by Tom Cain
“Ten seconds.”
Carver felt his stomach tense. That was good. Somewhere his body had found a last shot of adrenaline-fueled energy. There was no time left to think. He just had to go for it.
Pull… aim… breathe… fire.
A hit. One left.
“Five seconds.”
He shot again. Another miss.
Shit!
Pull… aim… breathe…
“Two.”
You bastard!
Fire.
Carver blinked, trying to clear his vision. He couldn’t see what had happened. He rolled over again in despair.
“Get up,” said Larsson. “Move it out.”
Carver was muttering under his breath, repeating like a mantra, “Don’t let him beat you… don’t let him beat you…”
Larsson looked at him as he slowly got to his feet. And this time there was a smile playing around the corner of his mouth.
“You hit the target,” he said. “So we’d better get back to the farm. Ebba will have lunch ready by now. And, Carver?”
“Uh?”
“Stop talking to yourself. She’ll think you’re totally crazy.”
“She won’t be wrong,” wheezed Carver, following Larsson as he skied away down the track.
43
Carver’s recovery had caused almost as much discomfort in MI6’s London headquarters on the south bank of the Thames as it had in Moscow. The thought of a renegade assassin alive, well, and in full command of his senses gave Jack Grantham cold sweats. This new situation could easily turn into a disaster. Somehow he had to make it work for him.
“What’s the news from this bloody clinic?” he asked, not bothering to disguise his irritation.
His deputy, Bill Selsey, was unruffled by Grantham’s bad temper. He’d long since learned to let it wash over him. He asked nothing more from life than a secure job, a modest home in the south London suburbs, and a guaranteed pension at the end of his career. He knew the pressure his boss was under and he didn’t envy it one bit.
“Carver’s done a runner, leaving a body behind,” Selsey replied. “The corpse in question had a fake I.D., some bogus psychiatrist, but I’m pretty sure he is, or was, Vladimir Matov, known to his chums as Vlad the Impaler. He’s an experienced FSB hitman, used to work for the KGB back in the good old days. Bulgarian by origin, like a lot of their best killers.”
“So friend Matov was sent to sanction Carver, only to find himself on the wrong end of the operation?”
“Looks like it.”
“And there’s no one else who could have sent him-he doesn’t freelance for anyone?”
Selsey shook his head. “Not as far as we know. He’s a state employee, no moonlighting.”
“So why does Moscow want Carver dead? Specifically, why do they want him dead now? He’s been a sitting duck for months for anyone who wanted revenge for Zhukovski’s death.”
“Like his dear wife,” Selsey interjected.
“Right. But Mrs. Z. doesn’t do anything for six months until suddenly she, or someone equally high up, feels the need to take action. And then, how the hell did Carver beat this man? I thought he was supposed to be bonkers, no bloody use to anyone. What’s he doing taking out a pro like Matov?”
“Apparently, he got better.”
“You don’t say.” Grantham’s voice was drenched with acid sarcasm. “I managed to work that out for myself, thanks, Bill. But when did this miracle cure happen, and why?”
“I’ve got people looking into that, talking to doctors and nurses at the clinic. Should have the answers later today. But I think I may have a lead on why the Russians want him dead.”
“Do tell.”
“There’s a Romanian in Venice, name of Radinescu, does some low-level work for the FSB, basic courier stuff, nothing fancy. We’ve been tossing him a few bob to copy us in on anything he gets.”
“And?”
“And he just passed on a message to Moscow from an agent who happened to be passing through Venice, a female agent. The woman in question was a bit of a looker, so Radinescu followed her for a while…”
“Bloody perv.”
“Maybe, but while he was stalking this woman, he took a couple of photos and when he sent us a copy of her message, he chucked in a picture of the girl, hoping we might pay him a bonus for uncovering a Russian spy.”
“He’s got a nerve.”
“Don’t be so sure. You might think this is worth standing Radinescu a drink.”
