by Tom Cain
So, what had he been doing for kicks? Dame Agatha knew she’d have to be careful. Wake was still connected all the way to the top. If he caught wind of any investigation, all hell would break loose. So she kept it discreet. A team had been dispatched to keep an eye on Wake’s home, his movements, and any contacts he made. She’d been summoned to the room where the operation was being controlled at around half-past twelve. Now she was leaning over a workstation, one hand on the tabletop, the other on the back of a chair. One of her agents was sitting there, running the communications system.
A voice came over the speakerphone:
“We have two males entering the building, both white, smartly dressed. One looks to be in his fifties, gray hair, florid complexion. The other is younger, probably late thirties, short-cropped hair, carrying a briefcase. We have pictures. Mark’s just setting up the link now, should be sending them through to you any second.”
Two grainy photographs, shot long distance through a telephoto lens, appeared on the computer screen at the center of the workstation.
“I know one of them,” said Dame Agatha. “Lord Crispin Malgrave, the chairman and major shareholder of Malgrave and Company. He’s a steward of the Jockey Club, receives regular invitations to the royal box at Ascot, and has donated at least five million to the Conservative Party.”
“You’re very well-informed, Agatha,” said her deputy, Pearson Chalmers, who was standing next to her, watching the same screen.
“I should be,” she replied. “The last time Lord Malgrave joined the royal family at Ascot, he had lunch beforehand in Windsor Castle. I was sitting next to him.”
“My, you do move in high circles.”
“Not often. But Lord Crispin lives in them. Now, who’s the man with him?”
“A bodyguard?” suggested Chalmers. “He has that military look.”
“Possibly.” Dame Agatha cast a skeptical eye over the figure on the screen. “But would a bodyguard carry a briefcase? Put him through the system. See if his face jogs the computer’s memory.”
She pressed a button on the workstation and spoke into a microphone. “Keep watching. Await further orders. Good work so far.”
Dame Agatha cut the conversation short with her field agents. She was thinking about the military man standing at Wake’s front door. Was this the killer Grantham had mentioned, coming back to England on the trail of his lost girl? It was a very long shot indeed, but if Wake really was involved, then the killer would certainly want to talk to him. But where did Lord Malgrave fit in? Dame Agatha decided to wait awhile and see if she could get to the mystery man without offending too many senior members of the British establishment.
She turned back to Pearson Chalmers. “You’d better call Jack Grantham at SIS. Tell him we may have something for him. If there’s an interrogation, he’ll want to sit in.”
Chalmers raised an eyebrow. “I’m all for interservice cooperation, but isn’t that taking it a bit far?”
Dame Agatha smiled. “No. We’ve both got our necks on the line. This time, for once, we’d better stick together.”
She pressed the button again and spoke to her agents in the field. “When Sir Perceval Wake’s visitors leave, I want a tail put on Lord Malgrave. But make it discreet. As for the other man, lift him and bring him back here. I’d like a word with our mystery guest.”
70
The first things Carver noticed were the photographs. On the bookshelves, on the mantelpiece, a couple on the desk itself—everywhere pictures of the man whose room this was. He was sharing a joke with Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev, standing in a dinner jacket next to an evening-gowned Margaret Thatcher; he was drinking cocktails with JFK and Jackie by the pool at Hyannis Port, admiring the steaks on the Bush barbecue at Kennebunkport. There were dedications to “My good friend Percy” from Richard Nixon and, “Mon cher Percéval” from General Charles de Gaulle. There was even a greeting in Cyrillic script on a picture of the old Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev.
This man didn’t name-drop. He name-bombed.
Then Carver spotted a picture on a cabinet behind the desk. It must have been taken at a royal gala. The old man was standing in a reception line. He was talking to the guest of honor. She was wearing a long blue dress, and a diamond tiara was pinned in her feathered blond hair. The inscription at the bottom, written in a rounded, girlish hand, read: “Thank you so much for those wise words of advice!” The “so” had been underlined. Twice.
