by Tom Cain
Her words seemed to affect him, though, because he grimaced.
‘So what happened to her? Did she get kicked out?’ he asked.
Alix gave a bitter smile. ‘No, she graduated with honours.’
Carver mimed the opening of an envelope: ‘And this year’s winner of the Stalin Prize for psychopathic cruelty is …’
Despite herself, Alix could not help but laugh.
Carver said nothing, just looked at her.
Nervous about what he was seeing, she asked, ‘What is it?’
‘Your smile.’
Just the way he said it told her that his feelings had not changed. But maybe she was fooling herself. She realized her pulse was racing. Her mouth was dry.
‘I need a drink,’ she said.
‘Sure.’
A waiter was passing by, his tray laden with glasses of champagne. Carver stepped over to him, took two and offered one to Alix.
She reached for it. Her fingers brushed his, and it was as if an electric circuit had been completed as the energy surged between them. It was all she could do not to drop the glass.
They looked one another in the eye and felt the connection again.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Carver said.
‘I haven’t had my champagne,’ Alix replied.
‘Don’t bother. It’s not the real stuff.’
‘Well, I always want the best stuff there is. Don’t you?’
‘You know I do,’ he said.
Less than a minute later they were hailing a cab.
30
* * *
Carn Drum Farm
THE WEAPON HAD specifically been designed to be as simple as possible. ‘The fewer parts there are, the less there is to go wrong,’ Smethurst had said. ‘People always try to get fancy, you know? Doesn’t matter if they’re the Paddies or the Pentagon, they can’t resist fucking it up with unnecessary complications.’
He’d made sure there would be none of that.
A metal plate had been welded to the base of each of the larger cylinders, with a small hole in the bottom for an electric wire. The wire was passed through the hole into the cylinder, and one of the igniters was attached.
Twelve of these cylinders were placed inside the metal framework, which had already been welded to the floor of the camper van. They were each arranged at fractionally different angles, according to instructions given by Dave Smethurst, who supervised the entire process and checked the results with extreme care. He had spent two hours test-firing shells from that remote cwm, far from prying eyes, then processed the results and determined an individual trajectory for each of his projectiles.
Only when the cylinders were positioned exactly as he wanted them were they filled about one-third deep with the fuel mix of icing sugar and fertilizer, just as an old-fashioned muzzle-loading cannon would have been filled with its load of gunpowder.
The result was a multi-barrel launcher, filled with propellant. All that was missing was something to propel.
That wouldn’t be long in arriving.
Under Smethurst’s direction, two of Gryffud’s men had removed the valves from a dozen of the smaller cylinders. The explosive mix was poured in through the hole where the valve had been, then the fuse and detonator assembly was inserted and the hole resealed.
The small cylinders were placed in the big ones, like one Russian doll inside another, so that the fuse wire from the bottom of the shells nestled in the fuel mix.
The wires from the bottom of each of the launch cylinders were connected to a junction box, along with a thirteenth wire which led to a large plastic jerrycan filled with petrol. The junction box was in turn connected to a timer located by the passenger seat.
The rear door of the van opened vertically. When the multiple launcher was complete and loaded, the door was lowered and welded shut. Then the open top of the camper van was covered with a large sheet of paper, lacquered to improve its strength and water-resistance, and sprayed white to match the van. It was sealed to the roof with clear vinyl tape. Only the closest inspection would reveal that anything had been done to the roof. Only a torrential downpour would break through the lacquered, painted paper. This, too, was another old IRA ploy.
The weapons had been made and loaded. The mission was ready to go.
31
* * *
London
GRANTHAM CALLED WHILE Carver and Alix were in the cab. ‘So, did you speak to your old girlfriend?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And …?’
‘And you were right. Magda Sternberg and Celina Novak are one and the same person. And she was just as tricky then as she is now: manipulative, sadistic, totally cold-blooded. “Celina can make you do anything,” was the way Alix put it.’
Carver put a hand over the phone and mouthed ‘Grantham’ at Alix, who shook her head with a rueful sigh.
‘Don’t tell me you’re getting lovey-dovey with her again …’ Grantham asked, almost as if he’d seen Carver’s gesture.
‘Not with Ginger, that’s for sure.’
‘You know that’s not who I meant.’
‘No comment.’
‘Unbelievable. Some people never learn … Well, if you don’t mind me interrupting your true romance, I have details of tomorrow’s operations.’
‘Fire away.’
‘You’re on the list for this absurd publicity stunt, sorry, this vitally important meeting on energy security. You’ll be Andy Jenkins, a member of the Ministry of Defence support staff. There’ll be a few of them around.’
Carver was having a hard time paying attention to what Grantham was saying. Alix’s hand was making its way up his inner thigh. Grinning, he swatted it away, then did his best to focus on business.
‘Support staff? Sounds like another way of saying non-uniformed special forces.’
‘Your words, not mine,’ said Grantham. ‘But it shouldn’t be too far out of your comfort zone.’
‘So where do I have to be, and when?’