A plasma screen at one end of the room sprang into life. A series of color images appeared, showing two women-one black, the other white-wandering the crowded Venice streets.
“Good Lord, that’s the Petrova girl,” said Grantham. “But what’s she doing in Italy?”
“Well, she’s staying at the Cipriani with a man called Kurt Vermulen-separate rooms, before you ask.”
Grantham frowned.
“Vermulen? That name’s familiar…”
“American, ex-army, did some time in the DIA, and spent a couple of years in Grosvenor Square as their defense attaché. You probably bumped into him then. Anyway, Moscow seems to have taken an interest in him. Presumably Petrova’s been told to get as close to him as possible.”
“Who’s the woman with her?”
“Her name is Alisha Reddin. She and her husband, Marcus Reddin, are staying at the same hotel as Vermulen and Petrova. And here’s an interesting thing: Reddin served under Vermulen in the U.S. Army Rangers.”
“Could just be a couple of old comrades meeting up,” Grantham observed.
“Could be, yes,” agreed Selsey. “But presumably the Russians think there’s more to it than that. Why else have they inserted Petrova?”
For the first time, Grantham’s mood seemed to lift a fraction. The merest hint of amusement crossed his face.
“So she’s gone back to her old trade, for her old employers. Dear, oh dear… Carver won’t like that. He’s convinced she’s a good girl, really.”
“He may not know what she’s up to,” Selsey suggested.
“I’m sure he doesn’t have a clue. And you’re right: That explains what Matov was doing-making sure Carver died in blissful ignorance. After all, if there’s one thing we know about Carver, it’s that he’ll do anything to get his bird back. The Russians know that, too; they learned it the hard way. So the last thing they want is Carver setting off after his one true love and blundering into Petrova’s mission, whatever that is.”
“Which means they’ll have another go at killing him.”
“If they can find him, yes. Meanwhile, we need to know what was in that message Petrova sent Moscow.”
“We’re working on it,” Selsey assured him. “Should have it decrypted by close of play today.”
Grantham looked a lot more cheerful than he had at the start of the meeting.
“See if you can hurry it up-there’s no time to waste. We need to find out everything there is to know about Vermulen. Where else has he been, with whom, and why? Keep tabs on him. And find Carver. We have to get to him before the Russians do. Then we’ll suggest that he find out what his blessed Alix is doing, tell her to stop it, and cause the maximum havoc to all concerned while he’s about it.”
“The Russians won’t like that.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“What about our cousins across the water? Should we keep Langley informed?”
“I don’t see why-not yet, at any rate.”
“Really? They are supposed to be our colleagues.”
“And so they are, Bill,” said Grantham. “But only up to a point.”
44
In the corps they’d have called it an “up-homer”; bunking with a local family, instead of roughing it with the rest of the company in one of the disused caravan sites hired by the Ministry of Defense. Carver and Larsson were staying with one of the Norwegian’s cousins, Ebba Roll, who was married to a local farmer. Six feet tall and strappingly built, Ebba was the
kind of woman who could just as easily stick a child under her arm as a sack of animal feed. She had powerful maternal instincts, but she didn’t show them through gushing affection or teary-eyed concern. Instead they were expressed by the no-nonsense efficiency with which she made sure that her menfolk and offspring (all of whom she treated as lovable but essentially hopeless) were kept clean, warmly dressed, and well fed at all times.
The two men had developed a routine. They got up no later than five-thirty and ate a breakfast that set them up for the day: porridge and fruit, boiled or scrambled eggs, cold meats and cheese, toast and jam-sometimes all of them-washed down with gallons of orange juice, coffee, and (Carver insisted) strong, sweet tea.
While the food was digested, Larsson worked on Carver’s mental fitness: memory tests, spot-the-difference puzzles, anything that boosted his ability to take in information fast, notice patterns or anomalies, and recall what he had just seen. Next time he checked out his surroundings, or walked into a new environment, he’d have his wits about him.
