68

Half a mile from the mouth of Chichester Harbor, on the West Sussex coast, Carver lowered the Tamarisk’s inflatable rubber dinghy. He powered up the out board—that, at least, started on the first try—and made his way to the shore. The harbor was a natural inlet whose four main channels cut miles inland, creating a great expanse of sheltered water that was a yachtsman’s paradise. Sailing clubs and marinas had sprung up at half a dozen villages scattered around the bay. At eight o’clock on a damp September morning, it was no trouble for Carver to find a jetty, tie up his dinghy alongside a dozen others, and stroll ashore without attracting any attention at all.

He caught a bus into Chichester, where he bought a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a train ticket to London. In the station café he read a morning paper. The royals were getting it in the neck. Apparently they weren’t displaying a sufficient quantity of grief. Meanwhile people were building little altars outside Kensington Palace, complete with photographs, candles, and flowers.

Carver felt like a foreigner in his own land. The whole place had gone crazy. There was an atmosphere of barely suppressed hysteria in the air, a pent-up frenzy.

He kept reading. Some actor he’d never heard of believed the tabloid press should be held accountable for the death. A politician thought something had to be done to stop the press being so aggressive. A pop diva swore that everyone had blood on their hands.

“No, love, just me,” muttered Carver, under his breath.

He was finding it hard to focus on the words in front of him. He’d been up all night. The night before that he’d got no more than four hours’ sleep. There was a point where the effects of fatigue on the brain were almost indistinguishable from those of alcohol. Reactions were slowed, judgment impaired, temper harder to control. He was getting there fast.

His train pulled in and he got on board. The journey took ten minutes shy of two hours and he crashed all the way, just enough rest to take the edge off his exhaustion without really refreshing him. When he got to the capital it was a little after eleven. By now, Carver reckoned, Faulkner would have talked to the authorities. Even if Trench’s body had not been found, mariners up and down the English Channel would have been alerted to look out for it. So long as Faulkner stuck to the script and did not give him away, there was no reason for Carver to be worried. But his time was running out and so was Alix’s. She’d been in Grigori Kursk’s hands for more than thirty-six hours. Carver didn’t want to think about what that meant.

Leclerc had told him the instructions for his phony bank transfer had come from Lord Malgrave. Under normal circumstances, Carver would have tracked him for days, getting used to his routines before choosing the perfect time and method to make his move. But that wasn’t an option now. He had to confront the banker immediately.

The bank’s head office address was in the London phone book. Carver called and asked for the chairman. He was told that Lord Malgrave would be in meetings all morning. That was all he needed to know.

He took the Underground. It was hot, crowded, and dirty, but faster than a cab. He emerged into the heart of the City of London, a financial district whose global power and importance was equaled only by Wall Street. Soaring glass and steel towers were superimposed over a maze of narrow winding streets, home to institutions dating back more than a thousand years.

The administrative headquarters of Malgrave and Company were located behind a glossy black front door flanked by stone columns and surmounted by a carved family crest. The great stone building exuded confidence and security. Carver guessed it dated back to the early days of the century, the era of global trade and national prosperity that flourished before its illusions of unstoppable progress were shattered in the slaughterhouse of the First World War.

He walked around the block, checking out the service entrance that opened onto an even narrower side street at the back. He thought about going in that way, trying to get up the back stairs to the chairman’s office. But he didn’t know where that office was and he didn’t have time to search for plans or recce the building. There was nothing else for it. He had to walk in through the front door. And that meant looking the part.

He found a barbershop and had a shave. Twenty minutes in a gentleman’s outfitters provided him with a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, double-breasted in the classic City style, a pink-striped Egyptian cotton shirt, gaudier than any New York banker would wear but perfectly acceptable in London, dark blue tie, plain gold cufflinks, and a pair of black lace-up Derby shoes. Next, he bought a Mont Blanc pen and an elegant black briefcase. Into it went his money belt and his gun: He didn’t want to ruin the line of his jacket.

He stopped in a stationery store for a pad of letter-writing paper and a package of envelopes, then drank another coffee while he took out the Mont Blanc and wrote a short note: “Carver is dead. Trench likewise. Circumstances as yet unknown. All communications have been compromised (UK govt suspected)—telephone and e-mail silence essential. Request immediate meeting to relay emergency instructions in person.”

There was just one other thing he’d need: a small, easily portable video camera. He got himself a new Sony digital model that recorded onto a PC-compatible disk.

The shopping was done. The props had been chosen; the script written. The curtain was about to go up.

He passed through the open front door and gave a curt nod to the uniformed commissionaire, who immediately straightened his back and nodded back, instinctively acknowledging an officer’s presence. At the reception desk, Carver flashed a brief, agreeable smile at the immaculately groomed brunette behind the desk and handed her the envelope with the words, “Please have this conveyed at once to Lord Malgrave. It is extremely urgent.”

