Carver

6

Mykonos

Carver wasn’t inclined to trust Ginger any further than he could throw her, but he needed to get off Mykonos as fast and inconspicuously as possible. If she was offering him a way out, he was at least prepared to listen.

He followed her directions through winding, crowded streets to a small hotel. Passing under a grey and white striped awning, and through a marble-framed front door, he came to a small lobby. To one side stood an antique reception desk, topped with red leather, on which sat a brass bell. The padded leather seat behind the desk was empty. The only other person in the lobby was Ginger. She walked up to Carver, took his right hand in both of hers, squeezed it, and looked him in the eyes as she mouthed the words, ‘I’m so sorry.’ Then, in a brisk, clear voice she instructed him: ‘Please follow me.’

She led him through to a garden at the back of the hotel. There was a man standing by the entrance. Carver recognized him at once from his straw hair and blue shirt: one of the two shooters from the restaurant.

They didn’t bother with introductions. The man just said, ‘Legs apart, arms out,’ and Carver obeyed. He was frisked. The gun was found. The blond man clearly recognized it, and glared at Carver.

‘The original owner didn’t need it any more,’ Carver said. Then he walked with Ginger into the garden, towards a marble-topped table set beneath a sunshade. Three chairs had been arranged around it. One of them was already occupied by an Asian man, somewhere in his mid- to late-fifties. He had a swept-back bouffant haircut, streaked with grey like his moustache. His pale-blue denim shirt was open to reveal a hairy chest. He would have looked like an ageing, slightly overweight nightclub playboy, were it not for the muscle that was evident beneath all the signs of good living, and the direct, unflinching way he looked Carver in the eye.

‘My name is Shafik,’ the man said. He waved at one of the chairs opposite him. ‘Please, take a seat.’

‘You interrupted my lunch,’ said Carver, sitting down while Ginger took the third chair. ‘Any chance of a beer, something to eat?’

‘Of course.’ Shafik gestured at the blond man as if he were a waiter, then told him to fetch drinks, bread, olives, tomatoes and cheese. He turned back to Carver. ‘My background is in the Pakistani Army and security services…’

Carver knew what that meant. Shafik had been an officer in Pakistan’s legendary, but also notorious, Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI. It had worked hand in glove with the CIA for decades, while maintaining links to the Taliban and even al-Qaeda. So Shafik was a spook, and probably a tough, unscrupulous one at that.

‘… but now I am a private security consultant to various financial institutions,’ Shafik continued. ‘You know my associate Magda Sternberg, of course.’

‘Only too well.’

Ginger had the decency to look embarrassed.

‘I am about to make you an offer of employment,’ Shafik went on. ‘It is worth two point five million dollars, payable in any currency, commodity or financial instrument you specify. Nevertheless, I confidently expect you to turn it down, despite this considerable financial inducement. I know that you have no interest in pursuing your old line of work any more, and no financial need to do so. You have an interest in a mining operation in southern Africa, I gather?’

‘I’ve a shareholding in the Kamativi Mining Corporation, yes.’

Carver wondered if Shafik knew who he’d had to kill to get the shares.

‘Remind me what your mine produces?’ the Pakistani asked.

‘Coltan.’

‘And that is…?’

A year earlier, Carver would not have had the first idea how to answer that question. Now his response was automatic. ‘A mix of two minerals: columbite and tantalite. They’re refined to produce niobium and tantalum respectively. Very useful metals: got a lot of industrial applications.’

‘You sound very knowledgeable.’

‘Getting there.’

‘And it is doing well for you, I imagine.’

‘Shares up fifty per cent in the past six months.’

‘So the dividends will be generous this year?’

‘Very.’

‘And yet,’ Shafik repeated, ‘you will still accept the job that I am about to offer you.’

The blond man reappeared, followed by a hotel employee carrying a tray laden with bottles, cutlery and plates of food. Carver took his beer and had a sip before he replied, ‘I doubt that very much. And you don’t need me, anyway. You’ve obviously got people who can handle wet work.’

Shafik gave a dismissive shrug. ‘At a low level, yes, but they have their limits. You, on the other hand, have quite a reputation in certain circles.’

‘What circles would those be?’ said Carver, cutting himself a slice of bread.

‘Ones in which men of great wealth and power continue to seek ways to exercise their influence at the highest level.’

‘Ah, those men,’ Carver said. He placed some goat’s cheese on the bread, took a large bite, and in-between chews said, ‘Yeah, they used to like what I did.’

‘Quite so. And of course, I knew Quentin Trench quite well: we had a shared professional interest in special forces operations.’ Shafik sighed. ‘I wonder what happened to him…’

Carver thought about the storm-whipped night in the English Channel when he had last seen Trench. ‘Yes, I wonder,’ he said, swallowing the last of his bread. He looked Shafik in the eye. ‘But this reputation I have, and your friendship with dear old Trench, didn’t stop you jerking me around. What was that crap at the restaurant all about?’

‘I wanted to see how you responded under pressure. You did very well. You reacted immediately to what was happening. You were resourceful, efficient, ruthless, even merciless… And that is why you will say yes to my offer. For whereas my people evidently did not kill Miss Sternberg, you did, in fact, leave a dead body lying in a rubbish bin barely two hundred metres from here. The local police are at present unaware of its presence. My men can ensure that they never will be. The moment I give them the signal, they will do what is required to make all trace of your crime disappear…’

The longer this conversation went on, the less Carver liked it. ‘Crime?’ he said.

‘Of course… how else would you describe an unprovoked attack on a man who had not harmed you in any way — who did not even know you were there?’

Carver did not respond.

‘Your silence speaks volumes. You committed a murder, and you will be found guilty of the charge if it ever comes to court. Your victim’s name was Eriksen, by the way; he has, or rather had, a wife and a young daughter. I am sure that when they appear in court, they will touch the hearts of everyone who sets eyes on them.’

For a second, Carver was ashamed at what he had done. He was also unnerved by the ease with which Shafik had played him… was still playing him.

‘You have every reason to want Eriksen’s body to disappear, and none at all to encourage me to do my civic duty and report both the dead man and you to the police. The clothes line is still there. There will be small fragments of your skin on the cord. You will be found guilty, count on it. And you will spend many years in prison. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I will assume that you will accept my offer…’