Tom Cain - No Survivors aka The Survivor

He caught him right on the bridge of the nose, which crumpled under his fist.

The man gave a muffled cry of pain, held his hand up to his face, and staggered back through the door. Carver followed him, grabbing him by the collar and throwing him to the ground.

“What are you looking at?” he snarled.

The man’s eyes widened. He had been caught totally unawares. He was in pain. He was frightened, and he was baffled.

“Why did you hit me?” His voice was as plaintive as a bullied child. “What have I done?”

Carver could not answer him. He did not know what to say. He had attacked an innocent man for no reason other than his own paranoia. He looked up and saw Pierre running toward him, the waitresses looking on in horror.

Pierre stopped beside the wounded man, uncertain what to do next. He turned his head toward the women and said, “One of you, call the police.” Then he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the handle of a knife. He pressed a button and the blade flicked open.

He looked at Carver. “I know how to use this,” he said.

The man at Carver’s feet moaned in pain. Blood was seeping through his fingers and spattering his clothes.

Now the door crashed open again and Larsson was there, grabbing Carver and dragging him away from the scene.

“Get out!” he shouted and Carver’s legs started pumping, his feet scrabbling on the floor until he got some purchase, and he dashed out of the bierkeller after Larsson.

Pierre hesitated, not knowing whether to follow the two fleeing men or attend to the wounded victim. Then he hurried to the man on the floor, who was making a groggy, disoriented effort to get to his feet. The man let himself be led away from the exit, under a low stone arch, into a small, deserted office.

“Wait here,” said Pierre, lowering him onto a chair.

The man groaned. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Seconds later, the door opened and Trudi walked toward him. “You poor thing,” she said.

He winced as she dabbed some cotton soaked in disinfectant over his face, gasping in pain when she touched his broken nose.

“Look at what that bastard did to you,” she said. “I’m not surprised Alix ran away if that’s what he’s like.”

She paused, the cotton dripping in midair, as she suddenly realized what she’d done.

“Oh, my God. I’ve helped him find her! I just hope the police-”

The man gripped her arm with surprising force. “No police,” he mumbled. “Don’t want police. No time. Too busy.”

“But, m’sieur, we must…” Trudi pleaded. “I mean, they’re already on the way.”

“No!” the man exclaimed, spitting blood.

He got up, pushing Trudi out of his way, as he half ran, half stumbled from the room, through the bierkeller, and out onto the street.

“My God, what a night,” muttered Trudi, ripping off her wig and heading for the dressing room.

In the Volvo, Carver was racking his brain, trying to make the connection between Alix and the woman. “That waitress, Trudi, said she was Russian, age about fifty. I’m sure I know who she is. I just can’t get at it…”

“I think I know,” said Larsson. “Alix and I used to talk a lot, when you were sick. She told me a lot about her past, what happened between you two…”

He paused. “She told me what happened in Gstaad that night.”

“And?”

“The woman in the bierkeller, I don’t know her name-not her first name. But I think I know who she was: the woman who first found Alix, when she was just a kid, and trained her to… umm…”

Larsson’s face twisted in embarrassment.

“Yeah, I know what she trained her to do,” said Carver.

“Right,” said Larsson, visibly relieved. “And this woman’s husband was another KGB officer. He ran Alix’s operations and then when that all ended, Alix was… look, I’m sorry, man… she was his mistress. Until she went to Paris and met you, right? The guy was called Yuri Zhukovski. He was the one you killed in Gstaad…”

“Jesus,” said Carver. “Alix slept with this woman’s husband and I killed him. Well, that explains why Alix got the shits when she saw her at the bierkeller.”

“It probably explains why someone tried to kill you tonight, too,” agreed Larsson.

“Okay, but what about the bit in the middle? Alix does a runner. The woman sends two guys after her. The next thing we know, Alix has money and is paying my bills. How does that add up?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Larsson. “But we’ve got a couple of weeks to work it out.”

“What do you mean?”

They’d crossed the river and were driving through the residential areas between the lake and the international airport on the edge of town, passing smart, modern apartment blocks.

“That’s how long it’s going to take to get you into shape. I’d like twice as long, but I know you won’t wait. Hold on…”

He pulled up outside one of the blocks. Carver looked around. This was where Larsson lived. He’d been here before. He’d been surprised-just as he was now-to find a guy like Larsson living in such a bourgeois location. With his wild hair, torn jeans, and vintage rock-band T-shirts, the Norwegian looked as though he should be sitting in some funky warehouse, surrounded by computer parts and empty pizza boxes. But Geneva didn’t do funky warehouses.

Larsson patted him on the shoulder. “Wait here, okay? I’m just going to get some cold-weather gear and my laptop.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

Larsson grinned. “The end of the world, Carver. My world. I’m going to make your life hell. And you just paid me a lot of money for the privilege.”

Barely a mile away, Piotr Korsakov was sitting in an FSB safe house, while a doctor tended to his nose. His cell phone rang. He checked the number- Moscow, calling on a secure line-and motioned to the doctor to leave the room.

“You had a bad night, Korsakov.” The voice was cool, female, authoritative.

“Yes, Madam Deputy Director.”

“You lost a partner and a target.”

“Yes.”

“Matov paid the price for his incompetence. What happened to you?”

“I was taken unawares. I did not believe that the target, Carver, had spotted me as a potential threat. I was wrong. He assaulted me. I could have retaliated, of course. Doubtless I would have killed him. But there were several witnesses. I felt it more prudent to play the innocent victim.”

“That may have been the correct judgment. We will have a hard enough time covering up the deaths of Matov and the couple you terminated. We do not need any further complications. Did you see where Carver went?”

“No, ma’am. He left the building while I was still inside and I was unable to follow him. But he was not alone. There was another man, very distinctive, almost six and a half feet tall, with long hair. He would be easy to identify again.”

“That will not be necessary. I am already aware of his identity.”

“So what would you like me to do now?”

“Return to Moscow. I will decide what we shall do about Mr. Carver… and his hairy friend.”

She hung up the phone.

And in the meantime, we must get a message to Alix, she thought. The assassination has failed, for now, but there is no reason she should know that. Let’s see how well she does her job when she’s not distracted by thoughts of another man…

Thirteen hundred miles away, alone in her hotel room, Alix was looking across the waters of the Canale della Giudecca toward the lights of Venice. Here she stood, in one of the most romantic cities in the world, and right there in the next-door room was a man who yearned to be her lover. For weeks she had been keeping him at bay, but all her training and professional expertise told her these stalling tactics were rapidly outliving their usefulness. Denying a man what he most desired was an excellent way of keeping him on tenterhooks, but beyond a certain point even the most lovesick male would eventually decide that the effort wasn’t worth it.