The nurses called him Samuel.
Alix Petrova had to stop for a moment outside the sanatorium entrance. She had visited Carver morning and night since she and Thor Larsson had brought him to this very private, exceptionally discreet, and even more expensive facility, two days earlier. But still she had to steel herself for what awaited her within.
The receptionist directed her to the dayroom. A nurse met her as she stepped through the glass-paneled door into the airy room. A name tag on the nurse’s crisp, white uniform read, “Corinne Juneau.”
“How is Samuel today?” asked Alix.
“A little better today,” Nurse Juneau replied. “We’ve got him out of bed, but he’s still terribly confused, the poor man. Look at him, watching the funeral. I don’t think he knows what’s happening at all, bless him.”
She watched her patient for a moment, then added, “he’s so full of fear…” A cloud passed over her kind, caring face. “How could anyone do this to another human being?”
The nurse led the way across the room to the wheelchair. “Wait here,” she said, when they were still a few feet away.
She walked on alone. The TV set was mounted on the wall and controlled by a handset that sat on a console just below. Nurse Juneau picked up the remote control and used it to turn down the volume. When talking to Samuel it was important to keep ones voice as low and calm as possible. Even the slightest loud noise seemed to scare him.
Once the sound of the church music had faded away, Nurse Juneau turned to face Samuel. She was still holding the remote control.
“Hello,” she said, with her sweetest smile. “Your friend has…”
She got no further. Samuel was looking at her, eyes wide, mouth gaping. He was pointing at her and pleading, “No! No!” She took a step toward him and he flinched, curling up in his wheelchair. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll talk!”
Nurse Juneau’s professional composure fractured for a moment. She was fixed to the spot, looking around her, trying to find the source of his distress. Alix hurried to the nurse’s side and took the remote control from her hand. She replaced it on the console, then put a reassuring hand on Nurse Juneau’s shoulder, as if she were the professional and the nurse the visitor.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It wasn’t you. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him now.”
Nurse Juneau hurried to the far side of the room, casting a couple of nervous glances over her shoulder as she went.
Samuel was watching the women through his fingers. His eyes were still wide and staring, but he seemed slightly less afraid now.
Alix crouched down by the wheelchair, not wanting to stand over him. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re safe here. No one can hurt you. I will look after you.”
As she spoke, she gently stroked one of Samuel’s arms. He gave no sign of understanding what she had said. But her soothing tone and the soft touch of her fingers against his skin seemed to relax him. Gradually he uncurled. Alix kept talking to him, keeping her voice low, using simple phrases.
“Everything’s going to be fine, I’m here…”
Samuel seemed more content now. His attention shifted back to the TV screen. He watched in silence for a while, still frowning and scratching and twitching, lost in his own, bleak universe.
Then he pointed up at the picture. “What’s that?” he mumbled through his battered mouth. His voice sounded blank and uncomprehending. “What’s happening?” And then, quite clearly, in a voice that could have been mistaken for that of a normal, healthy man, “Who died?”’
Samuel’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “Did someone die?” he asked, though now the anxiety had returned to his voice.
Alix bit her lip and pressed her eye tightly closed. Then she whispered, “Yes. She was a princess. She had an accident.”
Samuel thought about what she had said, then turned his attention back to the TV. Alix pulled up a chair next to the wheelchair, and they sat there together in silence.
Samuel Carver was watching a line of black cars driving down an empty road. People were standing on bridges across the road. Whenever the cars went under a bridge, all the people threw flowers down onto them. Some of the flowers landed on the cars, but many more fluttered down onto the road, leaving lovely bright colors against the dirty gray tarmac.
He reached out for Alix’s hand. She squeezed it gently, letting him know that she loved him. Then Samuel Carver looked at her, a flicker of recognition danced in his eyes, and he smiled.
Acknowledgements
My sincere and heartfelt thanks go out to the many people without whom this book could never have been written or published.
Charlie Brocket, whose fascination with the events of August 31, 1997, and wonderful skill as a raconteur, first sparked my interest and set me on the path to writing this novel.
The team at my literary agency in London, Lucas Alexander Whitley, notably Julian Alexander, without whose faith, perseverance, and creativity over more than two years nothing would ever have happened; Mark Lucas, whose response to my first feeble attempts epitomized the phrase “creative destruction” (brutal, but dramatically effective!); and Peta Nightingale, whose line-by-line analysis of the early drafts made such a massive difference.
At Transworld Publishers in London, Sally Gaminara and Simon Thorogood had the faith to plunge into this project with incredible speed and absolute commitment, as did Clare Ferraro and Joshua Kendall at Viking in New York. They gave me the kind of encouragement that authors can only dream of.
Nigel Parker provided his usual wise counsel, and Mitchell Symons was not only a patient and long-suffering sounding board, he also supplied one all-important suggestion at a crucial moment.
The management and pilots of Elite Helicopters, Goodwood, West Sussex, gave invaluable advice on the construction of helicopters; Dr. Michael Perring of Optimal Health devised Magnus Leclerc’s medication; Gisela Gruber at Gold Air International drew up the flight plan and likely bill for a journey by private jet from Biggin Hill to Sion and then on by chopper to Gstaad; Trevor Clifton worked out how to sail a Rustler 36 across the Channel and avoid a container ship along the way; and John Smythe took me out on the water in his own 36-footer.
Finally, but most important, I owe everything, as always, to my family: to Fred, without whom I might be tempted to take things easy; to Holly and Lucy, whose criticism of their father was (this time!) both asked for and much appreciated; and, of course, to Clare. You are, as always, the beginning and the end of everything I do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom Cain is the pseudonym for an award-winning journalist, with 25 years’ experience working for Fleet Street newspapers, as well as major magazines in Britain and the US. During the course of his career he has conducted several hundred in-depth interviews with senior politicians, billionaire entrepreneurs, Olympic athletes, movie stars, supermodels and rock legends. He has investigated financial scandals on Wall Street, studio intrigues in Hollywood and corrupt sports stars in Britain. He has lived in Moscow, Washington DC and Havana, Cuba. Although he has edited four magazines, published over a dozen books, written film-scripts and been translated into some 20 languages, this is his first thriller.
