The Accident Man (23 page)

“Bit amateur. We’ll have much less trouble tracking that.”

“Perhaps greed is getting the better of him. It’s amazing what the prospect of easy money does to the human brain. And he probably underestimates our ability to track him. We only let the Frogs see a fraction of our signals intelligence, after all. Their officers won’t necessarily realize just how powerful Echelon and GCHQ really are.”

“Can we find him?”

“Working back to the site of his call is tricky but not impossible. We may manage it. But our real chance will come when he calls back. We’ve got to conduct some sort of negotiation. If we keep him talking, we’ll get an exact position.”

“He’s not going to be that daft, surely?”

“He stands to make half a mill. He might take a risk for that.”

Grantham frowned. “I can see why he’s not worried about us. Even if we don’t shell out any cash, we’re hardly going to hurt a fellow professional from a country that’s one of our allies.”

“Even if he is French?”

“No, not even then. But there’ll be other people out there who are a lot less scrupulous. Papin’s got to get his money, take his clients to the killers’ location, then get out in one piece himself. Tell you what, Bill, you said this guy’s not bad.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, he’s going to have to be a hell of a lot better than that to pull this one off.”

Alix watched Carver as he worked his way through an enormous helping of venison stew and noodles in the restaurant of the Hotel Beau-Rivage. It was called Le Chat-Botté.

“That means Puss in Boots,” Carver had said with a cheeky, naughty schoolboy glint in his eye. There was something boyish about the gusto with which he attacked his food too, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, nothing to think about except for the plate in front of him and the glass of red wine at its side. His appetite seemed completely unaffected by the prospect of what they had to do in a few hours’ time. Then again, he wasn’t the one who’d have to squeeze into a tight-cut skirt.

Even as they went upstairs to his suite, she was still trying to figure Carver out, to uncover the true self he kept so carefully hidden — from himself as much as everyone else. So many men she had known had struggled to be even one-dimensional, but not this one. He was so assured in his own world, so uncertain in hers; so cold at some moments, so emotional at others. Yet it sometimes seemed to her as though Carver’s emotions were obvious to everyone but him.

She wondered if he knew how powerfully his eyes expressed his feelings. In the short time she had known him, she had seen icy rage and aching tenderness, ebullient laughter and exhausted vulnerability. She thought of the books, records, and paintings in his apartment, the consideration he could show when he was at ease. Then she thought of him walking into the mansion in Paris, gunning down two men, finishing them off with a shot to the head, and walking away from their bodies without a second glance. She remembered lying on the ground by that bus stop, her face pressed against the sidewalk, his knee digging into her spine. How could she reconcile that man with the one who had lain beside her that morning, who was taking her in his arms again this afternoon?

She pulled away a fraction. “Should we be doing this? I thought we were here on…” she tried to find the right words. “On business.”

“We are,” he replied. “We have one chance to find out what we need to know. In a few hours, Magnus Leclerc is going to walk into the bar downstairs. You are going to seduce him. I am going to scare him witless. Then I’m going to start asking him questions. Leclerc is our only lead. If we can make him talk, we can find the people who betrayed us. If not, well, it’s just a matter of time till they find us, no matter how far or fast we run.”

“So shouldn’t we be doing something else? You know, something useful or important?”

“Such as what? This is like any other operation. Most of the time you spend just waiting around. We don’t know if the operation’s going to work. We don’t know if we’ll be alive tomorrow. What could be more important than seizing every moment we can?”

She considered what he had said, weighing the merits of his case. Then she smiled. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s seize the moment.”

Pierre Papin was dog tired. He had worked for almost forty-eight hours, virtually without a break. His eyeballs felt like sandpaper and his brain had been coshed. With every passing minute, thought became more of an effort and his tension and uncertainty increased. And yet, for all that, he was making progress.

Some of the locals had been uncooperative, but even dumb insolence provided a form of information. He’d gone into a small café, demanded to see the owner, flashed his ID, and shown him the pictures of Carver and the girl. The man had shrugged and said, “Never seen them before in my life,” but the answer was too quick. He’d not even bothered to examine the photographs.

