He handed over the file and she examined the Russian script on the cover and the seal keeping it closed, the design a simple cross of Saint George: the symbol and the saint shared by Georgia and England alike.
“That certainly looks like something that Kurt would want to get involved in,” she said. “Let me call him.”
She took out her phone and pressed the speed dial. “Hello, darling…”
She smiled, and stifled a giggle at something Vermulen said.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to that, too, darling… Anyway, Mr. Wynter is right here. He has something to show me that I think you’d like to see. Why don’t I hand you over to him?”
“Evening, Wynter.”
It was obvious from Vermulen’s tone that he’d not picked up the undertones of Alix and Carver’s conversation. He gave no sign of the arrogance of a man talking to his defeated rival, nor the insecurity of a lover under challenge. He was just doing business.
“Good evening, General,” Carver replied. “And congratulations-your new missus is certainly an extraordinary woman… full of surprises.”
Now it helped to be Wynter. He’d not bother to be polite for long.
“You got the money? Let’s just get it done so we can all get out of here.”
The money was transferred. Carver’s bank confirmed receipt of half a million pounds sterling, then immediately moved the money to another account. Carver had made a million pounds in less than a week. He’d have happily lost it all, and every penny deposited in every one of his accounts around the world, just to have arrived back at the hotel a couple of hours earlier, before Alix had walked into that mayor’s office, when there was still a chance to change her mind.
Maybe even now it wasn’t too late? He took her face in his hands, gazed longingly into those intoxicating blue eyes, and put his lips to her ear.
“Come with me-please, I’m begging you…”
She pulled her face away from his, and when she looked at him again it was as though a transparent barrier had descended between them, as if he were a prisoner and she his visitor, separated by bulletproof glass.
“It’s been a pleasure seeing you, Kenny,” she said.
The worst moment of his life, his heart being broken, and he couldn’t even be himself.
She was looking him right in the eye, without a trace of emotion.
“I must go now. Good-bye…”
At some point in their conversation, more of Vermulen’s men must have slipped into the bar, because now they were forming a protective group around her as she walked from the room. When Carver tried to follow her, Reddin blocked the door and prevented his getting out.
“Wherever you think you’re going, man, you ain’t,” he said.
Reddin was big, he had a voice like Barry White, and he looked as if he could handle himself. Even so, Carver felt sure he could take him down, and chase after Alix as she left the hotel. But what was the point? He could beat up as many bodyguards as he liked, shoot them if he had to, but they weren’t the problem. She was. And she was gone for good.
As he sat down, Carver thought of the car that was waiting for him and Alix outside. His mission for MI6 had failed; the document had not been secured. Jack Grantham would not be a happy camper. Right now, that was the least of his worries.
77
Many months ago, overwhelmed by guilt at her part in a murder, and shocked by Carver’s apparently callous indifference to what he had done, Alix had cried out, “Don’t you think at all about what you’ve just done?”
He replied, “Not if I can help it, no.”
Carver saw no point in worrying about things that had already happened and couldn’t be changed. He believed that sort of thing could drive you crazy-far better to deal with the here and now. As one of Reddin’s men drove her away from the Hotel du Cap, Alix thought about that conversation and realized Carver had been wrong. Sometimes you could change the past. Sometimes you had no choice.
The knowledge that Carver was alive and well, that Olga Zhukovskaya’s claim he had died was nothing but a vicious lie, had all but overwhelmed her. She had found herself telling lies of her own, leading Carver to believe that she no longer loved him. Her mind had been reeling: confused, uncertain, barely conscious of what she was saying, torn apart by the pain she was so cruelly inflicting upon him. And it had to be that way.
She knew that if she had given Carver any reason to hope, he would have tried to take her there and then. She also knew, because she had been present when Vermulen gave his orders, that her bodyguards would not have hesitated to use lethal force against the man they knew as Kenny Wynter. There were four of them against one of him. Carver would always favor himself against those odds, but she could not afford to take the risk that he would lose. She had suffered the pain of his death once. She could not bear it again, nor the guilt of knowing that she had been its cause.
Somehow she had to find a way of letting Carver know the truth: She was his, she always would be, and she would find a way of getting back to him, no matter how long it took. If he knew that, he would wait for her-she was sure of it.
Meanwhile, she had another, more immediate problem to resolve. As of this afternoon, she was committed to Vermulen. She had sworn a vow of her own free will. Now she had to be seen to keep it.
“You all right, Mrs. V.?” the driver said, looking at her in the rearview mirror. “You don’t mind me saying, you
