Assassin

by Tom Cain

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ Tyzack replied. ‘I’ve got a chap who can work out the basic design. But he may not be able to do the actual construction, so I’ll need help with that. And someone will have to get hold of the basic components, either buy them or steal them. I have some business of my own to conduct over the next few days. But so long as your men keep to the schedule and do what I ask, we’ll be fine.’

  Visar nodded. ‘Good. But understand this, Mr Tyzack. You cannot afford to be distracted by this business you have to do. You must be in Bristol, and you must do your job. I cannot tolerate failure.’

  ‘But you’ll give me the help I need?’

  ‘Of course, anything.’

  ‘Then we’re on.’

  At Málaga airport, walking between the chopper and the private jet, Tyzack made a phone call. He gave a set of specific instructions, then listened impatiently, his face clouding over with anger, to what the other speaker had to say.

  ‘Are you quite finished?’ he said at last. ‘Right, then, let me make myself clear. I don’t give a damn if you’re busy, or you have other things to think about. This is what you’re thinking about now. I need that design, so remember those pictures I sent you? Think about them. Think about the people you love. Now go away and do what you’re told.’

  Tyzack was still fuming as he ran up the steps, barged past the pretty, smiling flight attendant standing at the aeroplane door and slumped down sullenly in the nearest seat.

  The attendant turned to look at the co-pilot, who had been watching through the open cockpit door. She raised her eyebrows, widened her eyes in mock-horror, gave an exaggerated sigh and mouthed the words, ‘What’s got into him?’

  At his villa, Visar put in a call to the Albanian embassy in Washington. ‘Get a message to Kula,’ he said. ‘I need him to create an application for an iPhone, a guidance system. The precise specifications will be sent to him soon. Tell him this is a job that will gain him great favour.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ said the diplomat on the other end of the line.

  28

  On their first afternoon in Paris, they got Carver a suit for the wedding. The next morning Maddy went clothes shopping by herself. She said she wanted to give him the morning off. He tried to believe her. A voice in Carver’s head told him Maddy wanted to get rid of him so she could meet a contact or speak to her handler, but he was determined not to let his paranoia wreck their trip. If he made himself live in the moment and not think about anything else, several hours at a time could go by without him wondering whether the woman next to him was lying with everything she said and did.

  Carver hadn’t brought a laptop with him, but there was a computer downstairs in the hotel lounge. He decided to log on to a few news sites and drink a cup of coffee while he worked out how to spend the morning.

  The front page of The Times carried the usual mix of economic misery and political bluster. The only news that caught Carver’s eye was the announcement that Lincoln Roberts was planning a flying visit to Bristol to speak at an anti-slavery conference. At the bottom of the story there was a link to a related feature. Its headline read: ‘Pablo the sex-slave Pimpernel, and…’

  Carver grinned: Pablo. It had been a while since he’d heard that name.

  He clicked on the link and a page opened up with the full headline. The final words were, ‘and a mysterious death in Dubai’.

  Well, he could see why people were making that the number-one story. Sex, crime, death, an exotic location and a bloke with a funny name – what more could anyone want?

  Carver started reading Jake Tolland’s story. It described Lara’s enslavement, her rape and her trafficking to Dubai. Then it followed her to a dingy nightclub, where she met an Englishman who was looking to buy a girl of his own. Through Lara’s eyes, Tolland described the man. He was slim, not conventionally handsome, but attractive. He had dark hair and green eyes – strange green eyes, said Lara, though she could not describe what precisely was wrong or unusual about them.

  By now, Carver was no longer reading for entertainment. As his eyes raced over the following paragraphs, the ache in the guts that he had felt when he first suspected Maddy – and that had hung around him, on and off, ever since – now gripped him more tightly than ever. His throat felt constricted. He felt a stab of pain in his jaw and only then noticed that he had been grinding his teeth so hard that his mouth was virtually clamped shut.

  Tolland told how Pablo had freed Lara Dashian, given her money, told her to go to the women’s shelter, and then disappeared entirely off the face of the earth. But Lara’s pimp had been found shot to death in the hotel parking lot, and Tiger Dey – one of the masterminds of the people-trafficking trade in the whole Gulf region – had been taken to hospital hours later with a fatal attack of what appeared to be ricin poisoning.

  ‘Do you know how it was administered?’ Tolland had asked a senior Dubaian police officer.

  ‘Not for certain, no,’ the detective had admitted. ‘But we believe that the killer may have hidden a small pellet of poison in a cocktail cherry. Mr Dey was very fond of them and ate several while he was in the club that night. We also have witnesses, including Miss Dashian, who testify that the man called Pablo gave Mr Dey a cherry. That may have been the way it was done.’

  ‘But you cannot be certain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you cannot build a definitive case against Pablo?’

  ‘Not at this point,’ said the policeman. And then Tolland described the cop as he stubbed out a cigarette, looked up at the reporter and said, ‘But I will tell you one thing, Mr Tolland. I believe that this man is a cold-blooded killer, almost certainly a professional assassin. It is my opinion, and that of my superiors, that he represents a significant danger to the security of Dubai and its citizens. And it is my job to protect the people of Dubai. By whatever means necessary.’

  29

  Carver closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. He thought about the name Pablo, and the people who knew its significance for him. He took another look at all the phrases used to describe a man whose identifying features were so similar to his own. He checked the date the story gave for that night at the Karama Pearl Hotel. It was a few days before he did the job at Lusterleaf, the job that he could not mention to anyone, and would be denied by anyone and everyone close to the President. Not that it would make any difference what Bahr or even Lincoln Roberts himself might say. When the mysterious Pablo had been in Dubai, Carver had been deep undercover, living off the grid, leaving no trace of his presence anywhere… and thus creating no alibi.

  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.’

  30

  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 upstair
s, 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.’

  31

  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.