Unbelievable. The old boy had just had the princess killed, but he still wanted the world to know that they’d been pals.
Perhaps he thought they still were. Sir Perceval Wake struck Carver as the kind of man who believes that reality is whatever he says it is, whose lies are convincing because he genuinely believes them to be true. He still believed, for example, that he could call the shots. His tame commander was bobbing about in the Channel with his head blown away. His troops were filling up the morgues of Paris. The Russians clearly reckoned they had him under control. But in Wake’s mind, he was the chairman, and he was still the boss.
It still worked, for some people. When they’d arrived, a secretary had told Malgrave that the chairman wanted to see Carver alone. He’d been asked to wait outside the office. Malgrave had obeyed at once. If anything, he’d looked relieved.
Carver was asked to leave his case and gun with the secretary. He complied, then went into the office.
“You’ve got nerve coming here, Carver,” Wake said, as if his arrogance alone were enough to keep a killer at bay.
“Who’s the Russian?” asked Carver.
“Which particular Russian did you have in mind? As you can see”—Wake waved an arm airily at the walls—”I’ve known quite a few.”
“Really?” said Carver, walking up to a bookshelf and peering at the pictures in the silver, wood, and leather frames. “Which ones are the Russians, then?”
“Well,” said Wake, “let’s see now.” He rose from behind the desk and came over to where Carver was standing. He searched among the rows of happy snapshots. “Ah yes, that’s Nikita Khrush—”
Carver swung around to face Wake and jabbed the first and middle fingers of his right hand into the old man’s eyes, as hard and fast as the fangs of a snake. The old man yelped and bent double, his head in his hands. Carver grabbed Wake’s jaw and pulled it upward till their eyes met. He kept his grip tight and repeated, “Who’s the Russian?”
Wake looked up at him, blinking back tears. “Can’t tell you,” he said. “Just can’t . . .”
Carver didn’t have time to waste. He wrapped his right arm around Wake’s neck, standing behind him, his mouth by Wake’s right ear, the two men clasped in a warped intimacy. Then he started tightening.
“Who’s . . . the . . . Russian?” he hissed.
Wake’s hands flapped helplessly. His head rocked back and forth and his chest heaved as he fought for air. It occurred to Carver that he might be going too far. The old man’s heart might give out before he could talk. When he heard a croaking sound in Wake’s throat, he eased his arm a fraction. Wake took a ragged breath.
“Zhukovski,” he gasped. “Yuri Zhukovksi.”
“Who’s he?”
“One of the oligarchs, the men who own Russia. He’s got paper mills, aluminum smelters, armaments factories, assets everywhere.”
Carver frowned, “I thought the state still controlled all weapons manufacturing.”
“It does. But Zhukovski is a middleman. He finds buyers, collects payments in dollars, and passes it on to the Kremlin in rubles, taking a cut along the way.”
“Nice business.”
“That’s not all,” said Wake, relishing the small sense of control that his knowledge provided. “Back in Soviet times, many factories had parallel, black-market production lines, controlled by local party chiefs and gangsters. Those lines still exist. The armaments industry is no exception.”
“And oligarchs like Zhukovski have taken over from the gangsters?”
Wake attempted a superior, if somewhat battered smile. “Do you seriously think there’s a difference?”
“But what’s his interest in the princess?”
“You’re a bright young man, you work that out. He was prepared to pay millions to get rid of her. It was his idea.”
“And you agreed. Why?”
“Long story, goes right back to the old days. . . . I had no choice. . . .”
Carver pulled his arm away from Wake’s throat, then shoved him back against the bookcase, pinning him there. “What exactly did Zhukovski do in the old days, then?” he asked.
“He worked for the State.”
“Everyone worked for the State. That’s what communism meant. What part of the State?’
Wake grimaced. “Dzerzhinsky Square.”
Carver understood. Dzerzhinsky Square was the headquarters of the KGB. So Zhukovski’s power over Wake went all the way back to the cold war days. The old bastard had probably been playing for the other side, just another one of Britain’s band of upper-class traitors. Zhukovski would have known and used the information as leverage. But that was ancient history. Carver had more important issues to deal with in the here and now.
