24

Alix slept most of the way. Carver sat opposite her. He’d crashed out on the plane on the last transatlantic leg of the flight, waking only minutes before they landed in Paris. But even if he’d been tired, he wasn’t in any mood to sleep. So he looked out the window, watching the suburbs of Paris give way to the flat landscape of northern France, then the rich, rolling hills of Burgundy, and finally, past Dijon, the limestone cliffs and gorges of the Jura and the first foothills of the Alps.

He thought about himself and what he’d done, thought about the girl, tried to figure out what he was going to do. His head was swirling with unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. Carver told himself there was no point fretting about things that were done and beyond recall. The princess was dead. Nothing was going to change that. He had to stick to the rules: concentrate on what he could control. But who was he kidding? He’d chosen to complicate his life by bringing the girl, how much control did he have over her?

He was watching her sleeping, slumped against the side of the carriage, when she slowly opened her eyes, still halfasleep, caught him staring, and gave him a lazy smile that turned into a yawn.

“What were you thinking?” she murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know. . . .”

She perked up, her eyes now awake, looking directly at his own. “Were you wondering what it would be like to have sex with me?”

Carver drew in a sharp breath. “Bloody hell, you don’t mince words, do you?”

She laughed, her expression filled with the satisfaction of a woman who looks down upon the single-minded simplicity of men in general, yet is proud to have that power over one man in particular. “It wasn’t so hard to know, the way you were looking at me.”

“You reckon? I wish it were that simple.”

That surprised her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean maybe I was thinking about you. But I was also asking why I’ve put myself in the position where I can have those thoughts. I’m trying to work out just how much of a risk I’m taking, letting you into my life.”

She nodded. “Hmmm, that is a lot of thinking.”

Now it was his turn to smile. “Well, maybe I’m just more thoughtful than I look.”

“Is that so? Well, I’m too sleepy to worry about your thoughts right now.” She stretched her arms wide, loosened her shoulders, then settled back into her seat.

“Wake me up when we get there,” she said. “Wherever ‘there’ is.”

Carver waited until he was sure Alix was asleep again before rising from his seat and walking down the carriage to the well of empty space between the exit doors. Then he pulled out his spare phone and dialed a London number. A woman answered. She said, “Hello?” in a tired, brittle voice. Carver could hear a baby wailing in the background.

“Hi, Carrie,” he said. “It’s Pablo. Is Bobby around?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she answered. “And yes, I’d be delighted to tell you everything I’ve been up to in the three years since you last bothered to call.”

“I’m sorry, Carrie. You know, I’d really love to talk, but not now. Can I have a word with Bobby?”

“I’ll get him for you.”

Carver could hear her shouting, “Darling! Phone for you!” then the click as an extension was picked up. A man’s voice called out, “Hang on a second.” Then there was another muffled shout of, “I’ve got it,” and the background sounds of mother and baby were silenced.

“Sorry, that’s better,” said the man.

“Hi, Bobby, it’s Pablo.”

“Christ! Good to hear from you. What the bloody hell have you been up to? It’s been ages.”

“Yeah,” said Carver. “Look, sorry to be antisocial, but I haven’t got much time. Do you have a number for Trench? Need a word with him, and I heard he’d retired.”

Bobby chuckled. “Retired? Well, he’s not the CO anymore, but I’m not sure I’d call it retirement. Security consultancies here, company directorships there—the old man’s quite a mover and shaker. So why do you need him? Looking for a job?”

“Something like that. Listen, do you have the number or not?”

“Oh sure, absolutely. Hang on a minute.” There was a brief pause and then, “Okay, here it is. . . .”

“Thanks, mate. Look, I know we should, you know, catch up with things. Sounds like you guys have been busy, anyway. I’m happy for you; I always thought you’d make a great dad. But I really can’t talk now. Speak later, yeah?”

Carver ended the call. He thought about the last time he’d seen Colonel Quentin Trench, the man who’d been his commanding officer, his friend, even his father figure. Back then, he was Paul “Pablo” Jackson, recently resigned from the Royal Marines, a former officer and a gentleman, turned self-destructive, brawling drunk. He’d spent the night in a cell, courtesy of the Dorset Police. He’d become a regular customer of theirs.

“Hello, Pablo. This isn’t very clever,” Trench had said, stepping past the copper at the door and looking around the cell.

“Not very, no,” he’d replied, ashamed to let Trench see him this way, knowing he’d let the old man down as much as himself.

“Still feeling touchy, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you take it out on someone your own size, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You could put your talents to better use than scrapping with beer-sodden louts. Let me get the word out. You never know, something may come up.”

Three weeks later, the phone had rung. The caller didn’t give his name. Nor did he ask for Carver’s. “We can agree on names later,” he said.

The man represented a group of rich, powerful, civicminded individuals based in London. His employers solved certain problems that lay beyond the reach of government agencies, restricted by treaties and laws. “I was told you might be able to help,” he added. “You come very highly recommended.”

As the call was ending, the man had said, “Tell you what, why don’t you call me Max?”

“All right,” he’d replied. “And you can call me Carver.” It was his birth-mother’s name. The Jacksons had told him that much, soon after his twenty-first birthday. They felt he had a right to know. Later on, when he set about creating an entire new identity for himself, he settled on Samuel for a first name. No particular reason why, he just liked the sound of it.

Now Carver dialed the number Faulkner had given him. Another woman answered the phone, her voice older, with a diction that spoke of finishing schools and debutante balls long ago. Pamela Trench, the colonel’s wife, told Carver that her husband had gone grouse shooting in the Scottish highlands for the weekend. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but he’s out of reach of a telephone. Can I take a message?”

“No, don’t worry.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs. Trench spoke again. “I’m glad you called, Paul. It’s just that, well, we never had the chance to speak after that poor girl . . .”

The well-meant words blindsided Carver, hitting him like a body blow before he had time to steel himself against the memories. “I know,” he muttered.

“It must have been ghastly for you.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t too great.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know, we were all thinking of you.”

Carver managed to say thanks before he snapped the phone shut. He struggled to suppress the images that filled his mind: two cars, two accidents, two innocent women dead because of him. He was gripped by a shame that was soul deep, a stain that could never be erased. And with it came a cold, hard rage, an implacable need for revenge and retribution against those who had sent him, unknowing, to commit an evil act. He would make them pay for the damnation they had visited upon him.

But he couldn’t afford to lose his self-control now. His life and that of another woman depended on that. So he sucked in his anger, along with everything else, and walked back to his seat. Alix was still fast asleep.