Tom Cain - The accident man

"And then you lost her too."

"Yeah. Not so good, that."

Alix twirled her mascara brush through her eyelashes.

"So, how old were you when you went away to school?"

"Eight."

"Bozhe moi!… And the English think they are civilized!"

"You don't know the half of it. The school was in this ancient country house, miles from anywhere. The first morning, we all got woken up at seven o'clock. We got dressed and the dormitory captain led us downstairs to the lawn at the back of the school. And we did drills, proper military drills. Quick march! Left turn, right turn, stand to attention, stand a-a-a-t… h'ease! It makes me laugh now, it was so bloody mad."

"Yet you became a soldier?"

"Well, schools like that have been churning out upmarket cannon fodder for centuries. They were specifically designed to produce reasonably intelligent, physically fit, emotionally screwed-up young men who'd travel to the world's hottest, nastiest places, do their duty, and lay down their lives when required."

"And you are one of these people?"

"When I'm working."

"And when you're not working?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to sort out."

For a few moments they were silent. Alix concentrated on her lipstick. With her newly painted face, done in a style unlike anything Carver had seen on her before, her bald head, and her half-naked body, she looked oddly impersonal, like a showroom dummy waiting for its costume. Then she reached for the other bag and took out her wig. She pulled it over the skullcap, brushed it and sprayed it, and suddenly Carver was looking at a completely different woman.

He expected her to get straight up and cross the room to the closet where her clothes were hanging. Instead she sat there hesitantly, her eyes vague and unfocused, as if her concentration had been broken by some inner uncertainty.

"There was something I didn't tell you yesterday, about my past," she said.

Carver sat back in his chair, caught her eye in the mirror.

"I said that everything about it was bad. But that's not true. I had special privileges because of what I did for the State. At home in Perm, women wore horrible, shapeless sacks. They ate stale food that tasted of nothing. They worked so hard. When my mother was only forty, she was already old, like a woman of sixty in the West. But in Moscow I was dressing in Armani, Versace, Chanel. I had never before owned more than two pairs of shoes, always made of plastic. Now I had a closet filled with shoes from Paris and Milan.

"Sometimes I would take men back to my apartment. There were beautiful Italian sheets on my bed. There was Scotch whisky in the drinks cabinet. You cannot imagine. No one in Russia lived like that-no one outside the highest levels of the Party. I loved those things. It did not matter what I had to do, I would never have given them up. I sold my soul."

Carver leaned forward. "Did you like my flat?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Did you like my flat? I mean, it's nice, isn't it? You haven't seen my car, but that's pretty nice too. So's the boat I keep on the lake. And I think you know how I paid for them."

"So what are you saying, that you are as bad as me?"

"I guess. But who's to say what's good or bad? People get on their high horses. They sit in their comfortable, safe little lives and they talk about moral standards. But any idiot can come out with this week's socially acceptable bullshit when they don't have to face any consequences or get their hands dirty. I spent years watching good friends get blown to pieces, their guts torn apart for politicians who lied through their teeth. I know there are bad guys out there and I know what they can do. That changes your perspective, big-time.

"Sorry, got a bit carried away," Carver offered, grimacing.

"No," she said, "I understand. And I like it when you get passionate. I like seeing who you really are."

"Christ, do you think that's the real me?"

She was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Carver went to answer it, picking up his gun from the bedside table along the way. He opened the door a couple of inches and then relaxed when he recognized who was on the other side.

"Thor! Good to see you. Come in."

Larsson's tall, gangly figure-all arms, legs, and hair-ambled into the room. He was carrying two large nylon bags, suspended from his shoulders. He saw Alix getting up from her makeup table and stopped.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I had no idea." A shy smile spread across his face and his blue eyes creased in private amusement. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all," said Carver, "We were just getting ready. So, Thor Larsson, this is Alexandra Petrova."

"Call me Alix," she said, standing on tiptoe to give Larsson a peck on the cheek.

"Uhh, yeah… call me Thor," he answered, as his face flushed beneath his freckles.

Her smile gently teased Larsson for his embarrassment yet welcomed him as a friend. "Okay, Thor, please excuse me. I think I should get dressed."

The two men stood watching her for a second as she flitted across to her clothes. It took an effort of will for Carver to drag his eyes and his thoughts away from Alix and force himself to concentrate on the gear Larsson had brought in his bags.

"Right," Carver said. "Assume that this room is the command center. I'll be here-in the first phase, at least-monitoring communications. Then we need a wire on Alix, handheld remote video that you'll have to control, and a complete sound-and-vision setup for the other room, the one where Alix will take the guy we're going for."

"No problem," said Larsson. "I've got everything you'll need." He rummaged in one of the bags and pulled out a couple of cigarette packs. "These should do the trick."

Carver looked unconvinced. "Are you sure? I can't afford for this to go wrong. It's the only chance I've got."

"Relax," said Larsson, patting Carver's shoulder. "Have faith. I know what I'm doing. And by the way…" He bent down till his face was right in front of Carver's, and murmured, "I want to talk about that other job you asked me to do, the decryption. Call me later tonight. We need to speak… alone."

Papin stood at the foot of the steps in front of the ancient cathedral. It was four minutes past five. No one had arrived. Or perhaps they had. Perhaps he'd been set up and they were watching him now, waiting to see where he went next, trying to get their hands on the goods for free.

He gazed across the square. He didn't see the man with the shaven head, holding a metal briefcase, walk out of the cathedral's main door and head down toward him. He didn't know the man was there until he felt the crushing weight of a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice behind him growl, "Charlie sends regards," in a Russian accent that made it sound like,"Chully syends rigards."

Papin gave a twitch of surprise and turned around to face his contact. He had been expecting an Englishman, or perhaps a Swiss, at any rate someone with whom he could conduct business in a civilized fashion. But this Russian just stood there, massive and brutish, gazing at Papin with blank implacability.

A few seconds passed in silence, then the Russian said, "Okay, wrong man," and took a step back up the steps.

"No! No! Right man!" Papin exclaimed, suddenly panicked. "I hope Charlie is well!"

Grigori Kursk looked at him, shook his head, spat on the ground, then grunted, "Yeah, is better now."

Papin glanced down at the case. "Do you have the money?"

Kursk gave a single nod.

"Give me the first installment."

"Don't understand."

"The money, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Give it to me."

"Not here. Everyone see. In car. We go to car."

Kursk walked away. Papin waited a couple of seconds, then followed him over to a black BMW parked on the uphill side of the square. There were three men inside, crammed into the backseat.