The Accident Man

by Tom Cain

  49

  Alix stood in the shower trying to scrub away the memory of Leclerc’s hands on her body. The hotel provided two plastic bottles of mint-flavored mouthwash. She used them both. They had not even kissed, let alone had sex, but still she felt defiled. By the time she walked back into the bedroom, Carver was silently packing away the video gear. Leclerc was sitting on the side of the bed, slumped and deflated.

  Alix collected her own possessions, then helped Carver as he untied and dressed Leclerc, though the blindfold stayed on. The banker was led out into the corridor, down the emergency staircase, and out through a door at the rear of the building. Thor Larsson was waiting to greet them in his battered Volvo.

  “Got everything?” asked Carver, still maintaining Vandervart’s accent.

  “Sure,” said Larsson. “And don’t worry. The sound and picture quality is superb.”

  Ten minutes later, Leclerc was bundled from the car in a quiet side street. By the time he’d untied the blindfold, the Volvo had rounded a corner and was out of sight.

  Larsson dropped Carver and Alix on the Pont des Bergues, leaving them to walk up to the Old Town while he returned to his own apartment. Within minutes of getting there, he’d gone online, and started hacking into the hotel mainframe. He wanted to erase any sign of their presence. It took half an hour and all of Larsson’s expertice, but finally, it was as if Mr. Vandervart, Miss St. Clair, and Mr. Sjoberg had never reserved a room or crossed the threshold of the building.

  As they walked back across the river, arm in arm, Alix asked Carver, “Would you really have hurt Leclerc?”

  “If I had to. If that was the only way of making him talk.”

  “It’s scary seeing you like that. It seems so natural to you.”

  “Not really. I was just getting the job done. And if you think I’m a natural, you should see yourself. I was pretty freaked-out sitting in front of the video watching you and him. Made me wonder what someone would think watching us.”

  They were on the far bank of the river now, walking for a while in companionable silence, still carrying the overnight bags they’d taken to the hotel in their spare hands. Then Carver spoke again.

  “Why did you really go to Paris?”

  There was no aggression in his voice, none of the menace he’d directed at Leclerc. He was asking a straight question, just as if he were curious.

  “It was like I told you,” Alix replied, just as straightforwardly. “Kursk wanted a woman to help him on a job, and he was willing to pay ten thousand dollars.”

  “But there’s no doctor, is there, no respectable fiancé?”

  Alix opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. She sighed and looked away.

  Carver’s voice hardened a fraction. “No, and I don’t see you working at a hotel reception desk, either. People like you and me don’t hold down normal jobs. We’ve been out of that world too long. So, what have you really been doing?”

  Alix pulled her arm away and stopped walking. “For God’s sake, isn’t it obvious? The same thing I always did. My clients were Russian, very rich, very powerful. Sometimes I was more like a girlfriend, staying with the same man for months at a time.”

  Carver wanted to stop. He knew there was nothing to be gained by digging deeper. But he couldn’t help himself. “Like that guy in the club, with the two blonds?” he added, and now there was an edge to the question.

  Alix looked at him with the sort of acid contempt he had not seen since that first night in Paris. “Yes, like Platon. Before those girls it was me sitting next to him in clubs, laughing at his jokes, letting his hands grab my tits, going down on him, fucking him. Okay? Are you satisfied now? Or would you like me to be humiliated a little more?”

  “No, I get the picture.”

  “Do you? Do you understand what it is to be a woman in Moscow today? There is no law, no security. The choice is not between a good life or a bad one, it is between surviving or dying. I did what it took to, as you say, get the job done. Then Kursk came to me, talking about a job in Paris, saying he needed a woman. I thought maybe there was a chance to escape and start again, a new life.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  There was real pain on her face now, anger giving way to resignation. “How could I tell you the whole truth? I invented my respectable lover and my respectable job because I hoped maybe you would respect me a bit more. But I lied. I am not respectable. Are you happy now?”

  Carver took her shoulders in his hands. “Alix, I don’t give a damn whether you’re ‘respectable.’ Of all the people in the world, I’ve got the least right to judge you. I just want to know what’s true.”

