herself in front of all those television cameras.”

  “That damn woman is now dead. She won’t be in any position to influence anyone anymore, and the only cameras she’ll be parading in front of will be the ones at her funeral. Everything will soon go back to normal.”

  “Well, I hope it does. And if it does, I’ll be only too happy to buy your products again, Yuri. But until then, our deal must be postponed. And don’t act so outraged. I doubt I’m the only one of your clients who’s decided to rethink his plans.”

  Zhukovski remained outwardly calm, his voice betraying none of his frustration, let alone his anger. “As you know, Mr. President, my dealings with my clients are always completely confidential.”

  “Quite so. Well, send my regards to Irina.”

  “And mine to Thandie. Good-bye, Mr. President.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Zhukovski.”

  Yuri Zhukovski closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, calming his mind. He had two more calls to make. One was to a government minister in Moscow, assuring him that his monthly payment would arrive in full and on time. The other was to the senior partner of a Monte Carlo law firm, who represented the family whose patronage had been responsible for Zhukovski’s rise from a midranking officer to a multibillionaire; the family who had bankrolled his purchase of state assets at knockdown prices; the family who were his secret masters. They would need to be reassured that their assets were still secure. They would not hesitate to find another front man if such assurance was not forthcoming.

  Zhukovski’s Bentley met him at the private airport east of Lake Geneva and whisked him off to the mountain estate just outside Gstaad. He’d been there for almost four hours when he got the message from Kursk. Carver had escaped again, but then Kursk revealed, scarcely able to keep the sadistic glee from his voice, that he’d captured Alexandra Petrova.

  Zhukovski could imagine what Kursk would do to Petrova if he were ever given the chance. That time might yet come. But when Kursk pulled up outside the palatial chalet - the Swisscom van absurdly out of place on a driveway intended for supercars and limousines - Yuri Zhukovski had not yet decided what to do with his lovely runaway.

  “Alexandra, what a pleasure to see you,” he said as she was led into his study, looking bedraggled and exhausted, barely able to stand. “I was wondering when we’d meet again. You look tired. Sit down.” He glanced at a butler hovering at the far side of the room. “Get her something to eat and drink.” Then he focused his attention back on the woman in the dirty blouse and torn blue skirt, her head bowed, a hand rubbing the bruise at the back of her scalp. “Now, Alexandra, tell me what you’ve been up to. Tell me . . . everything.”

  Zhukovski’s tone could not have been more charming, nor could his concern have sounded more genuine. But the menace behind the sweetly spoken words was as sharp as a naked blade.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2

  56

  Carver spent what was left of the night in a Novotel outside Macon, eighty-odd miles inside the French border. He’d driven all the way on side roads, staying away from expressways, tollbooths, and prying official eyes. Along the way, he’d considered what to do next. Every minute that passed put Alix in greater danger. So far as Kursk was concerned, she had betrayed him. His boss would certainly feel the same way. The longer she stayed in their hands, the farther away they could take her and the more harm they could do.

  Yet he could not afford to take stupid risks. If he wanted to get to Alix, he first had to reach London in one piece, confront Lord Crispin Malgrave, and uncover the men behind the Paris conspiracy. But it looked like the Russian mafia and
British intelligence were onto him. By now his description would have been posted at airports, docks, and train stations. If he was caught along the way, he’d never get to her at all.

  He woke at half past seven and put in a call to Bobby Faulkner. It was an hour earlier in London, but he’d never yet met anyone with small children who slept much beyond dawn. His friend picked up the phone with a sleepy, “Uhhh, hello?”

  Carver got straight to the point, “Is your line secure?”

  Faulkner let out a tired chuckle. “Morning, Pablo. Two calls in three days, that is an honor. What do you mean, is my line secure?”

  “Are you bugged, tapped, under any kind of surveillance?”

  “I’m a real estate agent these days, Pablo. You’d know that if you’d bothered to stay in touch. So unless the competition is trying to find out if any tasteful three-bedroom properties in need of minor refurbishing are coming onto the market, no, I’m not bloody bugged. Why do you ask?”

  “I need a favor, a big favor. You know, brother-officer kind of thing.”

  “The sort I have to do for you on account of all those years we spent fighting side by side, saving each others’ asses, getting pissed. . . .”

  “Yeah, that kind.”

  “You’ve got a nerve, haven’t you? But then, you always did. So tell me about this favor. I’ll make a cup of very strong coffee and try to wake up.”

  “Okay,” Carver said. “Do you still have that boat?”

  “Ye-e-s,” said Faulkner, cautiously.

  “Where do you keep it?”

  “Poole, just like the old days. And it’s ‘her’ not ‘it,’ you should know that. Come on, Pablo, what’s this all about?”

  “I need to get across the Channel and I don’t want to go through any checkpoints, customs, or passport controls. So that leaves sailing across. And you’re the only bloke I know with a thirty-six-foot yacht. So I need you to come and get me. If you’re in Poole, I reckon Cherbourg would be the best bet.”

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line, then the clatter of a china mug on a marble countertop. “Let me get this straight. You want me to sail solo a minimum of nine hours, assuming the wind and tide are feeling kind, pick you up at Cherbourg, and then spend another nine hours bringing you back? Christ, Pablo, if you’re going to be in Cherbourg, anyway, take the ferry like any normal human being.”

  “No, Bobby, I really can’t. And you won’t be sailing solo on the way back. I’ll be crewing for you.”

  “God almighty. . . . When’s this crossing supposed to take place?”

  “Tonight. You’d have to get over there today and I need to get back under cover of darkness.”

  Another long pause: Carver heard water being poured into a cup, the rattle of a spoon, then the slurp of a man taking that first hot sip of morning coffee. Finally Faulkner spoke.

