Assassin

'Exactly,' he said in a spirit of international cooperation. 'That's just what I had in mind.'

'But what about Carver?' asked Ravnsborg. 'How can we say he is dead, when obviously he is not?'

'No, he isn't,' said Grantham, making Ravsnborg frown at the apparent tone of regret in his voice. Grantham's face brightened: 'But that's not a problem. The man who died in that barn isn't Samuel Carver at all. Samuel Carver doesn't exist. He's Paul Jackson, late of the Royal Marines and the Special Boat Service – just another twisted, embittered special forces veteran who came to a sticky end. There's a lot of it about these days. And Jackson certainly does exist. We'll give you all the paperwork you need: service records, photographs. Just say the word and it's yours. By the way,' he added, looking at his watch, 'it's been more like three minutes than one.'

'I know,' said Ravnsborg, with the faintest trace of a smile. 'And if we wait another three the fire will have destroyed the building completely. And, sadly, much of the forensic evidence will be destroyed, too.'

'What about Larsson?' Morten asked.

'Put him on your helicopter, fly him out,' said Ravnsborg. 'It will be faster, anyway.'

'And Carver?' Grantham asked. 'He's going to need treatment, but he can't go anywhere near a hospital. We need someone discreet who can be trusted absolutely…'

Ravnsborg made another call. When it was over, he said, 'It's done. There will be a doctor waiting for us, a man who has worked for the police for years. He is retired now, but only recently, and he was the best. He will meet us at his house. But we need a way of getting Carver there without attracting attention.'

'How about that?' said Grantham, nodding towards Larsson's giant Volvo. 'Lie him down in the back, there's plenty of room. The woman who came with Larsson, is she Carver's?'

'She has a relationship with him, yes,' said Ravnsborg. 'Her name is Madeleine Cross. She is American.'

'He gets around, that boy, I'll say that for him,' remarked Grantham. 'Come on then, let's go and have a word with Ms Cross.'

'No need,' said Morten. 'She is coming to us.'

Jack Grantham knew no more about the workings of the female mind than any other male. But he didn't need to be an expert to see that Madeleine Cross was one shocked, distraught and furious woman. She aimed for Ravnsborg, the only man of the three she recognized, and launched right in.

'What's the matter with you people? Where're the ambulances? I heard the sirens but they stopped and there are wounded men down there. They're going to die and you're just standing around doing nothing. What's going on here?'

Ravnsborg let her anger crash him like the waves against a cliff. Then he gently placed two huge hands on her shoulders and said, 'I understand your distress, Mrs Cross. But please, do not be concerned. Look, do you see the men near Mr Larsson?'

She turned to look back the way she had just come. Members of the anti-terrorist unit were placing Larsson on a stretcher. From beyond the main house came the sound of a helicopter engine.

'He is being airlifted to Oslo,' Ravnsborg continued. 'It is his best chance. We are getting Mr Carver treatment, too. And you, Mrs Cross, are going to help us. Come, let me explain…'

Ravnsborg led her away towards the Volvo. Grantham was just about to follow them when Morten grabbed his arm. 'Just a moment,' Morten said. He waited until the other two were out of earshot before he spoke again. 'Your plan is very clever, Mr Grantham, but you have forgotten one thing.'

'Really?' said Grantham with studied casualness. 'What might that be?'

'Larsson. Whether he lives or dies, he has to be explained. Armed personnel surround a building where a terrorist is hiding and not one of them is even scratched. But a civilian is killed while they all stand around doing nothing. How does that happen?'

Grantham chuckled condescendingly. 'Yes, I can see how that might be a problem… particularly for the man who commands those armed men. But don't worry, I think you'll find that Mr Larsson died a hero. He's some kind of weapons expert, as I recall. I dare say he was called in to defuse the booby-traps, something like that. Brilliant man, terrible loss, deeply missed, that's the big picture. I'll think of the details. Don't worry, Morten, that's what I do. Now, if you don't mind, I've got a Volvo to catch…'

Jack Grantham strode away towards the car. By the time he got there, Carver's unconscious body was already being lifted aboard.

73

'Is he dead?'

Maddy nodded. 'They switched off the life-support. I'm so sorry… I just spoke to Karin. At least she saw him. That's something, I guess.' Her eyes were red from crying, her cheeks still lined by the tracks of mascara-stained tears. She swallowed, chewed her lip and then said, 'She's pregnant with his baby. Ten weeks.'

'Oh God…'

Carver closed his eyes and his face slumped back down on to the padded examination table on which he was lying.

'I'm sorry,' he said, his voice muffled. 'Dragging you into all this… I had no idea…'

He was finding it hard to talk. He'd been drugged unconscious twice in twelve hours and he couldn't clear the narcotic fog from his brain. There were things he wanted to say to Maddy – explanations at least, if not excuses – but the right words wouldn't come. There was something else, too, something he had to do, but he couldn't remember what.

His body was naked, and numb from the neck down with local anaesthetics. A grey-haired doctor, glasses perched on the end of his nose, was working his way down Carver's back, buttocks and legs, repairing the damage wreaked by Tyzack's cane. He had been introduced to Carver as Dr Rolf Lyngstad. His wife Greta, a former nurse, was assisting him. The hundreds of stitches combined with the lines of the wounds to create a brutal cross-hatching over Carver's shredded skin.

Maddy glanced up at Lyngstad, who caught her eye and then very deliberately turned away, devoting his full attention to Carver's back. Whatever she was about to say, he was not going to hear it.

She crouched down by the end of the table until her head was level with Carver's. Quietly, but with fierce insistence, she said, 'Look at me. Look me in the eye.'

His head tilted up again.

Now her voice was somewhere between a whisper and a hiss. 'I know you kill people. The cops told me. Three guys last night. That's true, isn't it?'

He didn't deny it.

'But the sick bastard who did all this to you, who killed Thor, he's still out there.'

A fractional nod.

'And he's been planning… all this, right? He's been working on it a while. That British guy who knows you, Grantham…'

Carver's eyes widened: 'He's here?'

'Yeah. He told me about Damon Tyzack. He said it looked like he'd been setting you up, not just here, but other places. He said Dubai was one. And California. The sick bastard was in the States. And it made me think. That day at the hot-dog stand, the guy who creeped me out, that was him, wasn't it?'

'I don't know for sure.'

'But it might have been…'

Carver nodded again.

'He knows where I live. Doesn't he? He knows where I fucking live!'

'Yeah… I think so.'

'Was he there? When we were together?'

Carver didn't have to reply. The look on his face told her all she needed to know.

'Shit! That's just… I mean, what am I supposed to do now? Where am I supposed to go?'

'I'm sorry,' Carver repeated.

'Sorry? Oh, screw that. Sorry doesn't begin to cut it. No, I don't want you being sorry…' She knelt down in front of him again. 'I want you to kill him, Carver. Do you understand me? I want you to blow his sorry ass away. I want Damon Tyzack dead. I want him in pieces. I want to know that he's never coming back, that he can never find me, or hurt me. And if you can promise me that he's gone then maybe, just maybe, I might let you back in my life. Because right now, I wish I'd never met you.'