“Has he got the girl?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, get on the phone and call him for me, then.”
Carver stepped back. Wake pushed himself away from the bookcase. It took him a second or two to find his balance, then he staggered back to his desk. He collapsed into his chair.
“You don’t believe in social niceties, do you?”
“Not when I’m working. Not when there are lives at stake.”
“You think you can actually save that girl? Ha!” The laugh came out as a bitter croak. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Nor does he. Start dialing.”
Wake picked up his telephone and spoke to his secretary, trying to keep his breathing even and the pain out of his voice. “Please get me Mr. Zhukovski. I suggest you try his mobile number first.”
A few seconds later, the telephone rang. Wake answered it. He put on a fine performance. “Well,” thought Carver, “the chairman was hardly going to let this paymaster know that his whole operation was falling apart.”
“Yuri, my dear chap. . . . Yes, it’s good to speak to you too. I have someone here who wants to talk to you. His name is Samuel Carver.”
Wake held out the phone. Carver grabbed it.
“Have you got her?”
There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carver. My name is Yuri Zhukovski.”
‘So, we’ve been introduced,” said Carver. “Now prove that she’s still alive.”
“Of course,” said Zhukovski.
Carver heard the sound of scuffled footsteps, then Zhukovski said, “As you requested . . .” and he heard an unmistakable voice cry, “Carver! Don’t—” Then there was a slap, a muffled female cry of pain, and more scuffling as she was dragged away.
Zhukovski returned to the phone as if nothing had happened, his tone as even as before. “So, Miss Petrova is in my hands. To be frank, I had expected you to contact me sooner. I know all about your adventures with Monsieur Leclerc in Geneva.” He let out a contemplative sigh. “I hope you enjoyed watching Petrova at work. I always used to. In any case, I take it you want her.”
“Of course.”
“Very well, what will you offer me in exchange? Please bear in mind that I require a high price. My men wish to let her know what they think of her treachery. I need hardly describe what that will entail. If you want the woman, you must give me a very good reason for denying them their amusement.”
“The computer,” said Carver. “I have the laptop on which Saturday night’s operation was planned and controlled. The firewalls are down. The files have been decrypted. And the man who had it was very efficient. He kept records of every order, every transaction, every detail of the project.”
He was trying to work out how far to take the bluff. He had nothing in his hand, but he didn’t have an option. He had to go all-in.
“This man did some digging of his own,” Carver continued. “He must have had a suspicious nature. Two people he’d never heard of were dumped on him. He wanted to know who they were, where they were getting their orders. He followed the trail all the way back to Moscow. Trust me, Zhukovski, you need that computer. You certainly don’t want me to keep it.”
“What’s to stop you from copying the hard drive?” the Russian asked.
“What’s to stop you from killing the girl and taking the computer anyway?” Carver retorted. “But you want to get on with your business, I want to get on with my life. Neither of us has any interest in seeing any of this go public. Let’s just do the trade and be done.”
“Very well, be at the main entrance of the Palace Hotel, Gstaad, Switzerland, at seven p.m. this evening, with your precious computer.”
“That’s less than five hours from now,” snapped Carver.
“Yes,” the Russian agreed, “it is a tight schedule. But if you start now and do not waste time—for example, by trying to double-cross me in any way—it should be possible for you to make it. And of course, you will come alone and unarmed. I do not need to explain what will happen if you break either of those conditions. Beyond that, I make no promises. If you can convince me that you have something to offer, perhaps I will let you take the girl. If not, well, my people feel as strongly about you as they do about her.”
The line went dead. Carver handed the phone back to Wake.
“Call your secretary,” he said. “I need to get on an afternoon flight to Zurich or Geneva. Now.”
