Tom Cain - No survivors

Carver was a brave man. He had faced death more times than he could count. But the prospect of insanity, a lifetime trapped in an unending cycle of forgetting, was far, far worse.

Screw that. He needed a drink.

He headed up to the bar and ordered a double Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Then he remembered the last time he'd drunk it, with Alix, the night of the killing. Christ, why did everything have to remind him of her?

"So it didn't work out, huh?"

It was a woman's voice, American. She was sitting a few feet down the bar. Her long, glossy hair, as rich and dark as bitter chocolate, fell to her shoulders and swept across her forehead, almost covering one of her pure brown eyes. She had high cheekbones and her lips were painted with a sparkling pink gloss that made them look as though she'd just licked them. Her dress was draped over one shoulder and then swooped low enough to show off a spectacular pair of breasts. The skirt was slit up the thigh, and she was perched on a bar stool with her legs crossed, leaving plenty on display.

His look was a frank appraisal, the calculation every man makes, balancing the desirability of what's on offer against the chances of success. As if reading his mind, she held up her left hand to display the diamond on her fourth finger. Then she shrugged in a what-the-hell way.

Carver had to laugh. Every woman he met tonight seemed to be showing off a ring. This one didn't seem quite so married as the last one, though. He took his drink over to her, absorbing every detail of the way she looked. She smelled pretty good, too, a rich, spicy, super-female scent that made him realize just how long it had been since he'd been laid. Maybe he should remedy that. They could have a few drinks, take dinner in the restaurant down by the sea, and screw each other's brains out all night-see if that made his pain go away. It wasn't the most mature response to a broken heart, but it certainly beat going crazy.

"Hi," he said. "My name's Samuel Carver."

She held out a slender hand with long scarlet nails.

"Madeleine Cross-pleased to meet you."

"And you, Madeleine. So, are you going to introduce me to Mr. Cross?"

"I sure as hell hope not."

"Don't tell me he's left you all alone, in a strange hotel, in a foreign country. That sounds risky."

She laughed. "Who for?"

"All three of us, quite possibly."

She looked Carver up and down. "No, I reckon you could handle him."

"I don't doubt that," he said. "But can I handle you? That's the question."

It was bullshit; he knew it, and so did she. But it was what he needed, and maybe she did, too. She was a big girl; she could make her own decisions.

He ordered them both another drink and Madeleine told him her story.

Her husband made a fortune selling medical supplies. She'd been a clerk at a hospital that was one of his biggest clients, a girl from Boise, Idaho, ten years in Chicago, still single, struggling to make ends meet. He took her away from all that and stuck her in a fancy house in Winnetka to shop, decorate, and bitch with other bored suburban women. Now here they were on this fancy European vacation and he'd gone off to the casino in Cannes, leaving her behind, all dressed up with nothing to do but get drunk.

"The casino sounds pretty exciting. Why didn't you go, too?" Carver asked.

"Believe me, it's not so good. He spends all night at the blackjack table, playing three hands at a time, cursing every time he doesn't get the right card. He doesn't pay a bit of attention to anything else. Or anyone else, either."

Carver looked suitably appalled.

"Any man who'd rather spend a night looking at playing cards when he could be looking at you needs his head examined."

"Well, you know what? I think so, too," she said. They laughed and leaned a little closer together. Carver felt her hand on his knee, that lightness of a woman's touch that feels so good to a man.

"You want to get something to eat?" he said.

She looked him right in the eye.

"I'd rather work up an appetite first."

Carver woke with the sun streaming in through the windows and the bedside clock reading 9:17.

There was a note on the bedside table, with a telephone number and the message If you're ever in Chicago… Maddy xox.

Then he noticed the red light flashing on his phone-he must have been woken by the ringing. Carver picked up the handset and pressed the button. He screwed up his face when he heard that familiar, angry voice.

"Carver, you useless sod, it's Grantham. I'm downstairs in the foyer. Get your lazy arse down here, now, before I come up there and kick the bloody door down."

"Shit," said Carver, and heaved himself out of bed.

Carver couldn't see any good reason he should come running, just because Grantham had called. He spent fifteen minutes getting washed and dressed before heading down to the hotel lobby. It was worth the wait, simply to see the irritation on Grantham's face. There was something else there, too, Carver realized as he got closer: The MI6 man's normal self-assurance, arrogance, even, had given way to a nervy edginess that he'd never seen before.

"Where's my document?" snapped Grantham.

"The same place as my girlfriend, cuddling up to Kurt Vermulen," Carver said, as if it didn't bother him one bit. "She married him-did you know that?"

That news had been meant to knock Grantham off his stride, but it had the opposite effect. A smug smile crossed Grantham's face, a look of sheer pleasure that Carver had been dumped in even deeper shit than he had.

"That must have come as a shock."

"Just a bit," said Carver.

"Still, you don't look very heartbroken."

"What would you prefer, drunk and tearstained?"

"Something like that."

Carver shrugged. "I thought about it. But I found a better alternative. Nice girl."

"And you accuse me of not giving a toss?"

"Listen, I loved Alix. That was real; probably still is. But it won't do me any good now, moping around. I'm just going to forget her, move on, put as much distance between us as I can."

Carver wondered if he sounded any more convincing than he felt. Evidently not-Grantham looked at him with an expression of profound skepticism before his face cleared, a new thought striking him.

"You got time to grab a late breakfast before you go? There's someone I want you to meet."

Carver groaned. What now?

"Come on," Grantham insisted. "They do a splendid buffet down by the sea. Great food, fantastic view… I'm paying. And I think you'll be interested when you find out who's flown in to see you."

Carver followed Grantham across the lobby and out through the doors that opened onto the hotel's magnificent wooded gardens. As he walked down the path that stretched down to the sea, one tiny hope flickered at the back of his mind and kept him moving toward an appointment he otherwise would have refused. And then he realized it was ridiculous even to consider such a notion. It was another Russian woman sitting at the table, with a bob of black hair framing eyes that were assessing him with cold, impersonal objectivity as Grantham gestured in her direction.

"May I introduce Deputy Director Zhukovskaya, of the Federal Security Service?"

She held out her hand with a smile that was even chillier than her eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Carver. You killed my husband."

"I was provoked," he replied, before letting go of her hand.

Grantham ordered coffee, orange juice, and a selection of pastries.

"I think I'll have a proper cooked breakfast, actually," said Carver, gesturing toward the buffet. "Feeling quite peckish this morning."

He took his time getting scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, crisp white rolls and dewy chunks of unsalted Normandy butter. He made a point of tucking in, knowing the other two wanted to talk. But in the end, it was he who cracked first. He couldn't help himself.