Assassin (14 page)

Maybe it was all pure chance. But Carver didn’t think so, and nor would other people who knew him and would immediately link him to Pablo. He was being framed for another man’s hit. It struck Carver that the corny old bumper stickers had got it right. Just because he was paranoid didn’t mean someone, somewhere, wasn’t out to get him.

He needed someone to talk to. He called Thor Larsson in Oslo and told him what was going on. ‘Am I going crazy here? That whole Pablo thing, I don’t know, maybe it’s just coincidence.’

Larsson was his normal, unflappable, Scandinavian self. ‘It’s got to be. Look at the odds. How many people call you by that nickname any more, or even know about it? And how many Pablos are there in the world? Picasso, Escobar … and lots more no one’s ever heard of. It could be any of them.’

‘But what if someone really is copying me? That’s not good.’

‘What’s that saying you have in England?’ Larsson asked. ‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? Take it as a compliment. You’re so good at your job that people want to make cheap copies, like a Rolex watch or a Louis Vuitton handbag.’

‘Thanks, that’s a big reassurance,’ said Carver with a humourless chuckle. ‘I’m being set up. There are policemen in Dubai pretty much saying they want to kill me.’

Larsson seemed untroubled by the threat to his friend’s life: ‘But you’re not going to Dubai. You’re coming to Oslo. We’ll chill out and let this all blow over. Look on the bright side. At least you’ll be free of this crap soon. I’m getting married for ever.’

‘Ha! Let me tell you, if I had to choose between a lifetime with Karin or a single meeting with that Middle Eastern copper, I’m taking the gorgeous Norwegian blonde every time. Believe me, Thor, it’s only my deep respect for you as a mate that’s stopped me nicking her off you already.’

‘You wouldn’t stand a chance,’ said Larsson confidently. ‘You can’t whisper dirty Norwegian words in her ear the way I can. Anyway, why do you need to steal anyone’s girl? I thought you had a new one of your own.’

‘That’s true, I do. In fact, I was going to ask you, is it all right if I bring her with me to the wedding?’

Larsson’s enthusiasm seemed to vanish in an instant: ‘Er … yeah, sure, I don’t see why not.’

‘You don’t sound very keen on the idea,’ said Carver.

‘No, no, I am … I was just surprised, I think. I didn’t know you were so serious about her. But hey, that’s good, you need someone new. Now come on, you haven’t even told me her name.’

‘Maddy. Maddy Cross.’

‘And I suppose she looks like some kind of model or movie-star or something.’

Now Carver’s laugh was entirely genuine. ‘I think she’s pretty stunning, yeah.’

‘Then bring her to Oslo and I’ll tell you if you’re right.’

Bill Selsey was beginning to understand that he had entered into an arrangement that was much like smoking a first pipe of crack. You might think you could handle it. But it would soon be handling you.

He was scared - physically scared, with prickling armpits and quivering bowels - whenever his anonymous new master called. He’d been on again that morning.

‘So, you got Carver on the run yet?’ the man had asked.

‘How do you mean?’ Selsey replied, stalling for time.

‘I mean, has the Firm taken him off its Christmas-card list? Is he persona non bloody grata? Has he been put on a hit-list yet?’

‘Not exactly …’

‘What do you mean, not exactly?’

‘It’s just that Carver still has powerful friends. One friend, at any rate. He’s not convinced yet …’

‘Have you given him all the information from California yet? The Krebs job?’

‘Not yet: I was going to do that this morning.’

‘About time. And you make sure you do it well. Go upstairs with it, if you have to, over this friend of Carver’s head. Just get the job done.’

‘Your boy Tolland seems to be making a name for himself,’ said Jack Grantham from behind a copy of
The Times
. The words ‘Exclusive: Slavery, Sex and Murder in Dubai: p.23’ were printed in bold white text against a blue banner right across the top of the front page. ‘I hope he gives you a piece of the action when the film studios come calling.’

He closed the paper, folded it in two and put it down on his desk. Then he looked up at Bill Selsey, standing by his desk. ‘So, Bill, what can I do for you?’ he asked.

