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“Those last shots I showed you were taken a couple of days ago, off the Corsican coast. My interpretation is that they’re having some kind of an argument. Or maybe she’s getting cozy, calming him down. Look, she’s operating alone, without backup. She has to do whatever it takes to keep him sweet. But the closer she gets, the more pissed off he’ll be if he ever discovers she’s been deceiving him. She can’t try to run for it, because then he’ll know for sure. She’s in the shit, Carver. And it’s all because of you.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Grantham opened up a new file on his laptop. This time the photographs showed a U.K. passport photo of a man in his mid-thirties, with sandy hair and a defiant, uncompromising expression.
“That,” said Grantham, “is Ke
“Sounds very civilized.”
“I doubt it. Vermulen has a job for Wynter. We intercepted a call. It’s a blind date. The men have never met before, but evidently Wynter has been recommended.”
“What’s the job?”
“Vermulen wouldn’t tell him. Said he’d give him the details in person. But there’s only one reason you call Ke
“Now him I could kill,” said Carver, sarcastically.
“Good,” said Grantham, dead serious. “Because you’re going to.”
53
“Have we heard from Petrova yet?” asked Olga Zhukovskaya.
The FSB colonel standing before her shook his head.
“Not since that meeting in Rome, Madam Deputy Director. I have ensured that the standard notice is placed in the classified advertisement section of the International Herald Tribune, but she has not responded.”
“Do we even know where she is?”
Another shake of the head, almost sorrowful this time.
“No. We have reason to believe that Vermulen might have chartered a yacht, but we have been unable to confirm that, and we would not be able to track it, even if we had. As you know, ma’am, our resources are not what they used to be. We have not launched a single reco
He sighed, somewhat theatrically.
“We used to impose our will across the globe; now the best we can hope for is to steal pictures off Western commercial satellites…”
Zhukovskaya was not in a mood for self-pity. It was not an emotion for which she’d ever seen any need.
“That may be. The fact remains: We need to find them. Vermulen is pla
The colonel stayed silent, letting his boss think in peace. It did not take long for her to come to a decision. Olga Zhukovskaya was a woman who knew what she wanted. It was one of the qualities that made her such an effective leader.
“Whatever Vermulen is doing, it involves Pavel Novak. He will know what is happening. And very soon we will know, too.”
54
Ke
So it was that Ke
Thursday evenings, Wynter headed for the te
A car pulled up next to the Porsche. It was a ten-year-old Honda Accord with faded blue paintwork. Just about any passerby with a minimal knowledge of cars would be able to identify the 911. But to any but the most dedicated Honda-lover, the old Accord was just another drab, anonymous, totally unmemorable sedan. That was why Carver had bought it for £450, cash, from a small ad in Auto Trader, just that afternoon.
He got out of the car. He was wearing a gray polyester suit and a white polyester shirt. His blue tie, with paler blue and white stripes, was made of rayon. His shoes were shiny pale-gray slip-ons, decorated with snaffles across the instep, whose gold coloring had flaked away in places to reveal the bare metal underneath. The briefcase beside him was old and scuffed. His tinted, wire-framed glasses were a drone’s pathetic attempt at individuality and cool.
Carver was unshaven. A mousy wig straggled over his ears and hung down the back of his neck. It added to the general impression of a white-collar nonentity, and it concealed his actual hair, which had been cut and dyed to match Wynter’s. In the morning, he would put in contact lenses the color of Wynter’s eyes. By the time he stepped onto the plane to France, he would be Ke
Now he got out of the Honda. The driver’s door was next to the passenger side of Wynter’s Porsche. Carver stepped onto the pavement, then turned back to grab his briefcase from the seat. As he pulled it out, the clasp gave way, the case fell open, and its contents-a half-eaten sandwich in a cardboard and cellophane box, a cheap pocket calculator, a heavily chewed Biro pen, and a copy of the Daily Express-fell to the ground between the two cars.
Cursing to himself, Carver got down on his haunches and started gathering up his belongings. He looked up for a second and sca
Carver unscrewed the cap of the Porsche’s front near-side tire valve and placed it on the pavement. Then he inserted the tool into the top of the valve, which nestled in the notch, and turned it counter-clockwise. The valve unscrewed from its rubber housing and slipped out, still attached to the tool. Air began to hiss out of the open tube. Carver stuck his left thumb across the tube to prevent any more escaping. The last thing he wanted was any noticeable loss of tire pressure. With his right hand, he put the tool down on the ground, the tire valve pointing upward. He removed the valve from the tool and slipped it into his trouser pocket.