Tom Cain - Carver

It took Choi several minutes to obtain the latest tracking data for Carver’s phone signal. That, at least, was moving in the right direction. So his destination had not changed, even if his method of transport had. And once he got to Wimbledon, there were only a limited number of gates by which he could enter. Choi calmed himself. Nothing had really changed. Carver was still on course for his death.

Wimbledon

Azarov’s other car was a Rolls-Royce Phantom. It nosed its way into the area of the Wimbledon Park Golf Club that was rented out every year to the All England Club and used for car parking and corporate entertainment marquees, and proceeded with a barely perceptible purr towards the spaces reserved by Malachi Zorn. Zorn was waiting there to greet them. He opened Alix’s door himself, standing to one side as she smoothed down her skirt, then swung her legs together out of the car. Zorn held out his hand and she took it, rising gracefully to her feet till she was standing beside him on the close-cropped grass.

‘Such a gentleman!’ she said, looking up at him from coyly downcast eyes. He laughed and then held her hand to his lips, kissing it with a playfully exaggerated smack, as if to underline that he was an informal American, just kidding around with this ancient European custom.

‘ Enchante, mademoiselle,’ he said.

‘ Tu es trop gentil,’ she replied, slipping into French without a second thought. She smiled at Zorn again, much to his delight, and this time the smile was genuine. As she and Azarov walked arm in arm towards the gates of the All England Club, Alix was truly happy. She already knew the answer to the first question Carver had asked her in Kensington Gardens.

Carver saw Alix making her way to her seat half-a-dozen blocks away, and his mind flashed back to another summer’s day, more years ago than he really cared to remember, and the sight of her in another silk summer dress. He only had to close his eyes for a moment, and he was back at that table at the Eden Roc restaurant, looking out across the sun-sparkled waters of Cap d’Antibes. He could see her on the deck of General Kurt Vermulen’s yacht, the wind pressing her dress against her body, outlining every curve. He’d watched as she’d kissed Vermulen, thinking it was just an act, and not knowing until it was too late that she had fallen in love with the general and would soon become his wife. Now Vermulen was dead, another entry on Carver’s personal casualty list, and there was Alix once again, in a summer dress, looking just as beautiful — and with another man.

He watched as she sat down, said something to the thuggishly handsome man to her left, and laughed at his reply. Was that Azarov? Carver wondered. They looked pretty friendly for a couple who’d all but called it a day. Alix reached into her bag and, still half listening to the man, pulled out her phone and started tapping on its screen.

A few seconds later Carver’s phone buzzed. It was a text from her: ‘Re: Zorn. U were right. Ax’

Immediately, Carver tapped out a message to Schultz. ‘Mission is go. Be in position by 16.00. Wait for my signal.’

Then he texted Alix back. ‘Thanks. You look amazing.’ Carver smiled as he saw her glance up and search for him in the crowd. She didn’t find him, but he knew that when she sat back, crossed her legs, tossed her head and ran her hands through her hair she was putting on a show just for him.

He sat back to watch the tennis. Quinton Arana had made it into the quarter-finals. Zorn wasn’t going anywhere while the American kid was on court. As long as he had a great seat on Centre Court, Carver thought he might as well enjoy it.

Arana won in five. Zorn and his guests took time out in the third set to grab a late lunch. Carver did not go with them. He did not want to be spotted in the restaurant. And if for any reason Zorn decided to leave, Alix was on the lookout and would tell him: that had been the second favour he’d asked her. But Zorn wasn’t ready to go just yet, because he and his group returned for the second half of the match, cheering every point Arana won and politely applauding his opponent’s successes. At the end of the match Alix got up, as did the other woman in the party, and made her way out again. Carver was pondering the apparent inability of women ever to go to the ladies’ room without company when he got another message.

‘Need to see you. Meet at deb holders’ entrance. Now! Ax’

Something had gone wrong. Why else would she be texting? Carver rose from his seat and headed for the exit.

A mile or so away from the All England Lawn Tennis Club the old Mazda saloon pulled into a parking space on Southside Common, which, as its name suggests, runs along the south side of Wimbledon Common. The space was just beyond the junction with Murray Road, a typically leafy Wimbledon street filled with large suburban homes, where the average property won’t leave change from two million pounds.

‘There you go, boss,’ said Kevin Cripps.

‘Cheers,’ Schultz replied, hefting his massive bulk out of the cramped passenger seat and on to the grass verge that ran beside the road. About ten metres away across the grass was a tarmac path that followed the line of the road. On the far side of the path stood a pair of park benches about twenty metres apart. One of the benches was directly in line with the space where the Mazda had parked. Schultz made for it. He was carrying the B amp;Q bag that Carver had given him. While Cripps settled himself lower in the driver’s seat, as if about to take a nap, Schultz stood beside the bench and looked around. Yes, this was the place all right.

He got down on his haunches, screwed up his eyes and stared intently past the Mazda to the far side of the road, where a row of trees screened the traffic from the Common. Schultz plotted an imaginary line from his position, through the Mazda, to a tree directly behind it. From the B amp;Q bag he took the two garden pegs, linked by twine. Just by his feet there was a large clump of dry, wispy grass. Schultz forced one of the pegs down into the earth just behind the clump, placing it at one end of the imaginary line. Then he placed the other peg in the ground, making sure that the twine was good and taut.

Schultz took another look: both pegs, the car and the tree were all perfectly in line.

Now he sat down on the bench and very carefully examined the car and the tree, noting their relative positions when seen from this fractionally different angle. He went back to the pegs and made another sighting from there. Then he checked the view from the bench again. Now he was satisfied.

The first part of the job was done.

Derek Choi was sitting at a table on the Tea Lawn, not far from the bandstand, which gave him a view of Centre Court debenture holders’ entrance. Two of his restaurant workers, both agents of the State Security Ministry, were with him. A female voice sounded in his ear: the agent he had stationed in the stands of Centre Court. ‘Carver has got up from his seat. He is leaving the stadium.’

Choi switched to another line. ‘Attention! The target is in motion. Prepare to move on my signal.’

On the Aorangi Picnic Terrace, the grassy slope otherwise known as Henman Hill or Murray Mount, a trio of young Chinese adults — two men in jeans, T-shirts and bomber jacket, and a woman wearing a singlet, miniskirt and Converse Hi-Top trainers — calmly got to their feet. All three were registered as students at a language school in Central London. One of the men pointed at the action on the giant screen fixed to the outside of Number One Court, directly opposite the terrace, and said something that made the girl laugh as she brushed a few leaves of grass from her skirt. The sound of her laughter made a man sitting nearby turn around and then fix her with a stare of frank appreciation as he took in her long black hair, prettily smiling face, pert breasts and long bare legs.