Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,74

planned for the same place at the same time, I don’t think there was anything remotely coincidental about the time and place of the attack itself. Come on … someone blows the crap out of a massive oil refinery the day after Malachi Zorn’s told the whole world that eco-terrorism is the big new threat … What do you think?’

‘I think it’s a bit bloody adjacent, certainly.’

‘Exactly, so what are the markets doing right now? Let me guess: oil price rocketing, stocks crashing, pound through the floor …’

‘All of that and more,’ Grantham agreed. ‘It’s a total nightmare. The economy was weak to begin with. An event like this could send it over the edge.’

‘Meanwhile Zorn’s cashing in. He’s got to be. The whole thing was a set-up.’

‘Except for Orwell … how do you explain that? Are you seriously saying Zorn deliberately sacrificed his own right-hand man?’

‘I don’t know,’ Carver admitted. ‘He could have done. The amount of money he stands to make, my guess is he’d do just about anything. But you’re right … I don’t have any concrete link between this and Zorn.’

‘I might be able to help you with that,’ Grantham said. ‘Early this morning, hours before the refinery was hit, someone went to a farmhouse in the middle of Wales, miles from anywhere, and executed four men and a woman. According to the locals, they’d been staying there for the past few days. The police are searching the place now. They’ve found evidence of a bomb-making factory: a couple of kilos of home-made explosives, plus several discarded gas canisters of various sizes, steel girders, welding equipment—’

‘Exactly what you’d need to make the set-up I saw,’ Carver pointed out.

‘Precisely.’

‘But everyone was killed. What good is that?’

‘Not everyone. One of them got away, a woman, name of Deirdre Bull. She tried to make a run for it. Whoever attacked the farmhouse tracked her, shot her, and left her for dead. But she lived. In fact, she’s lying in the intensive care unit at Bronglais General Hospital, Aberystwyth, right now. Oh, and here’s an interesting titbit: when she was rescued she even told the paramedics they had to stop the attack …’

‘What? She told them about Rosconway?’

‘No such luck. She just mentioned an attack. They thought she meant the one on the farm.’

‘Christ, has she been interviewed yet?’

‘Apparently not. The local coppers have been told she’s not well enough to talk.’

‘Oh, bollocks to that!’

For the first time the hint of a smile entered Grantham’s voice. ‘That’s what I thought, too. Why don’t you get up there, see if you can get in for a word with Ms Bull? Play at being Andy Jenkins, pillar of the MoD, a while longer. I’ll have a word with the local police chief, appeal to his sense of patriotism at a time of national emergency, so you shouldn’t have any trouble from him.’

‘What about the medics?’

‘Oh, just use your natural charm, Carver. How can they resist?’

‘I’d better get going. It’s got to be a two-hour drive to Aberystwyth, minimum.’

‘No need. There’s an airport at Haverfordwest, just the other side of Milford Haven from where you are now. They’ve got a helicopter charter outfit there. Get a chopper, go to the hospital, get Bull to link this to Zorn, and then get back here to London. We need to discuss what to do about Zorn. And speaking of that particular devil, he’s about to make a public statement, live on every TV channel known to mankind. I’d better see what he has to say for himself.’

Carver put away the phone and turned on the car radio, tuning it to Radio 5 Live, and heard the voice of a news reporter saying she was outside the mysterious American billionaire Malachi Zorn’s Surrey mansion, and was expecting him to appear at any moment.

‘Zorn?’ asked Schultz, as they entered the outskirts of Pembroke. ‘Is that the bastard you said was responsible for what just happened?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’d like to tear that fucker limb from fucking limb.’

Carver looked at Schultz. He’d planned on doing the Zorn job alone. But there was a lot to be said for having the massive SBS man on his side. He thought about his plans and the specific ways in which Schultz might improve them. Yes, it could certainly work.

‘Suppose I helped you do that?’ he asked.

‘You taking the piss, boss?’

‘Never been more serious. Listen, no one knows whether you’re dead or alive right now …’

‘Nah, suppose not.’

‘And it’s going to be days before they