Revenger (23 page)

‘What was?’

‘The explosion . . . I set off the explosion that killed all those people. The whole supermarket was full of them, and . . .’ Suddenly the girl was back in his head. He could hear her crying, ‘Ricky-y-y-y-y!’

‘They all died,’ he said. ‘Men, women . . . kids, too . . . But I swear to God, there wasn’t anything else I could have done.’

She took him in her arms and held him, stroking his back to calm him. She didn’t say, ‘It’s all right,’ because it so obviously wasn’t. But she knew the way Carver’s mind worked, so after a while she asked him, ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘The only thing I can: find out who did this and deal with it—’

‘For God’s sake, Sam, not more killing . . . not now.’

‘No, not now . . . I can’t do that. I’m done with killing. But I can get to the truth, and then . . . then the police, or the politicians, or whoever’s supposed to be in charge . . . they can decide what to do.’

‘Then what about us? The police must know Schultz wasn’t alone. They’ll be looking for another man, and it won’t take long to discover that it was you.’

‘I don’t need long. I just need enough time to work this out, and then I’m gone.’

‘Gone? What do you mean?’

‘I mean I’m leaving . . . and I’m going to make it look like I’m gone for good. I’ve arranged enough accidents for other people. Time I did one for myself . . .’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘You said it yourself: the police are going to come after me, and they’re not going to stop; not with the number of people that died tonight. So the further away from me you are, the safer you’ll be. First thing in the morning, you’re getting out of here. Check the news. If it doesn’t look like they know who I am, then get on the first plane back to the States. If they’ve got my face, or my name, then find somewhere you can lie low – an old friend, the US
Embassy
, anything. You can prove that you had nothing to do with the riot, so the only reason anyone will want you is to get to me. Just stay hidden until that’s not an issue. And it won’t be long: twenty-four hours at the absolute outside, probably a lot less.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘It’s best that you don’t know. That way you can’t tell anyone. But don’t be alarmed if you hear that I’m dead, all right? I have to make it look like I’m gone for good, no threat to anyone, no need for the cops to keep looking for me. But you have to believe that I’ll come back . . . I promise you, it may take a while, months probably . . . but I will come back to you.’

Alix was about to say something, but she stopped herself.

‘What is it?’ Carver asked.

‘Nothing . . . it’s not important.’

He knew she was lying. There was something on her mind. But if she didn’t want to tell him there had to be a reason for it, and he trusted her judgement enough not to force the issue. ‘OK . . . well, I’d better be going. There’s a lead I need to follow up. One of the rioters was wounded, and if he made it then he’ll be in a hospital bed. Tommy’s, most likely. So that’s where I’m going.’

She nodded silently and let go of him. Carver had his iPad in the small canvas bag he’d used as carry-on baggage. He picked it up and they stood there for a moment, several feet apart, feeling awkward, until he broke the silence and the distance between them. Now it was Carver who took Alix in his arms and held her tight to him as he lowered his mouth to hers. They kissed with a fierce intensity, consuming one another, feeding themselves with the sensations that would have to sustain them when they were apart. Finally she pulled away from him, the two of them both breathing heavily, and said, ‘Must you go now? Can’t you stay with me . . . just for a little while?’

Carver told himself that he was being rational. He’d blown a hole in Curtis’s shoulder. If Curtis had got to hospital at all he’d need an immediate operation, then the recovery time. He wouldn’t even be awake yet. If Carver arrived at the hospital too soon and had to
hang
around there he was liable to get noticed. People would ask questions. It was a stupid risk.

That was what he told himself. The truth, though, wasn’t rational at all. He wanted one last time with Alix. He needed very badly to feel her skin against his, to be kissing, licking, stroking and fucking until they melted so deep into one another that he could no longer tell where he ended and she began.

And so he said, ‘Yes, just for a little while, I can stay . . .’

