'Thank you,' said Carver. He spoke to the chairman's PA. 'My name is Jackson. I have an urgent message for Lord Malgrave. It concerns our transactions in Paris, and I absolutely assure you he will be grateful to read it. If he doesn't think it's worth pursuing, I'll be gone before you know it.' He paused to hear what the PA had to say, uttered a reassuring 'Absolutely,' followed by an enthusiastic 'Excellent!' Then he handed the phone back to the receptionist.
This time his smile was broad. 'Thank you so much for your help. They're expecting me on the sixth floor. So, where's the lift?' Lord Crispin Malgrave did not cut an impressive figure. He wore a double-breasted suit and an old school tie, and he had the oiled salt-and-pepper hair and the ruddy complexion-redolent of hunting fields, shooting parties, and salmon streams-of the British ruling class. But the facade was cracking, the arrogance peeling away to reveal the raw fear beneath.
Carver had been shown into Malgrave's private office. The chairman's PA was an elegant woman in her fifties, brisk, efficient, and bossy. The man was running a bank, and still he had a nanny. She watched over Carver until her master arrived, as if worried he might steal a paperweight if left to his own devices.
Malgrave had scurried into the room, sweating panic from every pore. He dropped like a loosely packed sandbag into the leather-backed seat behind his mahogany desk, said, 'Thank you, Maureen,' and barely waited till she'd left the room before blurting out, 'Trench is dead? Are you sure? How do you know?'
Carver leaned toward the desk and stuck out his right hand.
'Hello,' he said. 'My name is Samuel Carver.'
Malgrave did not move. He seemed to need all his energy just to keep his mouth from flapping around like a freshly caught fish. Eventually, he managed to get some words out. 'But you told my secretary…'
'I lied.'
'What about Trench?'
'He's dead. That bit was true.'
Malgrave did the math. He worked out who was next. Then he leaned forward in his chair, his eyes pleading, hands held out in supplication. 'Oh God, no, please don't. I'll do anything!' He thought for a second. 'I owe you money. Of course! I'll pay you in full. Three million dollars. Plus interest!'
Carver let him burble on, his silence only making Malgrave all the more effusive.
'Look at me,' he said, once Malgrave had finally shut up.
The banker looked puzzled.
'Look at me,' Carver repeated. 'Just shut up, look at me, and pay attention. I don't want your blood money. And I'm not going to kill you. I'm a soldier, not a psychopath. I take life when there's no alternative. You have an alternative. You can tell me about the Russians.'
'What Russians?'
'The ones in Paris. The ones you sent to kill me.'
Malgrave shook his head. 'I don't know anything about them, I swear to you.'
Carver was inclined to believe him. Malgrave didn't have the nerve to be an accomplished liar. And his ignorance about the Russians tallied with Trench's.
'Okay,' said Carver, 'so what did you know?'
Malgrave wiped a silk handkerchief across his sweaty brow. 'The chairman told me that he was planning to… you know… the princess operation. I mean, I didn't like it, didn't approve at all, argued strongly against the whole plan, in fact. But he said it was vital for the preservation of the monarchy, and besides, he'd committed the consortium, that we were being funded externally, millions of pounds from a foreign backer. The money was wired from Zurich, anonymous of course. I had no idea who'd sent it. So you're saying it was Russians…'
Malgrave frowned, his panic subsiding a little as he considered the possibility. 'But why would Russians…? I mean, what possible interest could they have in killing her?'
'I don't know,' said Carver. 'When I find them, I'll be sure to ask. In the meantime, since no one else has a clue who these Russians are, why don't you call your chairman and arrange a meeting? Now.'
'But that would be impossible.'
Carver opened his case and took out his gun. 'Here's the alternative. So call him. Say you need to see him, in person, immediately. If he asks why, tell him you can't talk about it on the phone. Make something up. Then tell your chauffeur you need your car. We're going for a drive. Got that?'
Malgrave nodded.
'Right,' said Carver. 'Start dialing.'
69
Dame Agatha Bewley was back in MI5's headquarters at Thames House, on the north bank of the river Thames. It wasn't excitingly new. It wasn't impressively old. It wasn't provocatively ugly or inspiring in its beauty. It was just there, a Department of Works project from 1929. Millions of people drove to and fro in front of it along a crowded riverside route. Not one in a thousand ever wasted their time even looking at it. As a home for domestic spies, it really couldn't have been better.
After her breakfast at the Travellers Club, she had been driven to work in her official black Jaguar, and on the way she'd thought about Sir Perceval Wake. Now that his services were not so regularly required by his country, had he gone into business for himself? What was it Grantham had said in that meeting, straight after news of the crash had come through? Something about Wake's genius for black operations, his instinct for their execution and consequences. Wake had always disturbed her. She didn't feel comfortable with a man whose desire for influence was so apparent but whose sexual and emotional needs were so well-masked.
Wake was a lifelong bachelor, with no known lovers of either gender. He'd been around so long, the chances were he hadn't been security-vetted in decades. He could be hiding some secret shame that would leave him open to blackmail. He might equally well be asexual, of course, repelled by the thought of bodily contact. But a repressed sexuality was almost as dangerous as a perverted one.
So, what had he been doing for kicks? Dame Agatha knew she'd have to be careful. Wake was still connected all the way to the top. If he caught wind of any investigation, all hell would break loose. So she kept it discreet. A team had been dispatched to keep an eye on Wake's home, his movements, and any contacts he made. She'd been summoned to the room where the operation was being controlled at around half-past twelve. Now she was leaning over a workstation, one hand on the tabletop, the other on the back of a chair. One of her agents was sitting there, running the communications system.
A voice came over the speakerphone:
'We have two males entering the building, both white, smartly dressed. One looks to be in his fifties, gray hair, florid complexion. The other is younger, probably late thirties, short-cropped hair, carrying a briefcase. We have pictures. Mark's just setting up the link now, should be sending them through to you any second.'
Two grainy photographs, shot long distance through a telephoto lens, appeared on the computer screen at the center of the workstation.
'I know one of them,' said Dame Agatha. 'Lord Crispin Malgrave, the chairman and major shareholder of Malgrave and Company. He's a steward of the Jockey Club, receives regular invitations to the royal box at Ascot, and has donated at least five million to the Conservative Party.'
'You're very well-informed, Agatha,' said her deputy, Pearson Chalmers, who was standing next to her, watching the same screen.
'I should be,' she replied. 'The last time Lord Malgrave joined the royal family at Ascot, he had lunch beforehand in Windsor Castle. I was sitting next to him.'
'My, you do move in high circles.'
'Not often. But Lord Crispin lives in them. Now, who's the man with him?'
'A bodyguard?' suggested Chalmers. 'He has that military look.'
'Possibly.' Dame Agatha cast a skeptical eye over the figure on the screen. 'But would a bodyguard carry a briefcase? Put him through the system. See if his face jogs the computer's memory.'
She pressed a button on the workstation and spoke into a microphone. 'Keep watching. Await further orders. Good work so far.'
