Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,24

way to the rue de la Corraterie, where he picked up a Number 3 bus over the Pont Bel-Air, across the River Rhône to the modern heart of the city. After a few blocks, he hopped out of that bus, crossed the street and got on to a Number 9 that went back across the river on the Pont du MontBlanc, the last bridge on the river before Lake Geneva itself. Carver took care to get a seat on the right-hand side of the bus. As it made its way slowly across the bridge he took out a pair of miniature binoculars and looked across the narrow expanse of water that separated the bridge he was on from Rousseau Island. There was the bronze statue of the great eighteenth-century philosopher, sitting on its stone plinth. And there, just a few metres away from it, was the familiar figure of Jack Grantham, a little stockier than he had been when Carver had last seen him, perhaps, with his hairline somewhat receded. But the air of impatience, a humming energy detectable even at a distance, was unmistakable. Carver scanned the area around Grantham and saw no one who looked remotely like a fellow MI6 agent or a hostile tail. A few minutes later, he had got off the bus, walked halfway across the Pont des Bergues and on to the little island, and was strolling towards Grantham.

They made their introductions. Grantham looked pointedly at his watch. ‘It’s seven minutes past ten,’ he said. ‘You’re late.’

Carver ignored him. ‘So what’s the big deal about Mykonos?’ he asked.

Grantham’s fingers played over the screen of his iPhone. He handed it to Carver, showing him a photograph of a familiar face.

‘Tell me what you know about this man,’ Grantham said.

‘He called himself Shafik, said he was ex-Pakistani intelligence,’ Carver replied.

Grantham gave a satisfied little grunt, as if his expectations had been met. ‘Well, that was half-right. His real name is Ahmad Razzaq, but he is, as he said, an ISI old-boy. Made quite a name for himself with our American cousins, helping them run Stinger missiles to the Mujahedin forces fighting the Soviets in Afghanistan. But, like so many of his colleagues, he kept on helping his old chums when they mutated into the Taliban, which didn’t go down so well. Still, he’s not in that game any more.’

‘There was a woman, too – the one in the restaurant who pretended to get shot. She works for Shafik, or Razzaq, or whoever the hell he is. She gave her name as Magda Sternberg, but told me to call her Ginger. She’s quite a piece of work. You should check her out, too. Could be interesting.’

‘Maybe,’ said Grantham, tapping a note into his phone. ‘But back to Razzaq – what did he say he did for a living these days?’

‘Security consultant for financial institutions.’

Grantham raised his eybrows quizzically. ‘Security consultant, eh? Now there’s a job description that can mean almost anything.’

‘I’ve done a bit of it myself.’

‘My point exactly. And what was his interest in you?’

‘What do you think?’

Something close to a smirk crossed Grantham’s face. ‘You know, for a man who keeps telling everyone how much he hates his work, you seem to have a hard time retiring.’

‘He set me up. Got me on the hook for a murder charge. Sacrificed one of his own men to do it, too.’

‘Unscrupulous bastard,’ said Grantham admiringly. ‘So who’s the target?’

Carver paused for a moment before he replied, ‘OK …I might as well tell you, since I have no intention of taking the job. He wanted me to take out an American, some kind of financial trader. The name he gave me was Malachi Zorn.’

Grantham frowned. His grey eyes looked at Carver with a new intensity. ‘Zorn was the target?’

‘That’s what I just said, yes.’

‘So why did Razzaq want him taken out?’

Carver shrugged. ‘He said Zorn was costing his clients too much money. What’s so unusual about that?’

‘Simple … Ahmad Razzaq does not work for any financial institutions. He works for Malachi Zorn.’

Razzaq had lied. Well, that was to be expected. In Carver’s world deceit was standard operating procedure; honesty was the real surprise. ‘OK, then, Razzaq’s some kind of double agent,’ he said. ‘Or he’s been planted on the guy with the intention of getting rid of him – an inside job.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Grantham with a shake of his head. ‘Razzaq’s been with Zorn, at first as an occasional consultant, then as an employee, for almost