hundred times before, because every man who did the course felt obliged to perform his own Garlinski impersonation to any poor sod who would listen. But you couldn’t knock the guy’s teaching methods. No one ever forgot how to take out a moving car.
By “nipples” Garlinski meant tire valves. A tiny, remote-controlled explosive device, replacing the normal valve, was a discreet alternative to a conventional car bomb. It could not be spotted by a regular security sweep, nor did it leave any trace when detonated. The only problem was getting to the target vehicle ahead of the assignment-and the moment Wynter was picked up by the Government Communications Headquarters, booking his valet parking and giving the registration number of the car he’d be leaving at the airport, that problem was solved.
All Carver had to do then was find a way of provoking Wynter to drive at a speed that would prove fatal in the event of an accident. He’d been curious how he’d cope under pressure. He didn’t know for sure that he’d have the balls for it when the moment actually came. But he’d felt completely calm as he taunted Wynter and smashed into his fancy car. He remembered the satisfaction that lay in dealing retribution to men who saw themselves as above the law, putting them on the receiving end. An old soccer hooligans’ chant, no more than a childish taunt, came to his mind like a mantra.
“Come and get it,” he thought, the words going around in his head as he drove the Honda into the side of the Porsche.
“Come and get it,” watching the rage on Wynter’s face as he accelerated away.
“Come and get it,” picking up the remote detonator and pressing the button.
“If you think you’re hard enough,” as the Porsche’s front tire blew out, the blast propelling the rigged valve out of the tire like a bullet from a gun, leaving it invisible in the shoulder by the side of the road, while the Porsche spun across the highway, as helpless as a leaf in a whirlpool, smashing into the central barrier and rebounding back into the road, past the desperately swerving Range Rover, straight into the path of the tractor-trailer.
The truck driver swung left, trying to dodge the Porsche, but the tail of his trailer lost its grip on the road and started swinging around counterclockwise, into the middle of the road, colliding with the out-of-control sports car.
The Porsche hit the side of the trailer head on. There was just enough clearance for the hood to slide underneath it, but the passenger compartment was sliced from the rest of the car body like the top off a boiled egg, ripping Wynter’s head and shoulders from his body.
The trailer and the ruins of the Porsche came to a rest, lying across the highway, right in the path of the cement mixer, which braked, skidded, and slammed sideways into the wreckage.
By the time the two truck drivers had stopped shaking and clambered down from their cabs, Carver was a mile up the road. He left the highway at the next exit and pulled into a service station. A car was waiting for him, a black Rover 800. Carver parked the Honda and walked across to the Rover, passing a leather-jacketed, crew-cut man coming the other way. He got into the back of the Rover.
Grantham was waiting for him in the front passenger seat. He glanced up as Carver got in, looking at him in the mirror.
“Bit messy, weren’t you? Blood all over the carriageway, heads knocked off? Not exactly discreet.”
Carver shrugged. “I’m out of practice.”
Grantham twisted around to face him, holding out an envelope.
“Here are your tickets,” he said. “That fancy leather bag on the seat next to you is your hand luggage. Your suit is hanging up on the hook behind me. There’s a wallet in the jacket pocket, litter in the trousers. You can change at the airport. And there’ll be a gun waiting for you in Nice: your usual make and model… What’s the matter?”
“Thinking about the job just now. You’re right-it wasn’t good enough.”
“You got it done-that’s the main thing. And don’t worry-we’ll have a quiet word with the police. No one’s going to be announcing Kenny Wynter’s passing any time soon.”
“I hope not,” said Carver. “Otherwise, how’s he going to have lunch?”
57
Carver was met at the airport by a courier bearing a sign that read WYNTER. He was given a brown padded envelope, for which he signed. As the courier disappeared into the milling crowd, Carver worked the envelope with his fingers, feeling the outline of the SIG and the spare magazines. Reassured by the possession of a weapon, he acquired the kind of underpowered, midmarket sedan that constituted a luxury vehicle in the eyes of the airport’s car-rental companies and set off along the coast to Antibes and the legendary Hotel du Cap. The Grill was located in a waterfront pavilion known as Eden Roc. He got there ten minutes early.
The restaurant was perched on the edge of a cliff, the customers protected from the drop by a ship’s railing made of glossy white-painted metal, topped by a polished wooden handrail. The whole place had a nautical feel to it. The floors were decked in pale wood, the tables and chairs were all white and shaded by a white canvas awning, the waiters had crisply pressed trousers and polo shirts, also dazzling white, the better to set off their permanent tans.
The maitre d’ led Carver to a rectangular table, set for three, right next to the railing. He had an uninterrupted view out across the bay, past Juan-les-Pins, toward Cannes. Underneath the railing, a narrow strip of vegetation, the bright blue and yellow flowers bobbing about in the breeze, clung to the rock above the clear turquoise water. After the freezing blizzards of Norway and the drab grayness of England, the bright sunlight that sparkled across the sea and warmed the air filled him with energy and good cheer.
Turning his attention back to the restaurant, Carver sipped a glass of iced mineral water and casually scanned the other tables, just like any other lone male checking out the talent. On a weekday in April, the hotel had only just reopened for the season and the Grill wasn’t too busy, just a smattering of rich, middle-aged customers taking a spring vacation. Carver looked away. He wasn’t going to stop checking, but he was pretty sure the place was clean. Now he could concentrate on the yacht, at least a hundred feet long, that was cruising slowly across the bay, moving so gently through the water that it barely left a ripple in its wake. It had a dark-blue hull and dazzling white superstructure designed like the outline of a giant paper dart raking down toward the dagger point of the bow: The cabins and staterooms massed at the stern.
