The accident man sc-1

by Tom Cain

  "So shouldn't we be doing something else? You know, something useful or important?"

  "Such as what? This is like any other operation. Most of the time you spend just waiting around. We don't know if the operation's going to work. We don't know if we'll be alive tomorrow. What could be more important than seizing every moment we can?"

  She considered what he had said, weighing the merits of his case. Then she smiled. "Okay," she said. "Let's seize the moment."

  41

  Pierre Papin was dog tired. He had worked for almost forty-eight hours, virtually without a break. His eyeballs felt like sandpaper and his brain had been coshed. With every passing minute, thought became more of an effort and his tension and uncertainty increased. And yet, for all that, he was making progress.

  Some of the locals had been uncooperative, but even dumb insolence provided a form of information. He'd gone into a small cafe, demanded to see the owner, flashed his ID, and shown him the pictures of Carver and the girl. The man had shrugged and said, "Never seen them before in my life," but the answer was too quick. He'd not even bothered to examine the photographs.

  There'd been a small boy in the cafe, six or seven years old. Papin had got down on his haunches, held out the picture of Carver, and put on his most wheedling voice: "Have you seen this man come into the cafe?" But before the boy could answer, the cafe owner had picked him up and stuck a finger in Papin's face, hissing, "Leave my son out of this!"

  Papin knew he must be getting really close. He knocked on doors, approached women taking dogs for walks or bringing shopping back to their homes, made inquiries with impeccable politeness and a dash of charm. Soon he had discovered Carver's address. But he did not know whether his quarry had returned to his apartment while he'd been making his inquiries.

  The Frenchman needed to answer that question before he made his next move. He slogged up the endless stairs to the fifth floor of an ancient apartment building and knocked on the door. The sound of a lock opening was followed by the sight of a very respectable-looking woman of pensionable age peering around the half-open door with the look of disapproval that was clearly her default expression.

  Papin showed her his card and, adding an enticing note of intrigue to his voice, explained that he was deeply sorry to disturb madame, but there had been reports of an illegal immigrant settling in the apartment level with hers in the adjoining building. Before taking the appropriate action to rid the neighborhood of such an undesirable, he wished to discover whether the individual in question was currently in occupation.

  He produced a device that looked like a doctor's stethoscope attached to a microphone. This seemed to convince the old lady, or at least to arouse her curiosity. She let Papin in, offered him coffee and biscuits (he declined with profuse thanks for her kind hospitality), then watched, in fascination, as he placed the microphone against several points on the wall abutting Carter's apartments, listening intently each time. Finally, Papin stepped away from the wall, folded up his listening device, and shook his head. "The individual in question is not in residence, madame," he said, sounding suitably frustrated. "But have no fear. I will be maintaining a vigil all day. He will not escape."

  A few minutes later he was standing on the top-floor landing of the building next door, facing a simple dark blue door.

  So this was where his quarry hid from the world. Papin was tempted to break in and grab the laptop. It must be in there; Carver hadn't been carrying it when he left that morning. But there were bound to be security measures- Carver was not the type to leave himself unprotected-and even if there were not, Carver would know that someone had been there the moment he stepped through the door, and he'd be off like a startled gazelle. It was far better to keep a low profile. Papin was certain the two of them would be returning to the apartment that day. They'd been walking through town like lovers on a day off, not fugitives on the run-they weren't going anywhere. He'd save them for the highest bidder.

  It was time to call Charlie. But when he dialed the number, Papin was put through to another phone and a voice he didn't recognize.

  "To whom am I speaking?" he asked.

  "That doesn't matter."

  "Then this conversation is over."

  "Wait a moment, Monsieur Papin. I am Charlie's superior. You are talking to me because he does not have the authority to deal with your financial conditions, and I do. I'm afraid that I cannot accept your demand for five hundred thousand dollars."

  Papin had expected some form of negotiation. "Alors, monsieur, I am sorry. If you will not pay me the required sum, I will find a client who will."

