No Survivors (26 page)

“In Britain, four thousand feet is a mountain,” Carver interrupted.

“Well, it’s just a damn hill to me,” Vermulen replied. “Called the Puy de Tourrettes, faces south, toward the sea. The house is at the highest point of the property, to maximize the views, with a pool directly below the house and an access road that leads downhill to the nearest road. There are trees in front of the house and around the pool; otherwise the ground is virtually bare, denying cover to intruders and providing clear fields of fire. But above the house, on the hillside, you’ve got light woodland and undergrowth. That’s where I’d put my observation post, if I were you.”

That’s where Carver was planning to put it, too.

“Sounds about right,” he said.

Carver’s plate was empty. He pushed it away from him. Then, to Vermulen’s evident surprise, he got to his feet.

“Okay, give me ten minutes,” he said. “I’m going for a walk—helps me think. When I come back, I’ll tell you if I can do the job, what I’ll need, and how much it’ll cost.”

“I already named the fee.”

“But I didn’t agree to it. See you in ten.”

C
arver had walked past the swimming pool, ringed by deserted lounge chairs, and up through the hotel’s wooded grounds. He was gone a shade over eleven minutes.

“Well?” said Vermulen, as Carver returned to his seat.

“You’re on. But the price is a million, sterling, same half-and-half split, now and on delivery of the item. Take it or leave it.”

Before Vermulen could answer, Carver went on. “And there’s one other thing. I came out here on a commercial flight, expecting to take a meeting. So I wasn’t carrying the gear for the job. Some I can get myself. But some you’re going to have to supply.”

Vermulen looked to either side, to check that he could not be overheard.

“What are we talking about: weapons, specialist equipment?”

“That kind of thing,” agreed Carver. “I need nonfatal weapons, specifically a multiple-shot forty-millimeter grenade launcher, preferably an MGL Mark One. I want six rounds of CS gas for the launcher plus three M-eighty-four stun grenades, a collapsible twenty-one-inch baton, a lightweight ballistic-grade protective vest, a combat-level gas mask, and twenty-five-milligram Valium tablets . . .”

“You don’t look like the nervous kind,” Vermulen observed.

“Yeah, well, looks can be deceptive. Now, I want every item within forty-eight hours. Leave it as
poste restante
in the post office at Vence. And, finally, I’m going to be spending a lot of time over the next few days keeping out of people’s way, nice and quiet. So all communications will be via text-messaging—no calls unless I decide otherwise. I’ll give you a number to use, and I’ll need you to give me one, too.”

Vermulen’s jaw tightened. His face darkened with anger, like the shadow of a cloud scudding across the ground.

“You know, Mr. Wynter, you have quite an attitude for a hired hand. I don’t know that I like being given orders by a man who’s working on my dollar.”

“I’m not giving you orders, General. I’m explaining the way things have to be if you’re going to get the item you’ve ordered, and I’m going to walk away unscathed.”

“I could determine another way of doing the job. I have men of my own.”

“The matelots on your boat? Bunch of sailor boys in shorts? I don’t think so.”

“That wasn’t who I was thinking of,” said Vermulen. He looked at Carver, his eyes narrowed. “You know, that’s an interesting word, ‘matelot.’ ”

“It’s French,” said Carver, knowing he’d just made a stupid, careless, amateur mistake, still a few percent off his best.

“That it is. Also happens to be the slang that British marines use for regular naval personnel. I’ve heard them say it myself. So I’m wondering how come you know that word, and also seem to be so familiar with the designations for military ordnance: MGL grenade launchers, M-eighty-four grenades. If I recall correctly, you have no military experience. So perhaps you could tell me how a civilian came to be so familiar with all that soldier talk?”

Carver shrugged. “I get around.”

Vermulen said nothing. He wasn’t convinced. Carver went all out.

“All these years, doing what I do, you think I don’t know the tools of my trade? And ‘matelots’—that’s what my dad always used to call sailors. Dunno where he got it from. National Service, maybe? Or more likely down the nick, doing porridge with some old bootneck. See, that’s more slang. I can do some Cockney rhyming for you, if you like.”

