The Accident Man

73

Sion airport was laid out lengthways along a valley between two lines of mountains. The valley was narrow and the runway shared the space with a freeway, the two strips of tarmac running dead straight, side by side, barely two hundred meters apart. As he watched Carver’s Learjet land, Thor Larsson wondered how many times pilots got the two surfaces confused and landed on the A9 expressway.

When Carver got off the plane, Larsson was waiting for him with the computer.

“Here it is,” he said. “The, er, special adaptation has been made as you requested. And, aah…”

Larsson looked away, his eyes fixed on the distant mountaintops.

“What is it?” Carver asked.

“I finally managed to open some of the files. I know what all this is about, what you did.”

Carver nodded. “Okay. Did you also find out what they told me I was doing? Does the name Ramzi Hakim Narwaz mean anything to you?”

A diffident smile crossed Larsson’s face. “Yeah, I know about him.”

“And?”

“And I don’t blame you for what happened. You were double-crossed. So, anyway… you need to know the password. There are eight characters: T r 2 z l o t G. The first T and the last G are capital letters. This is very important. The password is case sensitive.”

“How the hell am I going to remember that?” asked Carver.

“Simple, I have created an image for you, like in a picture book. There r 2 zebras lying on the Grass. Capital ‘T,’ capital ‘G.’ Do you get it?”

Carver gave an impatient snort, but Larsson persisted.

“Come on, repeat after me: There r 2 zebras lying on the Grass.”

“Jesus wept, I haven’t got time. I can’t afford to be late.”

“You can’t afford to forget this, either. The system gives you three chances to get the password right. If you fail, a virus is released that wipes the entire hard drive clean. There’ll be nothing left at all.”

Carver did as he was told – five repetitions. Larsson handed over the laptop in its case, which Carver slung across his chest, from one shoulder to the opposite hip.

“Thanks,” he said. “My chopper’s across the airfield. Walk with me. We can talk on the way.”

It was just after half past six local time and the sun was just beginning to dip behind the highest of the peaks to the west, casting jagged black shadows diagonally across the valley as Carver strode across the apron to the helicopter pad. He had a little under thirty minutes to get to the Palace Hotel. The weather looked clear. Allow five minutes to take off, fifteen to get to Gstaad, and another five to get from the chopper to the rendezvous at the other end. It should just be possible.

“How much did you manage to retrieve?” he asked Larsson.

“Only a small proportion of what’s on there, but enough to know that Max had logged every detail of that operation, and a lot more besides. It looks like he was making himself a safety net in case anything went wrong.”

“Anything about the Russians?”

“Kursk and Alix are mentioned in a couple of e-mails. But nothing to link them to Zhukovski yet.”

“Damn!” Carver thought for a moment. “Never mind. That’s not necessarily a deal breaker. Anyone with proper investigative powers would be able to find a link. The point is, Zhukovski can’t afford to have those leads out in the open. You’ve taken a copy, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good, that’s part of my safety net. Here’s the other.” He reached into his briefcase and took out the video camera. “I taped my confession on the flight over. How I was recruited, how they tapped me for this job, the way the hit went down, all the names, what happened afterward. It’s got everything.” Carver smiled ruefully. “Well, almost everything. I kept Alix out of it.”

Larsson laughed out loud. “You old romantic!”

Carver cleared his throat gruffly. “Yeah, well… Anyway, if I don’t contact you by nine tomorrow morning, get the computer files and the confession out to every news agency and every Web site – anywhere you can think of. I want it everywhere.”

“You got it,” said Larsson. “But don’t worry, you’ll make it. You always do, right?”

“I don’t know this time,” said Carver.

They were getting near the helicopter pad now. The machine was sitting there silently, waiting to start up and go.

“It’s crazy,” Carver added. “I’m doing this all wrong, breaking every rule. I haven’t planned anything, not even my way out. But for some reason I don’t care. I don’t know…” He looked beyond the helicopter at the mountainous horizon. “It’s like I’ve handed myself over to fate. I’m about to be judged. I’ll be found innocent or guilty. I’ll make it or I won’t.”

“I understand,” Larsson said.

The pilot started up his engines. Now Carver had to shout over the rhythmic whomping of the rotors. He handed Larsson his briefcase.

“Take this. It’s no use to me now. There’s a bunch of money inside. If I don’t make it, the money’s yours. Don’t argue. It’s the least I owe you.”

Carver gave Larsson a slap on the shoulder.

“Okay,” he said, “Gotta go. Cheers.”

Larsson watched the helicopter rise into the sky, then curve away toward the north and the mountain passes that would take it through to the wealthy ski resort of Gstaad. By air, you could cut straight across from one valley to the next; by road, you had to go the long way – around the mountains, not over them – and it took a little over an hour. Larsson jogged toward his car, the briefcase in his hand. Carver might not have planned a way out, but he was going to do his damnedest to make up for that.