The Accident Man:A Novel

10

Nobby Colclough had spent fifteen years as a Metropolitan Police detective before he decided to trade his skills in the private sector. He was used to stakeouts. So now he was sitting in an unmarked Renault Mégane, parked in the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile, watching the world go by. And waiting.
It was after one o’clock in the morning when he got the word from Max telling him the Russians were on their way. He saw them a few minutes later, riding up on a flashy black bike. Jesus Christ! Max hadn’t mentioned that one of them was a bird. She was wearing her skirt pulled right up to her waist so that she could straddle the bike, leaving every inch of her thighs exposed to his gaze. She got off, giving him a quick flash of her panties, then pulled the skirt down over her backside, giving it a little wiggle on the way. Colclough swallowed hard. He wanted to know if the face was as good as the body. Pity the daft tart still had her helmet on.
Now the bloke got off the bike, grabbed the girl’s hand, and hurried her toward the door. Filthy little monkeys couldn’t wait to get at it. Well, sod ‘em. They were about to get a blow job all right.
He watched them go in, then called in to base.
“They’ve arrived,” he said.
“Stay on the line,” came the voice from the other end. “I’m betting Carver set his explosives with short-delay fuses. He’ll want to get the targets into the apartment before detonation. Shouldn’t take long. Are the lights on yet?”
Colclough looked up. “No. The dirty beggars probably stopped for a quick one on the stairs. Oh, hang on. The lights have just gone on. Shouldn’t be long now.”
Colclough was half right. The place was about to blow, but Carver and Alix had not hung around on the stairs; they’d raced up. Just before they went into the apartment, Carver stopped. He took her black bag off his shoulder, felt inside it for any weapons, then, satisfied, gave it to her.
“You may need this. Remember, we’ve got exactly sixty seconds, and you’ve got to look different when we leave. Go straight to the bedroom, get changed, grab what you need, and get out. Ready?”
Carver opened the door, walked in, disabled the alarm, and turned on all the lights. As Alix ran into the bedroom, he went into the living room, drew the curtains, and took off his helmet, which he placed on the floor in the middle of the room.
Twelve seconds gone.
He strode across to the bookshelves, cut the speaker wires, and put the speakers in the fireplace. The Claymores would still go off, creating the explosion he wanted, but the solid brick and stonework of the chimney-breast would absorb the back blast and restrict the spread of ball bearings. The neighbors should survive okay.
Twenty-six seconds.
He retraced his steps back out into the hall, breaking into a run, and crossed into the bedroom. Alix was just slipping on the dress that had been in her case. She had nothing on but a pair of white panties slung low beneath a smooth, flat, pale brown stomach. Her breasts were small and neat with perfect rosy brown nipples. They rode up her chest as she raised her arms and let the ice blue dress slither down her body like mercury.
Carver didn’t give her a second glance. He went around to the far side of the bed, took the Claymore from the wall, and shoved it down between the end of the bed and the mattress, with the rear of the mine facing into the mattress to dissipate its energy.
Thirty-nine seconds.
It took three more seconds to get into the bathroom and another five to rip the bomb out of the cistern, take out the detonator, and place both in one of his jacket’s side pockets. On the way out, he grabbed Alix’s makeup and wash bags, lobbing them toward her as he went back into the bedroom.
Alix was bending down, slipping on the white sneakers.
“Thought you might need these,” he said with a wry grin, as her startled face looked up at him across the bed.
She shoved the cosmetics into her black shoulder bag, picked it up, and dashed from the room, her dress fluttering around her thighs. There were ten seconds left as Carver followed Alix out of the bedroom, along the hall, and through the door of the apartment. Carver closed it behind him, and ran for the stairs.
Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Colclough had seen the lights go on. Nothing happened for a while. He wondered if something had gone wrong. He could sense Max’s impatience in the silence at the other end of the line. Then the windows of the top-floor apartment exploded outward, showering wood and glass across the street. There was a sharp, pattering sound on the roof and windows of Colclough’s car—tiny steel balls raining down like metal hail.
The street was almost empty. The restaurants had all closed; the tourists had all gone off to their hotel beds. There were just two people wending their way home when the blast went off. The woman screamed. The man grabbed her and tried to shield her with his body as the debris rained down around them. They didn’t seem to have been seriously hurt, but the woman was weeping helplessly while the man just stared around him, dazed and uncomprehending.
“Bleedin’ ‘ell!” Colclough shouted. “Whoever you got to do that job, he doesn’t do nothing by half!”
