The Accident Man (35 page)

“Not a lot. Carver has to be an alias. There is no record of any UK passport in his name — not a genuine one, anyway. He has no credit cards, appears on no airline databases, and we can’t find any bank accounts. Petrova used to be a low-ranking KGB agent, Moscow-based. She started work just before the wall came down. They used her for honey traps.”

He took out a brown manila envelope, opened it, and passed a couple of black-and-white pictures across the table.

“Pretty girl, isn’t she?” said Dame Agatha.

“She certainly was when those were taken, seven years ago. She didn’t snare any of our agents, but a couple of businessmen said more than they should have.”

Dame Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Men are such simple creatures.”

“Plenty of women have fallen for that sort of thing,” Grantham retorted. “All it took was some handsome Stasi agent saying, ‘I love you,’ and half the female staff in the West German government were happily passing secrets to the East.”

Dame Agatha sipped her tea, thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. Human weaknesses are universal.”

“Just as well, or we’d never find out a thing. Anyway, this Petrova woman disappeared off the radar five or six years ago. She still lives in Moscow, so far as we know. But she’s not been up to any espionage activity and she doesn’t have a criminal record.”

“She sounds like a most unlikely assassin,” Dame Agatha observed.

“Either that, or a seriously good one, because she’s stayed out of the limelight.”

“Seems unlikely, though, doesn’t it? One minute she’s sleeping with her targets, the next she’s killing them. I suppose both acts require the same detachment, a callousness toward the other person. But the training required would be quite different. What makes you think she’s involved? Apart from the leak of her name, of course.”

Grantham swallowed a final mouthful of sausage, mushroom, and baked bean.

“Two days ago we received a message from a French intelligence agent, off-the-record. He said he knew where to find the people we were looking for and he’d tell us in return for half a million dollars.”

Dame Agatha laughed. “One really has to admire the French. There’s something majestic about their complete lack of scruples.”

“Yes, that’s what we thought too. We told him to get lost, of course. Then we traced his phone and set a team of agents on him. He was in Geneva.”

“Aaahh.”

“Well, anyway, our people followed the Frenchman. He met a man carrying a briefcase.”

“Containing half a million dollars?”

“I don’t know, the case was never opened. But the Frenchman must have thought the cash was there because he went off with his contact, which was a big mistake. They got into a black BMW registered to a Russian fur-importing business in Milan. There were three other men in the car. They drove to a street in the Old Town. The Frenchman was then killed. To cut a long story short, the Russians hung around the neighborhood till about nine p.m. local time, when all hell broke loose. The first Russian, the one who’d met the Frenchman, kidnapped a woman from a café, killing the owner, a customer, and both our agents in the process.”

“My God…” murmured Dame Agatha.

“I know, a total bloodbath. Anyway, we believe Petrova was the woman who was kidnapped. Meanwhile, the other three Russians were getting beaten to a pulp in a pub fight just up the road. Witnesses said they heard the man who whipped all three of them talking at the bar. They said he sounded British.”

“Is this our Mr Carver?”

“That’s what we reckon.”

“So the girl was kidnapped at the same time as this Carver fellow was getting into his fight. That sounds like someone was after them both. Sounds like a cleanup operation.”

“Exactly. But how did all these Russians get involved? Everybody’s assumed the events in Paris were planned by a British organization. I can’t yet make the connection with Moscow.”

“Do we know anything about the kidnapper?”

“Yes. He’s called Grigori Kursk. The Moscow police know him well. He’s been arrested on countless charges of assault, a couple of murders too. But the charges never stick. Citizen Kursk has powerful friends.”

“So Kursk kidnaps Petrova,” said Dame Agatha. “His men go after Carver. But Carver escapes. Where does he go next?”

“Where would you go?”

Dame Agatha smiled. “As far away as possible.”

“That would be logical,” Grantham agreed. “But look at it from Carver’s perspective. He’s spent the best part of two days in the company of a woman whose only known talent is seduction. There’s a chance she’s got her hooks into him pretty deep. What if he wants to get her back?”

