The accident man sc-1

by Tom Cain

  "Why does Max want me dead?"

  Still she gave nothing away. But her eyes were more tightly focused on him now, more calculating this time, as if she were waiting to see what he had before she made her first move.

  Carver wanted to needle her, provoke a reaction. "Look, I don't blame you for being pissed off. I would be too if I'd screwed up. You shouldn't have tried to take the gun out of the bag, right? You should have just shot through it. So what is it-you're no good at your job? You're out of practice? Maybe it isn't your usual line of work."

  She did react, but not in the way he'd expected. She just looked at him with utter contempt, as if he hadn't a clue. As if he weren't even close.

  He went back to Plan A. "You never answered my question. Why does Max want me dead?"

  Finally she spoke. "I don't know anyone named Max." Her voice was flat, unyielding. She sounded like a suspect in a police interrogation cell who knows the cops can't prove their case. Her accent was American, but spoken by a foreigner. Carver guessed Eastern European.

  "Okay."

  He got to his feet and took a couple of steps to where the black bag was lying on the ground. Bending down, keeping his gun and his eye on the woman all the while, he picked up the bag, then stepped back to his original position, right beside her.

  "Let's see what we've got here…"

  He put his free hand into the bag, pulled out a purse, and flicked it open. There were half a dozen credit cards arranged in slots, one above the other. Carver slid a couple of cards out with his thumb. They bore the name "A. Petrova." He took another look at the outside of the purse, checking out the pattern stamped into the leather: Louis Vuitton. He was starting to put the pieces together, but he needed a little more information to be sure.

  "What does the A stand for?"

  She shrugged. "What A?"

  "On your credit card: A. Petrova."

  "You mean, like a… for 'asshole'?" This time she let a slight, mocking smile play around the corners of her mouth. She'd scored another point.

  He kept riffling through the bag. There was a mobile phone. He opened it up and accessed the address book, keeping one eye on the woman. There were lots of Russian names. Some were people; others he guessed were shops, clubs, or restaurants. There was nothing under "Max." He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it.

  Next, his fingers wrapped themselves around a piece of thin card. It was inserted into a small, stiff booklet: an airline ticket in a passport. He pulled them out of the bag. The ticket was an Aeroflot return from Moscow to Paris. The outward segment had already been torn off and used. Now he knew where she'd come from.

  He knew her full name too. The passport was Russian. It named her as Alexandra Petrova, date of birth September 21, 1967. So she was almost thirty. She looked younger. Maybe she was. Maybe she'd just assumed an older identity. And maybe he'd arranged her death about three hours ago.

  "You've got a Louis Vuitton bag. It contains underwear, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and some kind of silky dress. So, what, you were planning to party once you'd finished the job?"

  This time he knew he'd got through. She didn't say anything, but she frowned. For the first time, the defiance in her eyes was clouded by uncertainty.

  Carver pressed on. "You left the bag in a one-bedroom apartment on the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l'Ile. The bag was on the bed. There was a white Chanel carrier bag next to it, with some perfume, lipsticks, and a small black box-I'm guessing a watch-inside it. You picked that up at duty free, right? Mixing the hit with a nice bit of shopping. I like it, the feminine touch."

  She wasn't impressed. "What are you trying to tell me? You're some kind of stalker?"

  "No, I'm telling you they planned to kill you too. I've got to admit, it was elegant. They got each set of killers to eliminate the other. See, when Max briefed me, he said the apartment belonged to the target. I was supposed to booby-trap it in case he escaped the hit. But it wasn't the target's apartment, was it?"

  She said nothing. Carver let the silence hang between them. He watched Petrova. She wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking down at the ground, thinking, working out the next move. A minute or more went by before she raised her eyes toward Carver again, her hostile glare replaced by a searching examination of his face, as though she were looking for the final clues that would help her reach a decision. Then she made up her mind, nodded to herself, and spoke.

