'You're welcome, Mr Carver,' said Lyngstad with a little nod.
'I was just wondering…'
'Yes?'
'How long do you think it will be before I can go back to work?'
'Hmm…' Lyngstad gave a contemplative sigh, relishing the impatience that was radiating from Grantham as obviously as the light from a bulb. 'That would depend on your job. For example, if you were a civil servant, in a government department, I would say that you should take at least one month, possibly more, to recuperate – on full pay, of course. On the other hand, if we were at war, and the enemy were at the gate, so to speak, then I would look at your wounds, vicious as they are, and say, "They're a long way from your heart."'
'You mean they won't kill me?'
'Quite so, Mr Carver. You will experience considerable pain and discomfort for some time. It could be many weeks before the wounds are properly healed and months, or even years, before the scars begin to fade, if they fade at all. But so long as you keep the wounds clean and bandaged and take painkillers when necessary, you are in no danger. You still have almost full mobility. Your senses are not impaired. No vital organs have been damaged. So if this were a war, and the situation was very serious, then I would send you back to the front line. And since I note both that you are in excellent physical condition and that your body bears clear signs of previous injuries, I should say that you are closer to a soldier than a civil servant.'
'So he is ready to go then,' said Grantham.
Lyngstad ignored him. 'Does that answer your question, Mr Carver?'
'Yes, thank you, doctor.'
'Right,' said Grantham. 'We're off. I've already had your bags collected from the hotel. No need to hang around.'
'No,' said Carver.
'What do you mean, no?'
'Exactly what I said. Mrs Lyngstad has made me this excellent bowl of pasta. I can't just leave it here uneaten, that would be rude. Besides, I'm starving. So first I finish the pasta. Then I go.'
'Well said, Mr Carver,' said Lyngstad.
Just then, Greta appeared in the doorway that led to the kitchen, holding a saucepan. 'I've got a little bit more if you'd like it,' she said.
78
On his flight to England, Damon Tyzack considered the whole issue of loose ends. So far they had been looking after themselves quite satisfactorily. He'd been tracking news-feeds during the drive into Denmark and had been delighted to learn that so far as the authorities were concerned, the Oslo bombing case was closed. Both Carver and Larsson were dead. The manner of their passing, however, disturbed Tyzack. The official account stated that Carver, who was referred to by his original name Paul Jackson, had died when surrounded by police at his hideout close to the Swedish border. The use of Carver's old name had niggled at Tyzack. He couldn't help wondering also how the police had found that hideout. An Oslo police spokeswoman had stated that they were alerted by members of the public walking in the area, but to a man of Tyzack's conspiratorial temperament, that account seemed too straightforward. There had to be more to it than that.
Even if there weren't, the very fact that he was worried told Tyzack something. He was operating much closer to the surface than ever before, straying uncomfortably into the public eye. It had begun with Jana Kreutzmann and her damned investigations into people-trafficking. Then there had been the whole business about Pablo the Pimpernel. He'd ordered Selsey to discredit Carver among his allies in MI6, and to send a message that Carver himself would see. But the whole thing had spiralled infuriatingly out of control. Lara Dashian was rapidly becoming the most famous whore in the world. People were talking about books and films about the grotty little tart. Unbelievably, the latest reports were even suggesting she might appear on the podium with Lincoln Roberts at his Bristol speech. That, Tyzack thought, would actually be doing him a favour. He could get them both at the same time.
That left Selsey. Tyzack was under no illusions at all about the MI6 officer's long-term reliability. If a man could betray one master, he could just as easily betray another. Of course Selsey did not know that Tyzack was his paymaster, but he knew enough to make it much easier for others to uncover connections that might make life very difficult indeed. In the meantime, buying Selsey's silence could well prove an expensive proposition and Tyzack never liked spending money when there was another, simpler option.
It might be necessary to deal with Selsey personally. And if he was going to do it, the sooner the better. Once the President had been hit, things might get a little hectic and he'd be wanting to lie low. He knew where Selsey lived. Tonight he'd pay a house call. Bill Selsey wished for nothing more than the chance to go home. He wished he'd never gone down to meet that manipulative old bastard Percy Wake. He wished he'd never been seduced and deluded by the prospect of easy money and a cheap thrill. He wished he'd never harboured such childish resentments against Jack Grantham, and, even more, that he'd not been so stupid as to believe that he could outwit Grantham in a contest of wills and cunning. And he wished he'd never walked into Sir Mostyn Green's office and seen him sitting there with a face like thunder while Dame Agatha Bewley introduced herself and said, 'We've never met, but I feel as though I know so much about you.'
And now here he was, tied to a chair in a windowless basement while the man opposite him, with the soft face and the steely eyes, loosened his tie, took a drink of water and said, 'Right, Bill, let's go over this one more time. We found the money, all of it. You hadn't even moved it out of the account it had been paid into. I mean, I'm sorry, Bill, I know you were never out there in the field, but even so, that's bloody stupid, isn't it?'
Selsey gave a sad, beaten shrug. 'Maybe.'
'No, Bill, not maybe: certainly. There's no doubt at all you were bloody stupid. But what I want to know is, who put that money there? Eh? Who paid you all that lovely dosh?'
'I don't know,' Selsey pleaded. 'I swear I was never given a name.'
'Oh right, so the money just arrived, did it? Maybe the Easter Bunny put it there, is that what you think? Or the Tooth Fairy? Or Father fucking Christmas?'
The man got up and walked right up to Selsey's chair till he was looming over him.
'I don't like your attitude,' he said. 'You know what I think? I think you're taking the piss. I think you know, but you just don't want to tell me. So, one more time: the money, who gave you the money?'
'I really don't know,' whimpered Selsey. 'I don't… I don't…'
And then he started to cry.
79
Assistant Commissioner Peter Manners, commanding officer of the Metropolitan Police's Counter Terrorism Command, S015, cleared his throat, the way a man does when he's about to state a position and wants the world to know it. 'No disrespect, Dame Agatha, but I have to say I take the same view as Tord Bahr. I've got a lot of time for the man, he's bloody good at what he does, and I can assure you that we have been working with his people to ensure that there are no loopholes, no weak spots, no opportunities for anyone to make an attempt on the President's life. It's a responsibility we all take very, very seriously.'
'I know you do,' said Dame Agatha Bewley in a conciliatory tone that was almost maternal, as if she were settling a fight between argumentative children. 'But I must say I'm surprised Bahr refused to pay any attention to what Mr Carver told him. After all, it doesn't hurt to take precautions, no matter how implausible a threat might be.'
'It's a personal thing,' said Carver. 'We had a run-in recently. I made him look stupid in front of his boss. He'll never admit I could be right again.'
'His boss… really?' asked Dame Agatha, her eyebrows arching as she leaned forward on her desk and looked at Carver over the top of her reading glasses. 'Might one ask…?'