Carver

by Tom Cain

  Razzaq laughed. ‘I never forget that! But let us look at the way in which you set about achieving your ends. First, you entice investors to give you enormous sums of money. You create a situation in which they are pleading with you for the chance to hand over hundreds of millions – even billions – of dollars. They are like turkeys begging for Christmas.’

  Now Zorn’s face was split by a schoolboy grin. ‘I know, aren’t they?’

  ‘And of course, Orwell was the perfect man to help you do this. He always had the ability to persuade himself that the best possible course of action was whatever he happened to be doing at the time. He fooled himself first, before he fooled anyone else. Tell me, what did he do with the money you gave him?’

  ‘He gave it right back to me to invest in Zorn Global, of course – his own fee and the charity money!’ Zorn replied gleefully. ‘My bet is he was planning to make a huge profit on all of it, give the charity the original five mill, and keep the rest for himself. I’ve already had messages from his lawyers. Sure as shit they want to know how much money there’ll be for the estate.’

  Razzaq nodded. ‘Without any doubt that is what they want. So, Orwell helped you get the money. Then you found a way of multiplying it many times over. And by complete chance this turned out to be more successful than even you could have imagined. I am assuming that today’s events have returned a much bigger profit because of the deaths of Orwell and the rest.’

  ‘That’s a fair assumption, yes.’

  ‘All right. But it has also caused you a problem which we need to assess. The plan originally called for you to be assassinated prior to the public launch of the fund. Then I would persuade Orwell to host the event in your memory. I say, “persuade” but of course it would have been simple. He would have loved that chance to be the centre of attention.’

  ‘Oh yes, I can see him now, giving them all his big, fat Nicholas Orwell grin …’ Zorn agreed.

  ‘And the investors would all come to the Goldsmiths’ Hall pretending that they were doing it in your memory, but in reality because they wanted to know what was going to happen to their money.’

  ‘Sure … the contracts they signed when they invested their money specified that in the event of my death, they would receive all the money they had invested, plus eighty per cent of any profits. And after Rosconway, they’d all figure that would be eighty per cent of a helluva lot …’

  ‘So they would come to toast your memory and their even greater good fortune. And we’d kill them all.’ Razzaq stubbed the cigar out in the ashtray by his side, punctuating his words with downward jabs as he said, ‘Every … last … one of them.’ He sat back in his chair and went on, ‘But now Orwell himself is dead. So I ask you, how will any of the investors be persuaded to attend?’

  ‘Perhaps you could say that you were going to make the big announcement?’ Zorn suggested.

  ‘Ha! You forget that I know what is going to happen. I am not that foolish a turkey! And that is why I ask you now whether it would not be simpler to cut this whole project short. You already have enough money to last a thousand lifetimes. I assume that you can make sure that your investors never see a penny of it ever again.’

  ‘Of course. Hell, the damn money doesn’t really exist to begin with. There’s no pile of gold, no giant suitcase of cash. It’s just digits, you know, bits of data that get switched from one server to another. It can vanish into the ether any time.’

  ‘And so can you,’ said Razzaq. ‘So my advice is, do it now. Disappear. Go. Vanish.’

  ‘Well, that’s good advice. Don’t get me wrong, Ahmad, I appreciate your concern, and I can see the sense of it.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘But I’m not ready to call it quits. This game has a few more twists and turns just yet. We’re only in the third quarter, and there’s still a lot of time on the clock. I want to see how it plays out.’

  Razzaq frowned. ‘So you want to go ahead with our plans? You don’t want me to call Carver off, for example?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I want him to go ahead and carry out the assassination.’ Zorn emptied his glass, put it down, and then said, ‘Wait till I’m dead. I think the game could look a whole lot better then.’