The receptionist dialed a number and had a brief urgent conversation. A couple of times she glanced back at Carver, trying to judge his authenticity. Then she held her hand over the receiver and spoke to Carver. “I’m very sorry, sir, but Lord Malgrave is in a meeting.”

Carver remained unruffled. “I quite understand,” he said, not sounding offended in the slightest by this rebuff. “I know he’s very busy this morning. Then I’d like to speak directly to his lordship’s personal assistant, please.”

The fine lines of the receptionist’s neatly tweezed eyebrows crumpled into a brief frown. “Of course, sir,” she said, passing him the handset.

“Thank you,” said Carver. He spoke to the chairman’s PA. “My name is Jackson. I have an urgent message for Lord Malgrave. It concerns our transactions in Paris, and I absolutely assure you he will be grateful to read it. If he doesn’t think it’s worth pursuing, I’ll be gone before you know it.” He paused to hear what the PA had to say, uttered a reassuring “Absolutely,” followed by an enthusiastic “Excellent!” Then he handed the phone back to the receptionist.

This time his smile was broad. “Thank you so much for your help. They’re expecting me on the sixth floor. So, where’s the lift?”

Lord Crispin Malgrave did not cut an impressive figure. He wore a double-breasted suit and an old school tie, and he had the oiled salt-and-pepper hair and the ruddy complexion—redolent of hunting fields, shooting parties, and salmon streams—of the British ruling class. But the facade was cracking, the arrogance peeling away to reveal the raw fear beneath.

Carver had been shown into Malgrave’s private office. The chairman’s PA was an elegant woman in her fifties, brisk, efficient, and bossy. The man was running a bank, and still he had a nanny. She watched over Carver until her master arrived, as if worried he might steal a paperweight if left to his own devices.

Malgrave had scurried into the room, sweating panic from every pore. He dropped like a loosely packed sandbag into the leather-backed seat behind his mahogany desk, said, “Thank you, Maureen,” and barely waited till she’d left the room before blurting out, “Trench is dead? Are you sure? How do you know?”

Carver leaned toward the desk and stuck out his right hand.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Samuel Carver.”

Malgrave did not move. He seemed to need all his energy just to keep his mouth from flapping around like a freshly caught fish. Eventually, he managed to get some words out. “But you told my secretary . . .”

“I lied.”

“What about Trench?”

“He’s dead. That bit was true.”

Malgrave did the math. He worked out who was next. Then he leaned forward in his chair, his eyes pleading, hands held out in supplication. “Oh God, no, please don’t. I’ll do anything!” He thought for a second. “I owe you money. Of course! I’ll pay you in full. Three million dollars. Plus interest!”

Carver let him burble on, his silence only making Malgrave all the more effusive.

“Look at me,” he said, once Malgrave had finally shut up.

The banker looked puzzled.

“Look at me,” Carver repeated. “Just shut up, look at me, and pay attention. I don’t want your blood money. And I’m not going to kill you. I’m a soldier, not a psychopath. I take life when there’s no alternative. You have an alternative. You can tell me about the Russians.”

“What Russians?”

“The ones in Paris. The ones you sent to kill me.”

Malgrave shook his head. “I don’t know anything about them, I swear to you.”

Carver was inclined to believe him. Malgrave didn’t have the nerve to be an accomplished liar. And his ignorance about the Russians tallied with Trench’s.

“Okay,” said Carver, “so what did you know?”

Malgrave wiped a silk handkerchief across his sweaty brow. “The chairman told me that he was planning to . . . you know . . . the princess operation. I mean, I didn’t like it, didn’t approve at all, argued strongly against the whole plan, in fact. But he said it was vital for the preservation of the monarchy, and besides, he’d committed the consortium, that we were being funded externally, millions of pounds from a foreign backer. The money was wired from Zurich, anonymous of course. I had no idea who’d sent it. So you’re saying it was Russians . . .”

Malgrave frowned, his panic subsiding a little as he considered the possibility. “But why would Russians . . . ? I mean, what possible interest could they have in killing her?”

“I don’t know,” said Carver. “When I find them, I’ll be sure to ask. In the meantime, since no one else has a clue who these Russians are, why don’t you call your chairman and arrange a meeting? Now.”

“But that would be impossible.”

Carver opened his case and took out his gun. “Here’s the alternative. So call him. Say you need to see him, in person, immediately. If he asks why, tell him you can’t talk about it on the phone. Make something up. Then tell your chauffeur you need your car. We’re going for a drive. Got that?”

Malgrave nodded.

“Right,” said Carver. “Start dialing.”