54

THE FILES THAT
told the truth about the last few hours of the Malachi Zorn affair were classified under the seventy-year rule: not to be opened until all the people mentioned in them were either dead or standing at the very edge of the grave. But there is no point in possessing money, status or influence unless one can use it to obtain those things that are denied to everyone else, which was why a powerful man in a hurry, who needed to find someone with the motivation to drop everything and do a dirty, dangerous job right this second, with no time to plan or prepare, was skimming through them now.

He wanted to confirm his recollection of one apparently insignificant detail of the events inside the Goldsmiths’ Hall in the City of London on the night it was used to host the launch of Zorn’s fraudulent investment fund. The great bulk of the document the man was reading related to the grenade attack on the men and women attending the launch. He, however, was only interested in something that had happened less than five minutes before the first grenade struck.

One of the witnesses interviewed by the Metropolitan Police was Alexandra Petrova Vermulen. She described how she had just arrived through the main entrance of the Goldsmiths’ Hall when she’d spotted Celina Novak, a freelance female assassin suspected of an involvement in the Zorn plot, coming down the stairs from the reception on the first floor. The two women had immediately recognized one another because they had known each other in Moscow, many years earlier. Vermulen did not specify the precise nature of their relationship beyond remarking that, ‘We were both the same age, going to the same parties, and a pretty girl is always aware of her competition.’

Having spotted one another, Vermulen and Novak did not immediately exchange any conversation. Vermulen had been caught in the traffic en route to the reception and obliged to run some distance to the Goldsmiths’ Hall, leaving her hot and dishevelled. So she went down to the ladies’ room in the basement of the building to repair her hair and make-up and was joined there by Novak. At this point they did have a conversation; not a particularly friendly one as it transpired, though Vermulen chose not to go into the details of their argument, beyond saying, ‘It involved a man whom we had both known.’

Vermulen’s statement continued: ‘I have been asked if I saw a considerable quantity of blood on the floor of the ladies’ room or on the counter top surrounding the handbasins. To the best of my recollection there was no such blood visible at that time. At the conclusion of my brief conversation with Celina Novak, I checked my appearance and went upstairs to the reception. Ms Novak was still in the ladies’ room when I left.’

The man reading the file leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as he replayed the events Vermulen had described. He imagined the ornate marble entrance hall and stairs of the Goldsmiths’ Hall . . .

Vermulen dashes in, feeling distinctly hot and bothered. She spots Celina Novak on the stairs – an old rival with whom she’s shared a male friend, doubtless a lover. Presumably, Novak is
leaving
the reception because she knows it is about to be attacked. But Vermulen doesn’t know that. She just sees a beautiful woman with whom she has always competed, looking down on her, both literally and metaphorically.

Vermulen goes to the ladies’ room. Meanwhile Novak should be getting as far away as possible. Yet she chooses instead to follow Vermulen down to the ladies’ room. It isn’t enough to feel her victory over Vermulen. She needs to see Vermulen’s defeat.

But then what?

The man flicked through the file till he came to the section on forensic evidence. A significant amount of blood, along with small fragments of skin, strands of female hair and even bone splinters had been found beside and beneath the ladies’ room basins.

The spatter pattern of the blood indicated that it had come from the sharp impact of a human head or face against the hard plastic counter top.

It was extremely unlikely to have been caused by someone falling over due to the explosions upstairs, which would not have caused more than a slight tremor in the basement-level bathroom.

It certainly did not come from a wounded blast-victim who had somehow descended to the ladies’ room to examine or tend to her wounds. The blood patterns simply did not match that scenario.

The only possible conclusion was that a woman had been very badly wounded by someone grabbing her head or hair and smashing her face hard into the counter. The man winced at the thought of it.

The victim certainly wasn’t Vermulen. She had gone back upstairs to the reception without a mark on her. Her only injuries had been inflicted by flying debris after the grenade had exploded. Her blood did not match that found on the counter.

No one else had gone down to the ladies’ room in the short time before the explosions.

So the victim could only have been Novak. She had come down to gloat at Vermulen and been taken unawares. A very deadly woman had met her match.

And now, it was reasonable to assume, she would be very keen indeed to get her revenge. All he had to do now was find her. And the man knew precisely how to do that.