‘Cardiff Gate services on the M4. There’s a motel there called the Ibis. Go down tonight. Check in under any name you like. In the morning, all your Andy Jenkins documentation will be waiting at reception. Your contact will be called Tyrrell.’
‘Is that a first or second name?’
‘It’s the only name you’re getting. He’ll be waiting for you in the motel car park at 7.00 a.m. in a 58 Reg, metallic-grey Audi A4.’
‘And then what?’
‘Get in the car and go with friend Tyrrell to your destination.’
‘But what is my destination?’
‘An oil refinery.’
‘On Milford Haven, presumably,’ said Carver, thinking of the nearest major installations to Cardiff.
‘That’s one presumption, yes. But anyway, keep your eyes open. Check out as much as you can. See if it helps you in any way to find out what the hell Zorn’s up to. When you get back we can discuss what you plan to do about him. Assuming you know.’
‘Oh, I know what I’m doing,’ said Carver. ‘I just don’t know if it’ll work.’
He ended the call and looked at Alix.
‘Were you talking about me just then?’ she asked, with a spark of humour in her eyes. ‘When you said you didn’t know whether it would work?’
‘Of course,’ said Carver. ‘What else could I possibly be talking about?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ she murmured, leaning towards him and gently putting her hand back between his thighs.
32
* * *
Lambeth
‘SORRY ABOUT THIS,’ Carver said as he opened the door to his flat. ‘It’s not exactly five-star.’
‘But you’re in it,’ Alix said, gazing at him.
‘Yes I am.’
‘Then I love it.’
He took her in his arms then, holding her body against him with the fierceness of a man who never wants to let go. He felt himself get hard, and the press of her hips as she responded to it.
The scent of her – not just her perfume but her skin, her hair, even her breath – filled his senses as intoxicatingly as any drug. He covered her mouth with his, and kissed her with a decade of pent-up longing and frustrated desire.
Alix needed the strength of his arms around her. Without them she might not have been able to stand upright. After all this time she was still not immune to him, still failing to retain her self-control as sensations buried for years flooded back with all their old overwhelming power. She felt her body mould to his without any need to think what she was doing. There was no artifice, no tension, just the knowledge that she felt so close, so intimate and so absolutely known to this man that she could barely tell where she ended and he began. The softness of his lips, the rasp of his chin, the way his tongue entered her mouth, the taste of him, the smell of him … It was ecstatic and yet also destabilizing. All her resolution, her determination to remain strong, independent and separate, dissolved. They stumbled through the flat, their lips still locked together, their arms entwined as he led her into the bedroom.
Carver kicked open the door, and only once they were standing right beside the bed did he let go of her. Alix stepped back from him, and in a single fluid movement reached behind her neck, pulled at the bow and let the dress fall to her feet. She stood there in her knickers and her heels, and the sight of her stopped him dead. All this time he’d been imagining what it would be like to see her again, and still he wasn’t prepared for the reality of it. He shook his head in disbelief, and with deep seriousness said, ‘My God, you’re so beautiful.’ And then he was kissing her again, and her fingers were prising open the buttons of his shirt, undoing his belt, unzipping him and slipping under the waistband of his underpants.
As she took hold of him she giggled and said, ‘Hello, old friend.’
Laughing, he wrapped his arms around her again, lifted her off her feet, and they tumbled together on to the waiting bed.
Alix gave a little gasp of pain the moment that Carver entered her, followed by a long, sighing moan of pleasure. The physical sensation of him filling her was matched by an overwhelming rush of emotion, a profound recognition of how different she felt making love with Carver than with any other man she had ever known. The intimacy between them was deeper, their connection more intense. He had always made her feel completely vulnerable, and yet totally safe from harm: she could feel anything, do anything, be anything with him. He could kiss or stroke her with gentleness, almost delicacy, one moment, then overpower her with raw strength the next. And to her amazement, nothing had changed. She knew, with absolute confidence, how wonderful it was going to be, and any intention she might have had of hiding her true feelings was swept away. She wanted him to know the effect he was having on her, and she felt a profound desire to give all of herself to him.
He was looking down at her now with intense concentration, as if he were reading and constantly responding to every one of her desires and emotions. Yet he seemed also to be toying with her longing for him. Sometimes he drove into her so hard and so deep that she wondered how she wasn’t torn apart, only for him to withdraw almost completely, teasing her and moving his hips away from hers as she struggled to get him back before he plunged into her again.
And all the time he was kissing her, stroking her and murmuring in her ear, his defences as abandoned as hers, telling her how he had longed for her, how incredible it felt to be with her and in her again.
She came with a sudden, hot burst of ecstasy that made her cry out. He had not taken his eyes off her face, and the half-smile that played around his lips told her of the pleasure he had taken in her orgasm. But she knew that he had held himself back. Now she needed Carver to come, too.
‘I know what you want,’ she said.
Carver didn’t need an explanation. Alix slid out from under him and knelt on the bed with her back to him. For a second he just looked at her perfectly rounded arse, her slim waist, the arch of her back, and the mane that tumbled around her shoulders. Then he leaned forward and wrapping his left hand around hers pushed it against the headboard.
