by Tom Cain
“Well, you know what? I think so, too,” she said. They laughed and leaned a little closer together. Carver felt her hand on his knee, that lightness of a woman’s touch that feels so good to a man.
“You want to get something to eat?” he said.
She looked him right in the eye.
“I’d rather work up an appetite first.”
Carver woke with the sun streaming in through the windows and the bedside clock reading 9:17.
There was a note on the bedside table, with a telephone number and the message If you’re ever in Chicago . . . Maddy xox.
Then he noticed the red light flashing on his phone—he must have been woken by the ringing. Carver picked up the handset and pressed the button. He screwed up his face when he heard that familiar, angry voice.
“Carver, you useless sod, it’s Grantham. I’m downstairs in the foyer. Get your lazy arse down here, now, before I come up there and kick the bloody door down.”
“Shit,” said Carver, and heaved himself out of bed.
EASTER SATURDAY
81
Carver couldn’t see any good reason he should come running, just because Grantham had called. He spent fifteen minutes getting washed and dressed before heading down to the hotel lobby. It was worth the wait, simply to see the irritation on Grantham’s face. There was something else there, too, Carver realized as he got closer: The MI6 man’s normal self-assurance, arrogance, even, had given way to a nervy edginess that he’d never seen before.
“Where’s my document?” snapped Grantham.
“The same place as my girlfriend, cuddling up to Kurt Vermulen,” Carver said, as if it didn’t bother him one bit. “She married him—did you know that?”
That news had been meant to knock Grantham off his stride, but it had the opposite effect. A smug smile crossed Grantham’s face, a look of sheer pleasure that Carver had been dumped in even deeper shit than he had.
“That must have come as a shock.”
“Just a bit,” said Carver.
“Still, you don’t look very heartbroken.”
“What would you prefer, drunk and tearstained?”
“Something like that.”
Carver shrugged. “I thought about it. But I found a better alternative. Nice girl.”
“And you accuse me of not giving a toss?”
“Listen, I loved Alix. That was real; probably still is. But it won’t do me any good now, moping around. I’m just going to forget her, move on, put as much distance between us as I can.”
Carver wondered if he sounded any more convincing than he felt. Evidently not—Grantham looked at him with an expression of profound skepticism before his face cleared, a new thought striking him.
“You got time to grab a late breakfast before you go? There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Carver groaned. What now?
“Come on,” Grantham insisted. “They do a splendid buffet down by the sea. Great food, fantastic view . . . I’m paying. And I think you’ll be interested when you find out who’s flown in to see you.”
Carver followed Grantham across the lobby and out through the doors that opened onto the hotel’s magnificent wooded gardens. As he walked down the path that stretched down to the sea, one tiny hope flickered at the back of his mind and kept him moving toward an appointment he otherwise would have refused. And then he realized it was ridiculous even to consider such a notion. It was another Russian woman sitting at the table, with a bob of black hair framing eyes that were assessing him with cold, impersonal objectivity as Grantham gestured in her direction.
“May I introduce Deputy Director Zhukovskaya, of the Federal Security Service?”
She held out her hand with a smile that was even chillier than her eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Carver. You killed my husband.”
“I was provoked,” he replied, before letting go of her hand.
Grantham ordered coffee, orange juice, and a selection of pastries.
“I think I’ll have a proper cooked breakfast, actually,” said Carver, gesturing toward the buffet. “Feeling quite peckish this morning.”
He took his time getting scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, crisp white rolls and dewy chunks of unsalted Normandy butter. He made a point of tucking in, knowing the other two wanted to talk. But in the end, it was he who cracked first. He couldn’t help himself.
“Did you tell her I was dead?” he asked Zhukovskaya.
“Yes, I gave the order for her to receive that information,” she said, without any hint of embarrassment or apology.
“Why?”
Carver was uncomfortably aware that there was more emotion, even desperation, in that single syllable than he’d intended.
“It was a practical necessity,” Zhukovskaya replied, still quite unruffled. “You killed the man I sent to eliminate you, and then you left the hospital. You were no longer a patient; therefore the payments to cover your bills would have to stop. It was possible Petrova might find out about that, if she checked her financial records. She would naturally want to know what had happened. I simply anticipated that moment.”
“But she only did the job to keep me alive. Why would she stay with Vermulen if I was gone?”
“Self-preservation,” said Zhukovskaya, as if the answer were obvious. “Alexandra Petrova is an agent of the Federal Security Service, under my command. She knows that any agent who leaves an assignment without orders from a superior officer is guilty of desertion, and she also knows the penalty for that offense. In any case, I preferred to look on the positive side. Without you to think about, Petrova was free to concentrate on General Vermulen.”
“Well, you got that wrong. She concentrated on him so much, she married him. She’s not yours anymore, or mine. She’s his.”
Zhukovskaya sipped at her coffee.
“You think?” she asked. “Of course, I have considered that proposition, but I myself am not so certain. Many agents regard marriage as a useful adjunct to their cover; Petrova may well be one of them. That, however, is not my main concern at the moment, and it should not be yours.”
