No Survivors (15 page)

He told himself not to be so stupid. He had almost always worked alone. Why shouldn’t the man now lying on his bed have done the same? But his head was filled with fears of pursuit. His body, meanwhile, was exhausted. He’d forgotten how draining a fight could be. It might only have lasted a few seconds, but the fear and tension that preceded it, the intense physical strain of the battle itself, and the release that came with survival had overwhelmed him. His muscles ached. His brain felt sluggish and unfocused. He had reached the outskirts of Geneva when another thought hit him: What if the car had been fitted with a tracking device?

He cursed his sloppiness. It should have been automatic: Check an unknown car for a tracker or booby traps. But that hadn’t even crossed his mind until it was far too late. No wonder he wasn’t being followed. They didn’t need to bother. They already knew where he was.

Then he thought of the killer’s phone, still sitting in his coat pocket. As long as it was on, anyone with access to the local networks could use that to locate him, too. He reached inside the coat and switched off the phone. After one last look in the mirror, he pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car, got out, and looked around. He was somewhere in the ribbon of suburbs and small towns that sprawled northeast from the city and ran right around the northern shore of the lake to Lausanne and on to Montreux. The road he was on ran parallel to a railway line. Up ahead he could see a sign for a station, barely more than a halt on the line, called Creux-de-Genthod. The name rang a bell. He’d been there before.

He started jogging along the road toward the station and had almost reached the entrance when he remembered that there was a restaurant on the far side of the road, down by the lake. He’d taken women for lazy meals by the water. Sometimes he’d hire a boat for the day and sail there, mooring at the jetty just along from the terrace where they put out tables in the summertime. He had a vivid impression of walking up to the place and seeing blue parasols and striped awnings, the girl he was with squeezing his arm, happy to be arriving for a meal by boat. Then he remembered something else, the way he’d felt at times like that: not sharing the other person’s pleasure, but cut off, his mind still processing the death he’d just inflicted, or planning the one to come.

Carver thought about going down to the restaurant to use the phone. It was past midnight and they’d be closing up, but he’d say his car had broken down. He wanted to get in touch with Thor Larsson. He felt badly in need of an ally. But then he saw a flash in the corner of his eye, the gleam of a train’s headlights coming down the track. If he ran, he could catch it and go all the way into town. The journey would take less than fifteen minutes. He’d call Larsson when he arrived.

On the train, he found a seat at the far end of a carriage, from which he could easily monitor anyone who came in through the sliding door beside him, or moved down the aisle between the rows of seats. This probably was the last train of the night; there weren’t too many other people onboard. Still, he couldn’t relax. He stared at the other passengers, trying to work out which of them might pose a threat. He told himself to stop—they’d think he was a nutcase. But he kept doing it anyway. It had been months since he’d been out in the world, surrounded by strangers. It was hard to fit back in.

As he left the train at Geneva, he kept darting glances at the other people walking down the platform. A teenage boy, out with his mates, caught his eye.

“What are you looking at?” the kid shouted.

One of his friends, made bold by the presence of his gang, joined in. “You some kind of pervert or something?”

“He’s a pedophile,” said one of the others, and they broke into a jeering chorus: “Pedo! Pedo!”

Carver turned away from them, his shoulders hunched. By the time he reached the public phones, he was sweaty with embarrassment and shame. He called Larsson.

“Carver?” Larsson sounded like he’d just heard a ghost. “That’s not possible. I mean . . . how . . . what happened?”

“I got better. Look, we need to meet. My flat, soon as possible.”

“Hold on,” said Larsson. “Where are you calling from? How come you’re not at the clinic?”

“Had a bit of trouble there. I’m in town now. I need to leave tonight, get right away from here. But there’s a couple of things I’ve got to do first.”

“What kind of things?”

“Nothing dramatic. I just need to start looking for Alix. Look, can you get to the flat or not?”

“I guess so.”

“Great. And bring the keys. You’ve still got them, right?”

“Yeah. Alix had the original set, but I’ve got copies.”

