No Survivors

56

Kenny Wynter left home at half past five in the morning, aiming to catch the early-morning British Airways flight to Nice from Heath-row. It was forty-five minutes to the airport, maybe less-at this hour of the day the Porsche would eat it up. Drop the car off at the valet parking, check into British Airways business class, hand baggage only: no worries.

He wondered what Vermulen would be like. His handler, communicating, as always, via his personal message box on an Arsenal FC fansite, had given him the bare outline. Vermulen was ex-U.S. Army, a brass hat who’d gone into business on civvy street. He wanted something stolen from a house in the South of France: a small, high-value package. That could mean anything from a diamond necklace to a computer disc filled with industrial secrets. Whatever, this Vermulen character was a serious player, with impeccable connections and a deep pocket. The least Wynter could do was hear what the man had to offer. And the worst he would get was a nice trip. He planned to stay the night, treat himself to some fun on the Riviera.

He swung onto the M25, the orbital highway that described a ragged 117-mile circle around the outer edges of London. For much of the day it was little more than a gigantic traffic jam, but right now, with the road still swathed in dawn mist, there was barely a car in sight. Wynter swung over to the outside lane and settled into a steady eighty-five-mile-per-hour cruise. He was tempted to go much faster-plenty of people did. But that would be tempting fate. If there were any cops on the road, they’d ignore a car in the eighties, but once you got over ninety, you were asking to be stopped.

He looked in his rearview mirror. There was a clapped-out old heap behind him. The driver was thrashing the engine hard, coming up fast on his tail. He looked like a right idiot, wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap when the sun was barely up. Wynter gave a quick squirt on the accelerator and the Porsche eased forward, opening up the gap again. But the old banger just kept coming, getting closer and closer until it was practically touching the 911’s rear bumper.

Then the other car flashed him, three long glares from the headlights.

Wynter had to laugh. This bloke was really taking the piss.

So now he had a choice. He could floor it and get the hell out, but it was Sod’s Law that there would be a cop around the next bend, and he had to be on that plane. So he pulled into the inside lane and slowed down to let the heap past.

As the cars drew level Wynter shook his head in wonderment. He was actually being overtaken by a Honda bloody Accord. He looked at the lunatic behind the wheel and gave him a gentle, condescending shake of the head, just to let him know what a sorry twat he was. Then he turned back to the road.

As he did so, he heard the sound of a revving engine and squealing tires to his right and the Accord veered across the lines into his lane and smashed into the side of his Porsche. The cars were locked together for a second, like wrestlers, sparks showering past their windows. Wynter could hear as well as feel the side panels of his car crumpling-his beautiful, brand-new car.

Wynter’s first reaction was disbelief. He’d heard all about road-rage attacks. The M25 was famous for them; its traffic problems could turn the Dalai Lama psychotic. But his incredulity soon turned to outrage. What kind of a moron attacked a Porsche with an Accord? It was the disrespect as much as the violence that shocked him. Wynter had strength, weight, and speed on his side. He was going to get away, but first he wanted to teach this numpty a lesson. He pulled the wheel hard to the right, intending to shove the other car right into the central barrier.

But the car wasn’t there anymore. The driver had anticipated Wynter’s move, braked hard, and effectively ducked under the Porsche, ending up directly behind it. The Honda’s lights came on again, full beam in Wynter’s rearview mirror. Then the Honda rammed him from behind.

Wynter’s concentration was all focused behind his car. He didn’t notice the tractor-trailer pulling into the middle lane up ahead, as it passed a cement mixer lumbering along an uphill stretch of the highway. He didn’t spot the Range Rover that had to swing into the outside lane to avoid the overtaking truck. By the time he looked up and saw that there was a line of vehicles right across the road, he was on top of them.

Wynter slammed on the brakes. The Porsche slowed instantly from more than ninety to less than sixty. The Honda hit him again, clipping the rear passenger-side corner of his car before sliding alongside him again, this time on the inside. Then he rammed him a second time, wrecking yet more panels.