Midmornings were spent on the ski trails and rifle range. In northern Norway, the winters are dark, with only a few hours a day of gloomy blue light before the sun finally rises over the mountains at the end of January. But by the last week in March the sun rises at 5 A.M. and doesn’t set until 7 p.M., and the light on the snow can be dazzlingly clear and intense. The landscape is raw, but spectacular: the white snow, blue skies, gray-black rocks, and deep-green sea all colliding as the mountains plunge into the fjords, where the waters of the North Atlantic mount their eternal, erosive assault.
As time went by, Carver realized that although there was never a ski session that did not involve a steadily escalating quantity of pain, inevitably building up to a grand finale of tortured muscles and burning lungs, it took longer every day for the agony to kick in. Little by little he actually began to enjoy the process. He took pleasure in his increasing fitness and pride in his rediscovered proficiency on the rifle range. He was able to appreciate the majesty of his surroundings. Some days, he even managed to complete an entire course without once wishing to kill Thor Larsson.
That, though, was never a good sign. Larsson always noticed any lessening of Carver’s hatred. The next day, he would go that little bit further, pressing harder and faster, just to crank the pain and the fury back up to the proper level.
Lunchtimes, they replaced lost energy with pasta, potatoes, or brown bread. Protein came from chicken, fish, or, if Ebba was feeling indulgent, lean, intensely flavored cuts of moose and reindeer. His stomach full and his body shattered, Carver collapsed into bed for a couple of hours’ rest, only to be raised again for an afternoon of weights, weapons training, and unarmed combat in one of the farm’s outbuildings. Guns are legal and relatively easy to come by in Norway, compared with much of Europe. Within ten days, Carver was stripping and reassembling a rifle and pistol as fast as Larsson, and easily outsparring him. His body was gradually returning to its natural shape: 175 pounds of muscle and bone, a balance of endurance and strength. He felt like a fighting man once again.
Three weeks in, the temperature was regularly several degrees above freezing, and down on the lower ground the snow had started to melt. Finally, at the end of an eighteen-mile ski, Larsson told him, “Okay, now you are ready. Tomorrow we prepare our equipment. The day after, we leave.”
“Leave for where?” Carver asked.
Larsson turned to his right and pointed up into the mountains. “Up there, four nights. We’ll carry everything we need. Now we find out just how fit you really are.”
45
The customer-relations executive could barely contain his enthusiasm as they walked toward the aircraft. A fortnight beforehand, Waylon McCabe had asked for some unusual modifications to be made to one of his executive jets, for a charitable project he had in mind. The corporation’s Special Missions Department thought about it for a couple of days, just to see if his requests were technically feasible, but there was only ever going to be one answer. For the past five years, having switched his supplier after the Canadian disaster, McCabe had bought all his jets from their range. They keenly appreciated his business. They had no intention of losing it.
“I just want to say, on behalf of our whole team, that we think what Mr. McCabe is doing is just great,” said the suit, pausing at the foot of the stairs that led up to the cabin. “Airlifting medical supplies to the starving people of Africa -you know, it’s a privilege to be able to contribute to something like that. It sure is a pity we couldn’t tell Mr. McCabe in person.”
McCabe had sent his lawyer to take care of the handover.
“Sadly, he’s a little indisposed at this time, but I’ll pass on your good wishes,” said the lawyer, who didn’t know what his boss planned to use the plane for, exactly, but it certainly wasn’t Africa.
He glowered at the executive, who didn’t seem to be moving.
“So, can we take a look at the plane?”
“Sure, sure, of course, my pleasure. Our chief engineer will show you around.”
The executive stepped aside, and the engineer led the way up the stairs, bending his neck as he stepped into the cabin. Take out the fancy decorations and the high-tech accessories, and the main body of the plane was nothing but a metal tube with an internal diameter of less than six feet. There wasn’t a lot of room. The men formed a single line, the engineer leading, as they made their ungainly way through the cabin.
