9
Two short cross tunnels led from the display area of the Belgrand gallery to the Bruneseau gallery, which ran parallel to it. Carver had set the timer detonator on his packet of C4 putty to five seconds, then dashed down one of these cross tunnels, the Avaloir. The flame from the explosion flared down the passage, chasing after Carver, scorching his back as it licked against him.
Now he just had to get back to the surface. But which exit? There were two people on the bike chasing him, so one of them was still up there. Carver wanted him, alive if possible. He tried to put himself in the guy’s place. Where would he station himself if he were up top? The smart move would be to find a place where you could cover both exits. On that basis, it made no difference where he came up. The risk would be the same.
There was another factor to consider. The area around the ticket kiosk was an ambusher’s paradise. There was cover everywhere and no passersby to witness what happened. But if Carver’s sense of direction was in working order, the other exit must be near the south end of the Alma Bridge. That was much more open, with many more cars and people.
So that was where he’d take his chances.
It took him several minutes to work his way back through the darkness toward the man-made cave where the giant ball had been. At last there was a glimmer of light. He dashed toward it with intense relief, running toward the stairs, past the open red door, and almost up to the stairwell before he forced himself to stop.
He edged into the stairwell, then looked up, sighting his gun vertically, ready to fire at the slightest movement above him. There was a grille of some kind across the top. He couldn’t see any padlock or chain holding it in place. He walked steadily up the circular steel staircase, pausing every few steps to watch and listen for any sign of suspicious activity.
The steps ended at a small platform a couple of feet from the surface. Carver crawled onto it on his belly, keeping himself below the lip of the manhole. He slithered as close as he could get to the side of the hole, then placed his hands on the ground level with his shoulders, the left hand flat, the right bunched around the grip of his gun. Next, he shifted his weight onto his arms, leaning his torso forward and bringing his feet up so that his knees were pressed against his chest.
He sprang forward, throwing himself out of the manhole, keeping his trajectory as low as possible, so that he landed flat on the tarmac sidewalk. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled to his left, bringing his hands together in front of him, clasping the gun. He kept his head up, his eyes focused forward, along the line of his arms and his weapon.
He saw nothing. Just a couple of cars crossing the Alma Bridge. There was no sound of gunfire, no smack of a silenced bullet hitting the tarmac beside him.
Carver had rolled through 270 degrees onto his right shoulder when his legs slammed into something hard. He grimaced at the impact of bare metal on his anklebone. He looked around and saw that he’d come to rest against the dead man’s Ducati. The man’s helmet was still hanging from one of the handlebars. The sharp, almost nauseating bolt of pain from Carver’s ankle had been inflicted by the foot rest.
He pulled himself into a sitting position, leaned back against the bike, and again checked his surroundings. Still no sign of an enemy. He looked down at his ankle and flexed his foot. It rotated without any trouble, so the bones and ligaments were undamaged and his movement would be unimpaired. He’d certainly have a nasty bruise in the morning, but if he lived long enough to see it, there’d be no reason to complain.
As he sat on the pavement, two young Parisians walked by, a boy and a girl, arm in arm. Carver tried to look relaxed and nonchalant, as though it were perfectly normal to be leaning against a motorcycle, covered in concrete dust and scorch marks. He needn’t have bothered. The young lovers were far too busy gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes to care about anyone else.
He got up and used the kids as cover, following them as they crossed the road at the end of the bridge, walking toward the riverside embankment and the kiosk by the entrance to the sewers. The Honda was still where he had left it. He walked toward it, holding his gun straight down by his side, still sheltered by the two lovebirds in front of him.
There was no sign of the other man. Carver looked at the trees on the river side of the walk—nothing. He scanned the bushes: nothing. To the right of the kiosk ran the Quai d’Orsay, the main road along the Left Bank of the Seine. It led down to the National Assembly and the Musée d’Orsay art museum. Carver walked a few paces down the road.
A bus shelter stood no more than twenty meters away. It was shaped like a rectangular, three-sided box, open to the quai on the fourth side. A woman, a blond, was leaning up against the outside of the shelter, looking down the road in Carver’s direction. She was wearing a skimpy sleeveless black tanktop, no bra, and a tiny denim miniskirt. The black nylon strap of the bag on her back crossed her chest diagonally, separating and emphasizing the swell of her breasts.
