Revenger

70

Alix had flown in from Washington DC barely forty-eight hours earlier. Her body was still on American East Coast time, the suite’s bedroom curtains were heavy and the double-glazing kept out all the street noise. What with one thing and another it was past eight by the time she woke up.

It took her a second to register that Carver wasn’t lying beside her in the bed, and another to remember why. He had gone. She might not see him again for months, if she ever saw him at all. And meanwhile she was feeling wretched with morning sickness.

She turned on her phone and listened to Carver’s message. He was talking about Plan B but she didn’t get it at first. Her mind was so overwhelmed by what was happening to her body that she couldn’t quite focus on the world at large. Then she remembered what Carver had told her last night. She switched on the TV and flicked through the news channels. Every single one of them was covering what they were calling the Lion Market Massacre. Until then she hadn’t grasped the reality of what Carver had been talking about: she’d seen it all in terms of his pain and confusion. She’d had no concept of the scale or horror of it all. And then she saw the picture of him come up on the screen and knew that she couldn’t afford to be a helpless pregnant woman for a single second.

If the police knew about Carver, then they would surely know where he was staying. How long would it be before they arrived? Not long, surely.

She needed to get out. But she couldn’t just run, thoughtlessly. First she had to get dressed: practical clothes that would allow her to move fast and if necessary defend herself. Then she needed her passport, wallet and laptop: there were too many leads to Carver on that to let it anywhere near the police.

The night she’d met Carver he’d given her precisely sixty seconds to change, grab her possessions and get out of an apartment in Paris before the whole place blew up. She made allowances for the passing years and gave herself ninety seconds this time. She was already dressed and piling her possessions into her tote bag when the phone rang.

Keane’s car was no more than a minute from the hotel, siren blaring and lights flashing, driving other traffic before it as it raced towards its destination. She was talking to the hotel security manager.

‘We have key-card confirmation that Mrs Vermulen’s companion exited the hotel at one twenty this morning. We have not seen any sign of him since, nor has his key been used to re-enter the hotel, so we must assume that he has not returned. Mrs Vermulen has not left the room since she returned to it shortly before midnight.’

Keane thanked him for the information and passed it on to the SCO19 officer who would be leading the active phase of the operation. It looked as though they would, once again, fail to capture their prey. But her frustration was mixed with a certain relief: a standoff between armed police and a dangerous man in a crowded hotel was a potential recipe for disaster.

‘We have no reason to believe that Mrs Vermulen is armed or likely to pose any threat,’ she said. ‘So we need to show restraint. She’s a US citizen with influential contacts in Washington — that’s why Adams wanted to hire her. We don’t want a diplomatic incident on our hands.’

‘I still have to go in hard,’ the officer said. ‘If there’s any chance at all that chummy’s there, I can’t afford not to.’

‘Fine… but I don’t want that woman to get so much as a torn fingernail if he isn’t.’

The officer didn’t reply. He was too busy ordering his men out of their vehicles.

‘We’ve got the green light. Go, go, go!’