As the yacht came to a halt about one hundred yards offshore, Carver could see two figures, a man and a woman, leaning against the stern rail of the open upper deck and looking toward shore. The man had his arm around the woman’s waist, holding her body close. She was going with it, leaning into him, molding her body to his.
Carver recognized Vermulen because he’d instantly matched the man and his boat to Grantham’s photo file. But he knew that the woman was Alix on a far deeper level, that animal instinct that makes one instantly aware of a lover’s presence with an intensity that burns with excitement and pain in equal measure.
She was wearing a simple summer dress. Every so often the wind would catch it, fluttering the skirt, or pressing the fabric to her body, outlining the lines of her thighs and the curves of her hips and breasts. Carver felt the stirrings of sexual desire reawaken in him, like an old friend returning after a long journey to a faraway destination. Finally, Alix was real, there in the flesh, and this mission wasn’t just a challenge thrown down to him by Grantham. It was a compulsion. He had to get her back.
Down at water level, a door slid open at the stern of the vessel and two crewmen appeared, maneuvering a speedboat, maybe fifteen feet long, that was lowered into the sea at the end of a line. Vermulen pointed this out to Alix and the two of them went back inside before reappearing a minute or so later beside the crewmen, down by the water.
The general was carrying a black leather briefcase. He was about to get into the speedboat when Alix stopped him and adjusted the collar of his pale-blue shirt, fiddling with it for a moment until it was exactly to her satisfaction. It was a very feminine, proprietorial gesture: a woman taking possession of her man before she kissed him good-bye and let him loose in the world.
Carver felt an acid stab of jealousy, then told himself, Get a grip. That’s what she does-she makes men believe that she cares. But with you it’s real.
As Alix waved him off, Vermulen jumped into the speedboat, which brought him to a jetty at the foot of the cliffs. He came ashore, then made his way up a steep set of stone steps from the jetty to the restaurant.
Carver got to his feet to greet him. He wanted to be eye to eye with the man who had been sleeping with his woman, the man he might soon have to kill. He wanted to know exactly what kind of competition he faced.
Close up, Vermulen’s face was a little fuller than it was in his army photograph, the jawline less cleanly defined. His full head of hair, swept back from his forehead, was as much silver as gold, and he was carrying a very slight paunch. But none of these flaws detracted from the aura of purpose and energy that seemed to charge the atmosphere around him. In fact, they added to the effect, giving him the imperious air of a man who was living life to the utmost, taking everything the world had to offer, certain of his ability to master any circumstance or individual he might encounter.
The general stuck out a tanned forearm and gave Carver a crushing handshake. “Hi. Kurt Vermulen,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Kenny Wynter,” said Carver. “Likewise.”
Vermulen gave Carver his own once-over, looking him up and down as if he were a soldier at a parade-ground inspection. The two men sat down, the briefcase on the floor between them. The general summoned a waiter.
“Just get us a nice selection of seafood-lobster, oysters, whatever’s fresh and good today. We’ll take some green salad with that, some bread and butter.” He looked around the table. “You okay with that?”
It was strictly a rhetorical question. The officer was taking command. Carver shrugged his assent.
“Good,” said Vermulen. “I don’t consume alcohol at lunchtime. We’ll take a large bottle of still water, please. Unless you want some wine, Mr. Wynter…”
“No worries,” Carver replied, thinking his way into the character: the north London street kid whose brains had got him into Oxbridge, and whose criminal instincts had bought him a life of confident, class-less wealth. “I’m here for business, not booze.”
“And your business is taking things that are not your own?”
Wynter wouldn’t have let that one go, so Carver didn’t, either.
“I thought the U.S. Army was in that business, too.”
Vermulen laughed. “Touche, Mr. Wynter.”
They talked some more, sparring, each seeing what the other was made of. Then the food arrived, a great plate heaped with half-lobsters, langoustines, oysters, squid, and fillets of the Mediterranean sea bass the French call loup de mer, the wolf of the sea. Once plates were filled and glasses of iced water poured, Vermulen became more serious.
“You are an educated man, Mr. Wynter, so you will appreciate my meaning when I say that I feel that we are living in a time akin to Ancient Rome at the end of the fourth century A.D. Our civilization is still intact. Our comforts are greater than ever. But our will is crumbling. We lack the guts and determination to defend ourselves. And all around us, a dark age is drawing on. Enemies are prowling; populations are on the move. They sense our weakness and they await the moment to strike.”
The rhetoric sounded grand enough, but to Carver it seemed hypocritical, coming from a man in a luxury restaurant, not a warrior on the front line.
“You’re the one who left a military career,” he retorted. “You stopped fighting. How can you blame the rest of us for not doing our bit?”
For a second, Carver could sense Vermulen prickling at this assault on his self-regard. But then he recovered his composure.
“On the contrary, I left the U.S. Army precisely because our defense and foreign-policy establishment was not prepared to fight the necessary battle, the one that I believe will determine the fate of the West: the battle against radical Islam.”
That took Carver by surprise.
“What are you, some kind of Crusader?”
“Absolutely not: I don’t want any war at all. But I fear it’s coming anyway. It began in Afghanistan. It’s being fought in Chechnya right now, and in the former Yugoslavia. Islamic terrorists are aiming to create a radical Muslim