Carver let his glance linger on her a second longer than it should have. She felt his appraising look, pulled the bag off her back, held it in front of her chest, and replied with a frank, uncompromising stare of her own.
He lowered his eyes, like any other guy caught with a prick for a brain. Now he saw the woman’s boots. They were heavy, black, calf-length, buckled at the ankle and midcalf: motorcycle boots. He’d seen them before; he’d seen the black nylon bag before. And why was the blond looking in his direction? Any bus on this side of the road would be going the other way.
Christ, he’d been stupid. He raised his eyes, bringing his gun up from his side and running toward her flat out as she reached into the bag, pulled out a silenced Uzi, and brought it to bear.
Carver slammed into her before she could fire, grabbing her gun and ripping it from her hands. He spun her around and smashed her face-first against the side of the bus shelter. He kicked the gun away, then he wrapped one arm around the woman’s chest, pinning her arms by her side. He held her tight against him, squeezing her between his body and the side of the shelter, making it impossible for her to wriggle free.
He felt the softness of her body against his and caught a trace of her rich, dark scent. For a second, something about it, an unexpected familiarity, distracted him. The hell with that. He stuck his gun against her temple.
“Listen carefully,” he hissed into her ear. “Your boyfriend is dead. You’ll be dead too, unless you do exactly as I say.”
He tried again. “You speak English?”
No response.
Carver took a pace back, aiming his pistol straight at her. Still keeping his eye on the blond, he bent his knees and picked up the submachine gun, stuffing it into his jacket.
“Turn around.”
She didn’t move.
Carver stepped forward and kicked out at her legs, hitting her in the side of the shin. She crumpled to the ground, landing to the left of the bus shelter. As her knees hit the pavement, Carver stamped his left foot between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the ground.
She let out an involuntary grunt as the air was forced from her lungs. Now she was lying along the back of the shelter, hidden from the road.
Carver fired a single shot into the pavement, six inches from her head. She flinched as the dust and stone fragments hit the side of her face.
“The next one goes through the back of your skull. Now, let’s stop pissing around. Do you speak English?”
This time she responded with a nod of her head.
“Good. Now, very slowly, put your arms by your side, palms of your hands facing me.”
She did as she was told.
“Thank you. Now stay completely still.”
Carver shifted his position, sliding his foot down her back and over her rump, bringing it to rest on the ground between her upper thighs. Then he bent his left knee until it came to rest on the base of her spine. His right foot was flat on the ground. All his weight was bearing down on her lower back. She whimpered in pain.
He unzipped one of the thigh pockets of his cargo pants and took out a thin strip of plastic that was looped into a figure eight. The loops were secured by tiny locking boxes through which the plastic strips passed.
“Put your hands side by side in the small of your back.”
Carver placed a plastic loop over each hand, then pulled the loose ends until the plastic was tight around each wrist.
“Roll over onto your back.”
He waited as she obeyed. When she looked at him, there was a momentary flash of pure rage in her eyes, in the setting of her jaw, the pursing of her lips. She looked away and took in a single, short, harsh breath through her nostrils. When she met Carver’s eyes again, less than five seconds later, she had regained her self-control. Her face was blank, as if she knew there was more to come. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of watching her lose her temper, still less cry or beg for mercy.
“Sit up against the shelter.”
She levered herself upright, then shuffled backward until she was leaning against the shelter wall, her legs flat on the pavement in front of her. Carver was on his haunches opposite her. Anyone passing by would take him for a boyfriend trying to help a sick or stoned girlfriend. They wouldn’t look too closely. They wouldn’t want to get involved. They’d pass right by, just like city people always do, in any city, anywhere.
“Why does Max want me dead?”
Still she gave nothing away. But her eyes were more tightly focused on him now, more calculating this time, as if she were waiting to see what he had before she made her first move.
Carver wanted to needle her, provoke a reaction. “Look, I don’t blame you for being pissed off. I would be too if I’d screwed up. You shouldn’t have tried to take the gun out of the bag, right? You should have just shot through it. So what is it—you’re no good at your job? You’re out of practice? Maybe it isn’t your usual line of work.”
She did react, but not in the way he’d expected. She just looked at him with utter contempt, as if he hadn’t a clue. As if he weren’t even close.
He went back to Plan A. “You never answered my question. Why does Max want me dead?”
