Tom Cain - Carver

‘So I gather. What was Razzaq doing in Mykonos?’

‘Well, that’s what we haven’t yet worked out, sir. He came in on a private helicopter yesterday morning, and from his phone-traffic it looks as though he was talking a fair amount to people from that TV production company, the one that caused all the fuss at that restaurant.’

‘Does Zorn have any interests in media or TV?’

‘Not that we can see, sir, no.’

Grantham got out of bed, went downstairs to brew a very strong cup of tea, then made two more calls before getting dressed. The first was to Piers Nainby-Martin, telling him to shift the investigation into Malachi Zorn up a notch, paying particular attention to the life and times of Ahmad Razzaq.

The second call was to Samuel Carver.

‘This is Grantham. I want a word with you.’

‘Why?’ The word was more of a heavy, lazy grunt. Carver had not been awake for long.

‘Mykonos. I’m wondering why you were running away from that restaurant. And there’s a Pakistani gentleman I think you might have met…’

There was silence down the line. The next time Carver spoke he sounded decisive and fully alert. ‘I assume you’re talking on an encrypted line?’

‘Of course.’

‘Right, then… can you get on the six forty-five BA flight out of Heathrow this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll see you by the Rousseau statue at ten. It’s on its own little island, halfway across the Pont des Bergues. And Grantham…’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me you’ve not been sat on your arse behind a desk for so long that you’ve forgotten all your fieldcraft.’

‘You realize you’re talking to the Head of the Secret Intelligence Service…’

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

‘Piss off, Carver. I’ll be there. And I won’t be followed.’

‘Then we’ve got a date.’

‘Seems like old times…’

Grantham put the phone down. He and Carver had always had a strong streak of mutual antagonism, mixed with a dash of grudging respect. Neither man was afraid to tell the other exactly what he thought. And so far that had been the basis of an unusual, highly unofficial, but productive working relationship.

He drove himself to the airport and used a personal card to buy the ticket when he got there. As he contemplated his in-flight breakfast, Grantham realized to his surprise that he was smiling. His professional life nowadays was essentially political: an endless round of meetings, committees and reports to ministers. It was good to get out in the field again. It felt like a day off.

The Old Town, Geneva

Carver made his way up on to the roof of his building and looked around. The Old Town of Geneva, based on a Roman settlement that dated back more than two thousand years, had originally been surrounded by high walls that kept invaders out, but also penned the town’s citizens in. With land at a premium, and unable to expand outwards, they instead crammed their homes and businesses into tall buildings that were packed as tightly as possible into the confined space. So it was easy for Carver to make his way over the roofs of neighbouring structures to the far end of the block, and then down on to a street that ran at right angles to his own, completely out of sight of anyone watching his building.

Checking to see that no one was following, he made his way to the rue de la Corraterie, where he picked up a Number 3 bus over the Pont Bel-Air, across the River Rhone to the modern heart of the city. After a few blocks, he hopped out of that bus, crossed the street and got on to a Number 9 that went back across the river on the Pont du MontBlanc, the last bridge on the river before Lake Geneva itself. Carver took care to get a seat on the right-hand side of the bus. As it made its way slowly across the bridge he took out a pair of miniature binoculars and looked across the narrow expanse of water that separated the bridge he was on from Rousseau Island. There was the bronze statue of the great eighteenth-century philosopher, sitting on its stone plinth. And there, just a few metres away from it, was the familiar figure of Jack Grantham, a little stockier than he had been when Carver had last seen him, perhaps, with his hairline somewhat receded. But the air of impatience, a humming energy detectable even at a distance, was unmistakable. Carver scanned the area around Grantham and saw no one who looked remotely like a fellow MI6 agent or a hostile tail. A few minutes later, he had got off the bus, walked halfway across the Pont des Bergues and on to the little island, and was strolling towards Grantham.

They made their introductions. Grantham looked pointedly at his watch. ‘It’s seven minutes past ten,’ he said. ‘You’re late.’

Carver ignored him. ‘So what’s the big deal about Mykonos?’ he asked.

Grantham’s fingers played over the screen of his iPhone. He handed it to Carver, showing him a photograph of a familiar face.

‘Tell me what you know about this man,’ Grantham said.

‘He called himself Shafik, said he was ex-Pakistani intelligence,’ Carver replied.

Grantham gave a satisfied little grunt, as if his expectations had been met. ‘Well, that was half-right. His real name is Ahmad Razzaq, but he is, as he said, an ISI old-boy. Made quite a name for himself with our American cousins, helping them run Stinger missiles to the Mujahedin forces fighting the Soviets in Afghanistan. But, like so many of his colleagues, he kept on helping his old chums when they mutated into the Taliban, which didn’t go down so well. Still, he’s not in that game any more.’

‘There was a woman, too — the one in the restaurant who pretended to get shot. She works for Shafik, or Razzaq, or whoever the hell he is. She gave her name as Magda Sternberg, but told me to call her Ginger. She’s quite a piece of work. You should check her out, too. Could be interesting.’

‘Maybe,’ said Grantham, tapping a note into his phone. ‘But back to Razzaq — what did he say he did for a living these days?’

‘Security consultant for financial institutions.’

Grantham raised his eybrows quizzically. ‘Security consultant, eh? Now there’s a job description that can mean almost anything.’

‘I’ve done a bit of it myself.’

‘My point exactly. And what was his interest in you?’

‘What do you think?’

Something close to a smirk crossed Grantham’s face. ‘You know, for a man who keeps telling everyone how much he hates his work, you seem to have a hard time retiring.’

‘He set me up. Got me on the hook for a murder charge. Sacrificed one of his own men to do it, too.’

‘Unscrupulous bastard,’ said Grantham admiringly. ‘So who’s the target?’

Carver paused for a moment before he replied, ‘OK…I might as well tell you, since I have no intention of taking the job. He wanted me to take out an American, some kind of financial trader. The name he gave me was Malachi Zorn.’

Grantham frowned. His grey eyes looked at Carver with a new intensity. ‘Zorn was the target?’

‘That’s what I just said, yes.’

‘So why did Razzaq want him taken out?’

Carver shrugged. ‘He said Zorn was costing his clients too much money. What’s so unusual about that?’

‘Simple… Ahmad Razzaq does not work for any financial institutions. He works for Malachi Zorn.’

Razzaq had lied. Well, that was to be expected. In Carver’s world deceit was standard operating procedure; honesty was the real surprise. ‘OK, then, Razzaq’s some kind of double agent,’ he said. ‘Or he’s been planted on the guy with the intention of getting rid of him — an inside job.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Grantham with a shake of his head. ‘Razzaq’s been with Zorn, at first as an occasional consultant, then as an employee, for almost five years. If he was only there to get rid of him, surely he’d have done it by now?’