Tom Cain - The accident man

"Now you've got another problem. If this professional ever finds out what he's really done, he's going to be seriously pissed off. No one likes being lied to, right? So you've got to kill him before he knows what's really happened."

"A double cutout," said Grantham. "Eliminate your own operative."

"You got it," said Carver. "But if the man's any good, he might get away. He might do serious damage to the people who've been after him. And he might protect himself by, say, taking a computer that has details of the entire operation stored on it and putting that computer somewhere safe, so that if any harm comes to him, the computer's contents can be made public.

"That's the sort of thing that might happen. You know, hypothetically. Now, can I catch my plane?"

"Not yet," said Grantham. "There's something else. I lost two of my agents in Geneva."

"I'm sorry about that. But I had nothing to do with their deaths."

"I know," said Grantham.

"So you'll also know that the man who killed them was a Russian named Grigori Kursk. He was working for another Russian, Yuri Zhukovski. And on Zhukovski's orders, he abducted what you called 'the KGB tart.' Her name is Alexandra Petrova. And yes, she's the reason I'm flying to Switzerland."

"How do you plan to get her back?" asked Dame Agatha.

"An exchange: her life for my computer." He smiled. "My hypothetical computer."

"And you trust this man?" Grantham did not bother to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Of course not," said Carver. "But I trust myself. I can cope."

"That's not all, though, is it?" said Dame Agatha, thoughtfully. "You took a woman's life, whether you intended to or not. Let's not pretend otherwise. Now you want to save another woman's life, even if you lose yours in the process. Some sort of redemption, isn't that it?"

"If you say so. I'd rather think of it as a standard recovery mission. But I can't complete it unless I catch my plane."

"Don't worry about that," said Dame Agatha. "It can always develop engine problems and leave a little bit late. Happens all the time."

Carver looked from one spy to the other. "So you're letting me go. Why?"

Dame Agatha spoke first. "As you said, MI5 operates by the laws of the land. And you're quite right, no one wants a trial. We could kill you, of course, outside the law. But that would be problematic. These things are hard to keep under wraps. Sooner or later, someone always talks. So we're prepared to be accommodating… if you do a favor in return."

"Such as?"

"Tell us what you know about the people who planned the assassination."

"Were you watching Percy Wake's house?"

"Yes."

"Well then, you saw me go in there with Lord Malgrave. Start with them. Ask yourself how a former KGB agent like Zhukovski ever knew a British intelligence asset like Wake, how he had enough power over him to order a job like this. And call the coast guard. Check if they've found a body floating in the Channel-a bloke with a great big, smoking hole in his face. He used to be Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Trench, once of the royal marines. He ran the operational side of the group."

Dame Agatha jotted down a couple of notes on a leather bound pad. Then she asked, "So what was the reason for Paris?"

"Wake told his people it was vital to preserve the monarchy."

"Yes, he said the same to me, at length," said Grantham. His manner was calmer now, his self-control restored. But there was still an edge of hostility in his voice.

"That's not why he ordered the hit, though," Carver continued. "The whole thing was bought and paid for by Zhukovski. Does he give a toss about the fate of the British monarchy? I don't think so."

Grantham frowned. "So what was his motive?"

"Well, I reckon Zhukovski paid the consortium several million pounds. He's a businessman. He must have thought he could turn a profit."

"How?"

"Look at the guy's interests. Zhukovski's a player in the Russian arms trade. Well, I'm not big on the royals. But even I saw the princess on TV, talking to all those kids with their arms and legs blown off."

Grantham frowned. "What are you getting at?"

"Land mines. Russia's one of the world's major producers of land mines, and mines are one of the world's most tradable commodities. They're tiny, weigh nothing, and they're made of plastic. You can shift them as easily as cigarettes, and everybody wants them. Governments, terrorists, good guys, bad guys-everyone needs land mines. And what do they cost to produce-fifty quid each?"

"More like twenty-five," said Grantham.

"And what do they sell for?"

"On the black market, around two hundred pounds."

"Well then," said Carver, "there's your motive. Land mines are a billion-dollar business. But they're also evil little buggers. So plenty of people want the business shut down. They start antimine campaigns…"

"I know. I've got the files on them," murmured Dame Agatha, wryly.

"But those campaigns never got anywhere because politicians don't care about mutilated kids in Africa or Kosovo," Carver went on. "Not until the world's most photogenic female turns up and starts cuddling babies. Then they take one look at the opinion polls and suddenly everyone's drafting international treaties against land mines. That's very bad for a man who makes the bloody things. Suddenly people don't want to buy his products. All those billions are disappearing right in front of his eyes. So what does Zhukovski do? We know he has no problem with taking human lives. He wouldn't make land mines if he did. So he spends a few million to make the problem go away. You could call it a motive. To him, it's just a sensible investment."

Dame Agatha tapped her pen against the tabletop. "Yes, that's a theory."

"Can you think of a better one?" asked Carver.

"No," said Dame Agatha. "But I don't have to. I can say it was an accident."

"Okay then, anything else? I need to be on my way."

"Yes," said Grantham. "If we let you walk out of this building, don't think you've got away with anything. Dame Agatha may have her scruples, but I'm not so bothered by the idea of an execution. I'd shoot you right now and not think twice about it."

"Why don't you, then?"

"Because I'd rather own you. You have a debt against your name. A debt that can never be repaid. What you did cannot be undone. But you can make… let's call them reparations. You can do things for me, for your country. If you get killed along the way, tough luck, I couldn't care less. If you succeed, well, you've done some good to set against the harm. So there it is. I have you taken out to some landfill site, shot in the back of the head, and buried under several thousand tons of garbage, or you go to work…"

Grantham paused and looked Carver in the eye. Then, quite quietly, with just a twist of irony in his voice, he added, "Now who's the chimp?"

Carver nodded, taking the shot. He'd started the pissing contest, Grantham was entitled to piss back. And he seemed like a decent bloke, underneath. Carver wondered what their professional relationship might have been if he'd stayed in the SBS: the soldier and the spook, both on the same side, both roughly the same age and with comparable ranks. They'd have worked pretty well together. It would be very different now.

"Okay," he said. "Suppose I accept these terms. What's the first job?"

"Zhukovski, obviously, but not because I care about you rushing off to rescue Moscow's very own Mata Hari. You don't strike me as a knight in shining armor. All you really care about is getting the Russian before he gets you. So get him. And get his sidekick Kursk. You'll be doing us a favor."

"Don't suppose I get any backup," said Carver.

"You must be joking."

"Didn't think so. What if I succeed?"

"Then you live to fight another day. Under the same terms as before. There's no shortage of landfills."