  Wednesday, 29 June

  65

  * * *

  Putney, London SW15

  IT WAS PAST 11.00 a.m. before Carver got the call from Grantham. ‘We got everything you asked for. The van’s a white Transit, with “McNulty Brothers Builders” written on the side. It’s parked on the rooftop level of the Putney Exchange multi-storey car park, in the far south-west corner. The door’s unlocked. The keys are in the plastic B&Q bag in the passenger-side footwell. So’s that Krakatoa thing you asked for. The rest of the kit’s in the back of the van. Leave your car as near as you can with the keys in the ignition. We’ll have someone waiting to take it away.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, Carver. You’re still screwed if this doesn’t work.’

  ‘What else is new?’

  Carver hung up and immediately put in a call to Schultz, telling him to meet by the van in exactly one hour’s time. Then he texted Alix: ‘On my way. Keep me posted.’

  A minute later he got her reply: ‘Latest update. Standing in bra and panties, deciding what dress to wear. Want to look my best for you, haha!’

  Carver laughed. ‘Dress code update,’ he texted. ‘U will be thrown out of Wim if turn up in bra and knickers. But would not be thrown out of my bed.’

  Alix wrote again. ‘Down boy!! Gotta go xxx’

  Carver grinned, then closed the window. There was nothing wrong with having a few jokes before you went into action. But it was time for the laughing to stop.

  It took forty-eight minutes to make his way in the Audi through heavy South London traffic to the Putney Exchange Shopping Centre. He wound his way up through the multi-storey car park to the open expanse of the rooftop level. The van was exactly where Grantham had promised it would be. Carver found an empty space nearby and left the keys as Grantham had told him to do. He had barely got to the door of the Transit when he heard an engine start up behind him, and seconds later the Audi was driving past on its way to the exit.

  He opened the Transit’s passenger door. The B&Q bag was sitting on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Carver reached in, picked the bag up and looked inside. Aside from the keys it contained a couple of plastic garden pegs linked by a short length of green nylon twine; a thin disc of copper about 15 cm in diameter, beaten into a shallow cone; a packet of Polyfilla that had been opened and then resealed with a bright yellow plastic clip; and a series of grey plastic components. These comprised a short, open-ended tube whose diameter was a fraction greater than that of the copper disc; a couple of locking rings, similarly sized; a plastic disc, again as wide as the cylinder, to which a tightly looped length of electrical wire was attached; and four rigid plastic sticks, each about 30 cm in length. Anyone looking into the bag would assume that they all fitted together to form some kind of plumbing device.

  Carver cast his eye over it all, muttered, ‘Good,’ to himself, then closed the passenger door again and walked around to the back of the van. He opened up the rear cargo-bay doors just enough for him to see inside, without enabling anyone else to glimpse what was there. This time his reaction was a little more effusive: a broad smile and a murmured, ‘Excellent.’

  He closed the doors and made his way to the driver’s seat. Two minutes later there was a rap on the window. Schultz and Cripps were standing outside. Carver lowered the window, then handed them the B&Q plastic bag. ‘There you go.’

  Schultz looked inside and grinned broadly. ‘Lovely jubbly,’ he said. He and Cripps walked back to their car, an old Mazda 626 saloon. Carver rolled up the van’s window and started the engine. Two minutes later they were all on their way.

  Meanwhile, on the crowded approaches to Putney Bridge, the Chinese agents trailing the silver Audi were asking themselves why it was heading
north, back over the river towards Central London, in the opposite direction to Wimbledon. It was only when they were on the bridge itself and able to accelerate enough to bring their car alongside the Audi that they realized Carver was no longer at the wheel. The string of obscenities that followed was equalled only by Derek Choi’s fury when the news was relayed to him.

  It took Choi several minutes to obtain the latest tracking data for Carver’s phone signal. That, at least, was moving in the right direction. So his destination had not changed, even if his method of transport had. And once he got to Wimbledon, there were only a limited number of gates by which he could enter. Choi calmed himself. Nothing had really changed. Carver was still on course for his death.

