“I don’t. I was just asking a question. Hypothetically.”
“Well, don’t,” said Carver. “I’ll assume she wants me to come get her, until she tells me otherwise. And bollocks to hypothetical.”
“Oh, shit!”
Larsson was looking in the rearview mirror. He shook his head in disgust and pulled over to the side of the road. Only then did Carver notice the white Volvo with the flashing lights pulling in behind them and the cop getting out of the driver’s door.
Larsson wound down his window and started talking to the policeman in Norwegian. Carver couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but it didn’t sound good. He knew from his Royal Marines days that Norwegian cops could be tough, unforgiving buggers, a million miles removed from the British image of Scandinavians as laid-back, liberal types.
Larsson was asked to leave the car and escorted around to its rear, where another brief exchange took place. Then he was made to take a Breathalyzer test. The policeman entered Larsson’s details in a handheld terminal, then finally waved them on their way with an irritated look on his face.
“What got him so pissed off?” Carver asked.
“I was under the limit,” Larsson replied. “He couldn’t bust me for drunk driving, so I’ll keep my license. But he got me on a broken rear light; I’ll have to pay a fine.”
They drove back to Ebba’s farm. And as they did, a computer trawling ceaselessly through the world’s network systems came across a name to which it had been programmed to respond, and flagged the data to which that name was attached. And a few hours later, at the start of the working day, a man walked into his boss’s office and said, “Guess who just turned up in Norway.”
APRIL
47
Arriving with Alix at the Excelsior Hotel in Rome, Vermulen found a postcard waiting for him: a picture of a hill village in the South of France with the words Tourrettes-sur-Loup written over it in fancy script.
On the back there was a message. It read, I told you I’d find somewhere great! You MUST try this place: Bon Repos, Chemin du Dauphin. It needs work. For a good contractor try Kenny Wynter… A phone number followed and then a signature, Pavel.
“Novak again,” said Vermulen with a grin, when Alix asked him about it. “That man, he never stops trying to sell stuff.”
That had been two days ago. Now Alix was in the hotel steam room, letting the heat and humidity relax her muscles and sweat the toxins from her body.
There was one other woman in the room. She caught Alix’s eye.
“Just like home, enjoying a Turkish bath!”
The words were spoken in Russian.
Alix smiled. “Except in Moscow we wouldn’t have to wear bathing suits. We could be naked-so much more comfortable.”
“What do you expect? This is an American hotel.” The woman shook her head in mock sorrow. “Crazy people.”
“Careful,” said Alix. “My boyfriend is American.”
“Maybe he is an exception!”
The woman looked around, confirming that they were still alone. Then she spoke again, not so chatty anymore.
“So, your boyfriend, what has he been doing?”
“He had a meeting yesterday, with an Italian, he would not say who. But I know they met in a park, on the Aventine Hill. He said it had a magnificent view of St. Peter’s. Maybe there are cameras nearby that you can check. Also, he had a message from Novak. I do not know the significance, but it concerned a particular house, in France.”
She passed over the details. The woman did not seem impressed.
“This is not enough-a meeting, but you do not know who with; a house, but you do not know its significance. Moscow will expect more than this.”
“I’m sorry. I’m doing my best.”
“In any event, I have a message from the deputy director. She regrets to inform you that your friend in Geneva passed away. As a consequence, payments to the clinic have been stopped.”
Alix gasped. She looked wide-eyed at the other woman before bending over, her head in her hands, the sobs shallow at first, then convulsing her whole body.
The other woman made no attempt to comfort her.
“You must understand,” she said eventually, “this makes no difference to your mission. You are to continue as before. That is an order.”
