Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,23

lymph nodes around the organ as well. He didn’t have too long to live: somewhere between six to nine months would be my guess. Twelve if he was very lucky. A quick end like this, well, I guess you could call it a small mercy.’

Saturday, 25 June

12

* * *

London N1

GRANTHAM WAS WOKEN at quarter to five in the morning by the ringing of his phone. The duty officer was on the line.

‘You said I should call, no matter what time it was,’ he said.

‘I did, yes, but there’s no need to sound so damn smug about it,’ Grantham grunted, propping himself up on his elbows.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘We found something, sir … a chap called Ahmad Razzaq. He’s ex-ISI. Nothing very remarkable about him, just the standard rumours of links to al-Qaeda you get with anyone who’s been in Pakistani intelligence. But he was flagged yesterday because he works with that American financier, Malachi Zorn. The one the ex-PM’s now—’

‘I know who Malachi Zorn is,’ Grantham snapped. ‘What does this Razzaq do for him?’

‘Runs his personal security operation, which appears to be pretty extensive. I mean, it’s not just bodyguard duty. Zorn effectively has his own private intelligence network.’

‘So I gather. What was Razzaq doing in Mykonos?’

‘Well, that’s what we haven’t yet worked out, sir. He came in on a private helicopter yesterday morning, and from his phone-traffic it looks as though he was talking a fair amount to people from that TV production company, the one that caused all the fuss at that restaurant.’

‘Does Zorn have any interests in media or TV?’

‘Not that we can see, sir, no.’

Grantham got out of bed, went downstairs to brew a very strong cup of tea, then made two more calls before getting dressed. The first was to Piers Nainby-Martin, telling him to shift the investigation into Malachi Zorn up a notch, paying particular attention to the life and times of Ahmad Razzaq.

The second call was to Samuel Carver.

‘This is Grantham. I want a word with you.’

‘Why?’ The word was more of a heavy, lazy grunt. Carver had not been awake for long.

‘Mykonos. I’m wondering why you were running away from that restaurant. And there’s a Pakistani gentleman I think you might have met …’

There was silence down the line. The next time Carver spoke he sounded decisive and fully alert. ‘I assume you’re talking on an encrypted line?’

‘Of course.’

‘Right, then … can you get on the six forty-five BA flight out of Heathrow this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll see you by the Rousseau statue at ten. It’s on its own little island, halfway across the Pont des Bergues. And Grantham …’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me you’ve not been sat on your arse behind a desk for so long that you’ve forgotten all your fieldcraft.’

‘You realize you’re talking to the Head of the Secret Intelligence Service …’

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

‘Piss off, Carver. I’ll be there. And I won’t be followed.’

‘Then we’ve got a date.’

‘Seems like old times …’

Grantham put the phone down. He and Carver had always had a strong streak of mutual antagonism, mixed with a dash of grudging respect. Neither man was afraid to tell the other exactly what he thought. And so far that had been the basis of an unusual, highly unofficial, but productive working relationship.

He drove himself to the airport and used a personal card to buy the ticket when he got there. As he contemplated his in-flight breakfast, Grantham realized to his surprise that he was smiling. His professional life nowadays was essentially political: an endless round of meetings, committees and reports to ministers. It was good to get out in the field again. It felt like a day off.

13

* * *

The Old Town, Geneva

CARVER MADE HIS way up on to the roof of his building and looked around. The Old Town of Geneva, based on 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