Max didn’t seem too excited. “So, there’s been an explosion?”
“Yeah, there bloody has. Hang on a minute, I’ve got company.”
A woman was running from the front door of the apartment building, a blond in a blue dress. She ran toward the car, her eyes wide with panic, and pressed her face up against the glass. “Help! For God’s sake, you must help!” she screamed. She spoke English. Sounded like a Yank.
Colclough could hear Max’s voice on the speakerphone: “What’s happening?”
“Just some bird got caught up in the blast. Nothing serious. Bit hysterical is all.”
He pressed the button and opened the window. The girl leaned in and started tugging at his sleeve.
“Come quickly, please. It’s my mother! She’s . . . Oh God, I think she’s dead!” she cried.
Colclough did not hear the passenger door open beside him. The first he knew of Samuel Carver’s presence was the cold metal of the gun pressing behind his ear and the whispered voice that said, “Keep talking. I’m not here. Got it?”
The ex-policeman’s balding head nodded up and down.
“Now tell the girl to piss off, nice and loud.”
“Er, er, sorry, love,” stammered Colclough. “Be happy to help. But I’m busy, see? Got things to do.”
Max’s voice snapped over the speakerphone: “Oy, Colclough, get this sorted!”
“You got it guv’nor,” Colclough replied. “Listen, love, you heard the man. Naff off.”
Alix smiled and patted his cheek. “Good boy,” she mouthed, then got into the car herself, sitting behind Colclough.
Carver tapped Colclough’s shoulder with his gun to get his attention. With his free hand he pointed at the phone, mounted on the dashboard. Then he pulled his finger across his throat. The meaning was clear: End the conversation.
Colclough turned back toward the phone. “She’s gone,” he said. “I’m returning to base. Over and out.”
“Right,” said Carver. “Sit on your right hand. Wedge it under nice and tight. Good. Now put your left hand on the wheel. Don’t move.”
“Or what?”
Before Carver could answer, Alix leaned forward and brought her arm around the back of the driver’s seat, her fist balled. She gave a gentle squeeze of her hand and a high-carbon stainless-steel blade sprang out from between her thumb and forefinger. She pressed the tip of the blade against Colclough’s neck.
“Or I teach you to show a woman respect.”
Having made her point, Alix relaxed back into her seat and snapped the blade back into its handle. Carver looked at her, startled, unable to hide his surprise. He saw a mocking look cross Colclough’s face and felt the surprise give way to anger, mostly at his own stupidity.
He reached into one of his pants pockets and pulled out another plastic cuff strip and handed it to Colclough.
“Loop one end around the steering wheel. Pass the other end through it. Then pull it tight.”
Colclough did as he was told. One half of the cuff was now attached to the wheel, the other half dangled free.
“Now put your left hand through there,” said Carver, gesturing with his gun at the empty cuff. “Tighten it with your right hand. Good boy.”
Colclough was now cuffed to the steering wheel. He wasn’t leaving the car until Carver cut him loose. Carver patted him down, looking for a weapon.
“Maybe you should have done that to the bird, eh?” Colclough sneered. “You might’ve enjoyed it an’ all.”
Colclough was balding, maybe twenty pounds overweight. His shirt was white polyester. He was wearing gray trousers, with a matching jacket hanging from a hook behind the passenger seat. His shoes were black lace-ups. He wasn’t carrying a gun or knife. There was nothing in his jacket.
Carver looked at Colclough with a wry, contemplative smile on his face, then glanced down at his gun. Without warning, he lashed out, smashing the pistol into Colclough’s face, cracking his cheekbone and drawing blood. Colclough bent over, holding his face in his uncuffed hand. He prodded his battered cheek with a fingertip and winced.
“What the ‘ell did you do that for?”
“You heard the lady,” Carver said. “Show some respect.”
“My hero,” said Alix, teasingly. She tossed the knife handle up and down in her hand. “It was in my boot,” she explained, “then in my hand. From the moment you set me free, I could have killed you anytime.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I still might.”
Carver ignored the remark and turned back to Colclough. He took the lump of C4 putty from his pocket and held it out.
“Do you know what this is?”
“I can guess.”
“Good,” said Carver. “Now, watch.”
He leaned down and stuck the putty underneath the side of the passenger seat, out of Colclough’s reach. Then he rummaged through another pocket and pulled out a timer detonator.
“Max is in town, isn’t he?”
Colclough nodded.
“Thought so. An operation like this, he’d have to control it on-site. So I’m guessing he’s not far from here, right?”
