No Survivors

81

Carver couldn’t see any good reason he should come running, just because Grantham had called. He spent fifteen minutes getting washed and dressed before heading down to the hotel lobby. It was worth the wait, simply to see the irritation on Grantham’s face. There was something else there, too, Carver realized as he got closer: The MI6 man’s normal self-assurance, arrogance, even, had given way to a nervy edginess that he’d never seen before.

“Where’s my document?” snapped Grantham.

“The same place as my girlfriend, cuddling up to Kurt Vermulen,” Carver said, as if it didn’t bother him one bit. “She married him-did you know that?”

That news had been meant to knock Grantham off his stride, but it had the opposite effect. A smug smile crossed Grantham’s face, a look of sheer pleasure that Carver had been dumped in even deeper shit than he had.

“That must have come as a shock.”

“Just a bit,” said Carver.

“Still, you don’t look very heartbroken.”

“What would you prefer, drunk and tearstained?”

“Something like that.”

Carver shrugged. “I thought about it. But I found a better alternative. Nice girl.”

“And you accuse me of not giving a toss?”

“Listen, I loved Alix. That was real; probably still is. But it won’t do me any good now, moping around. I’m just going to forget her, move on, put as much distance between us as I can.”

Carver wondered if he sounded any more convincing than he felt. Evidently not-Grantham looked at him with an expression of profound skepticism before his face cleared, a new thought striking him.

“You got time to grab a late breakfast before you go? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Carver groaned. What now?

“Come on,” Grantham insisted. “They do a splendid buffet down by the sea. Great food, fantastic view… I’m paying. And I think you’ll be interested when you find out who’s flown in to see you.”

Carver followed Grantham across the lobby and out through the doors that opened onto the hotel’s magnificent wooded gardens. As he walked down the path that stretched down to the sea, one tiny hope flickered at the back of his mind and kept him moving toward an appointment he otherwise would have refused. And then he realized it was ridiculous even to consider such a notion. It was another Russian woman sitting at the table, with a bob of black hair framing eyes that were assessing him with cold, impersonal objectivity as Grantham gestured in her direction.

“May I introduce Deputy Director Zhukovskaya, of the Federal Security Service?”

She held out her hand with a smile that was even chillier than her eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Carver. You killed my husband.”

“I was provoked,” he replied, before letting go of her hand.

Grantham ordered coffee, orange juice, and a selection of pastries.

“I think I’ll have a proper cooked breakfast, actually,” said Carver, gesturing toward the buffet. “Feeling quite peckish this morning.”

He took his time getting scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, crisp white rolls and dewy chunks of unsalted Normandy butter. He made a point of tucking in, knowing the other two wanted to talk. But in the end, it was he who cracked first. He couldn’t help himself.

“Did you tell her I was dead?” he asked Zhukovskaya.

“Yes, I gave the order for her to receive that information,” she said, without any hint of embarrassment or apology.

“Why?”

Carver was uncomfortably aware that there was more emotion, even desperation, in that single syllable than he’d intended.

“It was a practical necessity,” Zhukovskaya replied, still quite unruffled. “You killed the man I sent to eliminate you, and then you left the hospital. You were no longer a patient; therefore the payments to cover your bills would have to stop. It was possible Petrova might find out about that, if she checked her financial records. She would naturally want to know what had happened. I simply anticipated that moment.”

“But she only did the job to keep me alive. Why would she stay with Vermulen if I was gone?”

“Self-preservation,” said Zhukovskaya, as if the answer were obvious. “Alexandra Petrova is an agent of the Federal Security Service, under my command. She knows that any agent who leaves an assignment without orders from a superior officer is guilty of desertion, and she also knows the penalty for that offense. In any case, I preferred to look on the positive side. Without you to think about, Petrova was free to concentrate on General Vermulen.”

“Well, you got that wrong. She concentrated on him so much, she married him. She’s not yours anymore, or mine. She’s his.”

Zhukovskaya sipped at her coffee.

“You think?” she asked. “Of course, I have considered that proposition, but I myself am not so certain. Many agents regard marriage as a useful adjunct to their cover; Petrova may well be one of them. That, however, is not my main concern at the moment, and it should not be yours.”

She put the coffee cup down on the table, and when she looked at him again there was finally a sign of real emotion. Zhukovskya was angry.

“You have caused a great deal of trouble, Mr. Carver. The document you stole was the property of the Russian state. It was removed from a state facility approximately ten weeks ago. It would have been recovered yesterday by elements acting on behalf of the state, had you not interfered. They had orders to destroy it, rather than let it fall into the wrong hands.”

“For heaven’s sake, what is this thing?” asked Grantham.

“A list of small-scale nuclear weapons, also property of the Russian state, currently positioned in Europe and North America, a few in South America, Asia, and Australia, their locations and arming codes,” recited Zhukovskaya in a flat voice.

The color drained from Grantham’s face.

