by Tom Cain
"And once I've done one finger, I'll do all the rest as well. And your toes. And you don't even want to think about the rest of your body. So, would you like to talk?"
Leclerc nodded frantically.
"Very sensible decision. Here, let's make you a little bit more comfortable. Perhaps you could help me, Miss St. Clair?"
Together, they dragged Leclerc up so that his back was resting against the headboard. Alix leaned forward and murmured in his ear. "I'm sorry, Magnus. Just tell Mr. Vandervart exactly what he wants, and you can go home to Marthe. You love her really, don't you, Magnus?"
Another desperate nod.
"Okay, then." Alix pulled the gag from his mouth.
Carver spoke, still in character. "I want to know about one of the accounts you control. It's number 4443717168."
"But I control hundreds of accounts. How can I remember them all?" Leclerc's blindfolded head turned from side to side in supplication.
"You'll remember this one. On Saturday morning, you acknowledged receipt of 1.5 million U.S. dollars into the account and sent a fax to that effect to the account holder. But by Sunday afternoon, you'd made the money disappear. How did you do that? And who gave you the orders? Because I don't think you'd steal all that money for yourself…"
"No! No!"
"So what happened?"
"I can't tell you. I can't! They'd kill me!" His voice was high-pitched, begging for an understanding he knew he would never receive.
"Who are 'they,' Magnus?"
"I can't tell you!"
"Because they'd kill you."
"Yes!"
"What makes you think that I won't kill you first? Open your mouth."
Carver reached around to the small of his back and pulled his SIG-Sauer from the waistband. He jammed the silencer between Leclerc's teeth.
"Can you guess what that is? Correct, it's a nine millimeter pistol. Believe me, I won't hesitate to pull the trigger. It's what I do. But I can do something else too. I can keep secrets. And no one will ever know anything about this evening, ever, if you just tell me what happened to that account."
"Nothing happened."
Carver slapped Leclerc a second time. "I thought we had an understanding here."
Leclerc moaned. "No, really, nothing happened. No money ever went into that account. None came out. The receipt for the deposit was a fake."
"So who gave the orders for it to be issued?"
"I can't tell you… I can't!"
Carver sighed. He stuffed the gag back into Leclerc's mouth, then picked up his hand again. "This little piggy went to market," he said, giving the index finger a sudden, sharp tug. He moved along the hand. "This little piggy stayed at home. This little piggy had roast beef. And this little piggy…"
There was a muffled howl behind the handkerchief. Carver held Leclerc's little finger for a few seconds longer, forcing it back, letting the pain intensify, then took out the handkerchief.
"Did you want to say something? Or do you want me to prove how serious I am?"
"No, please, I beg you…"
"Then tell me. The orders-where did they come from?"
"From Malgrave and Company. That's a bank in London."
"Who sent them? I need a name."
"I do not know, but I think they must have come from the very top, from someone with great influence. It could not have happened unless my own company's president had agreed."
"So, who runs Malgrave and Company? Who's the boss?"
Leclerc attempted a pained smile. "You don't need me to tell you that. It's a family company. The current chairman is Lord Crispin Malgrave."
"Thank you, Mr. Leclerc. You've been very helpful. You'll be out of here in a moment. Tomorrow morning you will receive an e-mail. Photographs will be attached to it-stills from our videotapes. I hope they will serve as reminders to you to keep quiet. I would not wish any further unpleasantness.
"Now, Miss St. Clair, perhaps you would be so good as to get dressed again and help me tidy up this room."
Carver turned toward the pack of cigarettes, with its hidden camera, and delivered a message to Thor Larsson, watching the monitor in the other suite.
"You can pack up and get out of there too."
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 fiance?"
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 cho
ice 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 cafe. There was one other person in the place, an old man hunched over a bowl of minestrone. Carver nodded in his direction: "Bonsoir, Karl, ca 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 cafe, and the blue Opel. Malone's pub was just in front of him. If anyone had been asking questions in the cafe, 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 h
ad 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.