  "Three hundred. And that is my final offer. Not a penny more."

  "No, I will not lower my price. But I will make you a deal. You pay me two fifty up front, I take you to the location. From there it will be one twenty-five if you find the people, one twenty-five for the computer. You will not pay in full unless you have everything you need. Fair?"

  There was silence at the other end of the line while the man considered the offer. Papin wondered what the counterbid would be. But then came a grunt of assent: "Fair enough, monsieur. So what are the arrangements?"

  "You will send one man to the front entrance of the Cathedral of Saint Pierre in Geneva, Switzerland. I will be there for precisely five minutes, starting at five p.m. local time. I will be wearing a dark blue suit and holding a rolled-up newspaper. I apologize for the cliche, monsieur, but it will suffice. Your representative will say, 'Charlie sends his regards.' I will reply, 'I hope Charlie is well.' He will say, 'Yes, much better now.' He will then hand me the first half of the payment-remember, bearer bonds, endorsed in my name. I will give further instructions at that time. Your man may have backup for any action that is required, but he will only call for this backup when I give permission."

  "I understand. Five o'clock this afternoon at the cathedral. I will have someone there. Thank you, Monsieur Papin."

  "On the contrary, Monsieur. Thank you."

  Papin put down the receiver, raised his eyes to the ceiling, then let out a long sigh of relief. He rubbed the back of his neck as he pondered his next move. He had the money in the bag. He didn't need another bidder. But what if there was a way to make more than one deal? He might yet be able to double his money. Yes, that would be something. And if he played it right, he could get the killers and their bosses off his back for good.

  42

  Deep inside the futuristic, postmodernist ziggurat on the south bank of the river Thames that had been the headquarters of MI6 since 1995-and which its more cynical inhabitants, unimpressed by the building's expense, vulgarity, and sore-thumb prominence, had dubbed "Ceausescu Towers"-Bill Selsey was sitting by a telephone receiver, waiting for a call. Beside him were other secret service officers wearing headsets, operating digital audio recorders, and monitoring the connection between their lines and the tracking equipment at GCHQ. Jack Grantham was sitting at the same table as Selsey, ready to listen in on whatever Pierre Papin had to say.

  The phone rang. Selsey paused for the technicians' thumbs-up, then picked up the receiver.

  Papin was all apologies. "I am so sorry, Bill, but I already have a buyer for my information. We are meeting at five p.m."

  "Well, I'm sorry too, Pierre. Maybe we could have done some business."

  "Maybe we still can."

  "How would that be?"

  "You could buy my buyer."

  Selsey rolled his eyes across the table at Jack Grantham. What was the Frenchman playing at now?

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "Simply that I can now provide you with a complete package: the people who killed your princess and the people who hired them."

  Selsey couldn't help it. He laughed out loud. "So you shaft the people you've just done a deal with and sell them out to us?"

  "Exactly."

  "Bloody hell, Pierre, you've got a nerve! Presumably you'd like to be paid by us too."

  "But of course. The price is the same: five h
undred thousand U.S."

  "Yeah, well, there's just one problem. We don't have that kind of money lying around. You know how it is, endless bloody budget cuts, every penny has to be justified in triplicate. Probably the same with your lot, right?"

  "Yes, it's true. We cannot afford to be extravagant. But this is not extravagance. This is a small outlay for a huge return."

  Across the room a signals tech gestured at Selsey to keep talking. He mouthed the words "almost got it." Selsey nodded. He kept talking.

  "I agree. If we did get that entire crew, it would be good. But to be honest, that's what concerns me. You're planning to deceive a group of known killers. I'm not sure you want to be doing that. In fact, I'd say we're the only people you can trust. We're pros, like you. We're not in the business of harming our allies' agents. So why don't you come in with us? We'll keep an eye on things, cover your back. I mean, even if your clients don't discover you're about to rat them out, they may decide they don't want to pay your money after all. They may try to get it back… over your dead body."