Selsey gave a nervous grimace, a look Grantham recognized at once as a man bearing bad news to his boss.

‘It’s Carver. You’re not going to believe this, Jack, but it looks like he’s done another job. America this time.’

‘I thought I told you, quite clearly, to find out what he was doing, and tell him to stop it.’

‘So would you like to know what I’ve found out?’

Was Grantham imagining it, or was there an edge to that question?

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Well, a financier called Norton Krebs had a car accident in northern California last week. He had a massive blow-out, swerved off the road and got himself decapitated by some cattle wire - a real Jayne Mansfield job, by the sound of it.’

‘Ouch,’ winced Grantham. ‘And we care about Krebs because … ?’

‘In the first place, because he laundered money for a number of extremely unsavoury individuals, several of whom are suspected of having ties to gangs in this country. And in the second place because the local police in Amador County were puzzled to discover that the valves in the car’s surviving tyres looked a little unusual. So they sent them off for forensic analysis …’

‘Don’t tell me. The valves had explosive filaments inserted in them. And we all know who uses valves like that, because we had to clean up the mess he made on the M25, last time he did it.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Selsey.

‘But Carver’s not the only operator out there who knows that technique.’

‘Absolutely, which is why I wouldn’t even bring it to your attention, except that Carver arrived in Boise, Idaho—’

‘Which is not in California, evidently.’

‘No,’ said Selsey with only the merest sigh of impatience, ‘it isn’t. But it is a great deal closer to northern California than, say, Carver’s flat in Geneva. And Carver certainly arrived there, two Saturdays ago. Our American cousins have supplied security footage from their airport. I’ve got a couple of stills for you here. As you can see, he was met by a woman.’

‘They don’t get any uglier, do they?’

‘Apparently not,’ Selsey agreed. ‘Anyway, this one drove Carver away in a vehicle registered in the name of Madeleine Cross. I checked her record. It appears entirely clean.’

‘Or conveniently so,’ said Grantham. ‘What else have you got?’

‘A couple of days after Carver’s arrival in Idaho, a second-hand car dealer in Boise sold a Tacoma, whatever that is, to a man who gave his name as Carver and answered to his description. The same vehicle and its driver were seen in Amador County near the crash over the days leading up to the crash. Witnesses say the driver spoke with an English accent. Several remember him mentioning Norton Krebs.’

‘And Carver?’

‘He seems to have scuttled back to his new woman. Then they both left the country, together. They’re in Paris at the moment, with tickets booked through to Oslo.’

‘That makes sense. That hippy pal of Carver’s with the ridiculous hair - Larsson - he’s Norwegian. But I still think this is all too pat. I can just about believe Carver would go back to what he does best. But that’s the point - he’s very good at it. He doesn’t leave clues lying around like losing tickets on a bookie’s floor.’

‘Not in the old days,’ Selsey agreed. ‘But maybe times have changed. He’s out of practice, getting a bit ragged. The point is, the evidence overwhelmingly says it’s him. Why should the evidence be lying?’

Grantham shrugged, conceding the strength of Selsey’s point. ‘I think it’s time we got together with Samuel Carver and had a little chat. See if you can set something up, but very discreetly. Keep this under the radar till we know exactly what’s what.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Grantham. He and Selsey had worked together for years, always on first-name terms, with barely a serious dispute. Now his deputy was simultaneously calling him ‘sir’ while disobeying a direct order.

Selsey continued: ‘I don’t think that it’s appropriate to treat Carver’s activities—’

‘Alleged, unproven activities,’ Grantham interrupted.

‘I don’t think that it’s appropriate to treat Carver’s alleged activities,’ Selsey repeated pointedly, ‘as a private matter. If a British citizen is going round killing people in friendly countries, it could have very serious repercussions, particularly if he has links to the Firm.’

‘I see,’ said Grantham. ‘And how would you like to proceed?’

