Tom Cain Read online

  Yet for all its privilege, inherited wealth carries with it the stigma of being unearned. To outsiders, he was a mere playboy, a parasite feeding off his father’s achievements. He planned to change that. Very soon, the whole world would be talking about what he had done. A smile crossed his lips as he anticipated what was to come, pressed a button, and speed dialed a London number.

  “We must talk,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “Be ready on Monday. I have important news, good news about . . .” he hesitated, trying to find the right words, knowing that others might be listening. “Let’s just say, our mutual friend.”

  The man’s attempt at discretion was futile. His conversation was picked up by the giant radomes scattered across the bleak Yorkshire landscape at Menwith Hill, where Echelon, the global surveillance system run by America’s National Security Agency, intercepts countless telephone and e-mail messages every day.

  From there, a signal was sent via a satellite, in orbit nineteen thousand miles above the earth, to the NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. Cray Y-MP supercomputers, capable of almost three billion operations per second, sifted through the never-ending multilingual babble. Like a prospector panning for gold, the Crays picked out nuggets from the onrushing stream. They sought key individuals, trigger words and phrases to be flagged for further investigation.

  Data gathered by Echelon was also sent to British Government Communications Headquarters, on the outskirts of Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. More computers plucked more information from the human torrent. That information was passed on to the ministry of defence, the foreign office, and the law enforcement and intelligence agencies.

  Fiona Towthorp, an attractive, freckle-faced woman of forty, worked as a senior intelligence analyst at GCHQ. She had just spotted an item she knew her masters would covet. But when she picked up the phone, the number she dialed had nothing to do with Her Majesty’s government.

  The line was encrypted at a level even Echelon could not decode. This call would never be overheard. “Consortium,” a man’s voice answered.

  “I have a message from the corporate communications department,” said Towthorp. “There’s something the chairman needs to know.”

  Towthorp was put straight through.

  2

  They came for Carver in the morning. He’d got the call the night before, just as he was turning out the gas lantern that provided the only illumination in his mountain hut.

  “Carver,” he’d said, not bothering to disguise his irritation as the GSM phone shrieked for his attention.

  There were no formalities or introductions from the voice on the other end of the line with its flat Thames Estuary accent. “Where are ya?”

  “On holiday, Max. Not working. I think you know that.”

  “I know what you’re doing, Carver. I just dunno where you’re doing it.”

  “Guess what, there was a reason I didn’t tell you.”

  “Well, I may have a job for you.”

  “No.”

  Max ignored him. “Listen, I’ll know for sure within the next twelve hours. If it happens, trust me, we’ll make it worth your while interrupting your holidays. Three million dollars, U.S., paid into the usual account. You can have a nice long break after that.”

  “I see,” said Carver, flatly. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then my advice would be, stay on your holiday. And don’t come back. It’s your choice.”

  Carver wasn’t bothered by the implied physical threat. But he didn’t want to lose his major client. This was his job. It was what he did best. And no matter how often he thought about packing it in, he still didn’t want a competitor taking his work. One day, maybe soon, he would be ready to quit, but it would be on his terms, at a time of his own choosing.

  “New Zealand,” he said.

  He cursed to himself as he turned off the phone and put it back on the bare wooden table that stood next to the stee-land canvas bed frame where he’d laid his sleeping bag.

  Samuel Carver had the lean, spare look of a professional fighter. His dark brown hair was cut short. A dozen years in the Royal Marines and the Special Boat Service had left his face etched and weather-beaten. A fierce determination was evident in his strong, dark brow, bisected by a single, deep concentration line. Yet his clear green eyes suggested that his physical intensity was always guided by a calm, almost chilly intelligence.

  He tried to rationalize what he did as a form of pest control, unpleasant but necessary. After the Visar job he’d looked, as he always did, for a place where he could wind down and try to clear his mind of what he knew but did not want to admit: that every additional killing, no matter how many lives it saved, no matter how logically it could be justified, added a little more to the corrosion of his soul.