  She looked up at him. “Does it matter? Can it ever be any different than this, between you and me?”

  They were all talked out now, nothing left to say as they walked up the hill, lost in their own thoughts.

  From the Swisscom van, Girgori Kursk saw them come up the final block. Alexandra Petrova wore a brown wig and clothes he’d never seen on her before, but it made no difference. He’d seen her in so many wigs, so many disguises, he could see right past them, recognize her purely from the set of her body and the way she walked.

  He smiled when he saw the man next to her. The Englishman had hurt Kursk’s body and his pride alike. He had let himself get suckered into a high-explosive trap, and though he hadn’t let a hint of discomfort or vulnerability show to his men, every breath he took sent a sharp pain stabbing into his cracked and bruised ribs. Now he was going to enjoy his revenge.

  He called Dimitrov, who’d taken his place in the Irish pub, and the two other men he’d left near Carver’s apartment. His message was the same. “They’re here. Be ready for action. And remember, we take them both alive.”

  50

  A door opened a fraction, throwing a sliver of blue white neon light across the charcoal gray cobblestones.

  “Psst! Pablo! Come inside!”

  Carver was dragged from his introspection like a man being woken from a deep sleep. He looked around and saw the source of the voice.

  “Not tonight, Freddy. Sorry, mate, we’re not in the mood.”

  “Just come inside. This is serious!”

  The urgency in Freddy’s voice made Carver stop. He glanced at Alix but saw no response from her, one way or the other. “What is it?”

  They walked past several outside tables into the little, low-ceilinged café. There was one other person in the place, an old man hunched over a bowl of minestrone. Carver nodded in his direction: “Bonsoir, Karl, ça va?” The old man grunted a noncommittal reply and returned to his soup. “He’s in here every evening, last customer of the night, always a bowl of minestrone,” said Carver, though Alix wasn’t paying any attention.

  He turned back to Freddy. “What’s the problem?”

  Freddy gave the serving counter a flick with the cloth he kept tucked into his white apron. “No problem, not yet. But later, I don’t know. There are people looking for you, Pablo. First a Frenchman: He came here this morning saying he was working for the federal interior ministry. Obviously a lie. He was a cop of some kind, I’m sure. Then an Englishwoman, very polite, charming, but asking questions.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Typical English, you know. Not so chic, not elegant, but quite attractive.”

  “Hair? Clothes?”

  “Er, let me see. . . .” Freddy frowned. “Okay, she had pale brown hair, like a mouse. And she was wearing a skirt with some kind of pattern on it, flowers maybe.”

  Carver nodded. “She’s sitting about fifty meters back down the road in a blue Opel Vectra. There’s a man with her. When we walked by she grabbed his hand and looked in his eyes, pretending to be lovers. What did she want to know?”

  “She spoke to Jean-Louis when my back was turned. He told her about the other men too.”

  “What other men?”

  “I don’t know. I did not see them. But Jean-Louis saw some men get out of
a black car this afternoon. Then the car went away, but not all of the men were in it. They may still be around.”

  “How many men were there?”

  “I don’t know. Wait a moment.” He walked to one side of the room, opened a door, and poked his head through. “Jean-Louis!”

  A child’s voice came from an upstairs room. “Oui, Papa?”

  “Come here, son.”

  There was a scurrying of footsteps down a staircase, then a small bundle of energy rocketed into the room, saw Carver, and shrieked, “Pablo!”

  His father glowered at him, trying to look stern. “Tell Monsieur Pablo what you saw this afternoon. You know, the funny men.”

  “The ones the English lady asked me about?”

  “Yes, them.”

  “There were three of them, or maybe four. They looked funny. They had big coats on, even though it was nice and warm outside.”

  Carver got down on his haunches to look Jean-Louis in the eye. “Could you see if they were carrying anything under their coats?”

  “No, they were all buttoned up. They must have been boiling.”

  “Yes, they must. But thank you, that’s very useful. Now, did you see where they went?”

