Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,127
rich bankers?’
‘What’s it ever got to do with anything? Every new religion, every revolution, people always die. It’s unavoidable.’
‘That’s every terrorist’s excuse. Those deluded idiots you got to blow up that refinery probably said just the same thing. But don’t kid yourself. This had nothing to do with changing the world. It was all about money.’
‘What can I say? I needed to be certain of what was going to happen.’
‘You wanted to make the car crash,’ said Carver to himself.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Just something someone said to me a few days ago about the way the system works: the money system.’
‘Yeah, well, I took their money, a billion bucks at a time,’ Zorn said defiantly. ‘Then I took positions that made profits you wouldn’t believe. And the guys on the other side of the trades were the banks. So every cent I was making, they were losing. A hundred billion, straight off the top. Even to those fuckers, that’s a lot.’
‘What were you going to do with it?’ Carver asked.
‘The hell knows … all I wanted was a hut on a beach somewhere. Malachi Zorn was meant to be dead. So I’d get myself a new name, maybe a new face. Run a bar or something … whatever.’
‘That was never going to happen. You must have known that.’
‘Maybe. And maybe I didn’t care.’
‘That was your final play, wasn’t it? I’m guessing if they killed you, they’d lose the cash. It’s not in the accounts of Zorn Global, right?’
Zorn nodded. ‘Got it in one.’
‘So where is it?’
Zorn laughed at the sheer cheek of the question. ‘You think I’m going to tell you that? No way. That money is my Get Out of Jail Free card. That money is what stops you killing me. You may not care about it, but your masters sure as shit do.’
‘My masters, as you call them, ordered me to kill you. They didn’t say anything about money.’
‘And are you going to kill me?’
Carver looked down at the man at his feet. It would be so easy to take him out: a double tap, point-blank. But the thought of it made him feel as worn out as Zorn looked. He was sick of the presence of death: sick of taking lives for reasons that, if they’d ever made sense to him, certainly didn’t any more. He heard the sound of running footsteps coming from the corridor, then saw the first torch beams cutting through the dusty air of the wrecked conference room.
‘They’ve arrived,’ Carver said to Zorn. A few moments later the first SAS men came through the door.
‘All yours,’ Carver said. ‘I’m out of here.’
He was in the corridor when he called in to the command centre again. ‘Carver here. I just handed Zorn over to your people.’
Cameron Young’s voice buzzed in Carver’s ear. It sounded anxious, ‘Is he alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you find out what he did with the money?’
‘Do you think we should discuss this now? People are listening.’
‘But you found out what he’s done with it?’
‘Yes.’
The line went dead. Carver kept walking. A few seconds later he heard a brief burst of gunfire behind him.
Outside the hall the street was filled with police cars, ambulances and fire engines. Cameron Young was waiting on the pavement at the bottom of the steps that led down from the front door. The moment Carver appeared, Young grabbed him by the arm and led him away to one side.
‘Well?’ he whispered.
‘Well, what?’ Carver asked, all innocence.
‘Did you find out?’
‘Did I find out what Zorn did with the money?’
‘Yes!’ Young’s normally smooth personality sounded as though it was beginning to fray at the edges.
‘I did,’ Carver said.
Young took a very deep breath and made a visible effort to pull himself together. ‘And?’
‘He hid it. There was a hundred billion dollars and he hid the lot. I asked him where, but he didn’t want to tell me. Sorry about that.’
‘But that money …’ Young blustered. ‘It belonged to … to … to very influential people.’
‘Well, it doesn’t any more,’ said Sam Carver. And he walked away into the night.
Ten days later …
98
* * *
The Old Town, Geneva
‘HOW’S YOUR HEAD?’
‘Much better,’ said Alix. She took the big white mug of coffee that Carver held out to her, sipped a little and smiled. ‘Thanks for asking … And thank you for the coffee, too.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Carver. He looked down at her, curled up on one of the oversized armchairs in his Geneva flat. They weren’t the same chairs as the ones that had been there when they first met, and Alix wasn’t dressed exactly the same – this morning she was wearing a white singlet, slim black jersey trousers, and a pair of grey cashmere bedsocks – but his delight in seeing her there hadn’t changed one jot in all the years that had passed.
‘Budge up,’ he said, and snuggled next to her on the chair. He looked at her again, and frowned as he saw a look of sadness drift across her face like the shadow of a cloud passing overhead. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
She held the cup close to her face in both hands and took another drink before she answered. ‘I was just remembering that night. The people nearest the blast were ripped to pieces. I was so lucky … When I came to, I was covered in blood, but it wasn’t mine.’
Carver gave her arm a squeeze. She’d told the story so many times over the past few days, almost as if she hoped that if she repeated the words often enough the pain of what they described would begin to fade. Thirty-nine people had been killed, among them Drinkwater and his guards. And so far as the world was concerned, Malachi Zorn had died in that wheelchair. The man who was shot in the room across the road had never even existed: his passing went unrecorded. Meanwhile, more than a hundred guests had been injured, their wounds running the gamut from crippling mutilation to the kind of surface injury Alix had suffered.
She was right, she had been lucky. A glancing blow from a flying chunk of ceiling plaster had left her with nothing worse than concussion. Carver felt blessed by her survival.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Don’t fight it. Your mind needs to heal, just like your body.’
She nodded, with a wry half-smile, as she said, ‘I guess …’ And then her smile brightened a little. ‘You help me heal,’ she said. ‘You make me feel safe.’
They kissed, very softly. Carver smiled. ‘Mmm … you taste of coffee.’
‘Is it good?’ she asked.
‘Very. Remind me to congratulate the guy who made it.’
‘I could congratulate him, if you like.’
‘That sounds like a plan.’
Alix looked around. ‘So where is he, this coffee guy?’
Carver played along, frowning in apparent bafflement. ‘I don’t know. I think I saw him go into the bedroom.’
‘Really?’
‘Uh-huh …’
‘OK … so this bedroom … will you be there too?’
Carver grinned. ‘Might be.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
About the Author
Tom Cain is the pseudonym of an award-winning journalist with twenty-five years’ experience working for Fleet Street newspapers. He has lived in Moscow, Washington, DC and Havana, Cuba. He is the author of The Accident Man, The Survivor, Assassin and Dictator.
Also by Tom Cain
The Accident Man
The Survivor
Assassin
Dictator
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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First published in Great Britain
in 2011 by Bantam Press
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Copyright © Tom Cain 2011
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