“She won’t be wrong,” wheezed Carver, following Larsson as he skied away down the track.
43
Carver’s recovery had caused almost as much discomfort in MI6’s London headquarters on the south bank of the Thames as it had in Moscow. The thought of a renegade assassin alive, well, and in full command of his senses gave Jack Grantham cold sweats. This new situation could easily turn into a disaster. Somehow he had to make it work for him.
“What’s the news from this bloody clinic?” he asked, not bothering to disguise his irritation.
His deputy, Bill Selsey, was unruffled by Grantham’s bad temper. He’d long since learned to let it wash over him. He asked nothing more from life than a secure job, a modest home in the south London suburbs, and a guaranteed pension at the end of his career. He knew the pressure his boss was under and he didn’t envy it one bit.
“Carver’s done a runner, leaving a body behind,” Selsey replied. “The corpse in question had a fake I.D., some bogus psychiatrist, but I’m pretty sure he is, or was, Vladimir Matov, known to his chums as Vlad the Impaler. He’s an experienced FSB hitman, used to work for the KGB back in the good old days. Bulgarian by origin, like a lot of their best killers.”
“So friend Matov was sent to sanction Carver, only to find himself on the wrong end of the operation?”
“Looks like it.”
“And there’s no one else who could have sent him-he doesn’t freelance for anyone?”
Selsey shook his head. “Not as far as we know. He’s a state employee, no moonlighting.”
“So why does Moscow want Carver dead? Specifically, why do they want him dead now? He’s been a sitting duck for months for anyone who wanted revenge for Zhukovski’s death.”
“Like his dear wife,” Selsey interjected.
“Right. But Mrs. Z. doesn’t do anything for six months until suddenly she, or someone equally high up, feels the need to take action. And then, how the hell did Carver beat this man? I thought he was supposed to be bonkers, no bloody use to anyone. What’s he doing taking out a pro like Matov?”
“Apparently, he got better.”
“You don’t say.” Grantham’s voice was drenched with acid sarcasm. “I managed to work that out for myself, thanks, Bill. But when did this miracle cure happen, and why?”
“I’ve got people looking into that, talking to doctors and nurses at the clinic. Should have the answers later today. But I think I may have a lead on why the Russians want him dead.”
“Do tell.”
“There’s a Romanian in Venice, name of Radinescu, does some low-level work for the FSB, basic courier stuff, nothing fancy. We’ve been tossing him a few bob to copy us in on anything he gets.”
“And?”
“And he just passed on a message to Moscow from an agent who happened to be passing through Venice, a female agent. The woman in question was a bit of a looker, so Radinescu followed her for a while…”
“Bloody perv.”
“Maybe, but while he was stalking this woman, he took a couple of photos and when he sent us a copy of her message, he chucked in a picture of the girl, hoping we might pay him a bonus for uncovering a Russian spy.”
“He’s got a nerve.”
“Don’t be so sure. You might think this is worth standing Radinescu a drink.”
A plasma screen at one end of the room sprang into life. A series of color images appeared, showing two women-one black, the other white-wandering the crowded Venice streets.
“Good Lord, that’s the Petrova girl,” said Grantham. “But what’s she doing in Italy?”
“Well, she’s staying at the Cipriani with a man called Kurt Vermulen-separate rooms, before you ask.”
Grantham frowned.
“Vermulen? That name’s familiar…”
“American, ex-army, did some time in the DIA, and spent a couple of years in Grosvenor Square as their defense attache. You probably bumped into him then. Anyway, Moscow seems to have taken an interest in him. Presumably Petrova’s been told to get as close to him as possible.”
“Who’s the woman with her?”
“Her name is Alisha Reddin. She and her husband, Marcus Reddin, are staying at the same hotel as Vermulen and Petrova. And here’s an interesting thing: Reddin served under Vermulen in the U.S. Army Rangers.”
“Could just be a couple of old comrades meeting up,” Grantham observed.
“Could be, yes,” agreed Selsey. “But presumably the Russians think there’s more to it than that. Why else have they inserted Petrova?”
For the first time, Grantham’s mood seemed to lift a fraction. The merest hint of amusement crossed his face.
“So she’s gone back to her old trade, for her old employers. Dear, oh dear… Carver won’t like that. He’s