  "Okay. Kursk-the man you say you killed-was given our orders when we arrived in Paris. Someone called him-I don't know if that was this man you call Max. They told us to go to the apartment and wait for further instructions. There were new clothes, boots, and helmets there, one set for each of us, weapons and a key. Also a camera, with a big flash attachment."

  "You got changed?"

  "Yes."

  "So why were your clothes the only ones in the apartment? What about Kursk's?"

  "He threw them away when we left."

  "Why?"

  "How should I know? Maybe he likes to travel light. Anyway, about eight thirty, they called again. We were told to go to Rue Duphot. It's off Rue de Rivoli, near Place Vendome. When we got there, just before nine, Kursk got another call. We were told our target would be a black Mercedes. We had to follow it and use the camera with the flash to scare the people in the car and make them drive faster. After that we had to go back to the apartment, spend the night there, and then fly out in the morning. About an hour later Kursk got another call. It seemed to give him great satisfaction."

  Carver nodded. "It fits. They got you out of the apartment before I arrived. They waited to see that I had completed my work there. Once they knew that you would be killed, they called Kursk to deal with me. Like I said, neat. So now we have a new question: Why did they want us dead?"

  "I don't know. Truly."

  "It must have something to do with the job. Did you see inside the car?"

  "Not really. I had my visor down and the flash from the camera was, you know, reflecting off the windows. I think there were four people: two in front, two in back. One of them might have been a woman. I don't know."

  "Where's the camera now?"

  "The motorcycle. In the box at the side."

  "Was there film inside it?"

  She thought for a moment. "I don't think so. It just flashed."

  "That makes sense. No photographic evidence."

  She looked at him. "So now what?"

  Carver had been watching her as she spoke. She had a wide mouth, full lips, and cool blue eyes. One lid was slightly heavier than the other, one pupil fractionally out of line. Those minuscule asymmetries should have marred her looks, yet the imperfection was mesmerizing, drawing him in. With an averagely pretty, even beautiful girl, he'd look once. With this one, it took an effort to drag his gaze away.

  "Now we make a decision," he said. "I could shoot you, right here and now, and disappear into the night. That has the advantage of simplicity. But I don't want to kill you unless I absolutely have to. So, have you heard the expression 'My enemy's enemy is my friend'?"

  "Yes, I understand."

  "I think we should work on that basis. We've both been set up by the same people. Our best hope is to get to them before they get to us. So, they're our enemy. I guess that makes us friends."

  She raised her eyebrows, gave a little pout, and shrugged her shoulders. "Okay, if you say so, let's talk about that. But first, prove to me that you are a friend. Get me a cigarette. There is a pack in my bag, Marlboro Lights."

  He felt around in the bag, still keeping his eyes on her, until he felt the cigarette pack. He pulled it from the bag, flipped open the top, and shook it so that a couple of cigarettes poked farther out than the rest. Then he reached over, holding the packet close to her mouth.

  She leaned forward, feeling for the cigarettes with her lips, using her tongue to separate one from the rest. She slumped back against the bus shelter wall with the cigarette in her mouth.

  "Got a light?" />
  There was a lighter in the bag. He put the flame to her cigarette. As she breathed in, igniting the tobacco, their eyes met, no more than a foot apart. She didn't say anything, just let him feel the tension as her unflinching, disconcerting gaze held his.

  Several seconds went by before Carver realized he'd broken a basic rule. Their heads were so close she could easily have butted him, smashing his nose. He jerked back, as if evading a blow that never came. She didn't move, just kept looking at him.

  "Do you still have the helmet?" he asked.

  "In the bushes, over there, with the leather jackets," she replied, nodding toward a clump of greenery that lay between the bus shelter and the sewer museum's ticket kiosk.

  "Here's what we're going to do. First we make them think that they've won. That means getting ourselves killed, the more publicly, the better. So…"

  Carver explained what he intended to do and what Petrova's role would be. She nodded occasionally. Every so often she asked a question or suggested an alternative course of action. The hostility had ebbed, however temporarily, from her voice. Her tone was practical, functional, getting the job done.

