The four directors met around a glass table and sat on plain metal chairs. The tabletop was free of paper and writing implements: No minutes were ever taken of the board's meetings. Security was absolute. There were no phones on the table, no pictures on the wall, nowhere to hide any kind of listening device. The air-conditioning vent was plastered directly into the ceiling and could not be unscrewed. The light fixtures were sealed units, fitted with long-life bulbs. The sound- and bulletproof windows were hidden behind blackout blinds. The men had left their phones, wallets, keys, and loose change in plastic trays, then passed through a scanner before they entered the room.
The chairman got right down to business. 'Gentlemen, thirty-six hours have passed since the Paris operation. In one important respect, it was a success. The mission's main objective was attained. There are, however, a number of loose ends that need to be tied up.'
'It's a little worse than that, isn't it?'
'I'm sorry, Finance, is there something you'd like to say?'
'Yes there is, actually.' The man's appearance was impeccably tailored, but his voice was tense, teetering on the edge of panic. 'The whole thing's turning into a bloody nightmare. The country's gone mad with grief, the republicans are having a field day, and the monarchy's facing the biggest crisis since the abdication. Meanwhile, we've got an assassin on the loose. He could be anywhere in the world by now. And if he talks, we're done for.'
The chairman sat perfectly still, letting the finance director say his piece. Then he continued as if the words had never been spoken. 'As I was saying, there are a few loose ends. My information suggests that the security services are under extreme pressure to find out what happened. The PM's pet hooligan, Trodd, has declared that he does not want a newspaper beating him to the truth. This administration is obsessed by headlines, of course…'
A third voice, its accent Australian, entered the conversation. 'Mate, you can hardly blame them. Headlines don't get any bigger than this.'
'Indeed not, Communications. News management will play an extremely important role over the next few days and I'll be looking to you to make sure that we don't see any unwelcome headlines. It's in no one's interests for the actual events or their participants to be made public. I'm sure we can reach some kind of discreet, even anonymous accommodation with the government. If they are given Carver's name, and a credible assurance that he has already been dealt with, that should keep the wolves from our door. Perhaps the operations director would like to update us on his progress.'
'I've spent the day trying to put a crew together. It hasn't been easy to get people of the caliber we'll need. As you know, we exclusively use freelance operatives, hired at arm's length, and we lost a number of our best contractors over the weekend, but I'm confident that we'll be ready to move within the next twenty-four hours. First we've got to find him, of course.'
'Well, that should be a cinch,' sneered the finance director. 'I'm sure he'll send us a postcard to let us know where he is.'
The chairman frowned at the consortium's moneyman, wondering whether it was time to replace him. He would put his mind to the problem once the Carver issue had been resolved.
He turned back to the operations director. 'Are we any closer to tracking him down?'
'Yes, chairman, I think we are. He left Paris yesterday morning by train from the Gare de Lyon. He may well have been accompanied by one of the Russians, who had, of course, been ordered to kill him-a woman, Alexandra Petrova. If she is indeed with him, it's not clear whether she intends to carry out her assignment or has genuinely defected, as it were. Either way, I'm certain Carver's still in Europe. He bought tickets for Milan but didn't take that route. I'd guess he's somewhere in eastern France, or maybe Switzerland. It doesn't really matter. I don't think he'll try to run. I'd expect him to be much more assertive.'
'By which you mean…?'
'That he'll try to come after us before we can get to him.'
'You don't sound too concerned about this prospect.'
'Well, he doesn't know who we are. And it's going to be very hard for him to find out without alerting us to his presence. Besides, I may have a lead on his precise whereabouts. I have a contact in Paris, name of Pierre Papin, works for French intelligence. He has been tracking Carver and Petrova's movements using railway-station surveillance systems. He says he knows where they went.'
'So why hasn't he told you?'
'He wants money for his information.'
'How much?'
'Half a million U.S. dollars. I think we should go for it.'
'That's ridiculous!' exclaimed the finance director.
'Really?' replied the chairman. 'What makes you say that? Some would call it quite a modest price for keeping us all alive and getting the government off our backs.'
The man in the pin-striped suit took a deep breath and smoothed back his hair, clearly embarrassed by his loss of control. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, more assured, the voice of a man used to giving orders rather than taking them.
'I simply question whether we can afford to expend many more resources without being certain that the benefits justify the cost. The Paris operation involved a significant financial downside. Of course, we were able to save a great deal by withholding fees from some of the personnel involved. But even so, there were major logistical outlays, not to mention considerable sums spent purchasing influence within a number of French institutions. We lost several men, whose families will have to be compensated and kept quiet. Massive damage was sustained to two properties, which will have to be repaired at great cost. I therefore believe that any further expenditure should be considered very carefully.'
The chairman nodded. Perhaps the finance director was not beyond salvaging after all. 'A very persuasive argument. As you said, Operations, Carver will be obliged to show himself. So make sure that when he emerges from hiding, we are ready and able to deal with him.'
The operations director glared at the moneyman, who had undermined him, then turned back to his boss. 'But what are we going to do about Papin? If we don't pay him, he'll try to give Carver to someone else. And there's another thing. He's got our computer. It's protected by passwords, encryption, and firewalls. There's no way Carver's broken into the files just yet. But he's a resourceful individual. He'll find a way of cracking them eventually. And we can't let that happen.'
'No,' agreed the chairman, 'We certainly can't have that.' He thought for a while, tapping his fingers against the surface of the desk, then continued. 'How are we supposed to make contact again?'
'He's calling at twelve thirty our time.'
'Fine, then have his call patched through to me. I shall persuade our French friend that he has more to gain by keeping us happy in the long term than by making a fast buck now.'
'And if he isn't persuaded?'
'I shall make him pay for his stubbornness.'
39
Bill Selsey, a twenty-two-year veteran at MI6, a man whose chief ambitions were a steady career and a solid pension at the end of it, sidled up to Jack Grantham's glass-fronted office at the far end of one of the open-plan offices that lent MI6 headquarters a deceptive appearance of corporate normality.
'Busy, Jack?'
Grantham looked up from the screen where he was checking files on the world's professional hit men and wondering why so many of their whereabouts were listed as 'Unknown.' What was the point of knowing about the bad guys if you didn't have the resources to keep proper tabs on them?
'Nothing urgent. What can I do for you?'
Selsey parked his ample backside on the edge of Grantham's desk, ignoring his colleague's disapproving frown.