  He’d ended up on the far side of the world, in the Two Thumb Mountains of New Zealand’s South Island. Aeons ago, when all the continents of the earth were one, the Two Thumbs had been part of the same chain as the Peruvian Andes and the California Sierras. The mountains had moved several thousand miles since then, but not much else had changed. There were no nightclubs, restaurants, or chalet girls; no newspapers or TV, no lifts, instructors, or nursery slopes. For Carver that was the whole point.

  He had come in search of absolute solitude, an existence pared away to its simplest elements. He wanted to purge the shadow of death from his mind with raw speed, physical sweat, empty sky, blinding sun, air and snow as cold and pure as vodka straight from the freezer. He hadn’t shaved in a week. He hadn’t washed much, either. He probably stank like a rhino. Why worry? It had been a long time since there’d been anyone to smell good for.

  The chopper came from the east, in the first faint rays of the rising sun before the last star had disappeared. Carver saw it away in the distance, caught between the blue black sky and the icing-sugar snow. He didn’t need to pack. Inside his ski jacket he wore a black nylon money belt. Its pouches contained four different passports, each with two matching credit cards. There was also a spare phone and twenty thousand dollars in cash. Gold cards were all very well, but Carter had yet to go anywhere that didn’t accept U.S. green.

  A little blizzard of snow flurried in the air as the helicopter landed fifty meters away. Carver watched it touch down. Christ, it was another Bell. An image flashed into his mind of a JetRanger crashing, the sound of screaming, an almost physical impression of terror. He closed his eyes for a second and muttered to himself, “Get a grip.” Then he eased the zipper on his jacket and walked over, loose-limbed but watchful for any sign that he’d been set up.

  “G’day,” the New Zealander copilot shouted over the clattering pulse of the rotor blades. He held out a hand and pulled Carver onboard. “They said we either had to pick you up or kill you. Glad you ticked Box A.”

  The smile on the copilot’s face was broad. But his eyes were flat and expressionless.

  Carver grinned back, playing the game. “I’m glad too!” he shouted. “You might have got hurt.” He slumped into his seat, fastened the seat belt, put on his headset, and sighed. So much for his holiday. He hadn’t even had time for a decent cup off coffee and already he was knee-deep in bullshit.

  He rubbed his thumb and forefinger back and forth along his forehead. He’d had nothing to do for a week but ski and sleep. He should have been rested and refreshed. Instead he felt tired to the bone.

  Less than two hours later, Carver was on a brand-new Gulfstream V, climbing to forty thousand feet, flying northeast out of Christchurch, en route to Los Angeles, some 5,800 nautical miles away. The GV was the longestrange private jet in the world, but by the time it got to California, the plane would be gliding. It would sit on the tarmac just long enough to refuel and pick up a new air crew, then take off again for Europe.

  There was a shower onboard. Carver cleaned up, shaved, and changed into a soft, shapeless gray tracksuit handed to him by the flight attendant. “I hope it’s the right size. They gave me your measurements. . . .”
She paused. “But you never really know whether something fits until you try it on.”

  She was a pretty brunette with big brown eyes, soft full lips, and a glossy ponytail. She spoke in that way girls do Down Under, rising slightly at the end of every sentence, turning each statement into an ingratiating question. Now she stood in front of Carver with her weight shifted to one side, her hips cocked, and the dark blue fabric of her snug, knee-length skirt stretched tight across her thighs. She was looking at him appraisingly, with a smile that suggested she was happy with what she saw. Either she really liked him, or her job description included a fuller range of executive services than your average “trolley dolly.” Carver considered the latter option. He and the girl both worked for people who believed that anything could be paid for. He’d been bought. Presumably she could be too.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Candy,” she said.

  Carver couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud. The girl even had a stripper name to go with her professional seduction routine. But then she surprised him. She blushed.

  “No, really. It’s short for Candace.”

