Tom Cain - No Survivors aka The Survivor

“Like his dear wife,” Selsey interjected.

“Right. But Mrs. Z. doesn’t do anything for six months until suddenly she, or someone equally high up, feels the need to take action. And then, how the hell did Carver beat this man? I thought he was supposed to be bonkers, no bloody use to anyone. What’s he doing taking out a pro like Matov?”

“Apparently, he got better.”

“You don’t say.” Grantham’s voice was drenched with acid sarcasm. “I managed to work that out for myself, thanks, Bill. But when did this miracle cure happen, and why?”

“I’ve got people looking into that, talking to doctors and nurses at the clinic. Should have the answers later today. But I think I may have a lead on why the Russians want him dead.”

“Do tell.”

“There’s a Romanian in Venice, name of Radinescu, does some low-level work for the FSB, basic courier stuff, nothing fancy. We’ve been tossing him a few bob to copy us in on anything he gets.”

“And?”

“And he just passed on a message to Moscow from an agent who happened to be passing through Venice, a female agent. The woman in question was a bit of a looker, so Radinescu followed her for a while…”

“Bloody perv.”

“Maybe, but while he was stalking this woman, he took a couple of photos and when he sent us a copy of her message, he chucked in a picture of the girl, hoping we might pay him a bonus for uncovering a Russian spy.”

“He’s got a nerve.”

“Don’t be so sure. You might think this is worth standing Radinescu a drink.”

A plasma screen at one end of the room sprang into life. A series of color images appeared, showing two women-one black, the other white-wandering the crowded Venice streets.

“Good Lord, that’s the Petrova girl,” said Grantham. “But what’s she doing in Italy?”

“Well, she’s staying at the Cipriani with a man called Kurt Vermulen-separate rooms, before you ask.”

Grantham frowned.

“Vermulen? That name’s familiar…”

“American, ex-army, did some time in the DIA, and spent a couple of years in Grosvenor Square as their defense attaché. You probably bumped into him then. Anyway, Moscow seems to have taken an interest in him. Presumably Petrova’s been told to get as close to him as possible.”

“Who’s the woman with her?”

“Her name is Alisha Reddin. She and her husband, Marcus Reddin, are staying at the same hotel as Vermulen and Petrova. And here’s an interesting thing: Reddin served under Vermulen in the U.S. Army Rangers.”

“Could just be a couple of old comrades meeting up,” Grantham observed.

“Could be, yes,” agreed Selsey. “But presumably the Russians think there’s more to it than that. Why else have they inserted Petrova?”

For the first time, Grantham’s mood seemed to lift a fraction. The merest hint of amusement crossed his face.

“So she’s gone back to her old trade, for her old employers. Dear, oh dear… Carver won’t like that. He’s convinced she’s a good girl, really.”

“He may not know what she’s up to,” Selsey suggested.

“I’m sure he doesn’t have a clue. And you’re right: That explains what Matov was doing-making sure Carver died in blissful ignorance. After all, if there’s one thing we know about Carver, it’s that he’ll do anything to get his bird back. The Russians know that, too; they learned it the hard way. So the last thing they want is Carver setting off after his one true love and blundering into Petrova’s mission, whatever that is.”

“Which means they’ll have another go at killing him.”

“If they can find him, yes. Meanwhile, we need to know what was in that message Petrova sent Moscow.”

“We’re working on it,” Selsey assured him. “Should have it decrypted by close of play today.”

Grantham looked a lot more cheerful than he had at the start of the meeting.

“See if you can hurry it up-there’s no time to waste. We need to find out everything there is to know about Vermulen. Where else has he been, with whom, and why? Keep tabs on him. And find Carver. We have to get to him before the Russians do. Then we’ll suggest that he find out what his blessed Alix is doing, tell her to stop it, and cause the maximum havoc to all concerned while he’s about it.”

“The Russians won’t like that.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“What about our cousins across the water? Should we keep Langley informed?”

“I don’t see why-not yet, at any rate.”

“Really? They are supposed to be our colleagues.”

“And so they are, Bill,” said Grantham. “But only up to a point.”

In the corps they’d have called it an “up-homer”; bunking with a local family, instead of roughing it with the rest of the company in one of the disused caravan sites hired by the Ministry of Defense. Carver and Larsson were staying with one of the Norwegian’s cousins, Ebba Roll, who was married to a local farmer. Six feet tall and strappingly built, Ebba was the kind of woman who could just as easily stick a child under her arm as a sack of animal feed. She had powerful maternal instincts, but she didn’t show them through gushing affection or teary-eyed concern. Instead they were expressed by the no-nonsense efficiency with which she made sure that her menfolk and offspring (all of whom she treated as lovable but essentially hopeless) were kept clean, warmly dressed, and well fed at all times.

The two men had developed a routine. They got up no later than five-thirty and ate a breakfast that set them up for the day: porridge and fruit, boiled or scrambled eggs, cold meats and cheese, toast and jam-sometimes all of them-washed down with gallons of orange juice, coffee, and (Carver insisted) strong, sweet tea.

While the food was digested, Larsson worked on Carver’s mental fitness: memory tests, spot-the-difference puzzles, anything that boosted his ability to take in information fast, notice patterns or anomalies, and recall what he had just seen. Next time he checked out his surroundings, or walked into a new environment, he’d have his wits about him.

Midmornings were spent on the ski trails and rifle range. In northern Norway, the winters are dark, with only a few hours a day of gloomy blue light before the sun finally rises over the mountains at the end of January. But by the last week in March the sun rises at 5 A.M. and doesn’t set until 7 p.M., and the light on the snow can be dazzlingly clear and intense. The landscape is raw, but spectacular: the white snow, blue skies, gray-black rocks, and deep-green sea all colliding as the mountains plunge into the fjords, where the waters of the North Atlantic mount their eternal, erosive assault.

As time went by, Carver realized that although there was never a ski session that did not involve a steadily escalating quantity of pain, inevitably building up to a grand finale of tortured muscles and burning lungs, it took longer every day for the agony to kick in. Little by little he actually began to enjoy the process. He took pleasure in his increasing fitness and pride in his rediscovered proficiency on the rifle range. He was able to appreciate the majesty of his surroundings. Some days, he even managed to complete an entire course without once wishing to kill Thor Larsson.

That, though, was never a good sign. Larsson always noticed any lessening of Carver’s hatred. The next day, he would go that little bit further, pressing harder and faster, just to crank the pain and the fury back up to the proper level.

Lunchtimes, they replaced lost energy with pasta, potatoes, or brown bread. Protein came from chicken, fish, or, if Ebba was feeling indulgent, lean, intensely flavored cuts of moose and reindeer. His stomach full and his body shattered, Carver collapsed into bed for a couple of hours’ rest, only to be raised again for an afternoon of weights, weapons training, and unarmed combat in one of the farm’s outbuildings. Guns are legal and relatively easy to come by in Norway, compared with much of Europe. Within ten days, Carver was stripping and reassembling a rifle and pistol as fast as Larsson, and easily outsparring him. His body was gradually returning to its natural shape: 175 pounds of muscle and bone, a balance of endurance and strength. He felt like a fighting man once again.