on the local police and prosecuting magistrate to come up with a guilty man whose arrest and conviction would put tourist minds at ease. Carver had no intention of being that man.
He stepped out of the alley, back on to another crowded shopping street, indistinguishable from the last. The crowds looked no different. The only thing missing was the presence of any threat. Carver scanned his surroundings, searching for any trace of his pursuers, but could see none. He walked out into the middle of the street, clearly visible to anyone who was watching. Nothing happened.
He frowned, made more uneasy by the absence of danger — the dogs that did not bark — than he had been when running for his life, pursued by men with guns. Where had they gone? And why, come to think of it, had they not killed him when they had the chance? These were men who had gunned down a completely innocent victim without a second thought. Yet when he had been running through to the restaurant kitchen they had somehow managed to miss his exposed, defenceless back at virtually point-blank range. And now they were nowhere to be seen.
Carver’s phone rang.
He took it from his pocket, wondering whether to answer.
He looked at the number that had appeared on the screen, recognizing it at once.
Carver pressed the green button, put the phone to his ear, and heard a voice that had recently become very familiar.
‘Hi, baby,’ it said. ‘This is Ginger. If you want to get off the island in one piece, do exactly what I say…’
5
MI6 headquarters
Jack Grantham gave a sigh that seemed to hint at disappointment. ‘Hmm… I don’t suppose there’s too much to worry about. Nicholas Orwell appears to be making a few more bob by helping this Malachi Zorn — and sundry other equally plutocratic types — to become even wealthier than they already are. They’re all consenting adults. If anything goes wrong they have no one to blame but themselves. Who are we to object?’
Piers Nainby-Martin cleared his throat. ‘Well, there’s just one more thing.’
‘Really?’ Grantham became instantly alert, like a hound that has just caught the scent of a distant fox. ‘What would that be?’
‘There’s a freelance reporter in New York called Camilla DaCosta, who helps us out from time to time. I asked her to look into Zorn, tell people she was writing a newspaper profile of him. Well, she managed to get quite a bit of material, including an interview with an old girlfriend of his…’ Nainby-Martin glanced down at his notes. ‘Name of Domenica Cruz, an ex-stripper.’
‘You mean he’s kinky? If he’s vulnerable to blackmail, that could be a problem.’
‘No, that’s not it. The woman was only working at a club to pay her way through college. She sells insurance now…’
‘A rather less honourable profession than stripping.’
‘Quite possibly. Anyway, her views on Zorn’s personal demons caught my attention. And there’s something at the end that might interest you, too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just a remark she makes. It’s nothing concrete, but it’s been niggling at me. See what you think. I must apologize, by the way, if Miss DaCosta’s interrogation technique is a little, ah, fluffy for your taste.’
There was a suppressed chuckle around the table. Grantham was one of nature’s bad cops, known for the speed and toughness with which he liked to extract information. He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the worst, and then said, ‘Let’s see it, then.’
Once again a grainy video image appeared on screen, this time shot at a sidewalk cafe on a busy Manhattan street, two cups of coffee on the table. An attractive brunette in a formal business suit was looking into the lens with a worried look on her face.
‘You promise me that you’re not going to write nasty things about Mal? I mean, I don’t want to end up in some supermarket tabloid,’ she said.
The voice that answered her was that of a young, upper-middleclass Englishwoman. ‘Oh no, I quite understand. That would be terrible. But don’t worry. You’re quite safe with The Times. We were founded more than two hundred years ago and we’re terribly respectable. The paper of record, and all that sort of thing.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Grantham groaned.
‘She knows what she’s doing,’ Nainby-Martin assured him.
On screen, Domenica Cruz relaxed a little, though there was still a trace of hesitancy as she said, ‘Well, in that case, I guess it’s OK if I help you.’
‘So tell me about Mr Zorn. You met at the Penthouse Club, isn’t that right?’
A fresh look of alarm crossed Cruz’s face, and she held a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God! I was just trying to pay my way through college and…’
‘I think pole-dancing’s terribly sexy,’ said Camilla DaCosta, encouragingly. ‘I went to classes for a while. My boyfriend absolutely loved it!’
‘Huh! I hope he was nicer than some of the assholes I had to dance for!’
‘Was Mr Zorn an asshole?’
‘God no, Mal was great!’ Cruz said, smiling for the first time. ‘Really smart, you know. He just, I don’t know… got it. And people, too. It was like he knew what they were gonna do or say next. Got a little spooky actually, sometimes.’
‘How do you mean?’
Cruz frowned, trying to find the right words. ‘I guess he could just take in an incredible amount of information, analyse everything, and then figure out what to do faster than anyone I ever met. And, believe me, he had a LOT of information. He has people all over the world working for him.’
‘Like spies?’
‘Kinda, I guess. He’s always one step ahead, that’s for sure.’
A little laugh from DaCosta, then: ‘I’m not sure I’d like a man who knew what I was going to do next!’
Cruz laughed, too. ‘Totally!’
‘It sounds like you had a real connection. I mean, I can see why any man would be drooling over you. You’re so gorgeous!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, someone get me a sick-bag!’ Grantham interjected.
‘Wait!’ Nainby-Martin implored his boss. ‘She’s getting good material here.’
On the screen, Cruz was making the obligatory self-deprecating woman-to-woman remarks about how much she hated her own body — her upper arms and ankles seemed to give particular grounds for concern. ‘But, yeah, I know, most guys don’t seem to care. They just want to bang a dancer.’
‘Zorn doesn’t sound like that kind of man, though.’
‘No, that was what I liked about him. He saw beyond that. He was interested in me, you know, as a real person. I think we kind of bonded over our parents, too, you know?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I was raised by my grandmomma, ’cause both my parents died in an auto smash.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry…’
‘Thanks, but it’s OK. I mean, it was a long time ago.’
‘Didn’t Mr Zorn’s parents die, too, when he was a boy?’
‘Exactly. We really connected over that. And for Mal, losing his people was just a huge, huge issue.’
‘You mean he hadn’t got over it?’
Cruz sighed: ‘You have no idea… What happened was, Mal’s mom got sick in the head. She was stuck at home all day. Her husband was away in the city working totally crazy hours, and she just got lonely and bored and miserable. You know what it’s like for a guy who works for one of those big banks. They own him. If it’s a choice between doing something for the bank or doing something for his family, the bank wins. And the little woman back at home still has to be the pretty, smiley wifey. It’s like Mad Men or something. If Mal’s mom started drinking or
