“Okay.”
He got to his feet and took a couple of steps to where the black bag was lying on the ground. Bending down, keeping his gun and his eye on the woman all the while, he picked up the bag, then stepped back to his original position, right beside her.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here…”
He put his free hand into the bag, pulled out a purse, and flicked it open. There were half a dozen credit cards arranged in slots, one above the other. Carver slid a couple of cards out with his thumb. They bore the name “A. Petrova.” He took another look at the outside of the purse, checking out the pattern stamped into the leather: Louis Vuitton. He was starting to put the pieces together, but he needed a little more information to be sure.
“What does the A stand for?”
She shrugged. “What A?”
“On your credit card: A. Petrova.”
“You mean, like a…for ‘asshole’?” This time she let a slight, mocking smile play around the corners of her mouth. She’d scored another point.
He kept riffling through the bag. There was a mobile phone. He opened it up and accessed the address book, keeping one eye on the woman. There were lots of Russian names. Some were people; others he guessed were shops, clubs, or restaurants. There was nothing under “Max.” He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it.
Next, his fingers wrapped themselves around a piece of thin card. It was inserted into a small, stiff booklet: an airline ticket in a passport. He pulled them out of the bag. The ticket was an Aeroflot return from Moscow to Paris. The outward segment had already been torn off and used. Now he knew where she’d come from.
He knew her full name too. The passport was Russian. It named her as Alexandra Petrova, date of birth September 21, 1967. So she was almost thirty. She looked younger. Maybe she was. Maybe she’d just assumed an older identity. And maybe he’d arranged her death about three hours ago.
“You’ve got a Louis Vuitton bag. It contains underwear, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and some kind of silky dress. So, what, you were planning to party once you’d finished the job?”
This time he knew he’d got through. She didn’t say anything, but she frowned. For the first time, the defiance in her eyes was clouded by uncertainty.
Carver pressed on. “You left the bag in a one-bedroom apartment on the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile. The bag was on the bed. There was a white Chanel carrier bag next to it, with some perfume, lipsticks, and a small black box – I’m guessing a watch – inside it. You picked that up at duty free, right? Mixing the hit with a nice bit of shopping. I like it, the feminine touch.”
She wasn’t impressed. “What are you trying to tell me? You’re some kind of stalker?”
“No, I’m telling you they planned to kill you too. I’ve got to admit, it was elegant. They got each set of killers to eliminate the other. See, when Max briefed me, he said the apartment belonged to the target. I was supposed to booby-trap it in case he escaped the hit. But it wasn’t the target’s apartment, was it?”
She said nothing. Carver let the silence hang between them. He watched Petrova. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking down at the ground, thinking, working out the next move. A minute or more went by before she raised her eyes toward Carver again, her hostile glare replaced by a searching examination of his face, as though she were looking for the final clues that would help her reach a decision. Then she made up her mind, nodded to herself, and spoke.
“Okay. Kursk – the man you say you killed – was given our orders when we arrived in Paris. Someone called him – I don’t know if that was this man you call Max. They told us to go to the apartment and wait for further instructions. There were new clothes, boots, and helmets there, one set for each of us, weapons and a key. Also a camera, with a big flash attachment.”
“You got changed?”
“Yes.”
“So why were your clothes the only ones in the apartment? What about Kursk’s?”
“He threw them away when we left.”
“Why?”
“How should I know? Maybe he likes to travel light. Anyway, about eight thirty, they called again. We were told to go to Rue Duphot. It’s off Rue de Rivoli, near Place Vendôme. When we got there, just before nine, Kursk got another call. We were told our target would be a black Mercedes. We had to follow it and use the camera with the flash to scare the people in the car and make them drive faster. After that we had to go back to the apartment, spend the night there, and then fly out in the morning. About an hour later Kursk got another call. It seemed to give him great satisfaction.”
Carver nodded. “It fits. They got you out of the apartment before I arrived. They waited to see that I had completed my work there. Once they knew that you would be killed, they called Kursk to deal with me. Like I said, neat. So now we have a new question: Why did they want us dead?”
“I don’t know. Truly.”
“It must have something to do with the job. Did you see inside the car?”
“Not really. I had my visor down and the flash from the camera was, you know, reflecting off the windows. I think there were four people: two in front, two in back. One of them might have been a woman. I don’t know.”
“Where’s the camera now?”
“The motorcycle. In the box at the side.”
“Was there film inside it?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. It just flashed.”
“That makes sense. No photographic evidence.”
She looked at him. “So now what?”
Carver had been watching her as she spoke. She had a wide mouth, full lips, and cool blue eyes. One lid was slightly heavier than the other, one pupil fractionally out of line. Those minuscule asymmetries should have marred her looks, yet the imperfection was mesmerizing, drawing him in. With an averagely pretty, even beautiful girl, he’d look once. With this one, it took an effort to drag his gaze away.
“Now we make a decision,” he said. “I could shoot you, right here and now, and disappear into the night. That has the advantage of simplicity. But I don’t want to kill you unless I absolutely have to. So, have you heard the expression ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend’?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“I think we should work on that basis. We’ve both been set up by the same people. Our best hope is to get to them before they get to us. So, they’re our enemy. I guess that makes us friends.”
She raised her eyebrows, gave a little pout, and shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, if you say so, let’s talk about that. But first, prove to me that you are a friend. Get me a cigarette. There is a pack in my bag, Marlboro Lights.”
He felt around in the bag, still keeping his eyes on her, until he felt the cigarette pack. He pulled it from the bag, flipped open the top, and shook it so that a couple of cigarettes poked farther out than the rest. Then he reached over, holding the packet close to her mouth.
She leaned forward, feeling for the cigarettes with her lips, using her tongue to separate one from the rest. She slumped back against the bus shelter wall with the cigarette in her mouth.
“Got a light?”
There was a lighter in the bag. He put the flame to her cigarette. As she breathed in, igniting the tobacco, their eyes met, no more than a foot apart. She didn’t say anything, just let him feel the tension as her unflinching, disconcerting gaze held his.
Several seconds went by before Carver realized he’d broken a basic rule. Their heads were so close she could easily have butted him, smashing his nose. He jerked back, as if evading a blow that never came. She didn’t move, just kept looking at him.
“Do you still have the helmet?” he asked.