Tom Cain - The accident man

Carver let his glance linger on her a second longer than it should have. She felt his appraising look, pulled the bag off her back, held it in front of her chest, and replied with a frank, uncompromising stare of her own.

He lowered his eyes, like any other guy caught with a prick for a brain. Now he saw the woman's boots. They were heavy, black, calf-length, buckled at the ankle and midcalf: motorcycle boots. He'd seen them before; he'd seen the black nylon bag before. And why was the blond looking in his direction? Any bus on this side of the road would be going the other way.

Christ, he'd been stupid. He raised his eyes, bringing his gun up from his side and running toward her flat out as she reached into the bag, pulled out a silenced Uzi, and brought it to bear.

Carver slammed into her before she could fire, grabbing her gun and ripping it from her hands. He spun her around and smashed her face-first against the side of the bus shelter. He kicked the gun away, then he wrapped one arm around the woman's chest, pinning her arms by her side. He held her tight against him, squeezing her between his body and the side of the shelter, making it impossible for her to wriggle free.

He felt the softness of her body against his and caught a trace of her rich, dark scent. For a second, something about it, an unexpected familiarity, distracted him. The hell with that. He stuck his gun against her temple.

"Listen carefully," he hissed into her ear. "Your boyfriend is dead. You'll be dead too, unless you do exactly as I say."

She did not react in any way.

He tried again. "You speak English?"

No response.

Carver took a pace back, aiming his pistol straight at her. Still keeping his eye on the blond, he bent his knees and picked up the submachine gun, stuffing it into his jacket.

"Turn around."

She didn't move.

Carver stepped forward and kicked out at her legs, hitting her in the side of the shin. She crumpled to the ground, landing to the left of the bus shelter. As her knees hit the pavement, Carver stamped his left foot between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the ground.

She let out an involuntary grunt as the air was forced from her lungs. Now she was lying along the back of the shelter, hidden from the road.

Carver fired a single shot into the pavement, six inches from her head. She flinched as the dust and stone fragments hit the side of her face.

"The next one goes through the back of your skull. Now, let's stop pissing around. Do you speak English?"

This time she responded with a nod of her head.

"Good. Now, very slowly, put your arms by your side, palms of your hands facing me."

She did as she was told.

"Thank you. Now stay completely still."

Carver shifted his position, sliding his foot down her back and over her rump, bringing it to rest on the ground between her upper thighs. Then he bent his left knee until it came to rest on the base of her spine. His right foot was flat on the ground. All his weight was bearing down on her lower back. She whimpered in pain.

He unzipped one of the thigh pockets of his cargo pants and took out a thin strip of plastic that was looped into a figure eight. The loops were secured by tiny locking boxes through which the plastic strips passed.

"Put your hands side by side in the small of your back."

Carver placed a plastic loop over each hand, then pulled the loose ends until the plastic was tight around each wrist.

"Roll over onto your back."

He waited as she obeyed. When she looked at him, there was a momentary flash of pure rage in her eyes, in the setting of her jaw, the pursing of her lips. She looked away and took in a single, short, harsh breath through her nostrils. When she met Carver's eyes again, less than five seconds later, she had regained her self-control. Her face was blank, as if she knew there was more to come. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of watching her lose her temper, still less cry or beg for mercy.

"Sit up against the shelter."

She levered herself upright, then shuffled backward until she was leaning against the shelter wall, her legs flat on the pavement in front of her. Carver was on his haunches opposite her. Anyone passing by would take him for a boyfriend trying to help a sick or stoned girlfriend. They wouldn't look too closely. They wouldn't want to get involved. They'd pass right by, just like city people always do, in any city, anywhere.

"Why does Max want me dead?"

Still she gave nothing away. But her eyes were more tightly focused on him now, more calculating this time, as if she were waiting to see what he had before she made her first move.

Carver wanted to needle her, provoke a reaction. "Look, I don't blame you for being pissed off. I would be too if I'd screwed up. You shouldn't have tried to take the gun out of the bag, right? You should have just shot through it. So what is it-you're no good at your job? You're out of practice? Maybe it isn't your usual line of work."

She did react, but not in the way he'd expected. She just looked at him with utter contempt, as if he hadn't a clue. As if he weren't even close.

He went back to Plan A. "You never answered my question. Why does Max want me dead?"

Finally she spoke. "I don't know anyone named Max." Her voice was flat, unyielding. She sounded like a suspect in a police interrogation cell who knows the cops can't prove their case. Her accent was American, but spoken by a foreigner. Carver guessed Eastern European.

"Okay."

He got to his feet and took a couple of steps to where the black bag was lying on the ground. Bending down, keeping his gun and his eye on the woman all the while, he picked up the bag, then stepped back to his original position, right beside her.

"Let's see what we've got here…"

He put his free hand into the bag, pulled out a purse, and flicked it open. There were half a dozen credit cards arranged in slots, one above the other. Carver slid a couple of cards out with his thumb. They bore the name "A. Petrova." He took another look at the outside of the purse, checking out the pattern stamped into the leather: Louis Vuitton. He was starting to put the pieces together, but he needed a little more information to be sure.

"What does the A stand for?"

She shrugged. "What A?"

"On your credit card: A. Petrova."

"You mean, like a… for 'asshole'?" This time she let a slight, mocking smile play around the corners of her mouth. She'd scored another point.

He kept riffling through the bag. There was a mobile phone. He opened it up and accessed the address book, keeping one eye on the woman. There were lots of Russian names. Some were people; others he guessed were shops, clubs, or restaurants. There was nothing under "Max." He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it.

Next, his fingers wrapped themselves around a piece of thin card. It was inserted into a small, stiff booklet: an airline ticket in a passport. He pulled them out of the bag. The ticket was an Aeroflot return from Moscow to Paris. The outward segment had already been torn off and used. Now he knew where she'd come from.

He knew her full name too. The passport was Russian. It named her as Alexandra Petrova, date of birth September 21, 1967. So she was almost thirty. She looked younger. Maybe she was. Maybe she'd just assumed an older identity. And maybe he'd arranged her death about three hours ago.

"You've got a Louis Vuitton bag. It contains underwear, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and some kind of silky dress. So, what, you were planning to party once you'd finished the job?"

This time he knew he'd got through. She didn't say anything, but she frowned. For the first time, the defiance in her eyes was clouded by uncertainty.

Carver pressed on. "You left the bag in a one-bedroom apartment on the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l'Ile. The bag was on the bed. There was a white Chanel carrier bag next to it, with some perfume, lipsticks, and a small black box-I'm guessing a watch-inside it. You picked that up at duty free, right? Mixing the hit with a nice bit of shopping. I like it, the feminine touch."