Another nod.
Carver held the detonator in front of Colclough’s face. “I’m setting this to fifteen minutes. You’ve got that much time to get us to Max. If we get there on time, I pull out the detonator, nothing happens. If we don’t get there, I open this door and leave. The lady goes out the back door. You stay locked to the steering wheel.”
He set the timer and skewered it into the putty. The sound of a fire engine siren echoed in the distance.
“Alternatively,” said Carver, “I reset it to thirty seconds and we get out now. What’s it going to be?”
Colclough didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His labored breathing and the sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead told the story. He turned the ignition, stuck the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb.
“Good man,” said Carver. “Now, time we had a little chat. Let’s not piss about. Tell me where we’re going. Describe the place. How many people does Max have? Fourteen and a half minutes left. Talk.”



11

Carver repeated the question. “How many people?”
“I don’t know, all right?” Colclough whined. “That’s the whole point, ain’t it? You only know what you need to know. You only see what you need to see.”
“All right, what did you see?”
“It’s a big mansion. Old place. Proper flash. You get there and the building comes right up to the pavement, almost like a blank wall facing the street. There’s an arch with a driveway through it. That’s how you get in.”
“Security?”
“Gates. Metal gates.”
They’d made it back to the river again. Across the water, Carver could see the floodlit towers of Notre Dame. He ignored them, giving all his concentration to Colclough.
“You drive in and there’s a little guardhouse on the left, inside the arch, yeah? There was definitely an individual there, checking everyone in and out.”
“Cameras?”
“Couple at the front. Didn’t see any others. But there might be.”
“All right, then what?”
Colclough thought for a moment. “A courtyard. There’s like an old stables or something on one side they use for car parking. The front door’s opposite the entrance arch. It’s under cover, so you can drive right up, get to the door, and you don’t get wet. You go in, there’s a big, bare hall and a marble staircase right up the middle of the building.”
“That’s normal. It’s a hotel particular,” Alix interrupted.
Carver turned around in his seat. “Sorry?”
The girl explained, as if reciting from a guidebook. “A h?tel particulier. A classic Paris mansion, probably built in the seventeenth or eighteenth century.”
“How do you know about that?” asked Carver.
“Because I was trained to discuss such things.”
“In Russia?”
Alix nodded. “Of course. It was essential for my job.”
“Which was?”
She broke into one of her noncommittal smiles. “Conversation. So, if this is a typical hotel, all the main reception rooms are on the first floor. Is that where Max is?”
Colclough nodded. “Yeah, some kind of dining room. His guv’nor was next door, in some other room.”
Carver frowned. “What do you mean, ‘guv’nor’? You’re saying Max has a boss? Who is he?”
“How should I know? I never saw him.”
“How do you know he’s there, then?”
“Because Max was called into the next room. Went straight through, no argument. So the bloke must’ve been his boss. Logical, yeah?”
He looked at Carver with pleading eyes, desperate to be told he was doing all right, that everything would work out okay. His voice cracked. “Christ, I’m doing my best. I’ve got a wife, a daughter. I don’t wanna die. I mean, what’ve I ever done to you, for Chrissake?”
“Okay,” said Carver, ignoring Colclough’s pleas. “One on the door. Max. His boss. Who else?”
“I told you, I don’t know. Not many. I was told to wait downstairs in some kind of pantry. There was food and coffee there. A couple of other blokes came in and out.”
“Armed?”
“Could’ve been. In fact, yeah, there was two of them outside the room Max was in, like guards. They had guns, definitely. Anyway, I drank coffee and did the crossword till about eleven. Then I got orders to take up my position. The rest you know.”
“Not quite,” said Carver. “Where’s the pantry, relative to this dining room Max was in? How did you get there?”
“There was more stairs that went down the back way. You know, like for servants.”
Carver thought. Call it four people to mount proper surveillance of the targets in the hours leading up to the hit. You’d need a couple of them to stay by the accident, monitor what happened, and follow the ambulance. That left two, plus the doorman, Max, his guards, and his mysterious boss. Seven against one. Not great odds.
He turned around to face Alix again. He’d disarmed her pretty easily at the bus stop. It wasn’t a great sign.
“How much armed combat training have you actually had?”
She shrugged and pouted. “Some. Basic self-defense, shooting, nothing special.”
“And knife work,” said Carver.
“No. That I taught myself. Every girl needs a way to scare off creeps.”
“Bit extreme, isn’t it?”
“So were the creeps.”
Colclough spoke. “Can I ask a question?”