‘Take my hair,’ she said. He heard the arousal in her voice, and his right hand took a firm hold of her hair, making her gasp. He nibbled at one of her earlobes, feeling her shudder of delight. His chest pressed against her back, and he felt the hot sweat between their skin. Then he took her again.
Up until now, he’d been taking his time with Alix, reading her responses as his cues until she came. As incredible as it had been to be making love to her again, part of him had remained detached, bringing the same cool precision to sex as he did to death. But this time his only concern was for his own pleasure. He was going to fuck her, and that was the beginning and end of the matter.
‘Do it,’ she said.
Now there was no teasing, no variation, no great subtlety. Now he just went at her in a hard, steady, driving rhythm. As he grew more excited he covered her neck and shoulders with kisses whose fierceness increased until he was biting at her skin with quick, sharp little stabs of his teeth. Her moans became louder and higher, and Carver gave a deep animal groan as he felt himself swell still more inside her. He knew she felt it, too, by the way she responded, pushing against him, wanting more and more of him.
Carver felt his orgasm build inside him, the feeling becoming stronger, surging through him, closer and closer to the edge, until at last, with an explosion that felt like someone had just fired a bullet of pure sensory euphoria through his head, blowing his brains out of the back of his skull, he came.
33
* * *
THEY LAY IN bed, their bodies still slick and glowing, grinning in postcoital smugness. Alix felt as though she had been defined anew by the experience of being with Carver again. ‘This is who I am,’ she thought, ‘and where I’m meant to be.’ No one else had ever been able to make her feel this way. And yet the fear still gnawed at her that they had not been able to make their relationship last before: why should this time be any different? She should be wise, and get out now, and yet she could not help wanting him more than anything she had ever wanted in her life. Having him next to her only reminded her of the emptiness of her life without him.
She began to say something, trying to express how she felt, but then stopped herself.
‘What is it?’ Carver asked.
‘Oh … nothing,’ she said.
He looked at her again, and then kissed her face with infinite tenderness. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I know.’
They kissed again. He stroked her cheek, then ran his fingers through her hair. ‘I’ve got to go soon,’ he said.
‘More business?’ This time there was only understanding in her voice.
Carver gave a rueful grimace. ‘Afraid so … It’s nothing too serious. I have to go to some ridiculous anti-terrorism summit.’
‘Is this anything to do with that woman – the one you were asking me about?’
‘Not directly, but there is a connection.’
Alix propped herself up on one elbow, a serious look in her eyes. ‘What kind of connection?’
Carver wondered what he should tell her. He trusted her implicitly. Yet she was supposed to be living with one of Zorn’s investors. She might have divided loyalties. On the other hand, she might also know something about Zorn, something that would help unravel the mystery of the American’s true intentions.
‘She works for a guy called Ahmad Razzaq. He’s Malachi Zorn’s security chief, but it’s not clear where his real loyalties lie. There’s a lot that’s not clear about Zorn.’
‘I agree,’ she said, surprising him. ‘I assume you know I’ve been living with Dmytryk Azarov.’
‘Sure … but it really wasn’t any of my business—’
‘It’s OK, you don’t need to be defensive. That’s over, anyway. I don’t think I’d be here if it wasn’t.’
‘So what ended it?’
‘That’s what I was coming to. We argued about Zorn. And I agree with you. There’s s
omething wrong about that guy. Did you know that none of his fancy offices have leases longer than three months?’
‘Maybe he’s worried his business won’t pan out?’
‘Ha! Have you met Malachi Zorn? That man isn’t worried about anything. Every cent he earned he got by backing his judgement against the world. So if he’s only got short leases—’
‘It’s because he’s not planning to stick around. He’s only renting his house here, too.’
Alix nodded, relieved that Carver had taken her point. His trust in her judgement was an affirmation of the bond between them.
‘You and me,’ he said, shaking his head in wonder as if reading her mind. And then again, ‘You and me.’
‘Mmm …’
‘You think it can work this time?’
She smiled, thrilled that he, too, was thinking about their future. ‘I don’t know, Sammy … maybe we can be smarter this time.’
‘You know I don’t let anyone call me Sammy.’
‘You let me.’
‘Yeah … I do … but then, you’re not just anyone, are you?’
He kissed her again, and then, before she could stop him, got up out of the bed.
‘I really do have to go,’ he said.
Waygal Valley, Afghanistan: two months earlier
Corporal Chico Morales, a section leader in C Company of the 502nd Infantry Regiment, did not claim to be any kind of expert on theology. But he knew one thing: if God had been on the side of the Islamic insurgents in Afghanistan, he would sure as shit have taught them to shoot straight. Since he’d begun his tour of duty in the Waygal Valley in eastern Afghanistan, Morales had lost count of the number of contacts with the enemy when the men of ‘the Deuce’, as the 502nd was known, had been outnumbered, outgunned and in serious danger of defeat. And in every case, the single biggest factor in his getting out alive had been the Afghans’ obsession with ‘spraying’n’praying’. They didn’t fight as coordinated units, concentrating their fire on specific targets. They just blasted away in every direction, each man for himself, and hoped to Allah that some of their bullets actually hit an enemy.