There was only one flight that could possibly get him to Switzerland in time to make the deadline, and even that would be tight. The plane left Gatwick Airport, roughly thirty miles away to the south of London, at 2:50. He should be checking in now. It got in at 5:20 local time, which would leave him an hour and forty minutes to get through passport and-customs control, meet up with Thor Larsson, pick up the computer, and drive 150 kilometers to Gstaad.
By any rational analysis, Carver didn’t stand a chance. But if he ran flat-out to Victoria station and caught the next airport express; if there were no delays in London’s notoriously inefficient train system; if he could pick up his ticket and dash to the gate; if the plane was on schedule and the customs quick; if Larsson’s Volvo had full tanks and the roads were clear . . . well, maybe he could make it. Just.
He put the handset back on the receiver. Wake was still sitting, unmoving, behind his desk, drained of animation.
“I suppose you’re going to kill me now,” he said.
“I’d love to, old boy,” said Samuel Carver. “But I really haven’t got the time.”
71
They caught Carver as he sprinted down Eccleston Street, just outside an Italian restaurant. He was going at full pelt, jinking between pedestrians like a rugby player evading tackles, his concentration focused on getting his exhausted body the best part of a mile through a crowded city in seven minutes flat. The only other thought on his mind, the one that was giving him the energy to keep going, was the nagging fear of what was happening to Alix, and what might be done to her if he did not make that evening deadline.
So he didn’t notice the black Ford Mondeo that dropped one passenger off behind him, sped up the street, and deposited another two some fifty yards ahead before coming to rest double-parked by the curb. The first he knew of any of it was when a heavily built man in a black donkey jacket stepped sideways right into his path, bodychecking him.
Carver was sent sprawling onto the pavement, the breath knocked from his lungs. Instantly, the other two men joined their pal in the donkey jacket, picked Carver up, dragged him to the car, and threw him into the back. By the time he woke up to what was happening, the doors on both sides of him had been closed, there were guns pointed at him left and right, and a tough-looking bastard in a Chelsea Football
Club sweatshirt was holding out a pair of cuffs.
Carver cursed his carelessness, his stupidity, and the fatigue that had caused both failings. The kidnapping had been handled with practiced precision. But no matter how good the people who’d grabbed him had been, he should have been paying attention, he should have seen them coming.
He wondered whether Percy Wake had sold him out, but he couldn’t work out why. The old man must have known that if Carver went down, he’d be dragged down too. Maybe his Whitehall connections were so strong, he thought he couldn’t be touched.
Or was there another possibility? Maybe this had nothing to do with Wake. Carver looked at the two men sitting next to him in the back of the Mondeo, and the other two in the front. They were calm. They hadn’t said a word apart from a quick radio message, indicating that they’d got their man and they’d be back within five minutes. They didn’t act like criminals of any kind. They didn’t look tense, and they weren’t screaming threats or smacking him around unnecessarily.
Carver thought about the organizations based within five minutes of the Vauxhall Bridge Road that had well-trained men, capable of seizing a dangerous man in broad daylight, right in the middle of London. There were three possibilities. It was just a matter of where the driver went next.
He didn’t make the early left that would take them to New Scotland Yard. So it wasn’t the cops. When they made their way down toward the river Thames, he didn’t go straight over Vauxhall Bridge, so that eliminated MI6. Instead, he turned left onto Millbank and drove along the river till he arrived at the big pale gray building with its castiron ornamental lamps and decorative statues dotting the bland facade like hopeful dabs of makeup on the face of an unattractive woman.
Now Carver knew who’d taken him.
72
It was hardly a formal interrogation. They were in a regular office, rather than an interview room. There was no tape machine or video camera. This wasn’t a conversation anyone wanted on record.
“What a very complicated man you are,” said Dame Agatha Bewley, casting an eye over several sheets of paper and a series of photographs bundled in a plain brown folder. “Your adoptive parents raised you as Paul Jackson—their surname and the one under which you served in the royal marines and special boat squadron. You were awarded a Military Cross and three Queen’s Commendations for Bravery, as well as numerous minor awards and campaign honors. A very distinguished career—I congratulate you.
