Assassin

Maybe it was all pure chance. But Carver didn't think so, and nor would other people who knew him and would immediately link him to Pablo. He was being framed for another man's hit. It struck Carver that the corny old bumper stickers had got it right. Just because he was paranoid didn't mean someone, somewhere, wasn't out to get him.

He needed someone to talk to. He called Thor Larsson in Oslo and told him what was going on. 'Am I going crazy here? That whole Pablo thing, I don't know, maybe it's just coincidence.'

Larsson was his normal, unflappable, Scandinavian self. 'It's got to be. Look at the odds. How many people call you by that nickname any more, or even know about it? And how many Pablos are there in the world? Picasso, Escobar… and lots more no one's ever heard of. It could be any of them.'

'But what if someone really is copying me? That's not good.'

'What's that saying you have in England?' Larsson asked. 'Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? Take it as a compliment. You're so good at your job that people want to make cheap copies, like a Rolex watch or a Louis Vuitton handbag.'

'Thanks, that's a big reassurance,' said Carver with a humourless chuckle. 'I'm being set up. There are policemen in Dubai pretty much saying they want to kill me.'

Larsson seemed untroubled by the threat to his friend's life: 'But you're not going to Dubai. You're coming to Oslo. We'll chill out and let this all blow over. Look on the bright side. At least you'll be free of this crap soon. I'm getting married for ever.'

'Ha! Let me tell you, if I had to choose between a lifetime with Karin or a single meeting with that Middle Eastern copper, I'm taking the gorgeous Norwegian blonde every time. Believe me, Thor, it's only my deep respect for you as a mate that's stopped me nicking her off you already.'

'You wouldn't stand a chance,' said Larsson confidently. 'You can't whisper dirty Norwegian words in her ear the way I can. Anyway, why do you need to steal anyone's girl? I thought you had a new one of your own.'

'That's true, I do. In fact, I was going to ask you, is it all right if I bring her with me to the wedding?'

Larsson's enthusiasm seemed to vanish in an instant: 'Er… yeah, sure, I don't see why not.'

'You don't sound very keen on the idea,' said Carver.

'No, no, I am… I was just surprised, I think. I didn't know you were so serious about her. But hey, that's good, you need someone new. Now come on, you haven't even told me her name.'

'Maddy. Maddy Cross.'

'And I suppose she looks like some kind of model or movie-star or something.'

Now Carver's laugh was entirely genuine. 'I think she's pretty stunning, yeah.'

'Then bring her to Oslo and I'll tell you if you're right.'

30

Bill Selsey was beginning to understand that he had entered into an arrangement that was much like smoking a first pipe of crack. You might think you could handle it. But it would soon be handling you.

He was scared – physically scared, with prickling armpits and quivering bowels – whenever his anonymous new master called. He'd been on again that morning.

'So, you got Carver on the run yet?' the man had asked.

'How do you mean?' Selsey replied, stalling for time.

'I mean, has the Firm taken him off its Christmas-card list? Is he persona non bloody grata? Has he been put on a hit-list yet?'

'Not exactly…'

'What do you mean, not exactly?'

'It's just that Carver still has powerful friends. One friend, at any rate. He's not convinced yet…'

'Have you given him all the information from California yet? The Krebs job?'

'Not yet: I was going to do that this morning.'

'About time. And you make sure you do it well. Go upstairs with it, if you have to, over this friend of Carver's head. Just get the job done.' 'Your boy Tolland seems to be making a name for himself,' said Jack Grantham from behind a copy of The Times. The words 'Exclusive: Slavery, Sex and Murder in Dubai: p.23' were printed in bold white text against a blue banner right across the top of the front page. 'I hope he gives you a piece of the action when the film studios come calling.'

He closed the paper, folded it in two and put it down on his desk. Then he looked up at Bill Selsey, standing by his desk. 'So, Bill, what can I do for you?' he asked.

Selsey gave a nervous grimace, a look Grantham recognized at once as a man bearing bad news to his boss.

'It's Carver. You're not going to believe this, Jack, but it looks like he's done another job. America this time.'

'I thought I told you, quite clearly, to find out what he was doing, and tell him to stop it.'

'So would you like to know what I've found out?'

Was Grantham imagining it, or was there an edge to that question?

'Of course,' he said. 'Go ahead.'

'Well, a financier called Norton Krebs had a car accident in northern California last week. He had a massive blow-out, swerved off the road and got himself decapitated by some cattle wire – a real Jayne Mansfield job, by the sound of it.'

'Ouch,' winced Grantham. 'And we care about Krebs because…?'

'In the first place, because he laundered money for a number of extremely unsavoury individuals, several of whom are suspected of having ties to gangs in this country. And in the second place because the local police in Amador County were puzzled to discover that the valves in the car's surviving tyres looked a little unusual. So they sent them off for forensic analysis…'

'Don't tell me. The valves had explosive filaments inserted in them. And we all know who uses valves like that, because we had to clean up the mess he made on the M25, last time he did it.'

'Quite,' agreed Selsey.

'But Carver's not the only operator out there who knows that technique.'

'Absolutely, which is why I wouldn't even bring it to your attention, except that Carver arrived in Boise, Idaho-'

'Which is not in California, evidently.'

'No,' said Selsey with only the merest sigh of impatience, 'it isn't. But it is a great deal closer to northern California than, say, Carver's flat in Geneva. And Carver certainly arrived there, two Saturdays ago. Our American cousins have supplied security footage from their airport. I've got a couple of stills for you here. As you can see, he was met by a woman.'

'They don't get any uglier, do they?'

'Apparently not,' Selsey agreed. 'Anyway, this one drove Carver away in a vehicle registered in the name of Madeleine Cross. I checked her record. It appears entirely clean.'

'Or conveniently so,' said Grantham. 'What else have you got?'

'A couple of days after Carver's arrival in Idaho, a second-hand car dealer in Boise sold a Tacoma, whatever that is, to a man who gave his name as Carver and answered to his description. The same vehicle and its driver were seen in Amador County near the crash over the days leading up to the crash. Witnesses say the driver spoke with an English accent. Several remember him mentioning Norton Krebs.'

'And Carver?'

'He seems to have scuttled back to his new woman. Then they both left the country, together. They're in Paris at the moment, with tickets booked through to Oslo.'

'That makes sense. That hippy pal of Carver's with the ridiculous hair – Larsson – he's Norwegian. But I still think this is all too pat. I can just about believe Carver would go back to what he does best. But that's the point – he's very good at it. He doesn't leave clues lying around like losing tickets on a bookie's floor.'

'Not in the old days,' Selsey agreed. 'But maybe times have changed. He's out of practice, getting a bit ragged. The point is, the evidence overwhelmingly says it's him. Why should the evidence be lying?'