  “Okay, Pablo, what’s the story? What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to. Listen, I’m a married man. I’ve got a family to think about. I can’t go risking my neck just because you call up and ask me a favor. I have the right to know just how much trouble I’m getting into.”

  “Yes,” agreed Carver, “you have that right. But you really don’t want to know what’s going on here. If you take me across, I’ll say good-bye the moment we get to dry land and I won’t get back in touch until this is all over.”

  “Until what is all over?”

  “Until I’ve sorted out a little personal problem.” Carver thought for a moment, trying to work out how much he could say. “Listen, Bobby, I’ve met a girl, the first since Kate who’s meant anything to me. I think she might be someone really important in my life.”’

  Faulkner laughed. “And you need to get into the country without her husband finding out?”

  “I wish. No, she’s been kidnapped. Someone grabbed her last night, a Russian. But I don’t know where he’s taken her, and I don’t know who he’s working for.”

  “Where was she when this Russian took her?”

  “Geneva.”

  Another sip of coffee, then, “I don’t get it. Why do you need to come here?”

  “Because the people who gave this bloke his orders, or know who did, are in London. But I don’t want them to know I’m on the way. So no credit cards, no customs, no passports.”

  There was silence at the far end of the line. “Well, you in?” asked Carver.

  “I think I feel a touch of flu coming on,” said Faulkner.

  “Are you saying you’re not well enough to help?”

  “No, I’m saying I’ll call in sick at work. Can you get to the yacht basin at Cherbourg by nine this evening, local time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. See you there, then.”

  “Thanks, Bobby, I owe you.”

  “Oh yeah, you do.”

  Bobby Faulkner didn’t enjoy telling his wife he was disappearing for the next twenty-four hours, minimum, leaving her to cope with the baby while he did a favor for a man neither of them had seen for three years. Wives did not, by and large, believe that their husband’s loyalty to the men he’d served with should exceed his loyalty to his woman and children. Bobby could see that Carrie had a point, a bloody big point, but he also knew that the honor codes that bound brother-officers were unbreakable.

  It was perfectly obvious that Pablo Jackson was in serious, possibly criminal trouble, but that made no difference. Faulkner had known old Booties who’d ended up in jail before now. You turned up at court to give them moral support, kept an eye on their families while they were inside, and threw a bloody great party when they got out. And you did it because you knew that if the positions were ever reversed, they’d do the same for you.

  That was why he made another call of his own.

  “Hello, Quentin,” he said, when he was put through.

  “Bobby, dear boy, what can I do for you?”

  “I just had a call from Pablo Jackson. Did he get through to you the other day? I gave him your number.”

  “No. Pamela said he’d rung the house, but I never heard from him.”

  “I think he’s in a bit of bother.”

  Faulkner explained the situation, ending with a request for help. “I’d be bloody grateful for a hand on the boat. It would make the crossing a lot easier.”

  Trench laughed. “So we’d reverse our old positions, eh? You’ll be my skipper and I your humble crew.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that, QT.”

  “Don’t worry, just pulling your leg. I’ve got a couple of meetings today, but nothing my secretary can’t reschedule. Where do you need me?”

  “Poole Yacht Club, ten o’clock. My boat’s the Tamarisk, a Rustler 36. I’ll be onboard. Just step on deck and we’ll be off.”

  “Well, then, no time to waste talking. See you there.”

  57

  “Have you made the calls?”

  Bill Selsey looked at his colleague with sympathy in his eyes—sympathy and an intense gratitude that he’d not been the one who’d had to do every senior officer’s least favorite job.

  “Yeah.” Jack Grantham looked drained of his usual air of purpose. “She was an only child, you know. Her parents’ pride and joy. A First at Cambridge, a glittering career. All that was missing was the husband and children. The worst thing is, the parents have no idea what their kid’s really been up to. At least if your boy’s in the army you know there’s always the chance of bad news. But these people were sitting there thinking their little girl had a safe diplomatic job in Switzerland. And who the hell ever gets killed in Switzerland?”

  “How did you explain it? Car crash?”

  “Yeah, the usual: a hit-and-run, tragic accident, death was instantaneous, she didn’t suffer. All that bollocks.”

  “I got you a coffee.”

  Selsey handed over a white plastic cup filled with an indeterminate brown liquid. Grantham took a drink
and grimaced.

  “Bloody hell, that’s awful.”

  “Some things don’t change,” said Selsey. “New HQ, same old rubbish coffee.”

  Grantham managed a bitter laugh. He drank some more, then shook his head.

  “It wasn’t meant to be like this. I told them, just watch, don’t get involved.”

  “I know,” agreed Selsey. “I said the same thing. Told her to be careful. Are we sure yet, how it all happened?”

  “Pretty much. Murcheson, the other lad from Bern, spent all night with the Geneva police. He’s seen all their forensic evidence, read the witness statements. Johnsen was taking photographs right up to the moment he decided to get involved. It seems pretty clear that our Russian friend from the black BMW, the one we think killed Papin, had managed to swap vehicles. He’d got hold of a telephone company van and was using it to watch one of the properties on the street. Presumably it was the place Papin had led him to, where the Paris crew were hiding out. So he’s watching that and we’re watching him and everything’s just peachy, until for no good reason anyone can work out, the Russian decides on a change of plan and goes into this café.”

  “Maybe he just fancied a decent cup of coffee?”

  “Well, I can sympathize with him there. But there must have been more to it than that because Johnsen took it upon himself to go up to the café himself, and by the time he got there the Russian had grabbed a young woman—identity unknown, by the way—and was dragging her out the door. Then Johnsen decides to do his knight-in-shining-armor act and gets shot for his trouble. So then the Russian starts shooting witnesses, two in the café and Stock, who’d come rushing up the road when she saw her partner go down.”