A wry smile crossed Vermulen face. “Okay, you win. So, assuming you get the goods, when and where will you make the delivery?”

“It’ll be right here, at the hotel bar, just off the front hall, either three or four nights from now—I’ll text the exact time once the mission has been accomplished. There was a bird on your boat—sorry, a woman . . .”

“Yes, my secretary.” There was a hint of suspicion in Vermulen’s voice.

“You trust her?” asked Carver.

“Of course.”

“Good—then she can do the pickup. You and I can’t meet again—we’ve taken enough of a risk as it is. So what’s going to happen is a nice, respectable woman is going to meet an old friend in the bar of a hotel. What’s her name, by the way?”

“Natalia Morley.”

“Natalia . . . very nice. Anyway, Natalia and Kenneth will say hello, how are you, all that stuff. They’ll have a nice little drink. She’ll ask him what he’s been up to, he’ll take out the file, and she’ll cast an eye over it politely. At some point, she’ll take a call from her ‘husband’—that’s you, obviously—and she’ll tell him that she’s just bumped into good old Kenny. Then, when you’ve asked her if I’ve got the goods, she’ll hand the phone over to me, like you’re just dying to have a word with your old mate. You’ll tell me that you’ve wired the outstanding payment into my account. When I’ve got confirmation from my bank, I’ll pass Natalia the document, nice and discreet, and she’ll put it in her handbag. Then we finish our drinkies, say good night, and go our separate ways. All right?”

“I don’t want Miss Morley placed in any danger.”

“Nor do I, General. If she’s in danger, so am I.”

“Okay, but I need to make sure she’s comfortable with this. Let me speak with her.”

Over the past half-minute, Carver had taken out a black Moleskine notebook from his jacket pocket and written something on one of its pages.

“You do that,” he said, tearing the page out of the book and handing it to Vermulen. “But before you do, this is the sort code for my bank and the number of my account. I’d appreciate it if you transferred the first installment now. Neither of us is leaving this table till I’ve got my half-million.”

Vermulen did not even glance at the torn page.

“Once again, Mr. Wynter, your attitude won’t make you any friends.”

“It’s not personal, General. I’ve just learned the hard way not to deliver my side of a deal until I know for certain that the other side is delivering his.”

Vermulen made the call. Carver got his confirmation. He immediately transferred the money to another account before Vermulen could attempt to cancel the transaction: That was another lesson that had cost him millions.

There wasn’t much left to do. Vermulen handed Carver an envelope containing plans to the house and a detailed map of the surrounding area. He called “Miss Morley” and obtained her agreement to pick up the document. Carver could just make out Alix’s voice on the other end of the line. The sound of her tore at his heart. When he heard her call Vermulen “darling,” he had to grab a glass of water and look out to sea, so as not to give himself away.

When everything had been sorted out, Carver got up from the table. He reckoned this was about the time that Wynter, having got what he wanted, would turn the charm back on. So he held out his hand with a smarmy smile.

“Thank you, General—that was an excellent meal. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

Vermulen got up and shook hands, but he wasn’t going to get carried away.

“Good-bye to you, Mr. Wynter. If you don’t mind, I’d rather reserve my judgment until our business is complete.”

“You do that, General. And send my regards to Miss Morley. . . .”

O
n the way to Tourrettes-sur-Loup, Carver made a detour to Cannes. He dumped the piece of junk he’d hired at the airport and went to one of the specialist luxury car-rental companies that cater to the assorted stars, producers, and account-toting executives from the entertainment industry who flock to the town’s festivals and sales conventions. There he hired an Audi S6 sedan, his personal transport of choice. He loved it for looking as dull as a Ford Mondeo but driving as fast as a Ferrari—faster, in fact, on many roads, thanks to the grip produced by its four-wheel drive: the perfect getaway vehicle.

He stopped at a Géant big-box store outside town to buy basic provisions, outdoor clothing, and camping gear, including binoculars and some heavy-duty hiking boots. Then he drove up into the hills. These Georgian gangsters had certainly picked a spectacular location for their hideout in the foothills of the Maritime Alps, a landscape of jagged slopes scattered with pines and oaks, and scoured by spectacular gorges, where switchback roads and absurdly picturesque villages clung to the sides of precipitous cliffs.