Carver only looked at him in response.
“Why don’t you just get out of here? Trust me, I’ll stay schtum. I swear to God, on my girl’s life, not a word. Take this car. Head for the nearest airport. Fly as far away as possible.”
Alix nodded. “Or we could fly to different places. Separately.”
“Yeah, we could,” said Carver, “if you wanted a pain in the neck from looking over your shoulder for the rest of your short life and an itch in your back, waiting for the first bullet. The people who sent us wanted us dead. They’re not going to change their minds on that. So we’ve got an hour, tops, before the police discover there was no one in that flat and that body gets fished out of the sewers. We’ve got to assume that Max and his boss are either monitoring police communications or have people inside the force. They’ll soon know we’re still alive. We’ve got to hit them before then. And we’ve got to find out about their organization. I take it Max had some kind of IT/communications setup?”
“I s’pose so. There was computer screens on the table, but he wasn’t letting me anywhere near ‘em, so don’t ask me what they did.”
“I don’t have to. They ran the show. And the computer that ran them has everything we need to know. If we can’t get it out of Max, we’ll get it from the computer. You got that, Alix?”
A shrug. “I guess. But you should know, I’m not a soldier. Attacking a house? I did not get trained to do that.”
“Then just follow me, do exactly what I say, and watch my back. And look on the bright side. Those bastards wanted to kill us. We’re going to return the compliment.”



12

Colclough brought the car to a halt. They were in the Marais, directly across the river from the Ile Saint-Louis. Once, aristocrats and courtiers built their mansions here, to be as close as possible to the kings of France in their palace at the Louvre. They filled their homes with paintings, sculptures, and furniture of exquisite taste. They dressed in silk and lace. Yet behind the impeccable facades and courtly etiquette raged an unrelenting war for influence, wealth, and access to the throne.
When the old order vanished in the revolutionary frenzy of 1789, the Marais went with it. The area was neglected for almost two centuries, only to be revived in recent decades as a Parisian equivalent to New York’s SoHo or London’s Notting Hill. Now the rich and fashionable rubbed shoulders with the ethnic and exotic: exclusive boutiques next to Jewish delis, gay bars alongside Algerian restaurants. But many of the mansions remained, and one, at least, was still home to conspiracy and intrigue.
“It’s just there,” he said, pointing with his free right hand to a gateway about fifty meters ahead of them, on the far side of the road. Then he slumped in his seat and muttered, “I don’t know why I bothered. You’re gonna kill me anyway.”
Carver reached across, grabbed the shoulder of Colclough’s sweat-sodden shirt, and shook him. “No, I’m not. Not if you do exactly what you’re told. If we live, so do you.”
“Aren’t you scared I’ll talk?”
“Who to? I don’t see you going to the police in a hurry. If we’re alive, then Max won’t be, so you won’t be talking to him. And you’ve already told us you have no more idea who his boss is than we do. So don’t worry. I believed you when you swore you wouldn’t blab. But this little chat just wasted thirty seconds. So drive up to the gate, nice and easy. Let the guard open up. And keep your mouth shut.”
Carver pulled a third plastic cuff from his pocket as Colclough started the car again. “Last in the packet,” he said with a wry smile, handing it to Alix. “That’s for the man at the gate. I’ll tell you when.”
The car pulled up in front of the gate. Colclough flashed the headlights. The gates swung open and a man on the far side waved them through. He was holding a gun, another Uzi by the look of it, straight down by his leg, making a token attempt at keeping it out of sight of passersby.
The man stepped up to the car and motioned to Colclough to open the window. Carver was counting on him doing what all gatekeepers do—bend down and look inside the car. When he did, he’d see Carver’s gun pointing at him. Alix would then get out and cuff the guard. Simple—just so long as Colclough kept his mouth shut.
But the copper lost his nerve. As the metal gates swung shut behind the car and the man leaned down toward the open window, he shouted, “Watch out! He’s got a gun!”
The guard stepped back and tried to bring his Uzi to bear. Carver was faster. He raised his pistol and shot twice through the half-open driver’s window. He put two bullets neatly grouped in the guard’s chest, the force of them slamming him up against the brickwork at the side of the entrance arch.
“Big mistake,” Carver muttered, almost to himself.
Colclough was moaning, “Oh Jesus, I’m sorry, please don’t kill me. . . .”
Carver ignored him. He threw Alix’s gun into her hands. “Follow me!” he shouted. “Fast!”