“Then he goes after the Russians.”

“Except he doesn’t know who they are. He’s as confused as we are, because he got his orders from London. So if he wants to find out who’s got the girl…”

“He has to come back here.”

“Precisely,” said Grantham. “Which is why MI5 may need to get involved.”

Dame Agatha was about to reply when one of the club servants sidled up to Grantham’s chair, coughed discreetly to attract his attention, and whispered something in his ear. Grantham nodded and dismissed the man, then said, “Excuse me, Agatha. I won’t be a moment,” before following the servant out of the room.

He returned fewer than five minutes later. His mood seemed greatly improved as he sat down and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from a silver pot.

“That was the office,” Grantham said. “We’ve just had some more information from Moscow. One of our people there thought Petrova looked vaguely familiar. So she stopped trawling through police databases and had a look at some newspaper cuttings. It turns out that Grigori Kursk isn’t the only one with powerful friends.”

Half a mile from the mouth of Chichester Harbor, on the West Sussex coast, Carver lowered the
Tamarisk
’s inflatable rubber dinghy. He powered up the outboard — that, at least, started on the first try — and made his way to the shore. The harbor was a natural inlet whose four main channels cut miles inland, creating a great expanse of sheltered water that was a yachtsman’s paradise. Sailing clubs and marinas had sprung up at half a dozen villages scattered around the bay. At eight o’clock on a damp September morning, it was no trouble for Carver to find a jetty, tie up his dinghy alongside a dozen others, and stroll ashore without attracting any attention at all.

He caught a bus into Chichester, where he bought a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a train ticket to London. In the station café he read a morning paper. The royals were getting it in the neck. Apparently they weren’t displaying a sufficient quantity of grief. Meanwhile people were building little altars outside Kensington Palace, complete with photographs, candles, and flowers.

Carver felt like a foreigner in his own land. The whole place had gone crazy. There was an atmosphere of barely suppressed hysteria in the air, a pent-up frenzy.

He kept reading. Some actor he’d never heard of believed the tabloid press should be held accountable for the death. A politician thought something had to be done to stop the press being so aggressive. A pop diva swore that everyone had blood on their hands.

“No, love, just me,” muttered Carver, under his breath.

He was finding it hard to focus on the words in front of him. He’d been up all night. The night before that he’d got no more than four hours’ sleep. There was a point where the effects of fatigue on the brain were almost indistinguishable from those of alcohol. Reactions were slowed, judgment impaired, temper harder to control. He was getting there fast.

His train pulled in and he got on board. The journey took ten minutes shy of two hours and he crashed all the way, just enough rest to take the edge off his exhaustion without really refreshing him. When he got to the capital it was a little after eleven. By now, Carver reckoned, Faulkner would have talked to the authorities. Even if Trench’s body had not been found, mariners up and down the English Channel would have been alerted to look out for it. So long as Faulkner stuck to the script and did not give him away, there was no reason for Carver to be worried. But his time was running out and so was Alix’s. She’d been in Grigori Kursk’s hands for more than thirty-six hours. Carver didn’t want to think about what that meant.

Leclerc had told him the instructions for his phony bank transfer had come from Lord Malgrave. Under normal circumstances, Carver would have tracked him for days, getting used to his routines before choosing the perfect time and method to make his move. But that wasn’t an option now. He had to confront the banker immediately.

The bank’s head office address was in the London phone book. Carver called and asked for the chairman. He was told that Lord Malgrave would be in meetings all morning. That was all he needed to know.

He took the Underground. It was hot, crowded, and dirty, but faster than a cab. He emerged into the heart of the City of London, a financial district whose global power and importance was equaled only by Wall Street. Soaring glass and steel towers were superimposed over a maze of narrow winding streets, home to institutions dating back more than a thousand years.

The administrative headquarters of Malgrave and Company were located behind a glossy black front door flanked by stone columns and surmounted by a carved family crest. The great stone building exuded confidence and security. Carver guessed it dated back to the early days of the century, the era of global trade and national prosperity that flourished before its illusions of unstoppable progress were shattered in the slaughterhouse of the First World War.