“You gentlemen are all familiar with one of these, right?” asked the engineer rhetorically. “Okay then, up ahead of us, at the rear of the cabin, there’s a closet and a restroom, and aft of that a small baggage hold. The regular bulkhead at the back of that hold offers structural support to the rear of the aircraft. Well, we took that bulkhead out and moved it forward, right up against the side of the restroom. That opened up the whole of the rear section of the fuselage, so’s to make more space for loading up whatever it is you’re going to be dropping. As you can see, we’ve put a hatch, kind of like on a submarine, right there in the bulkhead.”
He stood by the crude undecorated wall that now blocked off the end of the cabin, with the oval hatch beside him.
“We didn’t want to compromise the strength of the bulkhead, so we had to make the hatch kinda snug, but there’s just about room to step through into the new, bigger hold we made there.”
The engineer opened up the hatch. Through it, the empty rear end of the aircraft was dimly visible.
“It’s pretty tight, so you gents might want to take a look one at a time. You’ll see, in back, on the floor of the new hold, there’s a door. It’s hinged at the front, so that it opens downward, like a ramp, with the open side at the rear. It’s hydraulically operated from the pilot’s cockpit, or you can see a handle, like a pump, right there on the floor next to it. That’s the manual option. We fixed up a rig you can put your load in, so’s it can be dropped when the door is opened. Or there’s just room for one person to be in there, do the job himself. We fixed up a safety line there, so he won’t fall out.”
“Glad to hear about that,” said the lawyer. “Wouldn’t want a lawsuit from a grieving window.”
There was a peal of sycophantic laughter from the executive, more of a grunt from the engineer.
“Hope that’s what you were looking for, anyway,” the engineer concluded. “Mr. McCabe gave specific instructions. I believe we were able to follow them pretty much to the letter.”
“Yes,” said the lawyer. “I believe you did.”
Back home in Texas, McCabe now knew that he had a plane capable of dropping a bomb over Jerusalem. Even now, despite everything, when he thought about what he had in mind, McCabe still asked himself if he was really doing the Lord’s will. He wasn’t too sure how you could be certain about a thing like that, but he decided it would soon be clear enough. The doctors had told him the tumors were getting worse. They were begging him to undergo chemotherapy, but McCabe had said no. He knew what those chemicals did and he didn�
�t see the point in buying a few extra weeks if it meant puking like a dog after every treatment and watching his hair fall out. He’d rather be his real self when he came to face his maker. If he lived to see Armageddon, he’d know that God had been on his side. If he died before then, he’d expect a warm welcome in hell.
Either way, it was going to be soon.
46
Carver was feeling like a normal human being again. He wanted to act like one, too. The night before their four-day trek, he and Larsson skipped the training diet and went into Narvik for a few cold beers, hefty portions of steak and chips, and some flirtatious banter with the waitresses.
Driving home, Larsson asked, “What if she doesn’t want you back?”
Carver laughed. “She’d have me back, all right. Not sure about yours, though.”
“Not her,” said Larsson. “Alix. What if you go to all this trouble, and you find her, and it turns out she didn’t want to be found?”
Carver frowned. The possibility hadn’t occurred to him. But maybe Larsson was right. Maybe Alix had left because she couldn’t stand being around him anymore.
“Christ, that’s a depressing thought,” he said, his good humor suddenly vanishing. “I don’t want to think about that. Anyway, you’re wrong. She’d want me to come after her. She did last time. Why would it be any different now?”
“I don’t know,” Larsson admitted. “I mean, she was definitely still crazy about you the last time I spoke to her.”
“Right-so why do you think she’d change her mind?”
“I don’t. I was just asking a question. Hypothetically.”
“Well, don’t,” said Carver. “I’ll assume she wants me to come get her, until she tells me otherwise. And bollocks to hypothetical.”
“Oh, shit!”
Larsson was looking in the rearview mirror. He shook his head in disgust and pulled over to the side of the road. Only then did Carver notice the white Volvo with the flashing lights pulling in behind them and the cop getting out of the driver’s door.