“See you there.”

Carver took a cab, looking out of the window all the way, getting used to the sights of the city again. He made the cabbie drop him off a couple of blocks away from his apartment, started walking off in the wrong direction, then corrected himself and made his way through the warren of narrow, twisting streets at the heart of the Old Town. He was constantly looking back over his shoulder, checking out the parked cars, twitching with nerves at every unexpected movement or sound.

A few doors down from his destination, Carver stopped for a moment outside a small café whose front door was set a few feet below ground level, just down a short flight of steps. The building looked familiar, but there was something out of place. It was the sign over the café door—he was sure it had been changed. He tried to recall what had been there before, or what the significance of the café had been, but this time the image wouldn’t come. He stood there for a second, frowning in concentration, trying to get at the memory that was still so tantalizingly out of reach. He wondered what had happened here that was so bad his brain still refused to acknowledge it. Then he turned away and walked on, cursing himself for standing like that, stock-still, out in the open, where anyone could get at him.

On the other side of the city, a Russian FSB field agent named Piotr Korsakov, the man who had just killed Marianne Marchand and her husband, Clément, hailed a taxi. He gave the driver precise directions to his intended destination: a place to which, his superiors had decided, Carver would most likely head. His next target was on the move. There was no time to waste.

O
n the shores of Gull Lake, Minnesota, with the last traces of daylight fading from the iron-gray sky and the trees on the far side of the lake barely visible, Dr. Kathleen Dianne “Kady” Jones got ready to meet her first live nuclear bomb.

A research scientist at the Los Alamos nuclear facility in New Mexico, Kady was one of the volunteers on call to a unit of the U.S. government’s Department of Energy known as NEST. The initials stood for Nuclear Emergency Search Team and they precisely described the unit’s task, which was to cope with national security’s worst nightmare: a bad guy with a nuke.

Since NEST had been founded in 1975 there had been more than one hundred reports of possible threats. Of these, around thirty had been investigated. They were all hoaxes. Homemade portable nukes made great storylines for movies. A team of seventeen government scientists even tried to build a bomb as an experiment, just to see if it could be done. But in actual fact, there had been no unauthorized nuclear weapons of any kind on U.S. soil.

Until now.

The call had come in from the FBI in Minneapolis-St. Paul to the Department of Energy’s Emergency Operations Center in Washington, D.C. From there, it was routed to the NEST headquarters at Nellis Air Force Base northeast of Las Vegas. Within minutes, Kady had been assigned to lead a seven-person NEST team. Within the hour, they had taken off from Los Alamos County Airport, on the way to Minneapolis.

The team’s destination was a waterside vacation property on the shore of Gull Lake, a popular destination for city dwellers seeking fresh air, good fishing, and fun on the water. The FBI had cordoned off the area with the help of local police. Floodlights had been brought in to light up the modest timber cabin. The special agent in charge was named Tom Mulvagh.

“So what’s the story?” Kady asked, as her team began unloading gear from one of the two black Econoline vans that had transported them to the site. She was holding a gloved hand across her brow to keep the rain out of her eyes. A bright-red fleece hat was jammed down over her chestnut hair.

“The owner here, name of Heggarty, bought the place four years ago,” said Mulvagh, his face half in shadow beneath his hooded parka. “Now he’s looking to convert the loft space, fit in an extra bedroom. Anyway, he’s measuring up and he can’t figure it right. The interior dimensions of the loft space don’t match the exterior dimensions of the building. He keeps coming up three feet short. Then he realizes that the end wall of the loft is really a partition, with space behind it. So he knocks it down and that’s when he sees a large, brown leather suitcase—he described it as kind of old-fashioned, not like a modern style. He looks closer and there’s an electric cable coming from this sack, connected to a power supply in the wall.”

Kady grimaced. “Tell me he didn’t open the case.”

“Sure he opened the case—human nature. That’s when he saw a metal pipe, a black box with a blinking red light, and what he called, and I quote, ‘That damn towel-head writing.’ ”

She frowned. “Arabic?”