  He realized he’d missed a third possibility, that Candy was a nice kid trying to brighten up her workday with a bit of mild flirtation. The way normal people did. Christ, he’d become a cynical bastard. When had that happened? Stupid question: He knew exactly when. He could time it down to the last minute. It suddenly struck him that his jaw was clenched and his teeth were grinding together with a tension he could not begin to explain. It was far too soon for the nerves that usually preceded any deadly action. This was something else—a message from his subconscious he wasn’t able to decode. Perhaps he just didn’t want to.

  Carver had spent the past few years trying not to look too deep inside his head. He told himself it was basic military pragmatism. Concentrate on what’s in front of you, worry about the stuff you can control, forget about everything else. Well, there was a girl in front of him, and he could control his bad attitude. He and Candy were going to be stuck together in a pressurized metal tube for the next twenty-four hours. The least they could do was be polite to each other.

  He gave a quick shake of his head, ridding it of unwanted thoughts.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was out of line.”

  “No worries. Can I get you anything, a bit of breakfast, coffee?”

  “Sure, that would be great. Thanks a lot.”

  Ten minutes later, the target details were faxed to the plane.

  Subject: Ramzi Hakim Narwaz

  Nationality: Pakistani (French mother)

  Age: 41

  Height: 5 foot 11 inches (182 cm)

  Weight: 190 lbs. (86.4 kg)

  Subject belongs to one of Pakistan’s wealthiest families, was educated at Le Rosey school, Switzerland, is based in Paris and is completely at home in upper echelons of European society. He is married (wife Yasmina comes from a rich Lebanese family) with one son, Yusuf. Drinks alcohol, but seldom to excess. Some social drug use. Discreet but regular extramarital sexual activity, typical of a rich, Westernized male.

  This lifestyle is just a cover. Subject, who is highly intelligent and has poor relations with his father, was radicalized by mullahs at various mosques in north and east London, while a student at the London School of Economics. Subject has become an active and increasingly influential player in a growing network of extreme Islamic terrorist cells.

  Monitoring of telephone communications by U.S. intelligence, coordinated through the joint CIA/FBI antiterrorist unit, codename “Alex,” shows regular contact between Subject and suspected associates of terrorist movements. These include Konsojaya founders Wali Khan Amin Shah and Riduan Isamuddin (alias “Hambali”); Nairobi, Kenya-based suspect Wadih el-Hage; and several suspects in the Manila, Philippines based “Bojinka” (Big Bang) plot, which intended to bomb twelve U.S.-bound planes.

  Recent bank transfers to and from Subject’s accounts show much greater than usual activity. Subject is strongly believed to be planning a major terrorist assault in Europe, almost certainly in the UK. This assault is believed to be imminent—days, rather than weeks. Telephone intercepts indicate that he will be leaving his family on holiday in the South of France and returning to Paris within the next twenty-four hours.

  There is a clear danger to both military personnel and civilian lives if Subject is allowed to proceed with activities. He has therefore been selected for immediate action.

  A second fax arrived soon afterward. It notified Carver that $1.5 million had been wired to his numbered account at Banque Wertmuller-Maier de Geneve. Whoever his employers were—and Carver had no great desire to find out, any more than he wanted them to know too much about him—they always paid on time, and in full.

  Max called again when the plane was over the western United States.

  “So where are you now?”

  “Half an hour out of LA,” Carver replied. “The pilot’s putting his foot down. Should be on the ground in a little over ten hours.”

  “Right, so that’ll make it seven thirty p.m. Central European Time. We don’t expect much action before midnight, so that’s fine. But there’s something else we need you to sort out first.”

  Carver was several thousand miles away, speaking via a satellite phone. But his anger got through just fine. “You’re joking. Two jobs? Both improvised? You must think I’ve lost the will to live.”

  “Don’t worry, the second one’s just routine,” Max said. “Backup in case the first strike doesn’t work out. Our friend has another property he uses for private meetings—personal and professional, if you follow my drift. If he feels under threat, he’ll use it as his safe house. Except you’ll have made it unsafe, won’t you? Don’t worry, we’ve got the code to the alarm system. It’s a piece of piss.”

