supervized the death and degradation of so many human souls, reacted to his own impending doom with an animal howl of terror. The pilot simply switched off the engine, leaving the main rotors to autorotate like the blades of a windmill.
For a brief moment, calm was restored. The cabin stopped spinning. Visar grinned feebly in a desperate attempt to disguise his cowardice. The pilot began sending out a Mayday message and calling for rescue. A Bell 206B3 JetRanger under autorotation descends at a speed of seventeen miles per hour. With an experienced pilot at the controls, the chances of survival are good, even when landing on water. But Carver had banked on something else.
A helicopter's tail rotor is powered by a driveshaft that runs from the engine along the tail boom. But the power can't be transferred from the shaft to the rotor without a gearbox. This box is a heavy hunk of metal and sits at one end of the boom, acting as a counterweight to the cabin and engine at the other end.
When the rotor was ripped away from the helicopter, it yanked the gearbox out of its moorings and left it dangling off the driveshaft at the open end of the shredded tail boom. It stayed there for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, pulled by gravity and pummeled by the wind. Then the connection to the driveshaft gave way and the gearbox joined the debris tumbling to the sea.
Without its weight, the JetRanger lost any semblance of balance. One second the pilot was looking at the sky. The next he was pointing straight down at the sea, and the chopper had ceased to be a functioning aircraft, becoming instead a glass-and-metal coffin plummeting toward the churning waters, and all the pilot could hear was the manic rush of the air and the death scream of Skender Visar. Samuel Carver was fast asleep when the people trafficker died. Hours earlier, he'd swum back to the rented motorboat he'd moored just around the headland from the bay where Visar's villa lay.
He'd peeled away the wetsuit, dried himself off, and changed into a pair of jeans and a loose cotton shirt. He'd then returned to the tourist resort of Hvar, where he was staying, moored the boat, and had a late dinner in a restaurant down by the seafront. Carver ordered grilled seafood and a chilled bottle of Posip Cara, a fresh white wine from the neighboring island of Korcula. He ate at an outside table and watched the girls go by. Then he walked back to his hotel, just like any other tourist, bidding goodnight to the night porter before making his way to bed.
The next day Carver breakfasted on fresh rolls and sweet black coffee before he checked out, paying in cash. He boarded a ferry across the Adriatic to the Italian port of Pescara, just another anonymous foot passenger at the height of the summer season. Once he got to Italy, he bought a train ticket home-no documentation or ID required, no record kept of his journey, cash accepted without question.
Carver traveled first class. He read a book that wasn't about bird watching. He joined in the conversation when fellow passengers felt like talking, stopped along the way for a couple of decent meals. He did everything he could not to think about what he'd just done.
TEN DAYS LATER
1
The man smiled to himself as he walked into the walnut paneled room, relishing the cool of the air-conditioning after the blazing August heat. He pushed his sunglasses off his face, up over his thinning, tightly cropped black hair. The semidarkness too came as a relief. The peoples of the cold, gloomy north might be happy to spend their summer holidays roasting their milky skins to a crimson crisp, but he was a child of the sun. So he respected its power and sought the shade at midday.
He only had a few minutes to himself. Soon he would be expected back outside, where the servants were laying a table for lunch under a white canvas awning that flapped in the Mediterranean breeze. He walked across the room, feeling the soft thickness of the custom-woven carpet under his bare, olive brown feet. His jeans and T-shirt were simple but very expensive. His watch was a Rolex. He took such things for granted. His entire life had been spent inside the cocoon that money provides for the children of the rich.
Yet for all its privilege, inherited wealth carries with it the stigma of being unearned. To outsiders, he was a mere playboy, a parasite feeding off his father's achievements. He planned to change that. Very soon, the whole world would be talking about what he had done. A smile crossed his lips as he anticipated what was to come, pressed a button, and speed dialed a London number.
'We must talk,' he said to the person on the other end of the line. 'Be ready on Monday. I have important news, good news about…' he hesitated, trying to find the right words, knowing that others might be listening. 'Let's just say, our mutual friend.'
The man's attempt at discretion was futile. His conversation was picked up by the giant radomes scattered across the bleak Yorkshire landscape at Menwith Hill, where Echelon, the global surveillance system run by America's National Security Agency, intercepts countless telephone and e-mail messages every day.
From there, a signal was sent via a satellite, in orbit nineteen thousand miles above the earth, to the NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. Cray Y-MP supercomputers, capable of almost three billion operations per second, sifted through the never-ending multilingual babble. Like a prospector panning for gold, the Crays picked out nuggets from the onrushing stream. They sought key individuals, trigger words and phrases to be flagged for further investigation.
Data gathered by Echelon was also sent to British Government Communications Headquarters, on the outskirts of Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. More computers plucked more information from the human torrent. That information was passed on to the ministry of defence, the foreign office, and the law enforcement and intelligence agencies.
Fiona Towthorp, an attractive, freckle-faced woman of forty, worked as a senior intelligence analyst at GCHQ. She had just spotted an item she knew her masters would covet. But when she picked up the phone, the number she dialed had nothing to do with Her Majesty's government.
The line was encrypted at a level even Echelon could not decode. This call would never be overheard. 'Consortium,' a man's voice answered.
'I have a message from the corporate communications department,' said Towthorp. 'There's something the chairman needs to know.'
Towthorp was put straight through.
2
They came for Carver in the morning. He'd got the call the night before, just as he was turning out the gas lantern that provided the only illumination in his mountain hut.
'Carver,' he'd said, not bothering to disguise his irritation as the GSM phone shrieked for his attention.
There were no formalities or introductions from the voice on the other end of the line with its flat Thames Estuary accent. 'Where are ya?'
'On holiday, Max. Not working. I think you know that.'
'I know what you're doing, Carver. I just dunno where you're doing it.'
'Guess what, there was a reason I didn't tell you.'
'Well, I may have a job for you.'
'No.'
Max ignored him. 'Listen, I'll know for sure within the next twelve hours. If it happens, trust me, we'll make it worth your while interrupting your holidays. Three million dollars, U.S., paid into the usual account. You can have a nice long break after that.'
'I see,' said Carver, flatly. 'And if I refuse?'
'Then my advice would be, stay on your holiday. And don't come back. It's your choice.'
Carver wasn't bothered by the implied physical threat. But he didn't want to lose his major client. This was his