Finally she spoke. “I don’t know anyone named Max.” Her voice was flat, unyielding. She sounded like a suspect in a police interrogation cell who knows the cops can’t prove their case. Her accent was American, but spoken by a foreigner. Carver guessed Eastern European.
“Okay.”
He got to his feet and took a couple of steps to where the black bag was lying on the ground. Bending down, keeping his gun and his eye on the woman all the while, he picked up the bag, then stepped back to his original position, right beside her.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here. . . .”
He put his free hand into the bag, pulled out a purse, and flicked it open. There were half a dozen credit cards arranged in slots, one above the other. Carver slid a couple of cards out with his thumb. They bore the name “A. Petrova.” He took another look at the outside of the purse, checking out the pattern stamped into the leather: Louis Vuitton. He was starting to put the pieces together, but he needed a little more information to be sure.
“What does the A stand for?”
She shrugged. “What A?”
“On your credit card: A. Petrova.”
“You mean, like a . . . for ‘asshole’?” This time she let a slight, mocking smile play around the corners of her mouth. She’d scored another point.
He kept riffling through the bag. There was a mobile phone. He opened it up and accessed the address book, keeping one eye on the woman. There were lots of Russian names. Some were people; others he guessed were shops, clubs, or restaurants. There was nothing under “Max.” He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it.
Next, his fingers wrapped themselves around a piece of thin card. It was inserted into a small, stiff booklet: an airline ticket in a passport. He pulled them out of the bag. The ticket was an Aeroflot return from Moscow to Paris. The outward segment had already been torn off and used. Now he knew where she’d come from.
He knew her full name too. The passport was Russian. It named her as Alexandra Petrova, date of birth September 21, 1967. So she was almost thirty. She looked younger. Maybe she was. Maybe she’d just assumed an older identity. And maybe he’d arranged her death about three hours ago.
“You’ve got a Louis Vuitton bag. It contains underwear, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and some kind of silky dress. So, what, you were planning to party once you’d finished the job?”
This time he knew he’d got through. She didn’t say anything, but she frowned. For the first time, the defiance in her eyes was clouded by uncertainty.
Carver pressed on. “You left the bag in a one-bedroom apartment on the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile. The bag was on the bed. There was a white Chanel carrier bag next to it, with some perfume, lipsticks, and a small black box—I’m guessing a watch—inside it. You picked that up at duty free, right? Mixing the hit with a nice bit of shopping. I like it, the feminine touch.”
She wasn’t impressed. “What are you trying to tell me? You’re some kind of stalker?”
“No, I’m telling you they planned to kill you too. I’ve got to admit, it was elegant. They got each set of killers to eliminate the other. See, when Max briefed me, he said the apartment belonged to the target. I was supposed to booby-trap it in case he escaped the hit. But it wasn’t the target’s apartment, was it?”
She said nothing. Carver let the silence hang between them. He watched Petrova. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking down at the ground, thinking, working out the next move. A minute or more went by before she raised her eyes toward Carver again, her hostile glare replaced by a searching examination of his face, as though she were looking for the final clues that would help her reach a decision. Then she made up her mind, nodded to herself, and spoke.
“Okay. Kursk—the man you say you killed—was given our orders when we arrived in Paris. Someone called him—I don’t know if that was this man you call Max. They told us to go to the apartment and wait for further instructions. There were new clothes, boots, and helmets there, one set for each of us, weapons and a key. Also a camera, with a big flash attachment.”
“You got changed?”
“Yes.”
“So why were your clothes the only ones in the apartment? What about Kursk’s?”
“He threw them away when we left.”
“Why?”
“How should I know? Maybe he likes to travel light. Anyway, about eight thirty, they called again. We were told to go to Rue Duphot. It’s off Rue de Rivoli, near Place Vendôme. When we got there, just before nine, Kursk got another call. We were told our target would be a black Mercedes. We had to follow it and use the camera with the flash to scare the people in the car and make them drive faster. After that we had to go back to the apartment, spend the night there, and then fly out in the morning. About an hour later Kursk got another call. It seemed to give him great satisfaction.”
Carver nodded. “It fits. They got you out of the apartment before I arrived. They waited to see that I had completed my work there. Once they knew that you would be killed, they called Kursk to deal with me. Like I said, neat. So now we have a new question: Why did they want us dead?”
