Assassin

'And the bad news?'

Ravnsborg ran his hands through his hair, leaving it even more dishevelled. He sighed like a man who was way past the end of his tether. 'The bad news,' he said, 'is that your Mr Carver may very well be dead.'

64

As soon as Bill Selsey got to work and realized that Grantham had scurried off to Oslo, he knew that it was time to make his move. The head of SIS, Sir Mostyn Green, had been chosen more for his willingness to tell the Prime Minister precisely what he wanted to hear than any great gift for intelligence. Selsey had been among those appalled by the way Green had been parachuted into Vauxhall Cross over the heads of men and women far better qualified for his position. Now, though, he was delighted that his boss was a political crawler, who dreaded public embarrassment above all else.

Selsey put himself through to Green's gatekeeper, a junior toadie built in his master's image.

'Morning, Jason, can you squeeze me in with Sir Mostyn for a few minutes, soon as poss? Something's come up.'

'I'm afraid he's tied up all morning. He's got the Foreign Secretary at eleven, and then they're both attending a JIC meeting. Is it urgent?'

'Well, it's an internal matter. Pretty delicate, actually,' Selsey replied in the confidential tone of a man about to pass on a particularly juicy piece of gossip. He had always known, as a matter of principle, that knowledge was power. Now he understood that power first hand.

'It's Grantham,' Selsey went on. 'He flew to Oslo this morning. He's gone to meet a chap called Samuel Carver.'

It took a second for the penny to drop.

'What, the one who's wanted for that hotel bombing?'

'Precisely.'

'But why would Grantham…? Oh Lord, are you suggesting that the Service might be exposed to some kind of embarrassment?'

'Exactly, that's what's causing me concern. I can't go into details now, but Jack and Carver go back a while. They've got form. That's why I need to see Sir Mostyn.'

'In that case, I'll see what I can do.'

'Thanks, Jason. Knew you'd understand.'

65

Madeleine Cross put a hand on the basin and leaned towards the bathroom mirror. God, she looked wrecked.

She hadn't slept a wink. The whole night had crawled by with the same thoughts going round and round her brain without her coming to any conclusions: always the same questions, but never with any answers. She wished she knew where Carver was and whether he was alive or dead. She wished, too, that she knew who Carver was: the man she'd thought she could love, or the vicious killer she'd heard described on CNN. She kept going back to that moment at the ranch, when she'd felt his hands grip her body tight and watched him struggle to overcome his desire: he'd never been more attractive to her than at the precise instant he let her go. But against that proof of self-restraint and consideration she thought of the brutal efficiency with which he'd dispatched the two rednecks in that roadhouse south of Cascade. The man who had done that might just be capable of bombing a hotel without even losing sleep. And yet she still heard Ole Ravnsborg's voice in her head, asking, 'What if he is an innocent man who has himself been used?'

When the morning came, she hauled herself off to the bathroom and stood under a blistering hot shower until the fatigue and stiffness had melted from her neck and shoulders. Then she yanked the control to the far side of the dial and made herself stay there under the blast of freezing water. Now, as she stood by the basin and dabbed a concealer wand at the sacks under her eyes, her mind at last reached a point of clarity and the answers she was seeking seemed to fall into place like the tumblers of a lock.

It was just a matter of getting enough evidence to convince Ravnsborg that her answers were right. And to do that, the first thing she needed was a chat with the future Mrs Larsson. Time they had a good girl-talk.

***

The hotel was surrounded by TV crews and reporters. Maddy had to persuade the management to smuggle her out of the rear service exit like a scandal-ridden celebrity. She dashed to a waiting taxi and was driven up through hills dotted with smart suburban homes to the Holmenkollen Chapel, a starkly beautiful construction of black-stained wood topped with heavy wooden crosses.

'What do you think?' asked Thor Larsson, who met her outside the entrance.

'About this place?' she replied, looking up at the looming silhouette of the chapel set against the pale blue sky. 'I think it looks like a cross between a church and a haunted house. Or do you mean: what do I think about being here, at this damn rehearsal? Because, honestly, I don't know how you can go ahead with a wedding, after last night.'

'You think we should cancel it?' he asked.

'Yeah, don't you? Ten people died last night. We were there. Oh, and your best man is accused of the crime.'

'Ten people will die on the roads in this country over the next two or three days. Ten people die on a good day in Iraq. Should we cancel everything for them too?'

'But we were there.'

'Yes, we were having dinner in the cafe. But we didn't make the bombs go off. And what about Karin? Am I supposed to tell her: Sorry, darling, you'll have to send all your family and friends a thousand kilometres back to Narvik because some guy let off a bomb? It doesn't make sense.'

There was a tension in Larsson's voice, a desperation almost, which was out of keeping with everything Sam had told her about his laid-back personality; everything she had seen herself at the airport and over dinner. She wondered if the person he was really trying to persuade was himself.

'What about Carver?' she asked as they walked into the chapel.

'Do you think he was responsible for what happened?' Larsson replied.

'No… no, I don't. I can't.'

'OK. But if we cancelled, that would be like an admission that we were linked to the guilty man. We can't do that to him.'

'What if he's dead?'

'I don't think he is. I've known him a long time and he always pulls through. So we're going to do this rehearsal, OK?'

Ahead of them, Karin was looking up at the altar, lost in thought.

'Wait a minute,' Maddy said to Larsson. 'I just need to say hello to Karin, all right?'

'I'll introduce you.'

'No, it's OK, I can do it.'

Maddy walked towards Karin, wondering what to say to her. At any other rehearsal she'd tell the bride how pretty she looked and giggle sympathetically about the stress of it all. But now? Maddy decided that she might as well be honest.

'Weird, isn't it?' she said. 'I mean, doing all this… now… after last night.'

'Oh God, I'm so glad you said that,' said Karin, bursting into tears. She sounded distraught, but also relieved, as though a great burden of lies and pretence had been lifted from her shoulders.

Maddy hugged her. 'It's OK… Come on, sit down here.'

She led Karin to the altar steps. She told her everything was going to be fine, though she knew neither of them believed it. There was only one thing Maddy truly wanted to talk about.

'Can I ask you a question?'

Karin nodded as she wiped away her tears.

'How long have you guys been engaged?' Maddy asked. 'You must have been planning this for the longest time.'

'Actually, no,' Karin replied. A weary smile played around her face. 'You know, marriage is not so important here as maybe it is in America. In fact, it's a little old-fashioned. But Thor just proposed to me, only a month ago, right out of the blue.'