“My men have fought alongside me for seven years. Against Croats. Against Bosnians. Now against Albanian scum. These men are lions-like the partisans who fought against the Nazis, they cannot be defeated.”
McCabe did his best to keep a straight face. He didn’t need any lessons on fighting from some greasy wop who was second cousin to a Gypsy.
“Well, that’s just fine, Mr. Darko. Let me tell you what I have in mind…”
61
Carver didn’t know what any of the wildflowers covering the hillside were, but he was glad of their rich, herbal scent. He’d been watching the house for forty-eight hours. During that time he’d drunk water, eaten chocolate, nuts, and dried fruit, and crapped into a sandwich bag before burying it in the earth behind his hideout. He’d also refined his plans for getting the document out of the house.
The property was arranged so that all the social areas were on the southern, downhill side, to maximize the views across the hazy, gray-green hills of Provence to the glittering waters of the Riviera. Everything practical was hidden away out of sight. So the driveway up to the house was over by the right-hand perimeter of the grounds, from Carver’s perspective, looking down from above. There was a small drop-off area by the front door to the house, but the actual parking was to the rear, so that cars would be kept out of sight. There was no garage, but a massive seven-seater Mitsubishi Shogun was sitting under a metal-framed, plastic-roofed awning.
Up against the back wall of the house, a lean-to was filled with logs for the fireplace, which was, according to the architect’s plans, the dominant feature of the main living room. Farther along, on the far side of a rear door that led into the kitchen, two red one-hundred-pound canisters of propane, as high as a man’s shoulder, supplied gas for the stove.
There was still work to do on the area between the house and the rear perimeter. The low brick wall enclosing the parking area was unfinished and much of the ground was still covered with builders’ debris: rubble, discarded bits of woodwork, empty cans, even a small cement mixer. Someone, however, had cleared a space for the high chain-link fences that kept the two dogs caged until they were let loose for the night.
The place had six human inhabitants: four male and two female. The weather had stayed warm, and around about midday the men had staggered outside for a busy day of drinking, smoking, and leering at the bimbos lying by the pool, trying to turn their fake tans into the real thing. It hadn’t taken Carver long to work out which one was Baladze. The cock-of-the-walk way he carried himself, the fawning obedience of the men, and the shrieks of female laughter made it obvious who was the alpha male.
Carver had passed the time working out names for the people who would soon come under his attack. He toyed with soap-opera characters, historical figures, even Jesus and his apostles. In the end he went with Beatles. Baladze he code-named John, the original leader of the band. The man who looked like his second-in-command, a pot-bellied greaser with dirty-blond hair, was therefore Paul. A younger, skinny underling with long dark hair was a natural for George. That left Ringo for the fourth gang member. He had the grossly overdeveloped muscles, the furious expression, and the Pizza Hut complexion of a man who sprinkles steroids on his breakfast cereal and spends too much time alone with his dumbbells. The pelt of wiry black hair across his shoulders wasn’t too pleasant, either.
The women were easy. One was a brunette, the other a blonde, Yoko and Linda, all the way.
During daylight hours, either George or Ringo was on duty as a guard down by the gate to the property. Whoever had the first morning shift had to get up early and put the dogs back in their cage before he went down to his post. The only visitor seemed to be the local baker, whose van turned up midmorning. Judging by the quantities of food and drink that the driver carried in through the back door to the kitchen, along with his loaves of breads, pizzas, cakes, and pies, he’d got some kind of deal to keep the place fully provisioned.
There was a barbecue on the terrace and Paul had been given the job of grilling steaks and kebabs every evening. Aside from that, the domestic chores were left for the women, who were multitasking as the men’s housemaids, cooks, eye candy, and sex toys. Carver could imagine describing the scene to Alix. He didn’t know exactly how she’d respond, but whatever she said, it would be knowing, cynical, and spiked with bone-dry black humor. He wondered how often she’d been treated like one of those women, but didn’t dwell on that, preferring to concentrate on the future. Not long now, and he’d see her again. Just kiss Vermulen good-bye and they could both give the life up for good.
On the afternoon of the second day, Carver decided he’d seen enough. He’d do the job tomorrow. Tonight he’d find a hotel room and get a decent night’s sleep, a hot shower, and a square meal. But before that he had to pick up Vermulen’s package from the poste restante in Vence, then go shopping. He’d written another list of what he needed: sugar, linseed oil, food coloring, wax earplugs, and a bunch of other stuff, from paint brushes to meat pate. It would mean visiting a few different shops.
And there was one final item: fish-tank oxygenating tablets. He made a mental note to himself: Don’t forget the pet shop.
62
“Please, Mr. Novak, have as much as you want. I am a woman, I must watch my figure. But I like to see a man enjoying his food.”
Olga Zhukovskaya looked encouragingly at the legendary hors d’oeuvres trolley of Vienna ’s Drei Husaren restaurant. The trolley held more than thirty seasonal dishes, from calves’ brains to caviar.
Sadly for the waiter in his striped waistcoat, standing attentively beside the trolley, Pavel Novak did not have much of an appetite. Nor was he in any mood to appreciate the homely luxury of the Library, the smaller of the sixty-five-year-old restaurant’s two dining rooms. Under normal circumstances, he would have felt soothed and contented among its shelves filled with ancient hardbacks, its baskets of spring daffodils, the stone statues in niches on the wall, and the restful tones of the wooden paneling and dark-green dining chairs. But not when his worst nightmares were coming to life before him.
The very fact that he and Zhukovskaya were speaking Russian was enough to bring back his darkest memories. For almost fifteen years he had worked to overthrow the rule of the Soviet Union, passing secret information to the West. In all that time, he felt sure he had escaped detection. And now, more than eight years after the Velvet Revolution that had brought freedom to his Czech homeland, the Russians had finally caught up with him.