“I don’t know. Truly.”
“It must have something to do with the job. Did you see inside the car?”
“Not really. I had my visor down and the flash from the camera was, you know, reflecting off the windows. I think there were four people: two in front, two in back. One of them might have been a woman. I don’t know.”
“Where’s the camera now?”
“The motorcycle. In the box at the side.”
“Was there film inside it?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. It just flashed.”
“That makes sense. No photographic evidence.”
She looked at him. “So now what?”
Carver had been watching her as she spoke. She had a wide mouth, full lips, and cool blue eyes. One lid was slightly heavier than the other, one pupil fractionally out of line. Those minuscule asymmetries should have marred her looks, yet the imperfection was mesmerizing, drawing him in. With an averagely pretty, even beautiful girl, he’d look once. With this one, it took an effort to drag his gaze away.
“Now we make a decision,” he said. “I could shoot you, right here and now, and disappear into the night. That has the advantage of simplicity. But I don’t want to kill you unless I absolutely have to. So, have you heard the expression ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend’?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“I think we should work on that basis. We’ve both been set up by the same people. Our best hope is to get to them before they get to us. So, they’re our enemy. I guess that makes us friends.”
She raised her eyebrows, gave a little pout, and shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, if you say so, let’s talk about that. But first, prove to me that you are a friend. Get me a cigarette. There is a pack in my bag, Marlboro Lights.”
He felt around in the bag, still keeping his eyes on her, until he felt the cigarette pack. He pulled it from the bag, flipped open the top, and shook it so that a couple of cigarettes poked farther out than the rest. Then he reached over, holding the packet close to her mouth.
She leaned forward, feeling for the cigarettes with her lips, using her tongue to separate one from the rest. She slumped back against the bus shelter wall with the cigarette in her mouth.
“Got a light?”
There was a lighter in the bag. He put the flame to her cigarette. As she breathed in, igniting the tobacco, their eyes met, no more than a foot apart. She didn’t say anything, just let him feel the tension as her unflinching, disconcerting gaze held his.
Several seconds went by before Carver realized he’d broken a basic rule. Their heads were so close she could easily have butted him, smashing his nose. He jerked back, as if evading a blow that never came. She didn’t move, just kept looking at him.
“Do you still have the helmet?” he asked.
“In the bushes, over there, with the leather jackets,” she replied, nodding toward a clump of greenery that lay between the bus shelter and the sewer museum’s ticket kiosk.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. First we make them think that they’ve won. That means getting ourselves killed, the more publicly, the better. So . . .”
Carver explained what he intended to do and what Petrova’s role would be. She nodded occasionally. Every so often she asked a question or suggested an alternative course of action. The hostility had ebbed, however temporarily, from her voice. Her tone was practical, functional, getting the job done.
At the end he said, “What do you think?”
“I think we have the same enemy and I think your plan has a chance of success. Beyond that, I don’t bother to think. I have only one more question.”
“Yes?”
“What is your name?”
“Samuel Carver. Most people just call me Carver.”
“Okay. Most people call me Alix. And now that we have been introduced, are you going to untie my hands?”
Carver nodded, then pulled a pair of scissors from the same pocket the plastic cuffs had been in. He stepped behind Alix as she shuffled forward, making some space between her back and the shelter. Then he got down on his haunches and forced one blade between the plastic and Alix’s left wrist, making her wince as the metal and plastic dug in. Once he’d cut it free, he repeated the process on her other wrist. As he stood up and came around to face her again, she started to rub her lower arms, in an effort to restore circulation.
Then she held out a surprisingly dainty hand toward Carver. He reached out and shook it, as if sealing their deal.
“No, you fool,” she said. “I want you to help me up.”
Carver chuckled edgily and Alix smiled back. For the first time there was a flicker of warmth, a hint of the woman behind that calculating facade. He pulled her back onto her feet, then slung her bag around his shoulder. She let out a pained sigh as she straightened her spine, then felt the small of her back with her hands.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “You know, just business.”
He regretted the crass words the moment he’d spoken them. There was bitterness in her short, humorless laugh, and when she glanced at him again her eyes had the battered vulnerability of a woman who’s no stranger to violence.
“It’s never just business,” she said.
Then she picked up her helmet and they walked together toward the Alma Bridge.