Tom Cain: Assassin

The way Carver looked at it, the odds weren’t really too bad. It would take less than four seconds to cross the open grass, hurdle the wall and get to the building. The man on the dock wasn’t likely to pick him up straight away, and even if he did, he would have to be damn good to hit a running man from where he was standing. The agents up on the roof would be hampered by basic geometry. They would have to shoot downwards, and the closer he got to the house, the tougher that shot would become. And again, they would have to react with remarkable speed.

There were two possible ways into the house from where he was positioned: French windows leading into the main living-room and a back door by the kitchen. If Carver could get to either of those entrances, blast them open and then start shooting, he backed himself to take down anyone he met inside, including Lincoln Roberts.

So he crouched by the foot of the steps, as tense as a sprinter on the blocks, took three deep breaths, then sprang upwards over the stone and on to the grass. And then he just ran like hell.

Carver didn’t need Einstein to tell him that time was relative. Four seconds feels like a lifetime when it only takes a fraction of one of them to trigger the alarm system that sets bells ringing and lights blazing… and suddenly you feel as if you’re running through treacle. Warnings are being shouted from all directions. Guns are being raised. You’re trying to jink and swerve to unsettle the shooters, but every sidestep only slows you down. Then the firecracker explosions of small-arms fire rip through the screaming of the alarm bells, and you wait for the first bullet to tear your flesh, but none comes, and then you just throw yourself the last twenty feet, and…

Carver hit the ground, ducked into a forward roll and made it alive to the wall of the house. The French windows were just ahead of him. A shaped charge was in his hand, ready to blow them open, and then the gunfire and bells both stopped, instantaneously, and his ringing ears heard a voice shout, ‘Drop your weapons, now!’

Carver did as he was told. Slowly, without giving anyone any cause for alarm or reason to shoot, he placed the gun and the explosive charge on the stone flagstones at his feet.

‘Now place your hands behind your head.’

Again, Carver obeyed the instruction.

‘Turn around. Nice and easy.’

Carver turned and came face to face with Special Agent Tord Bahr. There was a hint of a smirk playing round the corners of his mouth. And there was a look of real pleasure in Bahr’s eyes as he raised the pistol in his right hand, aimed it directly at Samuel Carver’s unprotected chest. And fired.

Carver spent the small hours on a bunk in the estate’s staff quarters, his chest unharmed by the blanks that had been fired at it. At six thirty in the morning, after three hours’ sleep, he was in the dining-room, with one hand round a mug of strong coffee and the other holding a steak sandwich, the bread richly infused with blood and melted fat.

The Secret Service had fixed Carver up with a dark blue T-shirt and a pair of athletic grey sweatpants. They’d given him a toothbrush but no razor, nor a hairbrush. He was looking pretty much the same as any other man on a Saturday morning after a hard Friday night. That was the way he liked it, appearing so normal as to be almost nondescript.

Carver wasn’t especially tall, just a fraction under six feet. He didn’t ripple with muscle, or exude the air of physical menace that characterized so many men who dealt in violence for a living. He was happy to blend into the crowd and go about his business unnoticed. Only the most sharp-eyed observer would spot the controlled athleticism of his walk, the set furrow of his brow or the way his eyes, so clear and so green, snapped into focus when his concentration was engaged. Right now, though, the only thing they were focused on was his sandwich.

On the other side of the table Tord Bahr was eating a bowl of granola with skimmed milk and sliced banana. He was already dressed in a suit and tie, his earpiece and wrist-mike in place, showing no sign whatever of the night’s exertions. The only scintilla of human weakness Bahr allowed himself was the expression, dangerously close to an actual smile, that conveyed his deep satisfaction at the way the dummy attack, designed to test his men’s readiness, had panned out. From Bahr’s perspective, the night had been a total success. Carver had provided a tough test, but then lost.

‘The wing-suit,’ he said, having first made sure that his mouth was completely free of granola pieces, ‘what gave you that idea?’

‘Process of elimination,’ said Carver. He was now leaning back in his chair, side-on to the table, looking out of the dining-room’s open French windows. ‘I thought about conventional HAHO and HALO insertions, but then… hang on…’

Carver got up and walked over to the windows. The Lady Rosalie was out on the water, heeling over in the fresh breeze, her sails dazzling white in the low morning sun. There were two speedboats flanking her, a helicopter hovering above.

‘Who’s taken the yacht out?’ he asked.

‘The President,’ Bahr replied. ‘He’s been here all night.’

‘The President?’ Carver tried hard not to splutter meat and coffee all over the floor. ‘What do you mean, he’s here? I thought this was just a training exercise. Is that regular procedure, having him on-site?’

‘No, it is absolutely not regular. It’s beyond irregular. We have a training division with its own facility. Anything we need to train for, we can pretty much do it right there. But the President had his own views and of course we, ah… we respected those.’

Carver said nothing. He turned back to the window and watched for a few seconds, before looking back at Bahr. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something.

‘You got something on your mind?’ asked Bahr.

‘Come here,’ said Carver.

‘Lemme just finish my granola.’

‘No, I think you should come here.’

Bahr sighed, shook his head, then got up from the table and began walking towards where Carver was standing. He had only taken a couple of steps before an explosive crack split the air.

A tiny figure in the cockpit of the Lady Rosalie rushed to the stern as the boat turned into the wind, its sails flapping uselessly as it slowed almost to a halt. The speedboats were already racing towards the yacht.

‘What the fuck-?’ shouted Bahr.

He raced the last few feet towards the window, and then kept going till he was standing on the grass outside. Carver saw him put a finger to his ear and bark into his wrist-mike.

‘I don’t get it,’ he was saying. ‘What are you saying? What do you mean the sea has turned red?’

Up in the helicopter the pilot was looking down on a crimson stain spreading out around the Lady Rosalie.

‘It’s like blood, man, like the whole frickin’ ocean is turning into blood.’

Bahr turned back to the staff quarters and glared wide-eyed at Carver. ‘Don’t you go anywhere!’ he yelled, his composure shattered. ‘Consider yourself under arrest!’ Then he started running towards the dock.

Carver stood in thoughtful silence watching the chaos as the President was helped off his yacht on to one of the speedboats. His place at the Lady Rosalie’s helm was taken by a black-uniformed figure and then the speedboats turned and raced for the shore, shadowed by the helicopter.

‘Step away from the window.’

Carver turned and saw a young Secret Service agent standing by the internal door to the dining-room pointing his gun right at him. The agent looked as though he was having a hard time holding on to his composure. His nerves were fraying. If they snapped, he might do something foolish. With the minimum possible fuss, Carver did as he was told.