She put the coffee cup down on the table, and when she looked at him again there was finally a sign of real emotion. Zhukovskya was angry.
“You have caused a great deal of trouble, Mr. Carver. The document you stole was the property of the Russian state. It was removed from a state facility approximately ten weeks ago. It would have been recovered yesterday by elements acting on behalf of the state, had you not interfered. They had orders to destroy it, rather than let it fall into the wrong hands.”
“For heaven’s sake, what is this thing?” asked Grantham.
“A list of small-scale nuclear weapons, also property of the Russian state, currently positioned in Europe and North America, a few in South America, Asia, and Australia, their locations and arming codes,” recited Zhukovskaya in a flat voice.
The color drained from Grantham’s face.
“How many weapons?”
“Around one hundred.”
“My God . . . and what about the U.K.?”
She looked at him blankly.
“But they’re all on this list . . .” said Grantham.
“Yes, and thanks to Mr. Carver, it is now in Vermulen’s hands.”
Carver grimaced, uncomfortably aware that his priorities needed a radical reordering.
“Where’s Vermulen gone now?” he asked.
Grantham seemed relieved to be able to answer this question, at least.
“Back to his yacht. It spent the night moored off the Italian coast, right down south, near Reggio di Calabria, slipped anchor shortly before dawn, heading east. We lost it soon afterward, between satellite sweeps.”
“At least you have satellites,” remarked Zhukovskaya wryly.
“So find the boat again,” said Carver. “Send in a few of my old mates from the SBS, or some of your Spetsnaz boys, to board the boat. Seize the document, and Bob’s your uncle.”
Granth
am was not impressed.
“No, Carver—in that scenario Bob would actually be a major diplomatic incident in which the Americans went ballistic about the unauthorized hostile seizure of a boat owned by one respected, powerful U.S. citizen and used by another, while the Italian government tried to decide whether this constituted an act of war within their territorial waters.”
Carver tried again.
“All right, then, who’s the other citizen?”
“Sorry?”
“Who’s the other U.S. citizen, the one who owns the boat? See, there’s something odd about all this money Vermulen’s got to splash around. Unless he’s made a shitload since he left the armed forces, someone’s bankrolling him. And if it isn’t the U.S. government, maybe it’s the bloke who owns the boat. So who’s that?”
“Some good ol’ boy from Texas called McCabe,” replied Grantham impatiently, not seeing the value of the question. “Made a fortune in oil and mining. The boat belongs to one of his many corporations. But I don’t see him being interested in bombs. The man’s a born-again Christian, had a dramatic conversion a few years back, devotes his time to philanthropy and good deeds.”
Carver gave a clipped, disbelieving laugh.
“McCabe . . . Waylon McCabe?”
“Yes. Why—do you know him?”
“Our paths crossed.”
“And he lived to tell the tale? That’s unusual.”
“Unique, as it happens. And I’ll tell you one thing about Waylon McCabe—I don’t care how much of a conversion he had; he’s a bastard, pure and simple. Whatever he’s doing with Vermulen, I guarantee it’s not a good deed.”
Carver frowned: The pieces were starting to come together in his mind.
“Hang on—you said that boat was going east . . . which would take it into the Ionian Sea, and then the Adriatic, towards Yugoslavia. When we talked, Vermulen mentioned Yugoslavia. He said that was one of the places the Islamic radicals he was going on about were fighting, trying to open up a back route into the West.”
He turned to look at Zhukovskaya.
“Did you put bombs in Yugoslavia?”
“I cannot possibly answer that question,” she said, needled by the impertinence of such a direct inquiry.
Carver smiled, feeling the balance of power around the table start to tilt in his direction.
“I think you can, Deputy Director. You’re in the crapper, too. Not just your organization, or your country, but you, personally. You sent those idiots in the chopper to get the document, and now they’re crispy bacon at the bottom of a gorge. You’ve got to put that right—that’s why you’re here. And you . . .” He turned his gaze on Grantham. “Well, it wouldn’t go down too well in Whitehall if anyone found out who you’d been using to do your dirty work, or how we first happened to meet. As for me, I got Vermulen this list. Plus, something tells me you’ll be able to date McCabe’s religious conversion to the day he miraculously escaped an air crash in the wilds of the Yukon. That was down to me, too. We’re all in this together, like it or not, so answer the question: Yugoslavia?”
He was pushing his luck, but she seemed disinclined to object. He’d been right: The mighty deputy director was in no position to complain.
“Two,” said Zhukovskaya. “One in central Belgrade, the other near the Trepca mining complex. It is the single most valuable natural resource in Yugoslavia, producing lead, zinc, copper, gold, and silver—a natural target for economic sabotage.”
Grantham nodded to himself, as if agreeing that the locations made sense. He did not bother to ask her how the KGB knew the location of weapons that were lost to the rest of the Russian military and government establishment. He, of all people, needed no lessons in the keeping of secrets from a security service’s political masters.
“Where is this place?” asked Carver.