There’d been a small boy in the café, six or seven years old. Papin had got down on his haunches, held out the picture of Carver, and put on his most wheedling voice: “Have you seen this man come into the café?” But before the boy could answer, the café owner had picked him up and stuck a finger in Papin’s face, hissing, “Leave my son out of this!”

Papin knew he must be getting really close. He knocked on doors, approached women taking dogs for walks or bringing shopping back to their homes, made inquiries with impeccable politeness and a dash of charm. Soon he had discovered Carver’s address. But he did not know whether his quarry had returned to his apartment while he’d been making his inquiries.

The Frenchman needed to answer that question before he made his next move. He slogged up the endless stairs to the fifth floor of an ancient apartment building and knocked on the door. The sound of a lock opening was followed by the sight of a very respectable-looking woman of pensionable age peering around the half-open door with the look of disapproval that was clearly her default expression.

Papin showed her his card and, adding an enticing note of intrigue to his voice, explained that he was deeply sorry to disturb madame, but there had been reports of an illegal immigrant settling in the apartment level with hers in the adjoining building. Before taking the appropriate action to rid the neighborhood of such an undesirable, he wished to discover whether the individual in question was currently in occupation.

He produced a device that looked like a doctor’s stethoscope attached to a microphone. This seemed to convince the old lady, or at least to arouse her curiosity. She let Papin in, offered him coffee and biscuits (he declined with profuse thanks for her kind hospitality), then watched, in fascination, as he placed the microphone against several points on the wall abutting Carter’s apartments, listening intently each time. Finally, Papin stepped away from the wall, folded up his listening device, and shook his head. “The individual in question is not in residence, madame,” he said, sounding suitably frustrated. “But have no fear. I will be maintaining a vigil all day. He will not escape.”

A few minutes later he was standing on the top-floor landing of the building next door, facing a simple dark blue door.

So this was where his quarry hid from the world. Papin was tempted to break in and grab the laptop. It must be in there; Carver hadn’t been carrying it when he left that morning. But there were bound to be security measures — Carver was not the type to leave himself unprotected — and even if there were not, Carver would know that someone had been there the moment he stepped through the door, and he’d be off like a startled gazelle. It was far better to keep a low profile. Papin was certain the two of them would be returning to the apartment that day. They’d been walking through town like lovers on a day off, not fugitives on the run — they weren’t going anywhere. He’d save them for the highest bidder.

It was time to call Charlie. But when he dialed the number, Papin was put through to another phone and a voice he didn’t recognize.

“To whom am I speaking?” he asked.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Then this conversation is over.”

“Wait a moment, Monsieur Papin. I am Charlie’s superior. You are talking to me because he does not have the authority to deal with your financial conditions, and I do. I’m afraid that I cannot accept your demand for five hundred thousand dollars.”

Papin had expected some form of negotiation. “
Alors
, monsieur, I am sorry. If you will not pay me the required sum, I will find a client who will.”

“Three hundred. And that is my final offer. Not a penny more.”

“No, I will not lower my price. But I will make you a deal. You pay me two fifty up front, I take you to the location. From there it will be one twenty-five if you find the people, one twenty-five for the computer. You will not pay in full unless you have everything you need. Fair?”

There was silence at the other end of the line while the man considered the offer. Papin wondered what the counterbid would be. But then came a grunt of assent: “Fair enough, monsieur. So what are the arrangements?”

“You will send one man to the front entrance of the Cathedral of Saint Pierre in Geneva, Switzerland. I will be there for precisely five minutes, starting at five p.m. local time. I will be wearing a dark blue suit and holding a rolled-up newspaper. I apologize for the cliché, monsieur, but it will suffice. Your representative will say, ‘Charlie sends his regards.’ I will reply, ‘I hope Charlie is well.’ He will say, ‘Yes, much better now.’ He will then hand me the first half of the payment — remember, bearer bonds, endorsed in my name. I will give further instructions at that time. Your man may have backup for any action that is required, but he will only call for this backup when I give permission.”

“I understand. Five o’clock this afternoon at the cathedral. I will have someone there. Thank you, Monsieur Papin.”

“On the contrary, Monsieur. Thank you.”