“How many weapons?”

“Around one hundred.”

“My God… and what about the U.K.?”

She looked at him blankly.

“But they’re all on this list…” said Grantham.

“Yes, and thanks to Mr. Carver, it is now in Vermulen’s hands.”

Carver grimaced, uncomfortably aware that his priorities needed a radical reordering.

“Where’s Vermulen gone now?” he asked.

Grantham seemed relieved to be able to answer this question, at least.

“Back to his yacht. It spent the night moored off the Italian coast, right down south, near Reggio di Calabria, slipped anchor shortly before dawn, heading east. We lost it soon afterward, between satellite sweeps.”

“At least you have satellites,” remarked Zhukovskaya wryly.

“So find the boat again,” said Carver. “Send in a few of my old mates from the SBS, or some of your Spetsnaz boys, to board the boat. Seize the document, and Bob’s your uncle.”

Grantham was not impressed.

“No, Carver-in that scenario Bob would actually be a major diplomatic incident in which the Americans went ballistic about the unauthorized hostile seizure of a boat owned by one respected, powerful U.S. citizen and used by another, while the Italian government tried to decide whether this constituted an act of war within their territorial waters.”

Carver tried again.

“All right, then, who’s the other citizen?”

“Sorry?”

“Who’s the other U.S. citizen, the one who owns the boat? See, there’s something odd about all this money Vermulen’s got to splash around. Unless he’s made a shitload since he left the armed forces, someone’s bankrolling him. And if it isn’t the U.S. government, maybe it’s the bloke who owns the boat. So who’s that?”

“Some good ol’ boy from Texas called McCabe,” replied Grantham impatiently, not seeing the value of the question. “Made a fortune in oil and mining. The boat belongs to one of his many corporations. But I don’t see him being interested in bombs. The man’s a born-again Christian, had a dramatic conversion a few years back, devotes his time to philanthropy and good deeds.”

Carver gave a clipped, disbelieving laugh.

“McCabe… Waylon McCabe?”

“Yes. Why-do you know him?”

“Our paths crossed.”

“And he lived to tell the tale? That’s unusual.”

“Unique, as it happens. And I’ll tell you one thing about Waylon McCabe-I don’t care how much of a conversion he had; he’s a bastard, pure and simple. Whatever he’s doing with Vermulen, I guarantee it’s not a good deed.”

Carver frowned: The pieces were starting to come together in his mind.

“Hang on-you said that boat was going east… which would take it into the Ionian Sea, and then the Adriatic, towards Yugoslavia. When we talked, Vermulen mentioned Yugoslavia. He said that was one of the places the Islamic radicals he was going on about were fighting, trying to open up a back route into the West.”

He turned to look at Zhukovskaya.

“Did you put bombs in Yugoslavia?”

“I cannot possibly answer that question,” she said, needled by the impertinence of such a direct inquiry.

Carver smiled, feeling the balance of power around the table start to tilt in his direction.

“I think you can, Deputy Director. You’re in the crapper, too. Not just your organization, or your country, but you, personally. You sent those idiots in the chopper to get the document, and now they’re crispy bacon at the bottom of a gorge. You’ve got to put that right-that’s why you’re here. And you…” He turned his gaze on Grantham. “Well, it wouldn’t go down too well in Whitehall if anyone found out who you’d been using to do your dirty work, or how we first happened to meet. As for me, I got Vermulen this list. Plus, something tells me you’ll be able to date McCabe’s religious conversion to the day he miraculously escaped an air crash in the wilds of the Yukon. That was down to me, too. We’re all in this together, like it or not, so answer the question: Yugoslavia?”

He was pushing his luck, but she seemed disinclined to object. He’d been right: The mighty deputy director was in no position to complain.

“Two,” said Zhukovskaya. “One in central Belgrade, the other near the Trepca mining complex. It is the single most valuable natural resource in Yugoslavia, producing lead, zinc, copper, gold, and silver-a natural target for economic sabotage.”

Grantham nodded to himself, as if agreeing that the locations made sense. He did not bother to ask her how the KGB knew the location of weapons that were lost to the rest of the Russian military and government establishment. He, of all people, needed no lessons in the keeping of secrets from a security service’s political masters.

“Where is this place?” asked Carver.

“Kosovo,” said Grantham, before Zhukovskaya could reply.

“Where Vermulen’s supposed Islamist terrorists are busy starting a civil war. Christ, is that mad bugger going to nuke them? That would get a war going, all right.”

“Personally, I would not do anything so obvious…” said Zhukovskaya.

Grantham looked at her inquisitively.

“A false-flag operation?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I like that better, I think. Much more effective to make the world think that the terrorists had the bomb. We think alike… but would Vermulen? He has intelligence experience… it is possible. But how to stop him? That is the problem.”

“Get me to Trepca,” said Carver. “That’s the one lead we have. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Just you?” asked Zhukovskaya.

“You got anyone else you can call?”