'Well, she's part of the key, certainly. Because there's something else.'
Grantham was picking up speed now, finding new reserves of energy. 'At almost exactly the same time as the Russian was shooting people left, right, and center at the cafe, there was another fight going on up the road at an Irish pub.'
'Good grief. Sounds more like Dodge City than Geneva.'
'I know, but here's the interesting thing. There were three victims of this pub brawl and they were all Russian, all carrying diplomatic passports. They wouldn't say a word about what happened. But they were all armed with submachine guns and they were all taken out by one man, before they could fire a shot.'
Selsey gave a whistle of admiration. 'Sounds like an impressive chap.'
'Yes, and this same mystery man was next seen running down the street shooting a pistol of his own. And guess what his target was?'
'Don't tell me, the Russian?'
'You got it. The Russian, driving away in his van, presumably with the woman stuck in the back. So what does that tell you?'
'That the mystery man and the mystery woman were both being chased by the same bunch of Russians.'
'And the Russians got their information from Pierre Papin, who was trying to flog us a lead to the people who killed the princess. Which means…'
Selsey had no trouble finishing the sentence: 'That if we find the mystery duo, we've got our killers.'
'Exactly.'
'Maybe those poor bloody kids didn't die entirely in vain.'
'Somehow, Bill, I don't think that will bring much comfort to their parents.'
Neither man knew what to say next. Before either could think of anything, the phone rang. Grantham picked it up. He listened to the voice on the other end of the line for a few seconds, frowning at what he heard. Then he said, 'Hang on a second,' and gestured at Bill Selsey, pointing at something on his desk. 'Pass me that pad, quick, and a pen.'
Selsey handed them over and Grantham started writing, his phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. Finally he put the ballpoint down and transferred the phone to his hand. 'Thanks, Percy, I really appreciate this. As you may know, this all got personal for us last night. Anyway, well done. You've come up trumps once again.'
Grantham put the phone down and suddenly his face, so miserable a few minutes earlier, was wreathed in a beaming grin. 'We've got them! Percy Wake seems to have persuaded his contacts that they need to be a bit more helpful. They've handed over two names. Surprise, surprise, it's a man and a woman. And I'm going to have them if it's the last thing I do.'
58
'Bugger!'
Bobby Faulkner stood helplessly in the cockpit of the 36-foot yacht the Tamarisk, his hand on the starter button of its Yanmar diesel engine, listening to the spluttering cough of a motor that didn't want to start. A mocking jeer came from his crewman, Samuel Carver, standing at the bow of the boat, a line in his hand, waiting to cast off.
'Don't tell me you forgot to fill her up!'
It felt like old times to Carver, going off on a mission with Bobby and QT. He'd spent all day with nothing to drag his mind away from Alix, driving himself crazy trying to work out what had happened to her, trying not to dwell too long on what her captors might be doing to her.
Along the way, he'd called Thor Larsson, received a one- word progress report on the computer decryption-'Slow'-and asked for a final piece of technical assistance. 'I want to ruin their day,' he'd said. Now he was back in that familiar routine, using banter and mockery to push fear to one side, finding comfort in the unspoken affection that underpins male friendships.
Faulkner called back, 'Piss off! The tank's full, there's just a bit of sludge in the fuel line. Should clear all right. It always does.'
Another, older voice spoke up from the stern of the boat, three or four feet behind Faulkner: 'Fear not. It was just as feeble when we left Poole. But we got underway eventually.'
Carver grinned at the sound of his old commanding officer's voice, feeling reassured by his presence, happy that for once someone else was looking out for him. The old man must be in his late fifties by now, but he still looked pretty much as Carver remembered him: quite short, stockily built, but brimming with bullish energy. There were probably a few more pounds around Trench's waist, and the lines on his ruddy face were etched a bit deeper, but time would do that to any man. There were dark smudges around his eyes too, but Trench had explained them away soon enough.
'I was off shooting in Scotland over the weekend with some old chums. We swore we wouldn't stay up drinking and talking all night. Told one another we were getting too old to go to bed at three and be out on the moor by eight. And then we did it all over again. Typical!'
Faulkner disappeared into the bowels of the boat to fiddle about with the engine. The other two men returned to the boat's open cockpit. They sat down opposite each other on the cushioned benches that curled around its sides, interrupted only by the hatch on the forward side that opened onto a ladder down into the boat's cabin.
Trench leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. 'So,' he began, with the look of an affectionate uncle amused by his nephew's latest scrapes, 'Bobby tells me you've got yourself a sexy new mail-order bride.'
Carver gave a puzzled frown. 'Sorry?'
Trench chuckled. 'Forgive me, dear boy. Inappropriate comment. You must be under terrible pressure, with this Russian girl of yours going missing. I was just trying to bring a touch of levity to the situation, a little joke about the way most ladies from her neck of the woods find a chap in the West. Wrong move, obviously.' He cleared his throat, then tried again. 'So, tell me about this girl. I gather she's the real thing.'
Carver grimaced. He didn't feel in the mood for a heart- to-heart conversation.
'Maybe… but you never know, do you?'
'I should have thought that was the whole point. You know instantly. I did, when I met Pamela. Took one look at her and thought, 'Bloody hell, she's a cracker.' '
'Okay, yeah, that's part of it. But it's not that simple. You feel a certain way, but you can't necessarily trust that feeling. You can't be sure what she's thinking. You don't know what she wants, or what's going to happen between you. Can't be sure of anything, basically.'
The older man sighed. 'Goodness me, that's not the dashing young officer I used to know. You were always decisive, confident, absolutely sure of yourself and your men. You didn't sit around worrying all day. You just got on with the job at hand.'
'That's because I knew what the job was. I had orders, I knew my targets, and there was a specific definition of success. That stuff was easy. This stuff isn't.'
Trench nodded. 'Then let's stick to specifics. What's this female's name? Age? Description?'
'Alexandra Petrova; just about to turn thirty; maybe five foot eight; weighs around a hundred and thirty pounds; blond hair, blue eyes.'
'Bloody hell,' repeated Trench, 'she is a cracker.'
'Yeah, but there's a lot more to it than that.'
'How do you mean?'
'She just gets it. And I think I get her. I don't know…' Carver didn't want to say any more.
Trench raised his eyebrows, just as Faulkner emerged through the hatch with a determined look on his face. He glanced at the two other men.
'Not interrupting, am I?'
'It's fine,' said Carver. 'We're done. So, is this boat any closer to moving?'
'Absolutely,' said Faulkner with a triumphant smile. 'Like a rocket. Gentlemen, return to your positions, if you please.'
He waited while the two men went to either end of the boat and picked up their lines, then pressed the starter