Papin put down the receiver, raised his eyes to the ceiling, then let out a long sigh of relief. He rubbed the back of his neck as he pondered his next move. He had the money in the bag. He didn’t need another bidder. But what if there was a way to make more than one deal? He might yet be able to double his money. Yes, that would be something. And if he played it right, he could get the killers and their bosses off his back for good.

Deep inside the futuristic, postmodernist ziggurat on the south bank of the river Thames that had been the headquarters of MI6 since 1995 — and which its more cynical inhabitants, unimpressed by the building’s expense, vulgarity, and sore-thumb prominence, had dubbed “Ceausescu Towers” — Bill Selsey was sitting by a telephone receiver, waiting for a call. Beside him were other secret service officers wearing headsets, operating digital audio recorders, and monitoring the connection between their lines and the tracking equipment at GCHQ. Jack Grantham was sitting at the same table as Selsey, ready to listen in on whatever Pierre Papin had to say.

The phone rang. Selsey paused for the technicians’ thumbs-up, then picked up the receiver.

Papin was all apologies. “I am so sorry, Bill, but I already have a buyer for my information. We are meeting at five p.m.”

“Well, I’m sorry too, Pierre. Maybe we could have done some business.”

“Maybe we still can.”

“How would that be?”

“You could buy my buyer.”

Selsey rolled his eyes across the table at Jack Grantham. What was the Frenchman playing at now?

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Simply that I can now provide you with a complete package: the people who killed your princess and the people who hired them.”

Selsey couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud. “So you shaft the people you’ve just done a deal with and sell them out to us?”

“Exactly.”

“Bloody hell, Pierre, you’ve got a nerve! Presumably you’d like to be paid by us too.”

“But of course. The price is the same: five hundred thousand U.S.”

“Yeah, well, there’s just one problem. We don’t have that kind of money lying around. You know how it is, endless bloody budget cuts, every penny has to be justified in triplicate. Probably the same with your lot, right?”

“Yes, it’s true. We cannot afford to be extravagant. But this is not extravagance. This is a small outlay for a huge return.”

Across the room a signals tech gestured at Selsey to keep talking. He mouthed the words “almost got it.” Selsey nodded. He kept talking.

“I agree. If we did get that entire crew, it would be good. But to be honest, that’s what concerns me. You’re planning to deceive a group of known killers. I’m not sure you want to be doing that. In fact, I’d say we’re the only people you can trust. We’re pros, like you. We’re not in the business of harming our allies’ agents. So why don’t you come in with us? We’ll keep an eye on things, cover your back. I mean, even if your clients don’t discover you’re about to rat them out, they may decide they don’t want to pay your money after all. They may try to get it back… over your dead body.”

“But it would be of no use to them. That is why I demanded endorsed bearer bonds. They can only be cashed by me. No, Bill, your offer is very kind, but I’m sure I can look after myself. And also I would be safer without you. If I do not sell my clients to you, they have no need to harm me. And if I do sell them, and they find out, then I do not think you would be able to save me. So I want money to cover the extra risk, or no deal. What is it to be?”

Selsey looked across at the signals tech and got a thumbs-up. “Then I’m sorry, Pierre, but it’s no deal.”

“I’m sorry too, Bill. Another time.”

And the line went dead.

“Good work,” said Jack Grantham, leaning across the table to give his colleague a supportive pat on the arm. “So, where is the treacherous little sod?”

“Geneva,” said the signals tech. “Public phone on the Rue Verdaine, right by the city cathedral.”

“Damn!” muttered Grantham. “We can’t get there in time from here. We’ll have to use someone local.” He picked up a phone and dialed an internal number. “Monica? Jack Grantham. Something urgent’s come up in Geneva. Who do we have in the UN mission there?… What do you mean one of them’s on holiday? It’s September, people should be back at work…. Okay, well, get the chap — sorry, the woman, my mistake — get the one who isn’t busy lying on a beach and tell her to give me a ring asap, would you? And see what we can rustle up from the embassy at Bern — that’s not far from Geneva, right?… Excellent. Well, tell them to call me once they’re on their way. Coordinate with the girl in Geneva…. Yes, Monica, I know she’s a grown woman, it’s just a figure of speech…. Well, whatever this female is, I want to talk to her. Now.”