  66

  * * *

  Wimbledon

  AZAROV’S OTHER CAR was a Rolls-Royce Phantom. It nosed its way into the area of the Wimbledon Park Golf Club that was rented out every year to the All England Club and used for car parking and corporate entertainment marquees, and proceeded with a barely perceptible purr towards the spaces reserved by Malachi Zorn. Zorn was waiting there to greet them. He opened Alix’s door himself, standing to one side as she smoothed down her skirt, then swung her legs together out of the car. Zorn held out his hand and she took it, rising gracefully to her feet till she was standing beside him on the close-cropped grass.

  ‘Such a gentleman!’ she said, looking up at him from coyly downcast eyes. He laughed and then held her hand to his lips, kissing it with a playfully exaggerated smack, as if to underline that he was an informal American, just kidding around with this ancient European custom.

  ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ he said.

  ‘Tu es trop gentil,’ she replied, slipping into French without a second thought. She smiled at Zorn again, much to his delight, and this time the smile was genuine. As she and Azarov walked arm in arm towards the gates of the All England Club, Alix was truly happy. She already knew the answer to the first question Carver had asked her in Kensington Gardens.

  Carver saw Alix making her way to her seat half-a-dozen blocks away, and his mind flashed back to another summer’s day, more years ago than he really cared to remember, and the sight of her in another silk summer dress. He only had to close his eyes for a moment, and he was back at that table at the Eden Roc restaurant, looking out across the sun-sparkled waters of Cap d’Antibes. He could see her on the deck of General Kurt Vermulen’s yacht, the wind pressing her dress against her body, outlining every curve. He’d watched as she’d kissed Vermulen, thinking it was just an act, and not knowing until it was too late that she had fallen in love with the general and would soon become his wife. Now Vermulen was dead, another entry on Carver’s personal casualty list, and there was Alix once again, in a summer dress, looking just as beautiful – and with another man.

  He watched as she sat down, said something to the thuggishly handsome man to her left, and laughed at his reply. Was that Azarov? Carver wondered. They looked pretty friendly for a couple who’d all but called it a day. Alix reached into her bag and, still half listening to the man, pulled out her phone and started tapping on its screen.

  A few seconds later Carver’s phone buzzed. It was a text from her: ‘Re: Zorn. U were right. Ax’

  Immediately, Carver tapped out a message to Schultz. ‘Mission is go. Be in position by 16.00. Wait for my signal.’

  Then he texted Alix back. ‘Thanks. You look amazing.’ Carver smiled as he saw her glance up and search for him in the crowd. She didn’t find him, but he knew that when she sat back, crossed her legs, tossed her head and ran her hands through her hair she was putting on a show just for him.

  He sat back to watch the tennis. Quinton Arana had made it into the quarter-finals. Zorn wasn’t going anywhere while the American kid was on court. As long as he had a great seat on Centre Court, Carver thought he might as well enjoy it.

  Arana won in five. Zorn and his guests took time out in the third set to grab a late lunch. Carver did not go with them. He did not want to be spotted in the restaurant. And if for any reason Zorn decided to leave, Alix was on the lookout and would tell him: that had been the second favour he’d asked her. But Zorn wasn’t ready to go just yet, because he and his group returned for the second half of the match, cheering every point Arana won and politely applauding his opponent’s successes. At the end of the match Alix got up, as did the other woman in the party, and made her way out again. Carver was pondering the apparent inability of women ever to go to the ladies’ room without company when he got another message.

  ‘Need to see you. Meet at deb holders’ entrance. Now! Ax’

  Something had gone wrong. Why else would she be texting? Carver rose from his seat and headed for the exit.

  67

  * * *

  A MILE OR so away from the All England Lawn Tennis Club the old Mazda saloon pulled into a parking space on Southside Common, which, as its name suggests, runs along the south side of Wimbledon Common. The space was just beyond the junction with Murray Road, a typically leafy Wimbledon street filled with large suburban homes, where the average property won’t leave change from two million pounds.

