way; the guy who'd been waiting at the front could not possibly have seen them. But he figured there'd be other goons where the first two came from. There was no point taking chances.
Most of the way, they sat in silence. Then they took the final change, getting on the D train that would take them down to the Gare de Lyon.
'There are closed-circuit TV cameras at the station,' said Carver, 'so we shouldn't be seen together. When we get there, pick up your bag from your locker. Then check the departure board. There should be a train for Milan leaving at seven fifteen. Get on it. Go to the first-class compartment. I'll meet you there.'
'Why should I come with you?' Alix asked.
Carver couldn't be bothered to come up with a smart reason. 'Because you want to?'
Alix hadn't expected that. This time her smile was genuine, her voice warmer than it had been at any time since they left the club. 'I guess I don't have any better offers right now.'
'Come on, this is our stop.' He handed her a numbered key. 'Your locker. See you on the train.'
Carver let Alix step out of the train ahead of him, then waited on the platform to see if there was a tail following her. When the next train came into the platform, he joined the trickle of passengers who got off and started walking toward the mainline station. He picked up the computer from a separate locker then went to the ticket office. He was wearing the eyeglasses now, the ones he'd picked up at the all-night pharmacy. They didn't do much to change his face, but every bit helped. He asked for two first-class seats to Milan and paid cash for the tickets.
He left the ticket office and walked across to an automatic ticket machine on the concourse outside. Above him, massive cast-iron beams supported a glass roof, making the whole place seem like a gigantic greenhouse.
A few early travelers were breakfasting beneath the white umbrellas of the station cafe. Behind them, inside the main station building, was the Gare de Lyon's magnificent restaurant Le Train Bleu. Compared to the filthy station buffets in England, where surly staff served tasteless plastic slop, Le Train Bleu was a gourmet's paradise. But Carver had no time to enjoy its pleasures now.
He bought a fistful of tickets to different destinations, all for cash. He reached the Milan train twenty minutes after he had last seen Alix. She was asleep, her head slumped against the side of the carriage.
Carver watched her for a few seconds, taking in the contours of her face. All the tension had slipped away from her features, leaving only vulnerability. He took off Max's jacket, folded it neatly on the seat opposite Alix, then reached out a hand and gave her shoulder a brisk shake.
'Wake up,' he said. 'We've got to move.'
Alix came to. She frowned. 'You look different. Older.'
'It's just the glasses.'
'Where are we?'
'We're still in Paris. But we're changing trains. First, though, you've got to make a call.'
She gave him a puzzled frown as he took her phone out of one of his pockets and dialed a number. A ringing came from his money belt. He pulled out a phone of his own and picked up the call. Then he placed the two phones in the luggage rack above their heads.
'Let's go,' he said. 'Follow me.'
Carver picked up Alix's bag. He put it over one shoulder and the computer case over the other. He left the jacket behind. Carver took Alix's hand and practically dragged her out of the compartment, off the train, across the platform, and onto another train. Twenty seconds after they had got onboard, the train started moving.
'Where are we going?' asked Alix.
'Aaah,' said Carver. 'That's a surprise.'
23
Two Russians came for Kursk and bundled him into their car.
'Mother of God, Grigori Mikhailovich,' said the driver, 'You stink like a Chechen shithouse. It'll cost me a fortune to have the car cleaned.'
'Shut it, Dimitrov. I need painkillers. Strong ones. Now.'
'Of course, Grigori, whatever you say.'
They took Kursk to a cheap hotel. The owner was expecting them. He was a Russian. He would do as he was told and keep his mouth shut. Dimitrov disappeared. Ten minutes later, he returned. The owner told him Kursk was upstairs in his room, having a shower. When Dimitrov knocked, Kursk opened the door wearing nothing but a towel. His body was covered with vivid black and purple bruises, and slashed by bloody abrasions.
Dimitrov followed Kursk into the room. He held out two pills. 'Demerol,' he said. 'My last ones. I will get more as soon as I can.'
Kursk washed the pills down with neat vodka, wiping the back of his hand across his face when he'd finished. 'Okay, now get out of here,' he said. 'I need to get some rest.'
He'd been out for less than an hour when there was another knock on his door. Kursk got up and strode across the room, stark naked. He opened the door.
'I thought I told you not to fucking disturb me.'
Dimitrov held out a phone. 'It's Yuri,' he said.
There were no introductions, just a voice on the other end of the line saying, 'Get on the next train to Milan. Take Dimitrov.'
Kursk rubbed the sleep from his eyes. 'Yeah, sure… why?'
'Your partner kept her mobile on. We have tracked it traveling southeast across France. It looks as though she is on a train bound for Milan. The Englishman-his name is Samuel Carver-is almost certainly with her. They were spotted dancing together at some club in Paris. Platon was there with a couple of his latest women. He called me. And I am told that this Carver is carrying a computer that may contain information I do not wish to be made public. I will make sure we have people to meet the train at every stop. If Petrova and Carver get off, they will be followed until you arrive.'
'And then?'
'And then, Kursk, you will kill Carver and get that computer.'
'What about the woman?'
'Bring her back. I will decide what happens to her.'
24
Alix slept most of the way. Carver sat opposite her. He'd crashed out on the plane on the last transatlantic leg of the flight, waking only minutes before they landed in Paris. But even if he'd been tired, he wasn't in any mood to sleep. So he looked out the window, watching the suburbs of Paris give way to the flat landscape of northern France, then the rich, rolling hills of Burgundy, and finally, past Dijon, the limestone cliffs and gorges of the Jura and the first foothills of the Alps.
He thought about himself and what he'd done, thought about the girl, tried to figure out what he was going to do. His head was swirling with unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. Carver told himself there was no point fretting about things that were done and beyond recall. The princess was dead. Nothing was going to change that. He had to stick to the rules: concentrate on what he could control. But who was he kidding? He'd chosen to complicate his life by bringing the girl, how much control did he have over her?
He was watching her sleeping, slumped against the side of the carriage, when she slowly opened her eyes, still halfasleep, caught him staring, and gave him a lazy smile that turned into a yawn.
'What were you thinking?' she murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
'Oh, I don't know…'
She perked up, her eyes now awake, looking directly at his own. 'Were you wondering what it would be like to
