Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,12

made a lot of money betting against Lehman’s. But he wants to make even more. Hence, presumably, this fund of his.’

‘That’s a perfectly reasonable interpretation,’ Nainby-Martin agreed. ‘But I can’t help feeling there’s something more to it than that. Something bigger.’

‘Bigger than, say, the threat of Iranian nuclear weapons?’ Grantham asked. ‘Or Chinese industrial espionage? Or al-Qaeda? I’m sorry, Piers, but unless we have some concrete evidence of a threat, I can’t divert resources from our major priorities to investigate the vague possibility that Malachi Zorn might be anything other than another greedy financier.’

Nainby-Martin began gathering his papers with the frustrated air of a man who has just lost an office battle.

‘But,’ Grantham continued, ‘I will concede that the Orwell connection bothers me. So keep an eye on this fund of Zorn’s. And if there’s any firmer information, I’ll be willing to take another look at it. Fair enough?’

‘Completely,’ Nainby-Martin said, his normal self-possession restored.

‘Good, then I think we’re done.’

6

* * *

Mykonos

CARVER WASN’T INCLINED to trust Ginger any further than he could throw her, but he needed to get off Mykonos as fast and inconspicuously as possible. If she was offering him a way out, he was at least prepared to listen.

He followed her directions through winding, crowded streets to a small hotel. Passing under a grey and white striped awning, and through a marble-framed front door, he came to a small lobby. To one side stood an antique reception desk, topped with red leather, on which sat a brass bell. The padded leather seat behind the desk was empty. The only other person in the lobby was Ginger. She walked up to Carver, took his right hand in both of hers, squeezed it, and looked him in the eyes as she mouthed the words, ‘I’m so sorry.’ Then, in a brisk, clear voice she instructed him: ‘Please follow me.’

She led him through to a garden at the back of the hotel. There was a man standing by the entrance. Carver recognized him at once from his straw hair and blue shirt: one of the two shooters from the restaurant.

They didn’t bother with introductions. The man just said, ‘Legs apart, arms out,’ and Carver obeyed. He was frisked. The gun was found. The blond man clearly recognized it, and glared at Carver.

‘The original owner didn’t need it any more,’ Carver said. Then he walked with Ginger into the garden, towards a marble-topped table set beneath a sunshade. Three chairs had been arranged around it. One of them was already occupied by an Asian man, somewhere in his mid- to late-fifties. He had a swept-back bouffant haircut, streaked with grey like his moustache. His pale-blue denim shirt was open to reveal a hairy chest. He would have looked like an ageing, slightly overweight nightclub playboy, were it not for the muscle that was evident beneath all the signs of good living, and the direct, unflinching way he looked Carver in the eye.

‘My name is Shafik,’ the man said. He waved at one of the chairs opposite him. ‘Please, take a seat.’

‘You interrupted my lunch,’ said Carver, sitting down while Ginger took the third chair. ‘Any chance of a beer, something to eat?’

‘Of course.’ Shafik gestured at the blond man as if he were a waiter, then told him to fetch drinks, bread, olives, tomatoes and cheese. He turned back to Carver. ‘My background is in the Pakistani Army and security services …’

Carver knew what that meant. Shafik had been an officer in Pakistan’s legendary, but also notorious, Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI. It had worked hand in glove with the CIA for decades, while maintaining links to the Taliban and even al-Qaeda. So Shafik was a spook, and probably a tough, unscrupulous one at that.

‘… but now I am a private security consultant to various financial institutions,’ Shafik continued. ‘You know my associate Magda Sternberg, of course.’

‘Only too well.’

Ginger had the decency to look embarrassed.

‘I am about to make you an offer of employment,’ Shafik went on. ‘It is worth two point five million dollars, payable in any currency, commodity or financial instrument you specify. Nevertheless, I confidently expect you to turn it down, despite this considerable financial inducement. I know that you have no interest in pursuing your old line of work any more, and no financial need to do so. You have an interest in a mining operation in southern Africa, I gather?’

‘I’ve a shareholding in the Kamativi Mining Corporation, yes.’

Carver wondered if Shafik knew who he’d had