The key principles of close-range urban combat are surprise, speed, and controlled violence. Any hope of surprise had just been shattered. That left speed and violence. Carver started running.
Across the cobblestones, the main body of the house rose in a block of gray white stone. As he reloaded his pistol, Carver glanced to the right, where the black hood of a BMW 7 Series limousine glinted in the recesses of the old coach house. Max traveled in style. If Carver got out alive, that would be his getaway vehicle. By the front door he stopped for a second and gestured to Alix to stand on the far side. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, counted to three, and kicked the door open, moving in fast, his gun held straight out in front of him. He caught a glimpse of Alix following just behind.
The hallway was floored with white marble tiles, and a massive glass lantern, lit by electric candles, hung down the center of the stairwell. The staircase curved back on itself as it rose up to the first floor. Carver heard a sudden high pitched warning shout from behind him, saw a door open to the right of the stairs and a man run out.
Carver’s reaction was subconscious, automatic. He fired at the man and the backup who came after him. They both went down. Carver needed to get upstairs, fast. But he never turned his back on a wounded man. He strode ten paces across the marble floor and finished the job: two point-blank head shots that spattered blood, bone, and brain matter across the marble floor.
Alix whimpered in horror.
“Come on!” Carver shouted as he turned and ran towards the stairs.
Three men down so far, thought Carver, taking the steps two at a time. That left how many—another three, four maybe? He had to get to the next floor before . . .
The stair in front of him disintegrated in a clattering blast of submachinegun fire. Carver threw himself down, scrabbling for the cover of the stone balustrade that followed the sweep of the staircase as the last reverberations died away. Then, through the ringing in his ears, he heard a familiar calm, flat voice.
“That’s far enough, Carver. Get up. And drop your weapon.”
He craned his neck and gazed up at the top of the staircase. He could see three men. Two of them were big guys, powerfully built but running to fat, with necks wider than their skulls: basic joints of beef from the head down. The third man was standing between them, a tall, thin figure in charcoal gray trousers, a white shirt—sleeves rolled up his forearms—and frameless designer glasses.
He barked an order at one of the men. “McCall, bring that man here.” Then he turned to the other guy. “Harrison, cover him. If he tries anything, shoot him. Shoot McCall too, if you have to.”
The thin man looked down, regarding Carver with a disapproving eye, as if disappointed by what he saw.
“One more time, drop your weapon.”
Carver let the gun fall from his hand. It clattered against the stone step. It struck him that he was alone on the stairs. Alix had vanished. Well, he could hardly blame her for that. She was all right, that girl. He wanted her to get away. And that meant buying her time.
“You must be Max,” he said, getting to his feet.
“If you say so. And now, perhaps you’ll tell me what you’re doing here.”
McCall reached Carver, pointed his gun at him, and waved the barrel upward. “Move it,” he said.
“Jesus Christ, Max,” said Carver, moving slowly up the stairs, “is this the best you can do for staff? Let me give you some advice. If you want top-quality people, it’s best not to kill the ones who are actually any good. So tell me, what was it made you want to get rid of me? If I’m going to be executed, you might at least tell me why.”
Max regarded him with the look of contempt that those in the know reserve for the truly ignorant. He opened his mouth to speak. Then he stopped, and tilted his head slightly to one side.
“What’s that noise?”
From the yard came the sound of a man at the far limits of panic and terror, screaming in desperation. “Help me! For God’s sake, someone, please help me!”
Max frowned at Carver. They were no more than six feet apart now. “Who’s that man?” When he got no response, he turned to the man he’d called Harrison. “Go and see what that is.”
Harrison hurried down the stairs. They watched him go through the door.
Max refocused his attention on Carver. “So, you obviously got away. . . .”
The explosion ripped through the courtyard, blowing open the front doors of the building with a blast that echoed around the stone-clad stairwell.
McCall moved toward the noise, half-crouched, his gun at his shoulder ready to fire, pointing away from Carver. It gave him a fractional opening. He lunged for Max’s throat, gripping it with all his force, ignoring the fists with which Max desperately tried to pummel him and the footsteps of the man running up the stairs behind him.
The butt of the gun slammed into Carver’s kidneys, sending a shock of pain and nausea charging through his body. He let go of Max’s throat and fell retching to the floor.
“Bring him into the dining room,” said Max.
McCall lifted Carver up by the scruff of his neck, then prodded him again in the back, this time with the gun barrel. “You heard him, walk.”