  The child nodded. “Some went toward your house. But some didn’t. I don’t know what happened to them. I had to come in because Maman said it was time for my dinner.”

  “Well, don’t you worry. You did very well. I think you could become a famous detective one day. Don’t you agree, Freddy?”

  Freddy looked shocked. “My son? A flic? That’s not funny, Pablo.” He crossed himself in mock horror, then turned to his son. “Okay, now, back up to bed. Come on, up you go. I’ll be up soon to read you a story. Go!”

  Carver watched the boy scamper from the room, then turned back to Freddy.

  “There’s a Swisscom van up the street, on the other side of the road. How long has that been here?”

  Freddy gave an exasperated sigh. “Merde! How would I know that? Truly, Pablo, you are no better than a cop yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, but this could be important. Just try to remember back earlier in the day, when you went out to serve people at the tables. Was the van there this morning? Were there telephone engineers doing work anywhere?”

  Freddy thought for a moment, his eyes closed. “No, there was no van there, no engineers. It must have arrived late in the day.”

  “So either there’s been some last-minute phone crisis, or it’s got nothing to do with Swisscom. We’ve got to assume it’s the latter. So now we’ve got the Frenchman, the Englishwoman and her pal in the car, and a gang of men in big coats who used to have a black car that’s now disappeared, and a van’s arrived. And it doesn’t look like any of them have got anything to do with the others. Jesus . . .”

  Alix looked at him. “So now what?”

  “You stay here while I go and work out what the bloody hell’s going on.”

  “Oh, you’re going to leave me, the helpless woman?”

  “No, I just don’t want to fight anyone else if I’m busy fighting with you at the same time. That would be a distraction. I’m going to find out who’s out there, deal with them, then we can carry on with whatever it is we’re doing. If that’s what you want.”

  Freddy rolled his eyes and left the room. “I’ll just go and, er, finish cleaning up the kitchen,” he said over his departing shoulder.

  Carver and Alix glowered at each other for a moment, neither wanting to give way. Then she gave a quick shrug of concession. “Go. Freddy can look after me.”

  Carver said nothing, just looked at her. Then he turned and walked toward the kitchen.

  “Hey, Freddy!” he called out. “Is there a back way out of this place?”

  51

  Carver went the long way around three sides of the block until he worked his way up to the far end of the street.

  Now he was looking back down the road toward the van, the café, and the blue Opel. Malone’s pub was just in front of him. If anyone had been asking questions in the café, chances were they’d gone in there too. He might as well do the same.

  Carver pushed open the door and walked into a reek of cigarettes and old Guinness. They had the usual crowd in, office workers from the UN and the local banks trying to prove they were flesh-and-blood humans beneath their gray and blue suits. Carver gave a quick wave of recognition to the hefty man in a green Ireland rugby shirt standing behind the bar, then looked casually around the room, just like any other patron, checking out the evening’s action.

  It didn’t take much effort to spot the man in the coat. He was perched on a stool by the window, looking straight at Carver and jabbering into a phone. That was a giveaway to start with. He snapped the phone shut the moment he caught Carver’s eye. That was the clincher. Carver walked up to the bar, shaking his head at the idiocy of a man who didn’t even have the brains to feign a lack of interest.

  “Pint, please, Stu.”

  The man in the rugby shirt replied, “No worries, mate,” in a broad Aussie accent, and stood by the pump as the foaming, creamy beer slowly settled and darkened in the half-liter glass in front of him.

  Carver leaned on the counter. “That bloke by the window, the ugly bugger in the black coat, he been here long?”

  Stu looked across the room. “Dunno, couple of hours, maybe. Hasn’t drunk much, the tight bastard. Had a mate in earlier, but the other bloke left.”

  Carver paid for his drink. He was about to carry it away when he seemed to be struck by a sudden thought.

  “Tell you what, Stu, you might want to ring for a doctor. I’ve got a premonition. There might be a bit of an accident.”

  “Strewth, Pablo, I don’t want any fighting in here. Take it outside if you want to have a ruckus.”