Wynter had had enough. Up ahead, the Range Rover had passed the trucks and returned to the center lane. The outside lane was open again. Wynter moved into it and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

“Exploding nipples.”

That’s what Jerzy Garlinski, the lunatic expatriate Pole who’d taught Carver all about sabotage, used to say. Year after year, the faces and uniforms in his audience might change, but the routine was always the same.

“Question: how to take out a moving car so we leave no trace? Answer… exploding nipples.”

Every year, the SBS trainees would laugh, even though they knew the line was coming. They’d all heard it a hundred times before, because every man who did the course felt obliged to perform his own Garlinski impersonation to any poor sod who would listen. But you couldn’t knock the guy’s teaching methods. No one ever forgot how to take out a moving car.

By “nipples” Garlinski meant tire valves. A tiny, remote-controlled explosive device, replacing the normal valve, was a discreet alternative to a conventional car bomb. It could not be spotted by a regular security sweep, nor did it leave any trace when detonated. The only problem was getting to the target vehicle ahead of the assignment-and the moment Wynter was picked up by the Government Communications Headquarters, booking his valet parking and giving the registration number of the car he’d be leaving at the airport, that problem was solved.

All Carver had to do then was find a way of provoking Wynter to drive at a speed that would prove fatal in the event of an accident. He’d been curious how he’d cope under pressure. He didn’t know for sure that he’d have the balls for it when the moment actually came. But he’d felt completely calm as he taunted Wynter and smashed into his fancy car. He remembered the satisfaction that lay in dealing retribution to men who saw themselves as above the law, putting them on the receiving end. An old soccer hooligans’ chant, no more than a childish taunt, came to his mind like a mantra.

“Come and get it,” he thought, the words going around in his head as he drove the Honda into the side of the Porsche.

“Come and get it,” watching the rage on Wynter’s face as he accelerated away.

“Come and get it,” picking up the remote detonator and pressing the button.

“If you think you’re hard enough,” as the Porsche’s front tire blew out, the blast propelling the rigged valve out of the tire like a bullet from a gun, leaving it invisible in the shoulder by the side of the road, while the Porsche spun across the highway, as helpless as a leaf in a whirlpool, smashing into the central barrier and rebounding back into the road, past the desperately swerving Range Rover, straight into the path of the tractor-trailer.

The truck driver swung left, trying to dodge the Porsche, but the tail of his trailer lost its grip on the road and started swinging around counterclockwise, into the middle of the road, colliding with the out-of-control sports car.

The Porsche hit the side of the trailer head on. There was just enough clearance for the hood to slide underneath it, but the passenger compartment was sliced from the rest of the car body like the top off a boiled egg, ripping Wynter’s head and shoulders from his body.

The trailer and the ruins of the Porsche came to a rest, lying across the highway, right in the path of the cement mixer, which braked, skidded, and slammed sideways into the wreckage.

By the time the two truck drivers had stopped shaking and clambered down from their cabs, Carver was a mile up the road. He left the highway at the next exit and pulled into a service station. A car was waiting for him, a black Rover 800. Carver parked the Honda and walked across to the Rover, passing a leather-jacketed, crew-cut man coming the other way. He got into the back of the Rover.

Grantham was waiting for him in the front passenger seat. He glanced up as Carver got in, looking at him in the mirror.

“Bit messy, weren’t you? Blood all over the carriageway, heads knocked off? Not exactly discreet.”

Carver shrugged. “I’m out of practice.”

Grantham twisted around to face him, holding out an envelope.

“Here are your tickets,” he said. “That fancy leather bag on the seat next to you is your hand luggage. Your suit is hanging up on the hook behind me. There’s a wallet in the jacket pocket, litter in the trousers. You can change at the airport. And there’ll be a gun waiting for you in Nice: your usual make and model… What’s the matter?”

“Thinking about the job just now. You’re right-it wasn’t good enough.”

“You got it done-that’s the main thing. And don’t worry-we’ll have a quiet word with the police. No one’s going to be announcing Kenny Wynter’s passing any time soon.”

“I hope not,” said Carver. “Otherwise, how’s he going to have lunch?”