“Kosovo,” said Grantham, before Zhukovskaya could reply.
“Where Vermulen’s supposed Islamist terrorists are busy starting a civil war. Christ, is that mad bugger going to nuke them? That would get a war going, all right.”
“Personally, I would not do anything so obvious. . . .” said Zhukovskaya.
Grantham looked at her inquisitively.
“A false-flag operation?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I like that better, I think. Much more effective to make the world think that the terrorists had the bomb. We think alike . . . but would Vermulen? He has intelligence experience . . . it is possible. But how to stop him? That is the problem.”
“Get me to Trepca,” said Carver. “That’s the one lead we have. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Just you?” asked Zhukovskaya.
“You got anyone else you can call?”
82
Her cover had worked too well. Alix Petrova was a trained field agent who had seduced, deceived, and even killed dangerous men. But Natalia Vermulen was an innocent personal assistant who’d just married the boss, and as far as her new husband was concerned, his duty was to keep her safe, not lead her into harm’s way. So she had no argument when, as they lay in bed—her head on his chest, her hand on his shoulder, the early-morning light, reflected from the ocean, playing on the walls of the yacht’s master bedroom—he told her, “You can’t come with us tonight.”
“I understand,” she said. “It’s just . . . I want to be with you. I can’t help it.”
There were tears welling in her eyes. As she blinked them away, she realized that they, at least, were genuine. She truly felt like crying, even if she was lying about why.
He felt the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin.
“It’s okay,” he said, wrapping his arm around her and holding her tight against his body. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I have to do. I had some crazy notions, but what I’m planning is going to be a lot simpler, and a lot safer now.”
She could sense him gathering his thoughts, almost working up the courage to speak again, the way men did when they were about to say something personal, a revelation that would leave them exposed and vulnerable.
His voice was thick with emotion as he said, “Now that I’ve found you, I have something to live for again. I think I lost that for a while. It affected the way I thought, even made me a little crazy. Not now. There’s still something I have to do, something that matters. But I love you too much to take dumb risks. . . .”
He smiled, lightening the mood, catching her eye as she looked up at his face.
“Just really smart risks, ones worth taking.”
“It makes me scared, not knowing what’s happening to you,” she said.
“That’s what you get for marrying a soldier, even an ex-soldier. It’s really tough, having to stay at home, not knowing whether the person you love is dead or alive.”
“How did Amy manage it?”
“I don’t know. When I went to ’Nam, we were just kids. She’d only recently turned twenty-one, had the party just before I shipped out. All those years, left on her own so many times. You know, she never once complained . . . Oh, God, I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t comparing you . . .”
She squeezed his shoulder in reassurance.
“Don’t worry—I was the one who mentioned Amy. I like it that you remember her with love. It proves that you are a good man.”
Vermulen shifted his weight. The arm that had been wrapped so protectively around her pulled on her shoulder, so that she was rolled off his chest and onto her back. Now he was on top of her, his mouth pressing on hers and his legs forcing her thighs apart with a strength that she could not have resisted, even had she wanted to. So she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled their bodies together.
As they began to make love, she was smiling. Her happiness was as real as her tears had been, but once again, the reason was not the one that Kurt Vermulen might imagine.
He was leaving her alone on the yacht for the night. Then, perhaps, she might have the chance to escape.
83
Carver had been wro
ng. There were people Grantham could call. Had to call, in fact. He could not hope to keep this operation completely private anymore; there was far too much at stake. But if he was going to spread the word, he had to do it discreetly. Like all senior MI6 officers, he had close contacts with his counterparts in the CIA. While Carver was upstairs, clearing out of his room, Grantham stepped outside and considered his options. He needed someone he could trust enough to call on a personal, off-the-record basis.
Ted Jaworski was dragged from sleep by the ringing of his bedside phone. His hand reached out from beneath the blankets and scrabbled for his handset. He screwed up his eyes, trying to make out the caller ID, then mumbled, “Jack, hi . . . do you know what the friggin’ time is here?”
“A little after four. But this can’t wait. Is your line secure?”
“Sure—what the hell is this about?”
“We’ve obtained information—stumbled across it, really—about one of your people, an ex-army general, Kurt Vermulen.”
Jaworski was getting out of bed now, figuring he’d better take the call somewhere more private. He put a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s okay—go back to sleep,” to his wife as she looked up at him blearily.
“Uh-huh—what kind of information?” he asked Grantham.
“It’s complicated. But the bottom line is, last night Vermulen obtained a document which contains the precise locations and arming codes of more than one hundred Soviet nuclear weapons.”
“What did you say?”
“You know those legendary missing suitcase nukes? Turns out it wasn’t a legend. They really are out there. Vermulen knows where to find them, and we think that’s what he’s going to do, probably within the next twenty-four hours.”
Jaworski stopped dead in the corridor and gave a low whistle.
“My God, she was right . . .”
“Sorry?”
“Something someone over here said . . .” Jaworski replied, moving again. “Put it this way—this doesn’t come as a total surprise.”
