Tom Cain - The accident man

She wasn't impressed. "What are you trying to tell me? You're some kind of stalker?"

"No, I'm telling you they planned to kill you too. I've got to admit, it was elegant. They got each set of killers to eliminate the other. See, when Max briefed me, he said the apartment belonged to the target. I was supposed to booby-trap it in case he escaped the hit. But it wasn't the target's apartment, was it?"

She said nothing. Carver let the silence hang between them. He watched Petrova. She wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking down at the ground, thinking, working out the next move. A minute or more went by before she raised her eyes toward Carver again, her hostile glare replaced by a searching examination of his face, as though she were looking for the final clues that would help her reach a decision. Then she made up her mind, nodded to herself, and spoke.

"Okay. Kursk-the man you say you killed-was given our orders when we arrived in Paris. Someone called him-I don't know if that was this man you call Max. They told us to go to the apartment and wait for further instructions. There were new clothes, boots, and helmets there, one set for each of us, weapons and a key. Also a camera, with a big flash attachment."

"You got changed?"

"Yes."

"So why were your clothes the only ones in the apartment? What about Kursk's?"

"He threw them away when we left."

"Why?"

"How should I know? Maybe he likes to travel light. Anyway, about eight thirty, they called again. We were told to go to Rue Duphot. It's off Rue de Rivoli, near Place Vendome. When we got there, just before nine, Kursk got another call. We were told our target would be a black Mercedes. We had to follow it and use the camera with the flash to scare the people in the car and make them drive faster. After that we had to go back to the apartment, spend the night there, and then fly out in the morning. About an hour later Kursk got another call. It seemed to give him great satisfaction."

Carver nodded. "It fits. They got you out of the apartment before I arrived. They waited to see that I had completed my work there. Once they knew that you would be killed, they called Kursk to deal with me. Like I said, neat. So now we have a new question: Why did they want us dead?"

"I don't know. Truly."

"It must have something to do with the job. Did you see inside the car?"

"Not really. I had my visor down and the flash from the camera was, you know, reflecting off the windows. I think there were four people: two in front, two in back. One of them might have been a woman. I don't know."

"Where's the camera now?"

"The motorcycle. In the box at the side."

"Was there film inside it?"

She thought for a moment. "I don't think so. It just flashed."

"That makes sense. No photographic evidence."

She looked at him. "So now what?"

Carver had been watching her as she spoke. She had a wide mouth, full lips, and cool blue eyes. One lid was slightly heavier than the other, one pupil fractionally out of line. Those minuscule asymmetries should have marred her looks, yet the imperfection was mesmerizing, drawing him in. With an averagely pretty, even beautiful girl, he'd look once. With this one, it took an effort to drag his gaze away.

"Now we make a decision," he said. "I could shoot you, right here and now, and disappear into the night. That has the advantage of simplicity. But I don't want to kill you unless I absolutely have to. So, have you heard the expression 'My enemy's enemy is my friend'?"

"Yes, I understand."

"I think we should work on that basis. We've both been set up by the same people. Our best hope is to get to them before they get to us. So, they're our enemy. I guess that makes us friends."

She raised her eyebrows, gave a little pout, and shrugged her shoulders. "Okay, if you say so, let's talk about that. But first, prove to me that you are a friend. Get me a cigarette. There is a pack in my bag, Marlboro Lights."

He felt around in the bag, still keeping his eyes on her, until he felt the cigarette pack. He pulled it from the bag, flipped open the top, and shook it so that a couple of cigarettes poked farther out than the rest. Then he reached over, holding the packet close to her mouth.

She leaned forward, feeling for the cigarettes with her lips, using her tongue to separate one from the rest. She slumped back against the bus shelter wall with the cigarette in her mouth.

"Got a light?"

There was a lighter in the bag. He put the flame to her cigarette. As she breathed in, igniting the tobacco, their eyes met, no more than a foot apart. She didn't say anything, just let him feel the tension as her unflinching, disconcerting gaze held his.

Several seconds went by before Carver realized he'd broken a basic rule. Their heads were so close she could easily have butted him, smashing his nose. He jerked back, as if evading a blow that never came. She didn't move, just kept looking at him.

"Do you still have the helmet?" he asked.

"In the bushes, over there, with the leather jackets," she replied, nodding toward a clump of greenery that lay between the bus shelter and the sewer museum's ticket kiosk.

"Here's what we're going to do. First we make them think that they've won. That means getting ourselves killed, the more publicly, the better. So…"

Carver explained what he intended to do and what Petrova's role would be. She nodded occasionally. Every so often she asked a question or suggested an alternative course of action. The hostility had ebbed, however temporarily, from her voice. Her tone was practical, functional, getting the job done.

At the end he said, "What do you think?"

"I think we have the same enemy and I think your plan has a chance of success. Beyond that, I don't bother to think. I have only one more question."

"Yes?"

"What is your name?"

"Samuel Carver. Most people just call me Carver."

"Okay. Most people call me Alix. And now that we have been introduced, are you going to untie my hands?"

Carver nodded, then pulled a pair of scissors from the same pocket the plastic cuffs had been in. He stepped behind Alix as she shuffled forward, making some space between her back and the shelter. Then he got down on his haunches and forced one blade between the plastic and Alix's left wrist, making her wince as the metal and plastic dug in. Once he'd cut it free, he repeated the process on her other wrist. As he stood up and came around to face her again, she started to rub her lower arms, in an effort to restore circulation.

Then she held out a surprisingly dainty hand toward Carver. He reached out and shook it, as if sealing their deal.

"No, you fool," she said. "I want you to help me up."

Carver chuckled edgily and Alix smiled back. For the first time there was a flicker of warmth, a hint of the woman behind that calculating facade. He pulled her back onto her feet, then slung her bag around his shoulder. She let out a pained sigh as she straightened her spine, then felt the small of her back with her hands.

"Sorry about that," he said. "You know, just business."

He regretted the crass words the moment he'd spoken them. There was bitterness in her short, humorless laugh, and when she glanced at him again her eyes had the battered vulnerability of a woman who's no stranger to violence.

"It's never just business," she said.

Then she picked up her helmet and they walked together toward the Alma Bridge.

Nobby Colclough had spent fifteen years as a Metropolitan Police detective before he decided to trade his skills in the private sector. He was used to stakeouts. So now he was sitting in an unmarked Renault Megane, parked in the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l'Ile, watching the world go by. And waiting.