Tom Cain - The accident man

A few minutes later he was standing on the top-floor landing of the building next door, facing a simple dark blue door.

So this was where his quarry hid from the world. Papin was tempted to break in and grab the laptop. It must be in there; Carver hadn't been carrying it when he left that morning. But there were bound to be security measures- Carver was not the type to leave himself unprotected-and even if there were not, Carver would know that someone had been there the moment he stepped through the door, and he'd be off like a startled gazelle. It was far better to keep a low profile. Papin was certain the two of them would be returning to the apartment that day. They'd been walking through town like lovers on a day off, not fugitives on the run-they weren't going anywhere. He'd save them for the highest bidder.

It was time to call Charlie. But when he dialed the number, Papin was put through to another phone and a voice he didn't recognize.

"To whom am I speaking?" he asked.

"That doesn't matter."

"Then this conversation is over."

"Wait a moment, Monsieur Papin. I am Charlie's superior. You are talking to me because he does not have the authority to deal with your financial conditions, and I do. I'm afraid that I cannot accept your demand for five hundred thousand dollars."

Papin had expected some form of negotiation. "Alors, monsieur, I am sorry. If you will not pay me the required sum, I will find a client who will."

"Three hundred. And that is my final offer. Not a penny more."

"No, I will not lower my price. But I will make you a deal. You pay me two fifty up front, I take you to the location. From there it will be one twenty-five if you find the people, one twenty-five for the computer. You will not pay in full unless you have everything you need. Fair?"

There was silence at the other end of the line while the man considered the offer. Papin wondered what the counterbid would be. But then came a grunt of assent: "Fair enough, monsieur. So what are the arrangements?"

"You will send one man to the front entrance of the Cathedral of Saint Pierre in Geneva, Switzerland. I will be there for precisely five minutes, starting at five p.m. local time. I will be wearing a dark blue suit and holding a rolled-up newspaper. I apologize for the cliche, monsieur, but it will suffice. Your representative will say, 'Charlie sends his regards.' I will reply, 'I hope Charlie is well.' He will say, 'Yes, much better now.' He will then hand me the first half of the payment-remember, bearer bonds, endorsed in my name. I will give further instructions at that time. Your man may have backup for any action that is required, but he will only call for this backup when I give permission."

"I understand. Five o'clock this afternoon at the cathedral. I will have someone there. Thank you, Monsieur Papin."

"On the contrary, Monsieur. Thank you."

Papin put down the receiver, raised his eyes to the ceiling, then let out a long sigh of relief. He rubbed the back of his neck as he pondered his next move. He had the money in the bag. He didn't need another bidder. But what if there was a way to make more than one deal? He might yet be able to double his money. Yes, that would be something. And if he played it right, he could get the killers and their bosses off his back for good.

Deep inside the futuristic, postmodernist ziggurat on the south bank of the river Thames that had been the headquarters of MI6 since 1995-and which its more cynical inhabitants, unimpressed by the building's expense, vulgarity, and sore-thumb prominence, had dubbed "Ceausescu Towers"-Bill Selsey was sitting by a telephone receiver, waiting for a call. Beside him were other secret service officers wearing headsets, operating digital audio recorders, and monitoring the connection between their lines and the tracking equipment at GCHQ. Jack Grantham was sitting at the same table as Selsey, ready to listen in on whatever Pierre Papin had to say.

The phone rang. Selsey paused for the technicians' thumbs-up, then picked up the receiver.

Papin was all apologies. "I am so sorry, Bill, but I already have a buyer for my information. We are meeting at five p.m."

"Well, I'm sorry too, Pierre. Maybe we could have done some business."

"Maybe we still can."

"How would that be?"

"You could buy my buyer."

Selsey rolled his eyes across the table at Jack Grantham. What was the Frenchman playing at now?

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Simply that I can now provide you with a complete package: the people who killed your princess and the people who hired them."

Selsey couldn't help it. He laughed out loud. "So you shaft the people you've just done a deal with and sell them out to us?"

"Exactly."

"Bloody hell, Pierre, you've got a nerve! Presumably you'd like to be paid by us too."

"But of course. The price is the same: five hundred thousand U.S."

"Yeah, well, there's just one problem. We don't have that kind of money lying around. You know how it is, endless bloody budget cuts, every penny has to be justified in triplicate. Probably the same with your lot, right?"

"Yes, it's true. We cannot afford to be extravagant. But this is not extravagance. This is a small outlay for a huge return."

Across the room a signals tech gestured at Selsey to keep talking. He mouthed the words "almost got it." Selsey nodded. He kept talking.

"I agree. If we did get that entire crew, it would be good. But to be honest, that's what concerns me. You're planning to deceive a group of known killers. I'm not sure you want to be doing that. In fact, I'd say we're the only people you can trust. We're pros, like you. We're not in the business of harming our allies' agents. So why don't you come in with us? We'll keep an eye on things, cover your back. I mean, even if your clients don't discover you're about to rat them out, they may decide they don't want to pay your money after all. They may try to get it back… over your dead body."

"But it would be of no use to them. That is why I demanded endorsed bearer bonds. They can only be cashed by me. No, Bill, your offer is very kind, but I'm sure I can look after myself. And also I would be safer without you. If I do not sell my clients to you, they have no need to harm me. And if I do sell them, and they find out, then I do not think you would be able to save me. So I want money to cover the extra risk, or no deal. What is it to be?"

Selsey looked across at the signals tech and got a thumbs-up. "Then I'm sorry, Pierre, but it's no deal."

"I'm sorry too, Bill. Another time."

And the line went dead.

"Good work," said Jack Grantham, leaning across the table to give his colleague a supportive pat on the arm. "So, where is the treacherous little sod?"

"Geneva," said the signals tech. "Public phone on the Rue Verdaine, right by the city cathedral."

"Damn!" muttered Grantham. "We can't get there in time from here. We'll have to use someone local." He picked up a phone and dialed an internal number. "Monica? Jack Grantham. Something urgent's come up in Geneva. Who do we have in the UN mission there?… What do you mean one of them's on holiday? It's September, people should be back at work… Okay, well, get the chap-sorry, the woman, my mistake-get the one who isn't busy lying on a beach and tell her to give me a ring asap, would you? And see what we can rustle up from the embassy at Bern-that's not far from Geneva, right?… Excellent. Well, tell them to call me once they're on their way. Coordinate with the girl in Geneva… Yes, Monica, I know she's a grown woman, it's just a figure of speech… Well, whatever this female is, I want to talk to her. Now."

He put down the phone with exaggerated care, shook his head silently, then turned to Bill Selsey.