  Carver patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry. It won’t take a second.”

  He strolled back across the pub to the seats by the window, nice and casual, exchanging smiles with pretty girls he bumped into along the way. The Russian was only a few feet away now, watching him, uncertain how to react to his target approaching him as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Between Carver and the Russian, three young office babes were clustered around a bottle of wine, swapping giggly, high-pitched gossip. One of them had left her handbag on the floor.

  The women flicked glances at Carver as he walked by. He turned his head and grinned cheekily back at them, giving the prettiest of the trio a saucy wink as he went by.

  He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. That’s why he tripped on the handbag and fell forward, his glass flying from his hand and sending a spray of Guinness arcing through the air toward the girls, who shrieked and leaped out of the way as the foaming black liquid splashed their clothes.

  Carver’s hands flailed for something to grab onto and landed on the man in the coat, who staggered backward as Carver plowed into him.

  Bodies went flying, chairs were knocked across the floor, the excited, outraged squeals of the women echoed around the room. No one noticed the way Carver’s fists tightened their grip on the fabric of the man’s coat, or the sudden jerk of the neck that sent Carver’s forehead smashing into the bridge of his nose as the two men fell helplessly to the floor.

  Within a couple of seconds, the chaos had subsided. Carver pulled himself to his feet with a dazed expression on his face and looked down in anguish at the bloodstained wreck lying unconscious on the floor. “Oh God! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?” he said helplessly.

  He looked around at the gawking drinkers. “Someone call an ambulance, quick!” There was a pause, then his eyes widened. “Where’s the men’s room?” he gasped. “I think I’m going to be sick.” He bent over, put his hands to his mouth and puffed out his cheeks, staggering toward the back of the pub as nervous drinkers stepped back to let him pass.

  It wasn’t until he was through the swinging door, down the hallway beyond it, and into the men’s room that Carver straightened,
wiped a trace of blood off his forehead, and permitted himself a smile. That was one down. But how many more still to go?

  Then the door behind him opened. He looked in the mirror. And he got an answer.

  Grigori Kursk had a decision to make. He’d hoped Carver and Petrova would return to the apartment. He’d planned to capture them and the computer there, but now it looked as though they’d split up. Dimitrov had spotted Carver in the pub, but he was alone. Petrova was nowhere in sight. She must still be in the café. Kursk sent his other two men down to reinforce Dimitrov. But now should he join them, or should he go after the girl?

  He considered the situation. Carver was good, there was no doubt about that. But Kursk trusted his men. They might not be rocket scientists, but they were ex-Spetsnatz troopers, trained in one of the world’s toughest special forces regimes.

  He, meanwhile, could deal with Petrova alone. He knew where to find her. He’d bet money Carver had played it the same way he would have done: Keep the bitch safely out of the way, then do a man’s job by himself.

  He got out of the van and stretched his back, ridding his spine of the stiffness brought on by two hours cooped up in a car, then walked down the road toward the café.

  MI6 agent number D/813318, Grade 5 Officer Tom Johnsen was using his time on surveillance to get to know Jennifer Stock a little better. She hadn’t struck him as anything special at first glance. Her face was handsome rather than pretty. Her manner was friendly, but businesslike, designed to underline the fact that, during working hours at least, she was an agent first and a woman second. He respected that, and he liked the fact that she hadn’t let a desire to be taken seriously kill her sense of humor. The longer he spent in the car with Jennifer Stock, the more interested Johnsen became in the woman, rather than the agent.

  He was intrigued by the way she underplayed her attraction. She wore no makeup that he could see, and her hair was cut for convenience rather than glamor. She also seemed oblivious of her figure. That might be why it had taken him longer than usual to notice that she had amazing legs and fantastic breasts—not too big, but so round and pert and generally pleased-to-see-you that it was all he could do to look her in the eye. She’d given him a bit of flak about that, but he reckoned he’d got away with it. And it had been Jennifer’s idea to act like lovebirds if anyone started looking suspiciously at two people sitting in a car. That had to be encouraging.