It was midnight in Puerto Banus – early in the evening by Spanish standards – and Olga Zhukovskaya was just finishing her dinner, alone in her penthouse. Her short-cropped hair was snowy white. Her face was lined, and her stick-thin body was developing a stoop. But her mind was still as sharp and her memory as comprehensive as ever. She had just poured herself a glass of Russian tea when her mobile rang.

‘Hello, old friend,’ she said when she heard the Englishman’s familiar tones. ‘How nice to hear your voice. But why call me now, of all times, after so many years? I’ve been retired for almost a decade.’

‘From what I hear you’re still keeping your hand in with freelance consultancies.’

‘I have made introductions, that’s true. I know a lot of people, and it is always good to bring people together.’

That was one way of putting it. Another would be that Zhukovskaya acted as an unofficial agent for a number of Russian ex-special forces and intelligence agency personnel who were now working as hitmen and women.

‘Could you bring me together with Celina Novak?’

‘Celina? I hadn’t expected you to ask for her. You do know that she was very badly wounded two years ago?’

‘At Goldsmiths’ Hall?’

‘Exactly. Her face suffered third-degree burns across a wide area. Several bones in her nose, cheeks and sinuses were broken. It was remarkable, really, that she was able to escape the scene.’

‘So how is she now?’

‘Very fit indeed. Her combat skills are unimpaired in any way. Of course, she looks – how can I put this? – somewhat different. But it does not affect her operational ability.’

‘So where is she?’

‘Paris. Where and when do you need her?’

‘London. Now.’

The man was trying to sound decisive. But Zhukovskaya could sense the desperation in his voice, and it intrigued her: why the frantic urgency? And how could she exploit it?

‘I am sure she can get to you within the next forty-eight hours,’ she said.

‘No. I mean right now. I need her at Le Bourget within an hour, at the outside. I’ll have a plane waiting for her.’

‘It’s a little late, surely. Aren’t there night-flying regulations over southern England?’

‘Yes. But exceptions can always be made, for example, for an air ambulance carrying a desperately ill patient.’

‘Of course . . . I assume that such an urgent mission, commissioned at extreme short notice, will carry a very generous fee.’

‘Absolutely . . . and you can tell Miss Novak that there will be a generous bonus attached to the job, too.’

‘How generous?’

‘Oh, this is a gift beyond money. You see, I can make her dearest wish come true.’

55

CELINA NOVAK COULD
still get a man into her bed. It was just a matter of quality. She had once had her pick of suitors begging for her favours, men willing to maintain her in a style to which she had very rapidly become accustomed. She had never had any qualms at all about accepting accommodation, clothing, jewellery and whatever other gifts might have come her way from men for whom she had felt precisely nothing. To her, all life was essentially a series of transactions. Now, though, she had much less value as a marketable commodity, and so she had to look for the kind of man who was drunk enough, or indifferent enough, not to care about a face, or the woman behind it, if the tits were big enough, the ass tight enough and the legs wide enough. The drunken Austrian businessman she had picked up in the hotel bar was proving to be so tediously unexciting that when the phone rang it came as a relief, rather than a distraction.

‘Stop,’ she commanded him. And then, ‘Get off me,’ as she rolled over to take the call.

‘Zhukovskaya gave me your number, Ms Novak. I have an
assignment
for you. The fee that we have agreed is more than double your usual rate. But I require your immediate presence. Are you available?’

‘Absolutely,’ Novak replied, silently shooing the Austrian out of her bed.

‘I’m so glad to hear that. An associate of mine is not well. I fear he may not last the night. I was also hoping you might be able to look after two friends of mine. Sadly, they are also very poorly.’

‘I’m so sorry. Can you give me the names of these individuals?’

‘Yes. They’re a charming couple: the Carvers – Samuel and Alexandra. I believe you may know them.’

‘We have met, yes,’ said Novak, giving no trace whatever of the exultant thrill those names had given her. ‘How do you wish to proceed?’