56

Carver spent what was left of the night in a Novotel outside Macon, eighty-odd miles inside the French border. He’d driven all the way on side roads, staying away from expressways, tollbooths, and prying official eyes. Along the way, he’d considered what to do next. Every minute that passed put Alix in greater danger. So far as Kursk was concerned, she had betrayed him. His boss would certainly feel the same way. The longer she stayed in their hands, the farther away they could take her and the more harm they could do.

Yet he could not afford to take stupid risks. If he wanted to get to Alix, he first had to reach London in one piece, confront Lord Crispin Malgrave, and uncover the men behind the Paris conspiracy. But it looked like the Russian mafia and British intelligence were onto him. By now his description would have been posted at airports, docks, and train stations. If he was caught along the way, he’d never get to her at all.

He woke at half past seven and put in a call to Bobby Faulkner. It was an hour earlier in London, but he’d never yet met anyone with small children who slept much beyond dawn. His friend picked up the phone with a sleepy, “Uhhh, hello?”

Carver got straight to the point, “Is your line secure?”

Faulkner let out a tired chuckle. “Morning, Pablo. Two calls in three days, that is an honor. What do you mean, is my line secure?”

“Are you bugged, tapped, under any kind of surveillance?”

“I’m a real estate agent these days, Pablo. You’d know that if you’d bothered to stay in touch. So unless the competition is trying to find out if any tasteful three-bedroom properties in need of minor refurbishing are coming onto the market, no, I’m not bloody bugged. Why do you ask?”

“I need a favor, a big favor. You know, brother-officer kind of thing.”

“The sort I have to do for you on account of all those years we spent fighting side by side, saving each others’ asses, getting pissed. . . .”

“Yeah, that kind.”

“You’ve got a nerve, haven’t you? But then, you always did. So tell me about this favor. I’ll make a cup of very strong coffee and try to wake up.”

“Okay,” Carver said. “Do you still have that boat?”

“Ye-e-s,” said Faulkner, cautiously.

“Where do you keep it?”

“Poole, just like the old days. And it’s ‘her’ not ‘it,’ you should know that. Come on, Pablo, what’s this all about?”

“I need to get across the Channel and I don’t want to go through any checkpoints, customs, or passport controls. So that leaves sailing across. And you’re the only bloke I know with a thirty-six-foot yacht. So I need you to come and get me. If you’re in Poole, I reckon Cherbourg would be the best bet.”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line, then the clatter of a china mug on a marble countertop. “Let me get this straight. You want me to sail solo a minimum of nine hours, assuming the wind and tide are feeling kind, pick you up at Cherbourg, and then spend another nine hours bringing you back? Christ, Pablo, if you’re going to be in Cherbourg, anyway, take the ferry like any normal human being.”

“No, Bobby, I really can’t. And you won’t be sailing solo on the way back. I’ll be crewing for you.”

“God almighty. . . . When’s this crossing supposed to take place?”

“Tonight. You’d have to get over there today and I need to get back under cover of darkness.”

Another long pause: Carver heard water being poured into a cup, the rattle of a spoon, then the slurp of a man taking that first hot sip of morning coffee. Finally Faulkner spoke.

“Okay, Pablo, what’s the story? What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“Well, you’re going to have to. Listen, I’m a married man. I’ve got a family to think about. I can’t go risking my neck just because you call up and ask me a favor. I have the right to know just how much trouble I’m getting into.”

“Yes,” agreed Carver, “you have that right. But you really don’t want to know what’s going on here. If you take me across, I’ll say good-bye the moment we get to dry land and I won’t get back in touch until this is all over.”

“Until what is all over?”

“Until I’ve sorted out a little personal problem.” Carver thought for a moment, trying to work out how much he could say. “Listen, Bobby, I’ve met a girl, the first since Kate who’s meant anything to me. I think she might be someone really important in my life.”’

Faulkner laughed. “And you need to get into the country without her husband finding out?”

“I wish. No, she’s been kidnapped. Someone grabbed her last night, a Russian. But I don’t know where he’s taken her, and I don’t know who he’s working for.”

“Where was she when this Russian took her?”

“Geneva.”

Another sip of coffee, then, “I don’t get it. Why do you need to come here?”

“Because the people who gave this bloke his orders, or know who did, are in London. But I don’t want them to know I’m on the way. So no credit cards, no customs, no passports.”

There was silence at the far end of the line. “Well, you in?” asked Carver.

“I think I feel a touch of flu coming on,” said Faulkner.

“Are you saying you’re not well enough to help?”

“No, I’m saying I’ll call in sick at work. Can you get to the yacht basin at Cherbourg by nine this evening, local time?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. See you there, then.”

“Thanks, Bobby, I owe you.”

“Oh yeah, you do.”

Bobby Faulkner didn’t enjoy telling his wife he was disappearing for the next twenty-four hours, minimum, leaving her to cope with the baby while he did a favor for a man neither of them had seen for three years. Wives did not, by and large, believe that their husband’s loyalty to the men he’d served with should exceed his loyalty to his woman and children. Bobby could see that Carrie had a point, a bloody big point, but he also knew that the honor codes that bound brother-officers were unbreakable.

It was perfectly obvious that Pablo Jackson was in serious, possibly criminal trouble, but that made no difference. Faulkner had known old Booties who’d ended up in jail before now. You turned up at court to give them moral support, kept an eye on their families while they were inside, and threw a bloody great party when they got out. And you did it because you knew that if the positions were ever reversed, they’d do the same for you.

That was why he made another call of his own.

“Hello, Quentin,” he said, when he was put through.

“Bobby, dear boy, what can I do for you?”

“I just had a call from Pablo Jackson. Did he get through to you the other day? I gave him your number.”

“No. Pamela said he’d rung the house, but I never heard from him.”

“I think he’s in a bit of bother.”

Faulkner explained the situation, ending with a request for help. “I’d be bloody grateful for a hand on the boat. It would make the crossing a lot easier.”

Trench laughed. “So we’d reverse our old positions, eh? You’ll be my skipper and I your humble crew.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that, QT.”

“Don’t worry, just pulling your leg. I’ve got a couple of meetings today, but nothing my secretary can’t reschedule. Where do you need me?”

“Poole Yacht Club, ten o’clock. My boat’s the Tamarisk, a Rustler 36. I’ll be onboard. Just step on deck and we’ll be off.”

“Well, then, no time to waste talking. See you there.”