a Roman settlement that dated back more than two thousand years, had originally been surrounded by high walls that kept invaders out, but also penned the town’s citizens in. With land at a premium, and unable to expand outwards, they instead crammed their homes and businesses into tall buildings that were packed as tightly as possible into the confined space. So it was easy for Carver to make his way over the roofs of neighbouring structures to the far end of the block, and then down on to a street that ran at right angles to his own, completely out of sight of anyone watching his building.
Checking to see that no one was following, he made his way to the rue de la Corraterie, where he picked up a Number 3 bus over the Pont Bel-Air, across the River Rhone to the modern heart of the city. After a few blocks, he hopped out of that bus, crossed the street and got on to a Number 9 that went back across the river on the Pont du MontBlanc, the last bridge on the river before Lake Geneva itself. Carver took care to get a seat on the right-hand side of the bus. As it made its way slowly across the bridge he took out a pair of miniature binoculars and looked across the narrow expanse of water that separated the bridge he was on from Rousseau Island. There was the bronze statue of the great eighteenth-century philosopher, sitting on its stone plinth. And there, just a few metres away from it, was the familiar figure of Jack Grantham, a little stockier than he had been when Carver had last seen him, perhaps, with his hairline somewhat receded. But the air of impatience, a humming energy detectable even at a distance, was unmistakable. Carver scanned the area around Grantham and saw no one who looked remotely like a fellow MI6 agent or a hostile tail. A few minutes later, he had got off the bus, walked halfway across the Pont des Bergues and on to the little island, and was strolling towards Grantham.
They made their introductions. Grantham looked pointedly at his watch. ‘It’s seven minutes past ten,’ he said. ‘You’re late.’
Carver ignored him. ‘So what’s the big deal about Mykonos?’ he asked.
Grantham’s fingers played over the screen of his iPhone. He handed it to Carver, showing him a photograph of a familiar face.
‘Tell me what you know about this man,’ Grantham said.
‘He called himself Shafik, said he was ex-Pakistani intelligence,’ Carver replied.
Grantham gave a satisfied little grunt, as if his expectations had been met. ‘Well, that was half-right. His real name is Ahmad Razzaq, but he is, as he said, an ISI old-boy. Made quite a name for himself with our American cousins, helping them run Stinger missiles to the Mujahedin forces fighting the Soviets in Afghanistan. But, like so many of his colleagues, he kept on helping his old chums when they mutated into the Taliban, which didn’t go down so well. Still, he’s not in that game any more.’
‘There was a woman, too — the one in the restaurant who pretended to get shot. She works for Shafik, or Razzaq, or whoever the hell he is. She gave her name as Magda Sternberg, but told me to call her Ginger. She’s quite a piece of work. You should check her out, too. Could be interesting.’
‘Maybe,’ said Grantham, tapping a note into his phone. ‘But back to Razzaq — what did he say he did for a living these days?’
‘Security consultant for financial institutions.’
Grantham raised his eybrows quizzically. ‘Security consultant, eh? Now there’s a job description that can mean almost anything.’
‘I’ve done a bit of it myself.’
‘My point exactly. And what was his interest in you?’
‘What do you think?’
Something close to a smirk crossed Grantham’s face. ‘You know, for a man who keeps telling everyone how much he hates his work, you seem to have a hard time retiring.’
‘He set me up. Got me on the hook for a murder charge. Sacrificed one of his own men to do it, too.’
‘Unscrupulous bastard,’ said Grantham admiringly. ‘So who’s the target?’
Carver paused for a moment before he replied, ‘OK…I might as well tell you, since I have no intention of taking the job. He wanted me to take out an American, some kind of financial trader. The name he gave me was Malachi Zorn.’
Grantham frowned. His grey eyes looked at Carver with a new intensity. ‘Zorn was the target?’
‘That’s what I just said, yes.’
‘So why did Razzaq want him taken out?’
Carver shrugged. ‘He said Zorn was costing his clients too much money. What’s so unusual about that?’
‘Simple… Ahmad Razzaq does not work for any financial institutions. He works for Malachi Zorn.’
Razzaq had lied. Well, that was to be expected. In Carver’s world deceit was standard operating procedure; honesty was the real surprise. ‘OK, then, Razzaq’s some kind of double agent,’ he said. ‘Or he’s been planted on the guy with the intention of getting rid of him — an inside job.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Grantham with a shake of his head. ‘Razzaq’s been with Zorn, at first as an occasional consultant, then as an employee, for almost five years. If he was only there to get rid of him, surely he’d have done it by now?’
‘Unless someone has got to him recently.’
‘I can’t see why. Zorn pays very well. There’d be little financial incentive to betray him.’
‘How about blackmail? A man like Razzaq is bound to have dirty secrets in his past.’
‘And a man like Zorn is almost certain to know what they are already. Besides, I don’t get the impression Zorn gives a damn about that kind of thing. He makes his own mind up and acts accordingly. He’s not interested in social or political conventions, or what anyone else thinks — not unless he can make money from it. Razzaq could have wiped out whole villages or buggered orphans by the score; Zorn’s not going to worry.’
‘So that leaves only one possibility,’ said Carver.
‘What’s that?’ asked Grantham, frowning again in puzzlement.
‘Simple: Razzaq is still working for Zorn. He’s doing what Zorn wants.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Are you trying to tell me Malachi Zorn wants to die? The man has just set up an investment fund worth a minimum ten billion quid.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘So you know he’s coming to London for the big public launch party?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know that your old friend Alix is one of the guests?’
This time Carver really was caught off guard, unable to stop the momentary look of shock in his eyes. Grantham relished his discomfort, always glad of an opportunity to get one over on a man who had often got the better of him.
‘Thought not,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t make any difference,’ Carver retorted. ‘The party’s not going to take place because Zorn has to be dead by then. Razzaq was very insistent about that. No way was Zorn going to make it to the party.’
Grantham frowned, his momentary triumph over Alix forgotten as he took in this new information. He looked out across the lake towards the Alps, as if seeking some answer hidden among the distant, snow-topped mountains. ‘I’m sorry, maybe I’m missing something. What possible reason could there be for Malachi Zorn to come over all suicidal, now of all times?’
‘I have no idea. And what’s more, I don’t care, because I’m not going to be the one that does it. I’m not taking the job.’
‘Really? I thought you had no choice. You have a murder charge hanging over you.’
‘That’s happened to me before, in case you’ve forgotten,’ said Carver. ‘But I’m still here, aren’t I? I’ll deal with Razzaq, whoever he’s working for.’
‘About that murder charge… the other one…’ Grantham began.
‘What about it?’
‘I have a file, you know. I compiled it in the months after you and I first met. Did a little digging around. Had some colleagues in France look through CCTV footage. Checked your movements, looked into a few Panamanian bank accounts and shell corporations, that kind of thing.’
‘I can’t say that surprises me,’ said Carver.
‘And although I never quite found a smoking gun — or should that be a shining laser? — I did put you there or thereabouts, as they say.’
‘She died in an accident,’ Carver replied flatly. ‘There’s been an inquest. It’s official.’
