Tom Cain - No survivors

"Take your time. Just close your eyes, relax, and try to go back to that night. There's someone sitting at the table. Tell me about them."

Trudi did as she was told. Her eyes had been shut only for a few seconds when her face suddenly came alive again.

"Of course!" she cried. "I remember now. It was the woman, the one who paid the bill for the two men I was talking about, the ones who ran out without paying."

"That's great," said Carver. "Well done. Now, this woman, what did she look like?"

"Well, she had very dark hair, cut short, in a bob."

Trudi framed her face with her hands to illustrate what she meant.

"How old was she?"

"Oh, quite old, maybe fifty. But quite chic… you know, for a Russian."

"Hold on-this woman was Russian?"

"Yes, I think so. Her accent, it was a bit like Alix's, and she is Russian, right?"

Carver nodded distractedly, no longer paying attention to Trudi. His mind was fully occupied trying to make sense of the Russians: the woman and the two men. Who had they been? What did they want from Alix? He had a strong sense that the answer was in him somewhere. He had the information he needed to solve the problem if only he could retrieve it. Like Trudi, he needed to close his eyes, relax, and think. He couldn't do that now.

"Is that all?" Trudi asked, sounding disappointed that her information had not been met with more enthusiasm.

"Yeah," said Carver. "Thanks. You've been great. But you'd better clear up."

The other waitress was placing chairs upside down on top of the tables, banging them down hard, just to let the world know she wasn't getting any help. Larsson had got up from their table and was standing by the main exit, waiting to go. The barman was trying to disentangle himself from the solitary drinker's attempts at conversation. Carver heard him say, "You've got to leave now, my friend."

Carver nodded farewell at the barman and gave Trudi a short, brisk wave as he started to walk out.

She called out, "If you find Alix, send her my love," and he forced a smile to show that he'd heard.

He was feeling edgy again, just as he had on the train. It was the drinker, who was now turning away from the bar and following Larsson and Carver as they walked out. Carver didn't like the look of him. Ever since he'd walked into the bierkeller, he'd felt that the man had been looking at him and trying to listen in on his conversations. He was being kept under surveillance-he was sure of it. He had to take action before it was too late.

As he walked through the main exit to the street, Carver slowed his pace, waiting for the sound of the door swinging open again behind him. He heard the footsteps of the man in the suit. Then, without any warning, he turned around, swiveling on his toes, then he took one strong, quick stride back the way he had come and punched the man full in the face.

He caught him right on the bridge of the nose, which crumpled under his fist.

The man gave a muffled cry of pain, held his hand up to his face, and staggered back through the door. Carver followed him, grabbing him by the collar and throwing him to the ground.

"What are you looking at?" he snarled.

The man's eyes widened. He had been caught totally unawares. He was in pain. He was frightened, and he was baffled.

"Why did you hit me?" His voice was as plaintive as a bullied child. "What have I done?"

Carver could not answer him. He did not know what to say. He had attacked an innocent man for no reason other than his own paranoia. He looked up and saw Pierre running toward him, the waitresses looking on in horror.

Pierre stopped beside the wounded man, uncertain what to do next. He turned his head toward the women and said, "One of you, call the police." Then he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the handle of a knife. He pressed a button and the blade flicked open.

He looked at Carver. "I know how to use this," he said.

The man at Carver's feet moaned in pain. Blood was seeping through his fingers and spattering his clothes.

Now the door crashed open again and Larsson was there, grabbing Carver and dragging him away from the scene.

"Get out!" he shouted and Carver's legs started pumping, his feet scrabbling on the floor until he got some purchase, and he dashed out of the bierkeller after Larsson.

Pierre hesitated, not knowing whether to follow the two fleeing men or attend to the wounded victim. Then he hurried to the man on the floor, who was making a groggy, disoriented effort to get to his feet. The man let himself be led away from the exit, under a low stone arch, into a small, deserted office.

"Wait here," said Pierre, lowering him onto a chair.

The man groaned. He wasn't going anywhere.

Seconds later, the door opened and Trudi walked toward him. "You poor thing," she said.

He winced as she dabbed some cotton soaked in disinfectant over his face, gasping in pain when she touched his broken nose.

"Look at what that bastard did to you," she said. "I'm not surprised Alix ran away if that's what he's like."

She paused, the cotton dripping in midair, as she suddenly realized what she'd done.

"Oh, my God. I've helped him find her! I just hope the police-"

The man gripped her arm with surprising force. "No police," he mumbled. "Don't want police. No time. Too busy."

"But, m'sieur, we must…" Trudi pleaded. "I mean, they're already on the way."

"No!" the man exclaimed, spitting blood.

He got up, pushing Trudi out of his way, as he half ran, half stumbled from the room, through the bierkeller, and out onto the street.

"My God, what a night," muttered Trudi, ripping off her wig and heading for the dressing room.

In the Volvo, Carver was racking his brain, trying to make the connection between Alix and the woman. "That waitress, Trudi, said she was Russian, age about fifty. I'm sure I know who she is. I just can't get at it…"

"I think I know," said Larsson. "Alix and I used to talk a lot, when you were sick. She told me a lot about her past, what happened between you two…"

He paused. "She told me what happened in Gstaad that night."

"And?"

"The woman in the bierkeller, I don't know her name-not her first name. But I think I know who she was: the woman who first found Alix, when she was just a kid, and trained her to… umm…"

Larsson's face twisted in embarrassment.

"Yeah, I know what she trained her to do," said Carver.

"Right," said Larsson, visibly relieved. "And this woman's husband was another KGB officer. He ran Alix's operations and then when that all ended, Alix was… look, I'm sorry, man… she was his mistress. Until she went to Paris and met you, right? The guy was called Yuri Zhukovski. He was the one you killed in Gstaad…"

"Jesus," said Carver. "Alix slept with this woman's husband and I killed him. Well, that explains why Alix got the shits when she saw her at the bierkeller."

"It probably explains why someone tried to kill you tonight, too," agreed Larsson.

"Okay, but what about the bit in the middle? Alix does a runner. The woman sends two guys after her. The next thing we know, Alix has money and is paying my bills. How does that add up?"

"I don't know," admitted Larsson. "But we've got a couple of weeks to work it out."

"What do you mean?"

They'd crossed the river and were driving through the residential areas between the lake and the international airport on the edge of town, passing smart, modern apartment blocks.

"That's how long it's going to take to get you into shape. I'd like twice as long, but I know you won't wait. Hold on…"

He pulled up outside one of the blocks. Carver looked around. This was where Larsson lived. He'd been here before. He'd been surprised-just as he was now-to find a guy like Larsson living in such a bourgeois location. With his wild hair, torn jeans, and vintage rock-band T-shirts, the Norwegian looked as though he should be sitting in some funky warehouse, surrounded by computer parts and empty pizza boxes. But Geneva didn't do funky warehouses.