‘Yes, I do know that,’ snapped Grantham impatiently. ‘What interested me were the dates. It seems that Celina Novak was quite the young beauty. So her training appears to have involved teaching her to take advantage of her natural assets…’
Carver had an unnerving premonition of where this was going. ‘Don’t tell me…’
Grantham laughed. ‘Oh yes, the dates match perfectly. Celina Novak was an exact contemporary of the young Alexandra Petrova.’
‘And you want me to ask Alix about her?’
‘Well, you know her better than anyone else.’
‘It’s been a while.’
‘Nonsense. She’ll greet you like a long-lost friend.’
‘Doesn’t she have a man in her life? That Ukrainian who’s investing in Malachi Zorn — isn’t he the reason you spotted her at that party?’
‘Dmytryk Azarov? I don’t think that true love is running too smoothly at the moment. According to the gossip columns he’s holed up at the Ritz with a series of, ah, “mystery companions”.’
Carver sighed. ‘I’ll put in a call.’
‘Thought you might,’ said Grantham. ‘Meantime, I’ll email you instructions for tomorrow. And when you’re ready, send me your shopping-list, I’ll see what I can do.’
25
‘ So the Prime Minister blinked,’ said Ahmad Razzaq, as he stood admiring the view from the window of Zorn’s study, entirely unaware of Carver’s presence less than five hundred metres from where he stood.
‘Sounds like it,’ his boss agreed, barely looking up from his bank of trading screens. ‘He’s ordered some kind of instant anti-terrorism conference. Orwell heard about it this afternoon. They’ve asked him to go along. Downing Street wants the US Ambassador to attend, too. And the EU Energy Minister is in town to give some speech tonight. I heard the Prime Minister called her personally to get her to come along.’
Razzaq turned his head towards Zorn. ‘Maybe Orwell should go. He can tell us what they talk about… and also where this event is taking place. I cannot get a location out of anyone.’
‘Me neither.’ Zorn nodded. ‘But Nicholas Orwell…’ Zorn pursed his lips as he thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, you could be right. He was going to do breakfast with Karakul Sholak, the Kazakh-’
‘Who is himself a terrorist.’
‘Yeah, he’s a rich one, and that’s all that concerns me. Ah, what the hell, his money’s in the bag. I’ll tell him Orwell’s been called away on top-secret government business, and promise he’ll hear all about it at the launch party. That should keep him happy, right?’
‘Absolutely… now he will be able to stay in bed all the longer with his whores.’
Zorn gave an indifferent shrug of the shoulders. ‘Again, that doesn’t concern me. OK… so I’ll call Orwell, tell him to say yes to the invitation. He’s not going to object, not with the number of TV cameras they’re going to have pointing in his direction.’
Razzaq frowned. ‘I cannot understand it. Orwell was Labour. The Prime Minister is Conservative. Why give publicity to an enemy?’
‘Because he wants to show the world that this is not a party-political issue. So he invites an opponent. But he picks Orwell, who can no longer hurt him politically. Plus, the more Orwell is seen as a world statesman, the smaller he makes the current Labour leader seem. No, it’s a smart move.’
‘And while they have their meeting, we will be showing the world what eco-terrorism really looks like.’
Zorn got up and walked towards the window. ‘They all set down there?’
‘Yes… but there is still time to call this off. Many people are going to die. Are you sure you wish to go ahead?’
The two men were standing side by side now, looking out at the vivid green lawn, across which the shadow cast by an ancient cedar of Lebanon was spreading.
‘What, you think I don’t have the stones for this?’ Zorn asked, with a genuine note of surprise in his voice.
‘It is not easy to have that many deaths on one’s conscience,’ Razzaq answered.
A lazy smile spread across Malachi Zorn’s face. ‘What makes you think I have a conscience?’ he said.
26
Carver looked at the phone in his hand, wondering what he was going to say. It had been a couple of years since he’d last spoken to Alix, just a handful of words snatched at the funeral of a mutual friend. There hadn’t been a chance for a proper conversation: he’d been there with another woman.
He wasn’t even sure if the number he had for her would still work. He dialled it. Well, at least there was a ringtone. But no one was answering. He heard the phone ring three, four, five times, and was just formulating a voicemail message in his mind when she took the call, sounding brisk and a little hurried: ‘Hello, Alexandra Vermulen.’
The sound of her voice still thrilled him. They’d been apart for more than a decade, yet even now there was no other woman in the world that could get to him the way she did. But there was a stab of jealousy in him, too, that she should be using another man’s name as her own. That was another thing Carver had never quite got used to. ‘It’s me,’ he said.
There was no need for any further identification. He knew that his voice would be as instantly recognizable to Alix as hers was to him. Now he waited to hear her reaction. There was a hesitancy, almost a brittleness, as she said, ‘Hello…’
‘Look, I’m sorry to call you out of the blue. But you might be able to help me…’
Did he imagine it, or was there a sigh before she asked, ‘Is this a business call?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I suppose it was too much to hope that you might just want to speak to me.’
Carver rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took a deep breath. Bad start. Try again.
‘Come on, Alix, you know it’s not like that.’
‘So what is it like?’
Silence fell on the line, neither knowing what to say next, but not ready yet to hang up. It was Carver’s move. He made it.
‘Can we start again, here? I would really like to see you. Full stop. Also, you might be able to help me with something important. Is there any chance we could meet up this evening? It doesn’t have to be for very long if you’re busy. Maybe we could have a quick drink?’
There was another pause. Carver could sense the debate in Alix’s mind as she weighed up the pros and cons of taking this further. Finally she said, ‘OK, Sam, we can meet. There’s a party at the Muscovy Gallery in Cork Street this evening. They’re opening an exhibition of Soviet propaganda posters. I’ll get your name put on the guest list. Be there in an hour.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you should.’
27
Kensington Park Gardens
Alix had taken the call in her bedroom, where she’d been getting dressed. She’d decided hours before what to
