Assassin

Carver had a hard time getting the next question out. 'Couldn't they…' He sighed; tried again. 'Couldn't they remove his eyeballs and use them?'

Grantham shook his head. 'Apparently not. The system only works with living tissue. Besides which, Larsson's eyes were pretty badly damaged. Might not have worked anyway. They've got their boffins trying to hack into the computer. They're working on the phones, too.'

'Forget it,' Carver said. 'Whoever they've got, I guarantee they won't be as good as Thor. The guy was a bloody genius – a big, geeky, hippy…'

Grantham nervously placed a hand on an undamaged area of Carver's left shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I know he was your friend.'

'It's just… we never had the chance to talk, to put it right. He died thinking I hated him…'

Carver's voice drifted away. Grantham reached out his arm again, but Carver brushed it away impatiently.

'I'm not looking for sympathy,' he said. 'I'm trying to think. Larsson did say something, just before they put me under… something about the sky… That's it, got it: "Look to the sky."'

'Is that all?' asked Grantham. '"Look to the sky"? You're sure there was nothing else?'

'No, that was it.'

'But that could mean anything. He could have meant something spiritual or religious. You know, look to the sky, to heaven, God, angels, all that kind of thing.'

'Thor Larsson didn't believe in God and angels.'

'It's amazing how dying can suddenly make someone start believing.'

'No,' said Carver, 'that wasn't the point of what Thor was saying. He was giving me a warning. He knew that something was going to happen. It's got to be Tyzack. Whatever it is he's doing, it's coming from the sky.'

76

Lara Dashian was living under siege. It had begun slowly in the first hours after Jake Tolland's piece appeared in the London Times. Local TV stations had asked for interviews with her and been turned down by Sadira Khan. So had the Dubai stringers for the major news agencies and international press. But then Jake Tolland arrived and said that he had been offered one hundred thousand English pounds to write a book about her story. He said he would share it fifty-fifty with her. Lara was not really interested in a book. She did not understand why anyone in England would want to know about her. But she had trusted Jake, and when he came to her offering to share his money that trust deepened. Her experience of men was that they wanted to abuse and exploit her. The notion that a man might treat her as an equal was far more exciting than any book.

Tolland promised he would keep the book project quiet. But someone took a photograph of Lara saying goodbye to him at the gate of the House of Freedom. When that hit the internet, along with a report of an upcoming book – now said to be worth half a million pounds – the reporters all came back. Once the first murmurings of Hollywood interest in her story began to surface, reporters started flying into Dubai from Britain, Europe and the States. Several prominent young actresses were said to be vying to play her. They knew that the part of a raped and abused prostitute rescued from hell and triumphing over her suffering had Best Actress Oscar written all over it. By the time that Jake Tolland's agent was unwise enough to get drunk at a launch party and boast that he was about to do a series of deals that would make both his client and Lara multi-millionaires, the House of Freedom had effectively become a prison, its inhabitants entirely blockaded on all sides by hordes of media, police and onlookers.

And then the delegation from the US embassy arrived.

The two women in their knee-length skirt suits were hustled into the refuge compound by a team of large men with black suits and buzz-cut heads. They kept their heads down and faces obscured. When they got into the courtyard they had to keep running, just to get out of range of the photographers up trees, on ladders or shooting from the roofs of nearby buildings. And then they had to get past Sadira Khan.

She stood opposite her two compatriots, hands on hips, watching them disdainfully as they brushed themselves down, straightened their clothes and checked their hair. 'You wanna say why you're here?' she asked.

One of the women came forward and held out a hand. 'Hi,' she said, 'My name's Renee Sorenson. I'm with the embassy in Abu Dhabi. This is Chantelle Clemens. She works with Harrison James. He's the White House Chief of Staff.'

'It's OK, hon, I know who he is. I'm still a registered voter. So let me guess, this is to do with Lara, right? Or did you come all this way to congratulate me on my selfless work for abused women?'

'Er, no, ma'am,' said Chantelle Clemens as she shook hands. 'We're here at the President's particular request. We'd like to speak to Miss Dashian.'

'The President, you say?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'He gonna rescue us all from this madhouse?'

Clemens smiled. 'Anything's possible. But first, please, we really do have to talk to Miss Dashian.'

'You know I've turned down every single request since that story came out?'

'We heard, yes.'

'I'm trying to protect the kid, you understand? She's been through hell. She's still very fragile.'

'I understand, and so does the President,' said Clemens. 'You can rest assured that we are very aware of the suffering she has been through, and we respect that totally.'

While the women had been talking, the House of Freedom's inhabitants had been gathering in the background, whispering to one another, fascinated by these new arrivals in their home.

Sadira Khan turned and looked at the girls, who retreated a few paces. Some slipped back through doors into other rooms.

'It's all right,' she said, and the girls came a little bit closer again.

'Lara,' she went on. 'Come here, sweetheart.'

Two of the girls stood to one side to let Lara through. She stood still for a moment, sticking by her friends, examining the American women through her big, brown, bush-baby eyes. Then she looked at Sadira Khan seeking reassurance, found it and stepped forward.

Chantelle Clemens watched the slight, nervous figure step across the hall towards them. Was this really the sex-slave who'd been bought, sold and raped, the way the story claimed? In her cheap T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms she looked about fourteen.

The woman from the White House smiled as she said, 'Hi, Lara, my name's Chantelle.' She almost had to bite her lip to stop herself adding, 'So you're what all this fuss is about?'

77

Greta Lyngstad placed a large bowl of spaghetti covered in tomato sauce and Parmesan cheese in front of Carver and said, 'Eat. You need it.'

'Thanks,' said Carver and piled in. Greta wasn't the best cook in the world, but he didn't care. Almost eighteen hours had passed since he'd been rudely interrupted, halfway through his dinner, and not a morsel of food had crossed his lips since. He was famished.

They'd moved from the doctor's study into his dining-room. Carver was bandaged like an Egyptian mummy from his shoulders to his waist. There were padded dressings on his buttocks – Greta had tactfully left a soft cushion on the dining-chair just to make him more comfortable – and more bandages round his thighs. Grantham and Lyngstad were standing at the far end of the room, by a window that looked out over a small, well-tended garden.

'So, is he fit to go?' asked Grantham, nodding in Carver's direction. He did not seem bothered by the fact that Carver was sitting at the other end of the tables well able to hear every word that was said.

'I am afraid that I can only discuss my patient's condition with him,' Lyngstad replied. He had clearly not forgotten Grantham's description of his stitching and was not going to forgive him any time soon.

Grantham sighed irritably. 'Oh, for God's sake. You ask him, Carver.'

'Ask who what?' said Carver innocently.

'You know.'

'Dr Lyngstad,' said Carver, 'first may I thank you for taking such trouble to patch me up. It must have been very difficult work. I appreciate it.'