The most direct way to the house was off the main road between Vence and Grasse, and up through the village of Tourrettes itself. But Carver went the scenic route, skirting the side of the Puy de Tourrettes, until the pavement gave way to a dirt road, and then a track impassable even by a car with four-wheel-drive. He parked the Audi, put on his knapsack, and started hiking toward a point on the mountain directly above the house, making the final approach on his belly until he found the ideal spot for his observation post.

Down below him, he could see the people he had come to rob. Their voices drifted up to him on the breeze, along with the barking of their dogs. They had not spotted him.

Carver got out his binoculars. Now all he had to do was watch, and wait.

That, and work out how the hell he was going to steal Kurt Vermulen’s precious document.

“M
an, that’s a sight to behold now, ain’t it?”

Early morning, East River Park, and a steady stream of joggers was taking the path down from Twenty-third Street to the South Street Seaport and back, under the Williamsburg, Manhattan, and Brooklyn bridges, past the Fulton Fish Market. This was New York City and people were too bound up in themselves to spare a glance for the three men standing by the railings, ignoring the views across the river, watching the girls go by.

“Makes me wish I were thirty years younger,” Waylon McCabe went on as a hot young blonde trotted by, her taut thighs and peachy backside sheathed in black running tights. “Hell, even ten years’d do me.”

He turned to one of the other men, who was balding, his overdeveloped muscles now melting into fat, a brown leather jacket open to reveal a spreading paunch. His name was Clinton Tulane and he had been a military instructor back in the days when McCabe was providing assistance to West African guerrillas. Tulane had helped him out then, just as he’d helped out a whole lot of other people, from Sarajevo to El Salvador. That was how he knew Dusan Darko, though that was not the name under which the man in the black overcoat with the lank, greasy hair had entered the United States. When you were a Serbian warlord, wanted across the Western world for crimes against humanity, it paid to travel incognito.

“You can leave us now, Clint,” said McCabe. “It’s been real good of you to make this introduction. But me ’n’ Mr. Darko here gotta talk business, and it’s kinda private.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tulane, any resentment at his exclusion more than covered by the wad of hundred-dollar bills now nestled in his jacket pocket.

McCabe waited long enough to let Tulane get out of earshot, then fixed his attention on the other man.

“So, Mr. Darko, Clint tells me you’re a man of some influence in your country—is that so?”

Darko shrugged as if to suggest that he was, indeed, influential, but too modest to say so out loud.

“So supposing I wanted to enter your country by air, find a place to land and refuel, pick up a package, and leave without anyone hasslin’ me—you could make that happen?”

“But of course . . . for a price. You understand, people would need to be paid. But it is possible, certainly.”

“Uh-huh, I get it. And you got men under your command, fightin’ men?”

Darko stood a little straighter.

“My men have fought alongside me for seven years. Against Croats. Against Bosnians. Now against Albanian scum. These men are lions—like the partisans who fought against the Nazis, they cannot be defeated.”

McCabe did his best to keep a straight face. He didn’t need any lessons on fighting from some greasy wop who was second cousin to a Gypsy.

“Well, that’s just fine, Mr. Darko. Let me tell you what I have in mind. . . .”

C
arver didn’t know what any of the wildflowers covering the hillside were, but he was glad of their rich, herbal scent. He’d been watching the house for forty-eight hours. During that time he’d drunk water, eaten chocolate, nuts, and dried fruit, and crapped into a sandwich bag before burying it in the earth behind his hideout. He’d also refined his plans for getting the document out of the house.

The property was arranged so that all the social areas were on the southern, downhill side, to maximize the views across the hazy, gray-green hills of Provence to the glittering waters of the Riviera. Everything practical was hidden away out of sight. So the driveway up to the house was over by the right-hand perimeter of the grounds, from Carver’s perspective, looking down from above. There was a small drop-off area by the front door to the house, but the actual parking was to the rear, so that cars would be kept out of sight. There was no garage, but a massive seven-seater Mitsubishi Shogun was sitting under a metal-framed, plastic-roofed awning.