'No, Bobby, I really can't. And you won't be sailing solo on the way back. I'll be crewing for you.'
'God almighty… When's this crossing supposed to take place?'
'Tonight. You'd have to get over there today and I need to get back under cover of darkness.'
Another long pause: Carver heard water being poured into a cup, the rattle of a spoon, then the slurp of a man taking that first hot sip of morning coffee. Finally Faulkner spoke.
'Okay, Pablo, what's the story? What kind of trouble are you in?'
'I'm afraid I can't tell you that.'
'Well, you're going to have to. Listen, I'm a married man. I've got a family to think about. I can't go risking my neck just because you call up and ask me a favor. I have the right to know just how much trouble I'm getting into.'
'Yes,' agreed Carver, 'you have that right. But you really don't want to know what's going on here. If you take me across, I'll say good-bye the moment we get to dry land and I won't get back in touch until this is all over.'
'Until what is all over?'
'Until I've sorted out a little personal problem.' Carver thought for a moment, trying to work out how much he could say. 'Listen, Bobby, I've met a girl, the first since Kate who's meant anything to me. I think she might be someone really important in my life.''
Faulkner laughed. 'And you need to get into the country without her husband finding out?'
'I wish. No, she's been kidnapped. Someone grabbed her last night, a Russian. But I don't know where he's taken her, and I don't know who he's working for.'
'Where was she when this Russian took her?'
'Geneva.'
Another sip of coffee, then, 'I don't get it. Why do you need to come here?'
'Because the people who gave this bloke his orders, or know who did, are in London. But I don't want them to know I'm on the way. So no credit cards, no customs, no passports.'
There was silence at the far end of the line. 'Well, you in?' asked Carver.
'I think I feel a touch of flu coming on,' said Faulkner.
'Are you saying you're not well enough to help?'
'No, I'm saying I'll call in sick at work. Can you get to the yacht basin at Cherbourg by nine this evening, local time?'
'Yeah.'
'Great. See you there, then.'
'Thanks, Bobby, I owe you.'
'Oh yeah, you do.' Bobby Faulkner didn't enjoy telling his wife he was disappearing for the next twenty-four hours, minimum, leaving her to cope with the baby while he did a favor for a man neither of them had seen for three years. Wives did not, by and large, believe that their husband's loyalty to the men he'd served with should exceed his loyalty to his woman and children. Bobby could see that Carrie had a point, a bloody big point, but he also knew that the honor codes that bound brother-officers were unbreakable.
It was perfectly obvious that Pablo Jackson was in serious, possibly criminal trouble, but that made no difference. Faulkner had known old Booties who'd ended up in jail before now. You turned up at court to give them moral support, kept an eye on their families while they were inside, and threw a bloody great party when they got out. And you did it because you knew that if the positions were ever reversed, they'd do the same for you.
That was why he made another call of his own.
'Hello, Quentin,' he said, when he was put through.
'Bobby, dear boy, what can I do for you?'
'I just had a call from Pablo Jackson. Did he get through to you the other day? I gave him your number.'
'No. Pamela said he'd rung the house, but I never heard from him.'
'I think he's in a bit of bother.'
Faulkner explained the situation, ending with a request for help. 'I'd be bloody grateful for a hand on the boat. It would make the crossing a lot easier.'
Trench laughed. 'So we'd reverse our old positions, eh? You'll be my skipper and I your humble crew.'
'I wouldn't put it like that, QT.'
'Don't worry, just pulling your leg. I've got a couple of meetings today, but nothing my secretary can't reschedule. Where do you need me?'
'Poole Yacht Club, ten o'clock. My boat's the Tamarisk, a Rustler 36. I'll be onboard. Just step on deck and we'll be off.'
'Well, then, no time to waste talking. See you there.'
57
'Have you made the calls?'
Bill Selsey looked at his colleague with sympathy in his eyes-sympathy and an intense gratitude that he'd not been the one who'd had to do every senior officer's least favorite job.
'Yeah.' Jack Grantham looked drained of his usual air of purpose. 'She was an only child, you know. Her parents' pride and joy. A First at Cambridge, a glittering career. All that was missing was the husband and children. The worst thing is, the parents have no idea what their kid's really been up to. At least if your boy's in the army you know there's always the chance of bad news. But these people were sitting there thinking their little girl had a safe diplomatic job in Switzerland. And who the hell ever gets killed in Switzerland?'
'How did you explain it? Car crash?'
'Yeah, the usual: a hit-and-run, tragic accident, death was instantaneous, she didn't suffer. All that bollocks.'
'I got you a coffee.'
Selsey handed over a white plastic cup filled with an indeterminate brown liquid. Grantham took a drink and grimaced.
'Bloody hell, that's awful.'
'Some things don't change,' said Selsey. 'New HQ, same old rubbish coffee.'
Grantham managed a bitter laugh. He drank some more, then shook his head.
'It wasn't meant to be like this. I told them, just watch, don't get involved.'
'I know,' agreed Selsey. 'I said the same thing. Told her to be careful. Are we sure yet, how it all happened?'
'Pretty much. Murcheson, the other lad from Bern, spent all night with the Geneva police. He's seen all their forensic evidence, read the witness statements. Johnsen was taking photographs right up to the moment he decided to get involved. It seems pretty clear that our Russian friend from the black BMW, the one we think killed Papin, had managed to swap vehicles. He'd got hold of a telephone company van and was using it to watch one of the properties on the street. Presumably it was the place Papin had led him to, where the Paris crew were hiding out. So he's watching that and we're watching him and everything's just peachy, until for no good reason anyone can work out, the Russian decides on a change of plan and goes into this cafe.'
'Maybe he just fancied a decent cup of coffee?'
'Well, I can sympathize with him there. But there must have been more to it than that because Johnsen took it upon himself to go up to the cafe himself, and by the time he got there the Russian had grabbed a young woman- identity unknown, by the way-and was dragging her out the door. Then Johnsen decides to do his knight-in- shining-armor act and gets shot for his trouble. So then the Russian starts shooting witnesses, two in the cafe and Stock, who'd come rushing up the road when she saw her partner go down.'
'What a bloodbath. Still, one can't help wondering about this mystery woman, the one who got abducted. The Russian must have wanted her very badly if he was prepared to kill four people without blinking. And he didn't kill her, you'll note.'
'Not yet, no.'
'So she's the key to it.'
