Colclough turned back toward the phone. 'She's gone,' he said. 'I'm returning to base. Over and out.'
'Right,' said Carver. 'Sit on your right hand. Wedge it under nice and tight. Good. Now put your left hand on the wheel. Don't move.'
'Or what?'
Before Carver could answer, Alix leaned forward and brought her arm around the back of the driver's seat, her fist balled. She gave a gentle squeeze of her hand and a high-carbon stainless-steel blade sprang out from between her thumb and forefinger. She pressed the tip of the blade against Colclough's neck.
'Or I teach you to show a woman respect.'
Having made her point, Alix relaxed back into her seat and snapped the blade back into its handle. Carver looked at her, startled, unable to hide his surprise. He saw a mocking look cross Colclough's face and felt the surprise give way to anger, mostly at his own stupidity.
He reached into one of his pants pockets and pulled out another plastic cuff strip and handed it to Colclough.
'Loop one end around the steering wheel. Pass the other end through it. Then pull it tight.'
Colclough did as he was told. One half of the cuff was now attached to the wheel, the other half dangled free.
'Now put your left hand through there,' said Carver, gesturing with his gun at the empty cuff. 'Tighten it with your right hand. Good boy.'
Colclough was now cuffed to the steering wheel. He wasn't leaving the car until Carver cut him loose. Carver patted him down, looking for a weapon.
'Maybe you should have done that to the bird, eh?' Colclough sneered. 'You might've enjoyed it an' all.'
Colclough was balding, maybe twenty pounds overweight. His shirt was white polyester. He was wearing gray trousers, with a matching jacket hanging from a hook behind the passenger seat. His shoes were black lace-ups. He wasn't carrying a gun or knife. There was nothing in his jacket.
Carver looked at Colclough with a wry, contemplative smile on his face, then glanced down at his gun. Without warning, he lashed out, smashing the pistol into Colclough's face, cracking his cheekbone and drawing blood. Colclough bent over, holding his face in his uncuffed hand. He prodded his battered cheek with a fingertip and winced.
'What the 'ell did you do that for?'
'You heard the lady,' Carver said. 'Show some respect.'
'My hero,' said Alix, teasingly. She tossed the knife handle up and down in her hand. 'It was in my boot,' she explained, 'then in my hand. From the moment you set me free, I could have killed you anytime.'
'Why didn't you?'
'I still might.'
Carver ignored the remark and turned back to Colclough. He took the lump of C4 putty from his pocket and held it out.
'Do you know what this is?'
'I can guess.'
'Good,' said Carver. 'Now, watch.'
He leaned down and stuck the putty underneath the side of the passenger seat, out of Colclough's reach. Then he rummaged through another pocket and pulled out a timer detonator.
'Max is in town, isn't he?'
Colclough nodded.
'Thought so. An operation like this, he'd have to control it on-site. So I'm guessing he's not far from here, right?'
Another nod.
Carver held the detonator in front of Colclough's face. 'I'm setting this to fifteen minutes. You've got that much time to get us to Max. If we get there on time, I pull out the detonator, nothing happens. If we don't get there, I open this door and leave. The lady goes out the back door. You stay locked to the steering wheel.'
He set the timer and skewered it into the putty. The sound of a fire engine siren echoed in the distance.
'Alternatively,' said Carver, 'I reset it to thirty seconds and we get out now. What's it going to be?'
Colclough didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His labored breathing and the sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead told the story. He turned the ignition, stuck the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb.
'Good man,' said Carver. 'Now, time we had a little chat. Let's not piss about. Tell me where we're going. Describe the place. How many people does Max have? Fourteen and a half minutes left. Talk.'
11
Carver repeated the question. 'How many people?'
'I don't know, all right?' Colclough whined. 'That's the whole point, ain't it? You only know what you need to know. You only see what you need to see.'
'All right, what did you see?'
'It's a big mansion. Old place. Proper flash. You get there and the building comes right up to the pavement, almost like a blank wall facing the street. There's an arch with a driveway through it. That's how you get in.'
'Security?'
'Gates. Metal gates.'
They'd made it back to the river again. Across the water, Carver could see the floodlit towers of Notre Dame. He ignored them, giving all his concentration to Colclough.
'You drive in and there's a little guardhouse on the left, inside the arch, yeah? There was definitely an individual there, checking everyone in and out.'
'Cameras?'
'Couple at the front. Didn't see any others. But there might be.'
'All right, then what?'
Colclough thought for a moment. 'A courtyard. There's like an old stables or something on one side they use for car parking. The front door's opposite the entrance arch. It's under cover, so you can drive right up, get to the door, and you don't get wet. You go in, there's a big, bare hall and a marble staircase right up the middle of the building.'
'That's normal. It's a hotel particular,' Alix interrupted.
Carver turned around in his seat. 'Sorry?'
The girl explained, as if reciting from a guidebook. 'A hotel particulier. A classic Paris mansion, probably built in the seventeenth or eighteenth century.'
'How do you know about that?' asked Carver.
'Because I was trained to discuss such things.'
'In Russia?'
Alix nodded. 'Of course. It was essential for my job.'
'Which was?'
She broke into one of her noncommittal smiles. 'Conversation. So, if this is a typical hotel, all the main reception rooms are on the first floor. Is that where Max is?'
Colclough nodded. 'Yeah, some kind of dining room. His guv'nor was next door, in some other room.'
Carver frowned. 'What do you mean, 'guv'nor'? You're saying Max has a boss? Who is he?'
'How should I know? I never saw him.'
'How do you know he's there, then?'
'Because Max was called into the next room. Went straight through, no argument. So the bloke must've been his boss. Logical, yeah?'
He looked at Carver with pleading eyes, desperate to be told he was doing all right, that everything would work out okay. His voice cracked. 'Christ, I'm doing my best. I've got a wife, a daughter. I don't wanna die. I mean, what've I ever done to you, for Chrissake?'
