He thought for a moment, then got up and wandered into the kitchen, where Alix was making herself a late breakfast. The TV was on, still showing news about the crash. He wondered whether anyone in the world was watching anything else.
'Any developments we need to know about?' he asked.
Alix pressed the remote control, lowering the volume, then turned to look at him. 'People are blaming the paparazzi for chasing the car. There are rumors it was going at almost two hundred kilometers an hour when it crashed.'
'Well, that's bullshit, for a start. It was one twenty, max.'
'Also, they say that blood tests prove the driver was drunk, more than three times over the limit. And there's a survivor, the princess's bodyguard.'
Carver frowned. 'The guy didn't drive like a drunk. And there's a bodyguard? Well, no way would any self- respecting bodyguard let a driver get in a car if he was three times over. The guy would have been completely legless, reeling all over the place, stinking of booze. Christ, you wouldn't let anyone get behind the wheel if he was that far gone.' He slammed his hand against the kitchen counter. 'This is bloody amateur hour. They did a rush job and they've bungled the cover- up. Now every investigative journalist in the world is going to be crawling all over the place, trying to prove it was murder.'
'Well, it was murder.' Alix's voice was quiet, but it cut straight through Carver's bluster. 'We did it. Every time I hear about photographers hounding her to her death, all I can think is, no, that was me. I was flashing the camera, forcing them to go faster.'
'Maybe, but if you hadn't been, someone else would. The real photographers weren't far behind you. And as soon as they got to the crash, did they try to help? No, they started taking photographs.'
A coldness had descended on Carver, the passion of his lovemaking replaced by impersonal calculation. Alix's voice rose in intensity as she tried to break through his armor.
'How can you just stand there and talk about this as if we weren't involved? Don't you think at all about what you've done?'
'Not if I can help it, no.'
For a moment they fell silent; the only noises in the room were the bubbling of the coffeemaker and the muted jabber of an ad from the TV set. Then Carver's body relaxed slightly. He held out a hand and laid it on Alix's shoulder.
'Look, I know how callous, how cynical that sounds. I'm not a total bastard. But one thing I've learned over the years is not to waste time over people who are already dead. It's the only way to stop yourself from going crazy. Am I sorry she died? Of course I am. Do I feel bad that it was me at the end of that tunnel? Just a bit. But where does feeling guilty about that get me, or anyone else? Screw feeling guilty. We were tricked into doing something terrible, and I aim to find the people who did that.'
Carver told Alix what he had in mind. It meant her going undercover, playing a role.
'You've got a lot of experience using fake identities, right? You can fool a man into thinking you're someone you're not?'
'Isn't that what you've been worrying about, that I'm deceiving you?'
'It has crossed my mind, yeah. But forget that for now. I've got another part that might interest you.'
He dialed a local number. When he spoke it was with the guttural bark of an Afrikaner accent. 'Could I speak to Mr. Leclerc, please? Thank you… Howzit, Mr. Leclerc? The name's Dirk Vandervart. I'm what you might call a private security consultant, and you've been recommended to me by contacts at the very highest levels. I have a little over two hundred million U.S. dollars, looking for a home. I'm hoping you can help me find one… Excellent. Well now, I'll be in meetings with clients all day. Why don't we meet at my hotel, the Beau-Rivage, at six this evening, ja? We will have a drink and discuss my banking requirements. I will give you all the references you need at that time. In the meantime, my personal holding company is called Topograficas, SA, registered in Panama. You're welcome to look it up, though I must say you won't find a great deal if you do… Ja, absolutely, that is indeed the blessing of Panama! So, are we set, then? Six o'clock, the Beau-Rivage, ask for Vandervart. Thank you. And good day to you too.'
Carver put the phone down with a flourish.
'You sound as though you have done some acting too,' said Alix.
'More than I'd like,' he agreed. 'This business is basically one long game of charades.'
'And that company with the crazy name. Does it really exist?'
'Mind your own business,' said Carver. He was smiling as he said it, but internally he was making a note to himself. Close down that shelter as soon as this is all over. And hide all the money behind another Panamanian front.
36
In the end, it was just a matter of blind luck. Papin was walking down Grand Rue, the street of art galleries and antique shops at the center of the Old Town, when he saw a flash of pale blue out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head in an automatic reflex and there they were, Carver and Petrova, strolling along the street hand in hand like any other couple, he in jeans and a stone-colored cotton jacket, she still wearing the same dress in which she'd left Paris the previous day. Papin pumped a fist in triumph. His gamble had paid off!
His first instinct was to duck into a doorway for cover. Then he reminded himself that they had no idea of his identity. He looked into a gallery window, closely examining some Goya prints, while his targets walked by on the far side of the street. He let them get fifty meters down the road, then casually ambled after them.
Papin had to smile. The woman wanted to go shopping-mais naturellement. She'd arrived from Paris without any luggage, she didn't have a thing to wear, what else could she do? Still, he had to admire her style. She ignored three-quarters of all the shops she passed. Then something caught her eye and she went in, found what she wanted, bought it-courtesy of Carver's credit cards, Papin noticed-and moved on. She was doing a thorough job too, starting with lingerie and working outward from there. Papin raised an appreciative eyebrow as he watched her pick out a selection of little lacy numbers. Even from across the street and through a shop window, he could tell that Carver was in for an entertaining evening.
In the meantime, the Englishman's lust appeared to have addled his brain. To be walking around the streets in broad daylight with a fellow suspect was madness. Either Carver was playing a game so subtle that Papin could not fathom it, or he had concluded that he had no hope of survival and might as well enjoy what little time was left to him.
And then, without warning, Papin lost them. They ducked into a crowded department store down by the river with exits onto four different streets. Papin cursed under his breath. Perhaps Carver was not quite as careless as he had assumed.
He tried to follow them through the busy store, then abandoned that attempt and settled for a patrol on foot around the block, hoping to catch them leaving the building or walking down one of the adjacent streets. He knew this was futile. One man had almost no chance of maintaining surveillance under those circumstances.
No matter. He might have lost them for now, but he knew where Carver lived to within a matter of three or four blocks. All he had to do was return to the Old Town and start showing his trusty ID card to all the local barkeepers, cafe owners, and apartment-house concierges. Some would refuse to cooperate with anyone in authority as a matter of principle. Others, though, would be equally keen to display their credentials as loyal, law-abiding citizens, eager to do their part in maintaining law and order. As any secret policeman knew, it was never hard to find people willing to inform on their neighbors. Papin was sure he would locate Carver's apartment soon enough. But first it was time to open negotiations.
There was a bar across the road that had a Swisscom public telephone on the wall. 'Merde!' It only took phone cards, not cash. The barman saw his frustration and gestured across the road at a newspaper kiosk. Papin muttered a curse, then wasted a couple of minutes walking over to the kiosk, paying for a fifty-franc card, and returning to the bar. By the time he was standing in front of the phone again his previous good humor had been replaced by gut-tightening tension. He made a conscious effort to summon up an air of confidence, then called the man he knew as Charlie.
