81
Carver couldn’t see any good reason he should come running, just because Grantham had called. He spent fifteen minutes getting washed and dressed before heading down to the hotel lobby. It was worth the wait, simply to see the irritation on Grantham’s face. There was something else there, too, Carver realized as he got closer: The MI6 man’s normal self-assurance, arrogance, even, had given way to a nervy edginess that he’d never seen before.
“Where’s my document?” snapped Grantham.
“The same place as my girlfriend, cuddling up to Kurt Vermulen,” Carver said, as if it didn’t bother him one bit. “She married him-did you know that?”
That news had been meant to knock Grantham off his stride, but it had the opposite effect. A smug smile crossed Grantham’s face, a look of sheer pleasure that Carver had been dumped in even deeper shit than he had.
“That must have come as a shock.”
“Just a bit,” said Carver.
“Still, you don’t look very heartbroken.”
“What would you prefer, drunk and tearstained?”
“Something like that.”
Carver shrugged. “I thought about it. But I found a better alternative. Nice girl.”
“And you accuse me of not giving a toss?”
“Listen, I loved Alix. That was real; probably still is. But it won’t do me any good now, moping around. I’m just going to forget her, move on, put as much distance between us as I can.”
Carver wondered if he sounded any more convincing than he felt. Evidently not-Grantham looked at him with an expression of profound skepticism before his face cleared, a new thought striking him.
“You got time to grab a late breakfast before you go? There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Carver groaned. What now?
“Come on,” Grantham insisted. “They do a splendid buffet down by the sea. Great food, fantastic view… I’m paying. And I think you’ll be interested when you find out who’s flown in to see you.”
Carver followed Grantham across the lobby and out through the doors that opened onto the hotel’s magnificent wooded gardens. As he walked down the path that stretched down to the sea, one tiny hope flickered at the back of his mind and kept him moving toward an appointment he otherwise would have refused. And then he realized it was ridiculous even to consider such a notion. It was another Russian woman sitting at the table, with a bob of black hair framing eyes that were assessing him with cold, impersonal objectivity as Grantham gestured in her direction.
“May I introduce Deputy Director Zhukovskaya, of the Federal Security Service?”
She held out her hand with a smile that was even chillier than her eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Carver. You killed my husband.”
“I was provoked,” he replied, before letting go of her hand.
Grantham ordered coffee, orange juice, and a selection of pastries.
“I think I’ll have a proper cooked breakfast, actually,” said Carver, gesturing toward the buffet. “Feeling quite peckish this morning.”
He took his time getting scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, crisp white rolls and dewy chunks of unsalted Normandy butter. He made a point of tucking in, knowing the other two wanted to talk. But in the end, it was he who cracked first. He couldn’t help himself.
“Did you tell her I was dead?” he asked Zhukovskaya.
“Yes, I gave the order for her to receive that information,” she said, without any hint of embarrassment or apology.
“Why?”
Carver was uncomfortably aware that there was more emotion, even desperation, in that single syllable than he’d intended.
“It was a practical necessity,” Zhukovskaya replied, still quite unruffled. “You killed the man I sent to eliminate you, and then you left the hospital. You were no longer a patient; therefore the payments to cover your bills would have to stop. It was possible Petrova might find out about that, if she checked her financial records. She would naturally want to know what had happened. I simply anticipated that moment.”
“But she only did the job to keep me alive. Why would she stay with Vermulen if I was gone?”
“Self-preservation,” said Zhukovskaya, as if the answer were obvious. “Alexandra Petrova is an agent of the Federal Security Service, under my command. She knows that any agent who leaves an assignment without orders from a superior officer is guilty of desertion, and she also knows the penalty for that offense. In any case, I preferred to look on the positive side. Without you to think about, Petrova was free to concentrate on General Vermulen.”
“Well, you got that wrong. She concentrated on him so much, she married him. She’s not yours anymore, or mine. She’s his.”
Zhukovskaya sipped at her coffee.