  ‘There you go, boss,’ said Kevin Cripps.

  ‘Cheers,’ Schultz replied, hefting his massive bulk out of the cramped passenger seat and on to the grass verge that ran beside the road. About ten metres away across the grass was a tarmac path that followed the line of the road. On the far side of the path stood a pair of park benches about twenty metres apart. One of the benches was directly in line with the space where the Mazda had parked. Schultz made for it. He was carrying the B&Q bag that Carver had given him. While Cripps settled himself lower in the driver’s seat, as if about to take a nap, Schultz stood beside the bench and looked around. Yes, this was the place all right.

  He got down on his haunches, screwed up his eyes and stared intently past the Mazda to the far side of the road, where a row of trees screened the traffic from the Common. Schultz plotted an imaginary line from his position, through the Mazda, to a tree directly behind it. From the B&Q bag he took the two garden pegs, linked by twine. Just by his feet there was a large clump of dry, wispy grass. Schultz forced one of the pegs down into the earth just behind the clump, placing it at one end of the imaginary line. Then he placed the other peg in the ground, making sure that the twine was good and taut.

  Schultz took another look: both pegs, the car and the tree were all perfectly in line.

  Now he sat down on the bench and very carefully examined the car and the tree, noting their relative positions when seen from this fractionally different angle. He went back to the pegs and made another sighting from there. Then he checked the view from the bench again. Now he was satisfied.

  The first part of the job was done.

  68

  * * *

  DEREK CHOI WAS sitting at a table on the Tea Lawn, not far from the bandstand, which gave him a view of Centre Court debenture holders’ entrance. Two of his restaurant workers, both agents of the State Security Ministry, were with him. A female voice sounded in his ear: the agent he had stationed in the stands of Centre Court. ‘Carver has got up from his seat. He is leaving the stadium.’

  Choi switched to another line. ‘Attention! The target is in motion. Prepare to move on my signal.’

  On the Aorangi Picnic Terrace, the grassy slope otherwise known as Henman Hill or Murray Mount, a trio of young Chinese adults – two men in jeans, T-shirts and bomber jacket, and a woman wearing a singlet, miniskirt and Converse Hi-Top trainers – calmly got to their feet. All three were registered as students at a language school in Central London. One of the men pointed at the action on the giant screen fixed to the outside of Number One Court, directly opposite the terrace, and said something that made the girl laugh as she brushed a few leaves of grass from her skirt. The sound of her laughter made a man sitting nearby turn around and then fix her with a stare of frank appreciation as he took in her long black hair, prettily smiling face, pert breasts and long bar
e legs.

  She was carrying a squashy leather shoulder-bag, big enough to carry her phone, her make-up, a knitted top in case it got cold, and all the other random items that any young woman needs. It also contained an EpiPen – like the one used by diabetics to inject themselves with insulin, except that this was filled with deadly toxin – and a loaded QSZ-92 9 mm pistol, produced by a Chinese state arms factory. Not so many young women need those.

  Choi was wearing dark glasses that hid eyes now entirely focused on the debenture holders’ entrance. He saw Carver emerge from Centre Court. Choi waited for a moment to see where his target was heading, but Carver stood still. He was waiting for something, but what? Choi saw him glance at his watch, betraying his tension. Then another figure appeared in the doorway, a woman. Choi recognized Petrova, the Russian who had been with Carver two nights earlier, and whose name had so infuriated the Sternberg woman. Choi frowned. Had Carver really set up some kind of romantic assignation, right in the middle of an active operation? Or were the two of them working together? It made no difference. Carver was exposed and standing still. He would never be more vulnerable. It was time to move.

  Without betraying the slightest suggestion of urgency, Derek Choi rose unhurriedly from his seat. He took a couple of twenty-pound notes out of his wallet and placed them under one of the teacups under his table. ‘Time to go,’ he said to the other two men at the table, who also stood up. Then Choi spoke into his microphone, a single word: ‘Go!’