  "But it would be of no use to them. That is why I demanded endorsed bearer bonds. They can only be cashed by me. No, Bill, your offer is very kind, but I'm sure I can look after myself. And also I would be safer without you. If I do not sell my clients to you, they have no need to harm me. And if I do sell them, and they find out, then I do not think you would be able to save me. So I want money to cover the extra risk, or no deal. What is it to be?"

  Selsey looked across at the signals tech and got a thumbs-up. "Then I'm sorry, Pierre, but it's no deal."

  "I'm sorry too, Bill. Another time."

  And the line went dead.

  "Good work," said Jack Grantham, leaning across the table to give his colleague a supportive pat on the arm. "So, where is the treacherous little sod?"

  "Geneva," said the signals tech. "Public phone on the Rue Verdaine, right by the city cathedral."

  "Damn!" muttered Grantham. "We can't get there in time from here. We'll have to use someone local." He picked up a phone and dialed an internal number. "Monica? Jack Grantham. Something urgent's come up in Geneva. Who do we have in the UN mission there?… What do you mean one of them's on holiday? It's September, people should be back at work… Okay, well, get the chap-sorry, the woman, my mistake-get the one who isn't busy lying on a beach and tell her to give me a ring asap, would you? And see what we can rustle up from the embassy at Bern-that's not far from Geneva, right?… Excellent. Well, tell them to call me once they're on their way. Coordinate with the girl in Geneva… Yes, Monica, I know she's a grown woman, it's just a figure of speech… Well, whatever this female is, I want to talk to her. Now."

  He put down the phone with exaggerated care, shook his head silently, then turned to Bill Selsey.

  "Right, Bill, this is strictly a surveillance job. I don't want people running around the streets of Geneva firing guns and playing at double-o-seven. I just want every scrap of information we can get on the killers Papin claims to have found. And I want to know about every phone conversation, every e-mail, every text message in and out of Geneva this afternoon. And do me a favor, Bill. Get onto Cheltenham and Menwith Hill. Tell them we need saturation coverage."

  43

  Grigori Kursk put down his mobile phone, kicked the hungover blond out of bed, and threw some money after her as she grabbed her clothes and scuttled from the room. He reached for the empty vodka bottle on the bedside table and held it up to the light to see if there were any dregs left at the bottom. He needed something to kick-start his day. He'd been given new orders and was getting back to work.

  He called Dimitrov's room, just down the hall of their two-star hotel in the center of Milan. "Wake up, you lazy cocksucker! Yuri called. We've got a job, Geneva, three hours' time… Yeah, I know that's not enough time. That's why you've got to get your ass out of bed and down to the lobby. Tell the others. By the front desk, five minutes. Anyone who isn't there, I will personally ram an Uzi up their backside and let rip. Got that?"

  Five and a half minutes later, Kursk was at the wheel of a BMW 750, forcing his way into the lunchtime traffic on the Via de Larga. He had 330 kilometers between himself and Geneva, and the cars around him were moving slower than a legless man in a tar pit. He pressed his fist to the horn and kept it there, screaming locker-room obscenities at every other driver on the road. No one around seemed too impressed; in Milan that passed for everyday behavior. Kursk slumped back in the driver's seat. "Fucking Italians. They move fast enough when there's an army after them."

  Finally, the lights ahead turned green, the traffic began to move, and they started to make progress. Kursk relaxed a hair. He took a pack of Balkan Stars from his shirt pocket, pulled one out of the pack, then reached for the car's lighter. He took a deep drag and kept driving, one hand on the wheel, the other holding the cigarette.

  Sitting next to him, Dimitrov decided it was safe to risk a question. "So, what are we doing in Switzerland?"

  Kursk blew smoke toward the windshield. "We're meeting some French bastard and he's going to take us to that whore Petrova and her English lover boy."