‘Formally,’ said Selsey. ‘I expect to have a full report on Carver’s recent movements, finances, associates and suspected activities ready by tomorrow afternoon. It goes without saying that you will be the first to see it. But I want to state now, for the record, my strong recommendation that it should then be passed upstairs, so that a decision can be made at the highest level as to how we should proceed.’

‘Your recommendation is noted,’ said Jack Grantham in a voice devoid of emotion. ‘I look forward to your report with great interest. Now, if that is all, I am sure you will want to be getting on with it.’

As Selsey left the room, Grantham asked himself what had led to this declaration of war. Both men knew that Grantham could not afford to have his relationship with Samuel Carver exposed to close scrutiny. Selsey was now threatening precisely such an exposure. Under normal circumstances, that would simply be part of the normal office warfare by which an ambitious, unscrupulous deputy might seek to undermine his boss. But Selsey had never wanted Grantham’s job, and even if he did, he would never get it - he was too old, too long mired in middle-management.

There had to be another reason for this sudden hostility. And the more Jack Grantham thought about it, the more he wanted to know just what that reason might be.

Selsey went for a walk along the Thames, as much to gather his nerves as to find some privacy, before he made the call.

‘I think we’re getting somewhere,’ he said. ‘I spoke to … to Carver’s friend. I told him I felt obliged to take the evidence of the two hits to a higher authority. I’m pretty confident that either he’ll have to cut Carver loose, or he’ll be facing a formal review of our links with Carver. He won’t want that.’

‘A review?’ his contact said, his voice rising. ‘That’s the best you can do? I don’t think you’ve grasped the urgency of this situation. I’m about to make my move on Carver. And when I do, I want him to know that he’s all alone, that no one’s coming to rescue him. Forget friends in high places. I don’t want him to have a single friend anywhere. Not one.’

Larsson met them at Oslo airport. He took one look at Maddy and flashed Carver a quick thumbs-up just to signal his approval.

Like any man, Carver felt no obligation to reply to this compliment with any courtesy of his own. ‘Bloody hell, mate, what happened to your hair?’ he exclaimed, looking at the short, neatly styled cut that had replaced his friend’s wild dreadlocks.

Larsson looked down at them like an amiable giraffe, a rueful smile on his face. ‘It was Kari. She said they made me look like an ageing hippy. Apparently, I’m much more handsome now.’

He did not sound entirely convinced.

‘Well, I think you look just cute,’ said Maddy with a hint of a smile, teasing him a little. ‘And you did what you were told, too, which has to be a good thing.’

‘Thor, meet Maddy,’ said Carver. ‘She’s a big believer in the chain of command.’

‘Damn straight,’ she agreed.

‘It’s all my fault, of course,’ said Carver. ‘If I hadn’t got this man’s frozen, half-dead body off an Arctic mountainside and into Narvik hospital, he’d never have met the beautiful nurse who stole his heart … and his balls, apparently.’

Larsson laughed, but there was something forced about his good humour, as though he wasn’t in the mood for banter. It occurred to Carver that it probably wasn’t a brilliant idea, winding a man up about his wife-to-be two days before their wedding, even if he was your mate.

‘So how is Kari, anyway?’ he said, switching to polite conversation. ‘She joining us for dinner?’

Larsson shook his head. ‘No, she’s got her family down from Narvik. They need looking after and there are all the last-minute things to do for the reception. But you’ll see her tomorrow, at the rehearsal.’

‘Can’t wait,’ said Maddy.

Carver looked up at the signs pointing the way to taxis, car-hire, trains and car parks. ‘Where are you parked?’ he asked Larsson.

‘I’m not. We’re taking the train. This is a country where the public transport actually works. I’ll get you both day-cards for the buses, trams and metro. Costs almost nothing and you can use them as much as you like.’

It took less than five minutes to walk through the arrivals hall, get tickets and settle into their seats. A minute after that they were moving. The whole process had been so swift and painless that Carver almost failed to notice the man standing by the airport information desk in the baseball cap and dark glasses. There was something about that face, the hollow cheeks and slightly petulant, sulky mouth that nagged at Carver’s memory, though the answer stayed just out of reach. But there was no doubt the man’s head turned and followed them as they walked by.