Tom Cain - No Survivors aka The Survivor

Carver groaned. What now?

“Come on,” Grantham insisted. “They do a splendid buffet down by the sea. Great food, fantastic view… I’m paying. And I think you’ll be interested when you find out who’s flown in to see you.”

Carver followed Grantham across the lobby and out through the doors that opened onto the hotel’s magnificent wooded gardens. As he walked down the path that stretched down to the sea, one tiny hope flickered at the back of his mind and kept him moving toward an appointment he otherwise would have refused. And then he realized it was ridiculous even to consider such a notion. It was another Russian woman sitting at the table, with a bob of black hair framing eyes that were assessing him with cold, impersonal objectivity as Grantham gestured in her direction.

“May I introduce Deputy Director Zhukovskaya, of the Federal Security Service?”

She held out her hand with a smile that was even chillier than her eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Carver. You killed my husband.”

“I was provoked,” he replied, before letting go of her hand.

Grantham ordered coffee, orange juice, and a selection of pastries.

“I think I’ll have a proper cooked breakfast, actually,” said Carver, gesturing toward the buffet. “Feeling quite peckish this morning.”

He took his time getting scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, crisp white rolls and dewy chunks of unsalted Normandy butter. He made a point of tucking in, knowing the other two wanted to talk. But in the end, it was he who cracked first. He couldn’t help himself.

“Did you tell her I was dead?” he asked Zhukovskaya.

“Yes, I gave the order for her to receive that information,” she said, without any hint of embarrassment or apology.

“Why?”

Carver was uncomfortably aware that there was more emotion, even desperation, in that single syllable than he’d intended.

“It was a practical necessity,” Zhukovskaya replied, still quite unruffled. “You killed the man I sent to eliminate you, and then you left the hospital. You were no longer a patient; therefore the payments to cover your bills would have to stop. It was possible Petrova might find out about that, if she checked her financial records. She would naturally want to know what had happened. I simply anticipated that moment.”

“But she only did the job to keep me alive. Why would she stay with Vermulen if I was gone?”

“Self-preservation,” said Zhukovskaya, as if the answer were obvious. “Alexandra Petrova is an agent of the Federal Security Service, under my command. She knows that any agent who leaves an assignment without orders from a superior officer is guilty of desertion, and she also knows the penalty for that offense. In any case, I preferred to look on the positive side. Without you to think about, Petrova was free to concentrate on General Vermulen.”

“Well, you got that wrong. She concentrated on him so much, she married him. She’s not yours anymore, or mine. She’s his.”

Zhukovskaya sipped at her coffee.

“You think?” she asked. “Of course, I have considered that proposition, but I myself am not so certain. Many agents regard marriage as a useful adjunct to their cover; Petrova may well be one of them. That, however, is not my main concern at the moment, and it should not be yours.”

She put the coffee cup down on the table, and when she looked at him again there was finally a sign of real emotion. Zhukovskya was angry.

“You have caused a great deal of trouble, Mr. Carver. The document you stole was the property of the Russian state. It was removed from a state facility approximately ten weeks ago. It would have been recovered yesterday by elements acting on behalf of the state, had you not interfered. They had orders to destroy it, rather than let it fall into the wrong hands.”

“For heaven’s sake, what is this thing?” asked Grantham.

“A list of small-scale nuclear weapons, also property of the Russian state, currently positioned in Europe and North America, a few in South America, Asia, and Australia, their locations and arming codes,” recited Zhukovskaya in a flat voice.

The color drained from Grantham’s face.

“How many weapons?”

“Around one hundred.”

“My God… and what about the U.K.?”

She looked at him blankly.

“But they’re all on this list…” said Grantham.

“Yes, and thanks to Mr. Carver, it is now in Vermulen’s hands.”

Carver grimaced, uncomfortably aware that his priorities needed a radical reordering.

“Where’s Vermulen gone now?” he asked.

Grantham seemed relieved to be able to answer this question, at least.

“Back to his yacht. It spent the night moored off the Italian coast, right down south, near Reggio di Calabria, slipped anchor shortly before dawn, heading east. We lost it soon afterward, between satellite sweeps.”

“At least you have satellites,” remarked Zhukovskaya wryly.

“So find the boat again,” said Carver. “Send in a few of my old mates from the SBS, or some of your Spetsnaz boys, to board the boat. Seize the document, and Bob’s your uncle.”

Grantham was not impressed.

“No, Carver-in that scenario Bob would actually be a major diplomatic incident in which the Americans went ballistic about the unauthorized hostile seizure of a boat owned by one respected, powerful U.S. citizen and used by another, while the Italian government tried to decide whether this constituted an act of war within their territorial waters.”

Carver tried again.

“All right, then, who’s the other citizen?”

“Sorry?”

“Who’s the other U.S. citizen, the one who owns the boat? See, there’s something odd about all this money Vermulen’s got to splash around. Unless he’s made a shitload since he left the armed forces, someone’s bankrolling him. And if it isn’t the U.S. government, maybe it’s the bloke who owns the boat. So who’s that?”

“Some good ol’ boy from Texas called McCabe,” replied Grantham impatiently, not seeing the value of the question. “Made a fortune in oil and mining. The boat belongs to one of his many corporations. But I don’t see him being interested in bombs. The man’s a born-again Christian, had a dramatic conversion a few years back, devotes his time to philanthropy and good deeds.”

Carver gave a clipped, disbelieving laugh.

“McCabe… Waylon McCabe?”

“Yes. Why-do you know him?”

“Our paths crossed.”

“And he lived to tell the tale? That’s unusual.”

“Unique, as it happens. And I’ll tell you one thing about Waylon McCabe-I don’t care how much of a conversion he had; he’s a bastard, pure and simple. Whatever he’s doing with Vermulen, I guarantee it’s not a good deed.”

Carver frowned: The pieces were starting to come together in his mind.

“Hang on-you said that boat was going east… which would take it into the Ionian Sea, and then the Adriatic, towards Yugoslavia. When we talked, Vermulen mentioned Yugoslavia. He said that was one of the places the Islamic radicals he was going on about were fighting, trying to open up a back route into the West.”

He turned to look at Zhukovskaya.

“Did you put bombs in Yugoslavia?”

“I cannot possibly answer that question,” she said, needled by the impertinence of such a direct inquiry.

Carver smiled, feeling the balance of power around the table start to tilt in his direction.

“I think you can, Deputy Director. You’re in the crapper, too. Not just your organization, or your country, but you, personally. You sent those idiots in the chopper to get the document, and now they’re crispy bacon at the bottom of a gorge. You’ve got to put that right-that’s why you’re here. And you…” He turned his gaze on Grantham. “Well, it wouldn’t go down too well in Whitehall if anyone found out who you’d been using to do your dirty work, or how we first happened to meet. As for me, I got Vermulen this list. Plus, something tells me you’ll be able to date McCabe’s religious conversion to the day he miraculously escaped an air crash in the wilds of the Yukon. That was down to me, too. We’re all in this together, like it or not, so answer the question: Yugoslavia?”