Tom Cain - The accident man

"No," she murmured, her voice much throatier now. He could see her nipples outlined against the T-shirt's flimsy, faded cotton. His skin felt electric, craving the touch of her body, but she gently turned him back to the mirror. "Finish shaving. Drink some coffee. We have time."

She stood behind him, leaning up against the wall and watching him with forensic attention as he finished shaving, rinsed his face, and dried with a hand towel that was hanging next to the sink.

He chucked the towel onto the floor beside him, then he turned around. Carver stood stock-still, unsmiling, just looking at the girl. Her eyes narrowed, meeting his gaze and matching it, neither one of them backing down.

He crossed the room in two strides and lifted her bodily off the floor, pressing her up against the wall as he kissed her with a passion that had been caged inside him for too long. She answered his intensity with her own, pushing her mouth against his, wrapping her arms around his neck, and gripping his waist with her thighs.

Carver brought his arms around under her and held her up to him, never breaking away from their kiss as he carried her through the door into the bedroom. He put her down on the floor beside the bed, breaking away for just long enough to slide the T-shirt over her head as she stood with her arms up, arching her back and bringing her breasts up toward him. Then he was running his tongue around a nipple and she was ripping the towel from his waist and they were rolling onto the bed and at last their hunger could be satisfied.

The second time around, the frenzy was replaced by tenderness, the urgency by a lazy, indulgent, mutual exploration; getting to know the taste, the smell, the feel of each other; each beginning to learn what the other needed most.

Later, as they were lying together, her head nestled against his shoulder, he felt her body turning. She looked up at him, her chin resting on his chest.

"I had forgotten it could be like that," she whispered.

He stroked her hair, gently circling a thumb around her temple. "It's been a long time for me too."

"Who is she? The girl in the picture."

"Her name was Kate. We were supposed to get married."

"Did she leave?"

"She died," he said softly

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, it's time I talked about her. I've spent the past five years trying not to. That hasn't got me very far."

She nodded. "Fine, then tell me about Kate. In fact, tell me everything. You promised yesterday, remember?"

"I was hoping you'd forgotten."

"I am a woman. I never forget."

Carver laughed. "This KGB training you did, was interrogation part of the curriculum?"

"No, it comes naturally."

He grinned. "You're great, you know? Just great." He ran a hand along her body, relishing every contour. "And I'm not just saying that because you've got a perfect ass."

She slapped his hand away in mock annoyance. "Kate!" she said.

"Okay, Kate… well, I'd been a marine for, I dunno, ten years or so. Typical soldier boy-you know, love 'em and leave 'em, nothing serious. But with Kate, I don't know why, it was much more serious, right from the get-go. I met her at a party. We started talking and we didn't stop till it was morning. We just cuddled up in this big old armchair and told each other pretty much everything about ourselves. By the end of the night, I knew she was the woman I was going to marry."

He looked up at Alix. The light had gone from her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said so much."

"No, I asked."

"I'll stop."

"No, don't. Tell me everything."

"There isn't that much more," he said, as she laid her head on his chest again and he stared up at the ceiling. "I mean, there is, obviously, but what it all boils down to is that we got engaged. I left the service, planning to start a new life. Her dad ran a charter yacht business and I was going to work with him for a few years before taking it over when he retired. Then… then… well, then we went out to lunch, and I stayed behind for a minute, just a minute, and she walked across the street alone, and some bastard in a stolen car ran a red light… and I wasn't there…" He screwed up his eyes for a moment, trying to hold the feelings back.

He could see the room where they'd had that last meal: him, Kate, and Bobby Faulkner, his closest friend since the day they'd both turned up as marine officer candidates on the same admiralty selection board test. He could hear Bobby telling insulting stories about his past misdeeds, hiding his affection under a smokescreen of mockery.

Then Carver saw the jerks by the bar as they were all walking out, felt the jolt against his shoulder as one of them deliberately bumped into him and accused him of spilling his pint, looking to pick a fight. He watched Kate walking out the door as he said, "Get the car, this won't take long."

Then he opened his eyes and said, "She never stood a chance. Killed instantly. That was a blessing, at least. She never suffered, never even knew what hit her."

Alix brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. "But you suffered."

"No, I got drunk. I cultivated my rage. Then I made everyone else suffer instead. That's how I got into this business."

He told her how much his old commanding officer, Quentin Trench, had meant to him, how he'd pulled him out of that police cell and given him the telephone number that had changed his life.

She balled her fist and tapped his shoulder. "So now you are here and now I am with you. Enough talking. What are we going to do?"

Carver propped himself up on an elbow. "Follow the money," he said.

Sir Perceval Wake pressed the button on the antiquated intercom that linked his study with his secretary's desk outside. "Send him in."

The apartment in Eaton Square where he lived and worked occupied two floors of a tall, white house. It stood in a terrace of identical buildings lining a broad boulevard running from the aristocratic playground of Sloane Square to the walls of Buckingham Palace. The government departments of Whitehall were just a five-minute cab ride away. This was one of the world's most expensive neighborhoods. Wake's hunger for money and influence had always been as great as his thirst for knowledge.

For decades, Her Majesty's government had come to Sir Perceval Wake for advice and paid handsomely for the privilege, as had the chief executives of city institutions and multinational corporations. He'd begun his career as a political history lecturer at Oxford University, but he did not linger long among the city's brilliant but impoverished academics. In 1954 he published a book based on his postgraduate thesis. It was provocatively entitled, Useful Idiots: The Role of Western Intellectuals in the Spread of Communist Dictatorship. At a time when most supposedly progressive, liberal thinkers still believed that the Soviet Union was a force for good in the world, Wake's ideas exploded like a hand grenade in a barrel of fish. He became a hate figure on the left and an icon on the right.

Within weeks of publication, he was invited to attend a private conference of politicians, financiers, and thinkers from Europe and the United States that met at the Hotel Bilderberg in Arnhem, Holland. The organizers aimed to protect Western democracy and free markets against the Communist tide. That original meeting evolved into an annual event, an institution in its own right. For over forty years, Wake had been an active member of the Bilderberg Group, whose secret meetings, attended by some of the richest and most powerful men on earth, had become the focus of countless conspiracy theories. He regularly attended the World Economic Forum in Davos. He traveled to the 2,700-acre estate of Bohemian Grove in Sonoma County, California, to join the cast of rich, powerful, male Americans parading in torchlight before a giant, fake stone owl and-the conspiracy theorists insisted-hatching plots for global domination.