He didn’t walk. He staggered into the dining room through the connecting door, bent over like a chimp. Max had been getting ready to go. There were open cases for a laptop computer, a separate high-speed modem, and a twenty-inch flat-screen strewn across the table, wires unplugged and wound up, ready to be packed away. Max’s suit jacket was draped across the back of a chair. Carver tried to ignore the agony in his back. He wanted to stand up straight, get his dignity back, and create the illusion, at least, that he and Max were talking on equal terms.
Max was not impressed. “Think of yourself as a dead man,” he said, walking around to the table and pulling wires from the back of the computer. “Do me a favor, Carver, make it easy. Answer my questions. What happened to Kursk?”
“Who the hell is Kursk?”
“The Russian.”
“He’s dead.”
“And his partner, the woman?”
“What do you reckon? I’m here. She isn’t. Dead.”
“How?”
“I flushed them down the sewers. Like shit. I think you know that.”
Max said nothing for a moment as he slipped the computer into its case, then asked, “Colclough saw two people return to the apartment. Who were they?”
“I’ve no idea. I don’t know anyone called Colclough. And I’m not going to answer any more of your questions until you answer mine. Why do you want me dead?”
Max sighed as he zipped up the case. “Please, don’t treat me like an idiot. You went back to the apartment. But why? You had no reason to do that. Not unless you wanted me to think that the woman was dead. And the only reason to go to such trouble would be if—”
“I was alive?”
Alix was standing in another doorway at the far side of the room, holding her Uzi, moving it from side to side, trying to cover Max and McCall at the same time. She was carrying the gun properly, high on the shoulder, sighting along the barrel. The gun trembled slightly in her grip, betraying her tension. She looked like a little girl playing with her big brother’s toys.
For half a second they all just stood there. Any longer and it would have been too late. If McCall had done nothing, forced Alix to take the initiative, dared her to shoot in cold blood, she might have lost her nerve. But he got cocky, staking his life on her inability to turn the threat of her gun into action. He grabbed Carver with his left hand and threw him to one side, clearing the space to bring up his own weapon. But Alix fired first.
She did it properly, just like a training exercise. She didn’t spray bullets all over the place. She fired a three-shot burst into McCall. There was nothing girlish about her now, just a fierce, almost manic concentration in her eyes as she turned toward Max, who was desperately backing against the wall. Another burst hit his chest, shoulder, and neck—the hits rising as the force of the shots lifted the barrel in Alix’s hand. He spun around, blood from a ripped artery spraying in a scarlet arc across the wall. Then he fell to the floor, dead.
Carver got to his feet, wincing, and made his way across the room. The air reeked of cordite and blood. Alix was standing stock still, her eyes wide open. Then suddenly she turned away from Carver, bent over, and started shaking. She was dry retching, streaming tears and snot. Carver stood next to her, rested a hand on her shoulder, and offered her a handkerchief.
“First time?”
Alix nodded.
“You did well,” Carver said. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
He was seized by a deep, familiar emotion, the comradeship that exists between those who have experienced combat together and survived. Carver had experienced feelings like this in the Falklands, Iraq, and the bandit country of South Armagh. He’d known what it was to have that bond between fighting men. But a blond Russian woman in a short silk dress, well, that might take a bit of getting used to.
Gradually, her body stilled, her breathing steadied. Alix stood up, wiping her face. She looked at the two bodies for a second or two. Then she looked at Carver as if seeing her reflection in his eyes. “Oh my God,” she said. “I must look terrible.”
Carver gave a clipped, dry laugh. “Not half as bad as they do. Listen, you’ll be fine. But we’ve got to get out of here. Wipe your prints off the gun. Stick it in Max’s hands—the guy with the gray hair. Make it look like they shot each other.”
It would take at least a day for the police forensic lab to work out that all the bullets had come from the same gun. By then, he planned to be long gone.
He turned his attention to the computer in its case on the table. Somewhere inside it was everything he needed to know about the people who’d hired him and everything anyone else would need to know about him. For both reasons, it was coming with him.
So was Max’s gray jacket. Carver needed to get out of the clothes he’d been wearing all night, to do something to change his appearance. He looked at the dead men on the floor. Even their trousers were spattered with blood.
Then he struck lucky. Beside the table there was a soft brown leather overnight bag. Max must have had it beside him, ready to leave. Inside there was a fresh white shirt, still in its laundry wrapper. He put it on, then slipped the jacket over the top.
Carver picked up the back nylon computer case. “Time to go,” he said. But as he walked from the room, he was thinking: If Alix Petrova had never fired a gun in anger before, what the hell had she been doing on this mission?