He walked around the block, checking out the service entrance that opened onto an even narrower side street at the back. He thought about going in that way, trying to get up the back stairs to the chairman’s office. But he didn’t know where that office was and he didn’t have time to search for plans or recce the building. There was nothing else for it. He had to walk in through the front door. And that meant looking the part.

He found a barbershop and had a shave. Twenty minutes in a gentleman’s outfitters provided him with a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, double-breasted in the classic City style, a pink-striped Egyptian cotton shirt, gaudier than any New York banker would wear but perfectly acceptable in London, dark blue tie, plain gold cufflinks, and a pair of black lace-up Derby shoes. Next, he bought a Mont Blanc pen and an elegant black briefcase. Into it went his money belt and his gun: He didn’t want to ruin the line of his jacket.

He stopped in a stationery store for a pad of letter-writing paper and a package of envelopes, then drank another coffee while he took out the Mont Blanc and wrote a short note: “
Carver is dead. Trench likewise. Circumstances as yet unknown. All communications have been compromised (UK govt suspected) — telephone and e-mail silence essential. Request immediate meeting to relay emergency instructions in person
.”

There was just one other thing he’d need: a small, easily portable video camera. He got himself a new Sony digital model that recorded onto a PC-compatible disk.

The shopping was done. The props had been chosen; the script written. The curtain was about to go up.

He passed through the open front door and gave a curt nod to the uniformed commissionaire, who immediately straightened his back and nodded back, instinctively acknowledging an officer’s presence. At the reception desk, Carver flashed a brief, agreeable smile at the immaculately groomed brunette behind the desk and handed her the envelope with the words, “Please have this conveyed at once to Lord Malgrave. It is extremely urgent.”

The receptionist dialed a number and had a brief urgent conversation. A couple of times she glanced back at Carver, trying to judge his authenticity. Then she held her hand over the receiver and spoke to Carver. “I’m very sorry, sir, but Lord Malgrave is in a meeting.”

Carver remained unruffled. “I quite understand,” he said, not sounding offended in the slightest by this rebuff. “I know he’s very busy this morning. Then I’d like to speak directly to his lordship’s personal assistant, please.”

The fine lines of the receptionist’s neatly tweezed eyebrows crumpled into a brief frown. “Of course, sir,” she said, passing him the handset.

“Thank you,” said Carver. He spoke to the chairman’s PA. “My name is Jackson. I have an urgent message for Lord Malgrave. It concerns our transactions in Paris, and I absolutely assure you he will be grateful to read it. If he doesn’t think it’s worth pursuing, I’ll be gone before you know it.” He paused to hear what the PA had to say, uttered a reassuring “Absolutely,” followed by an enthusiastic “Excellent!” Then he handed the phone back to the receptionist.

This time his smile was broad. “Thank you so much for your help. They’re expecting me on the sixth floor. So, where’s the lift?”

Lord Crispin Malgrave did not cut an impressive figure. He wore a double-breasted suit and an old school tie, and he had the oiled salt-and-pepper hair and the ruddy complexion — redolent of hunting fields, shooting parties, and salmon streams — of the British ruling class. But the facade was cracking, the arrogance peeling away to reveal the raw fear beneath.

Carver had been shown into Malgrave’s private office. The chairman’s PA was an elegant woman in her fifties, brisk, efficient, and bossy. The man was running a bank, and still he had a nanny. She watched over Carver until her master arrived, as if worried he might steal a paperweight if left to his own devices.

Malgrave had scurried into the room, sweating panic from every pore. He dropped like a loosely packed sandbag into the leather-backed seat behind his mahogany desk, said, “Thank you, Maureen,” and barely waited till she’d left the room before blurting out, “Trench is dead? Are you sure? How do you know?”

Carver leaned toward the desk and stuck out his right hand.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Samuel Carver.”

Malgrave did not move. He seemed to need all his energy just to keep his mouth from flapping around like a freshly caught fish. Eventually, he managed to get some words out. “But you told my secretary…”