  "And then?"

  "Then we kill the Frenchman and we take the other two back to Yuri. And then, God willing, we kill them too."

  Kursk rolled down the window and yelled at the car ahead of them. "Get that useless pile of crap out of my way, you spaghetti-eating son of a whore!"

  "Forget it, Grigori Mikhailovich," said Dimitrov. "He doesn't understand Russian."

  Kursk pulled his head back inside the car. "Oh no, Dimitrov, that gutless bastard knows exactly what I'm saying."

  44

  Carver had been impressed by the way Alix had shopped. On the rare, very rare occasions he'd allowed himself to be dragged along behind a woman on a retail expedition, he'd been bored, exhausted, and massively irritated by the endless trail from one crowded, overheated rip-off joint to the next; the constant riffling through rack after rack of clothes that looked identical to him; the relentless questions-"Does this make me look fat?" "Which do you prefer?" "Will this go with those boots we saw?"-to which he could only silently contemplate the same, unchanging answer: "How the hell would I know?"

  But Alix was different. She bought clothes the way he bought munitions. She had a purpose in mind. She knew the effect she wanted to create, and she supplied herself accordingly.

  Now she was preparing for her mission with the same professionalism. She showered. She toweled herself off, blow-dried her hair, and came back into the bedroom, where Carver was still lying on the bed, draped in a thick terry-cloth hotel robe, waiting for his turn in the bathroom.

  Alix got out her underwear and took off her towel. Carver was intoxicated by the intimacy of watching her as she slipped into her panties and bra. He relished all the sights and sounds that are so normal, even banal, to a woman, yet so fascinating to a man: the slither of fabric over skin, the snap of elastic, the little twists and adjustments of her body, the self-absorption as she examined her appearance in a full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door. Yet there was nothing showy about her actions. She seemed indifferent to Carver's eyes washing over her, as if, like a dancer or model, she were so used to being naked in the presence of other people that any modesty or coyness about her body had long since evaporated. Nor was there any vanity in the way she looked herself up and down. Her expression was serious, her self-examination meticulous. She was getting ready for work.

  As she stepped away from the mirror, she finally glanced at Carver.

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you'd better get dressed fast before I lose all self-control."

  "No," she said. "Fun is over. Time for business."

  She walked across to the dressing table, which was already dotted with bags of makeup, pots of skin cream, a can of hair-spray, brushes, combs, and a couple of paper shopping bags. One contained a skullcap made of some kind of nylon that looked like thick pantyhose. She put it on, pushing her hair beneath it until
every strand had disappeared. As she worked, she caught Carver's eye in the dressing-table mirror.

  "So, were you always rich?" she asked.

  He looked at her with eyebrows raised, taken by surprise by her question. "Rich? Me? Christ, no! Far from it."

  "But you were an officer. I thought in England only the upper classes became officers."

  Now he smiled. "Is that what they told you in KGB school?"

  "You can tease me, but it's true. The rich lead the poor. It's like that everywhere."

  "Maybe, but I didn't become an officer because I was rich. I became an officer because I was adopted."

  Now it was her turn to be surprised. She stopped her handiwork and turned her body to face him.

  "How do you mean?"

  "My mum gave me away. She was just a kid who got pregnant. She came from the kind of family where abortion wasn't an option, but they weren't going to have a teenage daughter pushing a pram around, either. So they sent her to a home for unwed mothers, told everyone she was visiting relatives abroad, and then got rid of the baby as soon as they could."

  Alix had turned back to the table and was rummaging through her makeup as she listened to Carver's story. Now she looked into the mirror again, frowning this time.

  "Who raised you, then?"

  "A middle-aged couple. They'd never had children of their own. They were nice enough and they meant well, but they couldn't cope. In time they realized that they wanted a quiet life more than a scrappy little rascal running around the place, making a racket all day. So they sent me off to boarding school. They felt it was the best thing for me."