“Don’t think so. From his description, we concluded it was Cyrillic script—Russian.”

“Okay, so now did he keep his hands off the pipe and the box?”

The special agent grinned. “Yeah, he was smart enough to get scared at that point. He called up the PD in Nisswa, and they passed him on to the Crow Wing County sheriff ’s office in Brainerd. They contacted us, and here we all are.”

“Better check it out, then.” Kady looked around. “We’re going to be wearing protective suits. I guess we can change in the vans.”

“Sure,” said Mulvagh, “but do it quick. Makes me nervous standing around here, thinking about what’s in there.”

She gave him a reassuring pat, as if she were his protector, even though Mulvagh looked a decade older than she, and was six inches taller and probably fifty pounds heavier.

“Trust me—it’s okay. If that device really is some kind of Soviet bomb, it’s almost certainly got a permissive action link—that’s a specific code to be entered before it’s armed. Without that, nothing’s going to happen. My guess is it’s been in position for a decade, probably more. And if it hasn’t gone off in all that time, why’s it going to blow now?”

“Because it doesn’t like being disturbed?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be extra polite.”

L
arsson’s battered Volvo station wagon was already waiting outside Carver’s building when he finally arrived. The Norwegian got out and looked Carver up and down appraisingly, looking for any visible signs of trouble.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Get us inside,” Carver replied. “I don’t like being stuck out on the street—too exposed.”

His voice was tense, strung out.

“You all right, man?” asked Larsson. “You don’t sound so good.”

“I’m fine.”

“Whatever you say.”

Carver hurried into the apartment building and started making his way up the stairs to his top-floor flat. Larsson let him get ahead a few paces, watching him skeptically, then followed on up the old wooden staircase that wound up through five stories, creaking under his feet with every step. When he got to Carver’s flat, the door was already open. Carver was standing in the living room, looking around, aghast at what he saw—or, rather, didn’t see.

“Where is everything?” he asked.

The room had been stripped bare of furniture.

“We sold it,” said Larsson. “We had to.”

Carver calmed down for a moment as he accepted the truth of what Larsson had said. Then a look close to horror crossed his face, and he dashed off into the kitchen.

“Christ, you didn’t . . .”

Larsson hurried after him. “Didn’t what?”

“It’s okay . . .”

Carver was standing by the kitchen island. The wine racks were empty. The low-level built-in fridge had been taken from its housing. All that was left was the carcass. But he didn’t seem too bothered by that.

“I suddenly thought you might have sold the kitchen units,” he said.

Larsson grinned for the first time that night.

“Who’d buy that shit?”

Now it was Carver’s turn to smile, if only for a moment. He leaned down and reached inside the wine rack, in the middle of the second row, three spaces along. He grimaced for a second as his fingers groped blindly, and then his smile reappeared as they found their target.

“Watch,” he said.

There was a barely audible humming sound. Larsson looked in amazement as the center of the granite work surface rose from the island. Its smooth ascent revealed a metal frame, within which was fitted a large plastic toolbox, arranged in half a dozen clear plastic-fronted trays of varying depths.

“Unbelievable!” Larsson gasped.

“Looks like my kit is still in one piece then,” said Carver. He was calming down, reassured by familiar surroundings and the presence of the toolbox.

“Okay, the top two trays should be filled with regular gear. . . .”

He opened it up to reveal a thick pad of charcoal-gray foam, within which a series of custom-cut openings housed a selection of immaculately shiny wrenches, screwdrivers, saws, and hammers. The second tray was devoted to miniature power tools and soldering irons.

“It’s all there,” he said. “Next two trays, I think, are gadgets, electronics, that kind of stuff.”

Larsson sighed contentedly as a selection of timers, detonators, brake and accelerator overrides, and radio remote controls were presented to view.

“Oh, yeah, I recognize some of these babies. Nice to know you gave them such a good home.”

“Okay, next down there should be . . .”