  At the end he said, "What do you think?"

  "I think we have the same enemy and I think your plan has a chance of success. Beyond that, I don't bother to think. I have only one more question."

  "Yes?"

  "What is your name?"

  "Samuel Carver. Most people just call me Carver."

  "Okay. Most people call me Alix. And now that we have been introduced, are you going to untie my hands?"

  Carver nodded, then pulled a pair of scissors from the same pocket the plastic cuffs had been in. He stepped behind Alix as she shuffled forward, making some space between her back and the shelter. Then he got down on his haunches and forced one blade between the plastic and Alix's left wrist, making her wince as the metal and plastic dug in. Once he'd cut it free, he repeated the process on her other wrist. As he stood up and came around to face her again, she started to rub her lower arms, in an effort to restore circulation.

  Then she held out a surprisingly dainty hand toward Carver. He reached out and shook it, as if sealing their deal.

  "No, you fool," she said. "I want you to help me up."

  Carver chuckled edgily and Alix smiled back. For the first time there was a flicker of warmth, a hint of the woman behind that calculating facade. He pulled her back onto her feet, then slung her bag around his shoulder. She let out a pained sigh as she straightened her spine, then felt the small of her back with her hands.

  "Sorry about that," he said. "You know, just business."

  He regretted the crass words the moment he'd spoken them. There was bitterness in her short, humorless laugh, and when she glanced at him again her eyes had the battered vulnerability of a woman who's no stranger to violence.

  "It's never just business," she said.

  Then she picked up her helmet and they walked together toward the Alma Bridge.

  10

  Nobby Colclough had spent fifteen years as a Metropolitan Police detective before he decided to trade his skills in the private sector. He was used to stakeouts. So now he was sitting in an unmarked Renault Megane, parked in the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l'Ile, watching the world go by. And waiting.

  It was after one o'clock in the morning when he got the word from Max telling him the Russians were on their way. He saw them a few minutes later, riding up on a flashy black bike. Jesus Christ! Max hadn't mentioned that one of them was a bird. She was wearing her skirt pulled right up to her waist so that she could straddle the bike, leaving every inch of her thighs exposed to his gaze. She got off, giving him a quick flash of her panties, then pulled the skirt down over her backside, giving it a little wiggle on the way. Colclough swallowed hard. He wanted to know if the face was as good as the body. Pity the daft tart still had her helmet on.

  Now the bloke got off the bike, grabbed the girl's hand, and hurried her toward the door. Filthy little monkeys couldn't wait to get at it. Well, sod 'em. They were about to get a blow job all right.

  He watched them go in, then called in to base.

  "They've arrived," he said.

  "Stay on the line," came the voice from the other end. "I'm betting Carver set his explosives with short-delay fuses. He'll want to get the targets into the apartment before detonation. Shouldn't take long. Are the lights on yet?"

  Colclough looked up. "No. The dirty beggars probably stopped for a quick one on the stairs. Oh, hang on. The lights have just gone on. Shouldn't be long now."

  Colclough was half right. The place was about to blow, but Carver and Alix had not hung around on the stairs; they'd raced up. Just before they went into the apartment, Carver stopped. He took her black bag off his shoulder, felt inside it for any weapons, then, satisfied, gave it to her.

  "You may need this. Remember, we've got exactly sixty seconds, and you've got to look different when we leave. Go straight to the bedroom, get changed, grab what you need, and get out. Ready?"

  Carver opened the door, walked in, disabled the alarm, and turned on all the lights. As Alix ran into the bedroom, he went into the living room, drew the curtains, and took off his helmet, which he placed on the floor in the middle of the room.

  Twelve seconds gone.

  He strode across to the bookshelves, cut the speaker wires, and put the speakers in the fireplace. The Claymores would still go off, creating the explosion he wanted, but the solid brick and stonework of the chimney-breast would absorb the back blast and restrict the spread of ball bearings. The neighbors should survive okay.

  Twenty-six seconds.

  He retraced his steps back out into the hall, breaking into a run, and crossed into the bedroom. Alix was just slipping on the dress that had been in her case. She had nothing on but a pair of white panties slung low beneath a smooth, flat, pale brown stomach. Her breasts were small and neat with perfect rosy brown nipples. They rode up her chest as she raised her arms and let the ice blue dress slither down her body like mercury.

  Carver didn't give her a second glance. He went around to the far side of the bed, took the Claymore from the wall, and shoved it down between the end of the bed and the mattress, with the rear of the mine facing into the mattress to dissipate its energy.

  Thirty-nine seconds.

  It took three more seconds to get into the bathroom and another five to rip the bomb out of the cistern, take out the detonator, and place both in one of his jacket's side pockets. On the way out, he grabbed Alix's makeup and wash bags, lobbing them toward her as he went back into the bedroom.

  Alix was bending down, slipping on the white sneakers.

  "Thought you might need these," he said with a wry grin, as her startled face looked up at him across the bed.

  She shoved the cosmetics into her black shoulder bag, picked it up, and dashed from the room, her dress fluttering around her thighs. There were ten seconds left as Carver followed Alix out of the bedroom, along the hall, and through the door of the apartment. Carver closed it behind him, and ran for the stairs.

  Five… four… three… Colclough had seen the lights go on. Nothing happened for a while. He wondered if something had gone wrong. He could sense Max's impatience in the silence at the other end of the line. Then the windows of the top-floor apartment exploded outward, showering wood and glass across the street. There was a sharp, pattering sound on the roof and windows of Colclough's car-tiny steel balls raining down like metal hail.

  The street was almost empty. The restaurants had all closed; the tourists had all gone off to their hotel beds. There were just two people wending their way home when the blast went off. The woman screamed. The man grabbed her and tried to shield her with his body as the debris rained down around them. They didn't seem to have been seriously hurt, but the woman was weeping helplessly while the man just stared around him, dazed and uncomprehending.

  "Bleedin' 'ell!" Colclough shouted. "Whoever you got to do that job, he doesn't do nothing by half!"<
br />
  Max didn't seem too excited. "So, there's been an explosion?"

  "Yeah, there bloody has. Hang on a minute, I've got company."

  A woman was running from the front door of the apartment building, a blond in a blue dress. She ran toward the car, her eyes wide with panic, and pressed her face up against the glass. "Help! For God's sake, you must help!" she screamed. She spoke English. Sounded like a Yank.

  Colclough could hear Max's voice on the speakerphone: "What's happening?"

  "Just some bird got caught up in the blast. Nothing serious. Bit hysterical is all."

  He pressed the button and opened the window. The girl leaned in and started tugging at his sleeve.

  "Come quickly, please. It's my mother! She's… Oh God, I think she's dead!" she cried.

  Colclough did not hear the passenger door open beside him. The first he knew of Samuel Carver's presence was the cold metal of the gun pressing behind his ear and the whispered voice that said, "Keep talking. I'm not here. Got it?"

  The ex-policeman's balding head nodded up and down.

  "Now tell the girl to piss off, nice and loud."

  "Er, er, sorry, love," stammered Colclough. "Be happy to help. But I'm busy, see? Got things to do."

  Max's voice snapped over the speakerphone: "Oy, Colclough, get this sorted!"

  "You got it guv'nor," Colclough replied. "Listen, love, you heard the man. Naff off."

  Alix smiled and patted his cheek. "Good boy," she mouthed, then got into the car herself, sitting behind Colclough.

  Carver tapped Colclough's shoulder with his gun to get his attention. With his free hand he pointed at the phone, mounted on the dashboard. Then he pulled his finger across his throat. The meaning was clear: End the conversation.

  Colclough turned back toward the phone. "She's gone," he said. "I'm returning to base. Over and out."

  "Right," said Carver. "Sit on your right hand. Wedge it under nice and tight. Good. Now put your left hand on the wheel. Don't move."

  "Or what?"