  Carver sighed. It didn’t matter what you did for a living. In the end, you took the same crap from the people who paid your wages. He listened as Max described the little love nest where Ramzi Hakim Narwaz liked to conduct his private business. This was one Islamic terrorist who took his cover as a decadent apostate really seriously. It was an Oscar-winning performance.

  A few minutes later, the floor plans and wiring schematics of the Narwaz apartment came through on the Gulfstream’s fax. It took Carver half an hour to work out what he was going to do. The next time Max made contact, he had his equipment list ready. He listed the transportation, weaponry, explosives, timers, fuses, and tactical equipment he’d need, then got down to the finer details.

  “I’ll need a small tin of lubricating oil—3-in-1, something like that. Then get me half a dozen small-size plastic freezer bags, self-sealing; a plain black garbage bag; a mechanic’s torch with a head strap; a pair of scissors, industrial ones with three-inch ceramic blades; a screwdriver, wire cutters, a roll of duct tape, a can of air freshener, a bottle of Jif cleanser, a few pairs of thin latex gloves, and a Mars bar.”

  “Why the hell do you need a Mars bar?”

  “To eat. I’ve got a sweet tooth. And come to mention it, why not get me a takeout pizza?”

  Max did not bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Whatever you say, mate. Any favorite toppings?”

  “I couldn’t care less,” said Carver. “It’s the box I’m interested in. On second thought, don’t worry. I’ll get it myself. I’ll be needing a decent meal.”

  3

  Carver’s plane landed at Le Bourget Airport, a few miles northeast of Paris, and taxied into a private aviation hangar. When Carver reached the bottom of the steps, a maintenance engineer handed him an envelope and a large carrier bag. Inside the envelope were a parking ticket with the space number written on it, a Honda motorcycle key, and the key to a locker in the terminal building. The carrier bag was filled with clothes. Carver carried it back up into the plane and got changed.

  Max had given him black cargo pants, black T-shirt, black nylon bomber jacket, black trainers, black helmet. The rest of the gear was in a backpac
k, stowed in the terminal locker. It was just as black as everything else.

  The bike that awaited him in the car park was a unmarked Honda XR400. It was a dirt bike, designed for rutted country paths rather than city streets, as skinny and high-stepping as a whippet. But it was ideal for Carver’s purposes. If the operation went wrong and he needed to get away fast, he wanted a machine that could go where police cars and their heavy, powerful bikes could not.

  Five minutes after leaving the airport, Carver stopped at a roadside pizza parlor and ordered a pizza for takeout. While it was being cooked, he went looking for the bathroom, carrying his pack with him. There were two individual cubicles, each with a toilet and basin. He made his way to the nearest one and got out the gun he’d specified, a SIG-Sauer P226 pistol, with a Colt/Browning short recoil mechanism and no safety catch. There were twelve Cor-Bon 9mm 115 grain +P Jacketed Hollow Points in the magazine.

  The SIG was the British Special Forces’ pistol of choice for antiterrorist and undercover work. Carver had used it on countless military operations and had stayed with it ever since. Now, as always, he stripped his gun, checked it, and reassembled it. The whole process took him less than a minute. On one level, it was a basic precaution to make sure the weapon functioned. But it was also a ritual that helped him focus on what was to come, like an athlete moving into the zone, getting his game face on.

  Next, Carver plugged the washbasin. He reached into his backpack and took out the can of 3-in-1, and poured its contents into the basin. Then he reached in again, removing a small brick of what looked like gray modeling clay. It was C4 explosive—plastic. He put the C4 into the basin and started kneading it, mixing the oil and plastic together, like a baker working his dough. He ended up with a sticky, pliable putty that itself was completely safe. It could be molded into any shape and stuck to any surface. You could shove it in small plastic bags—just as Carver now started to do, dividing it into four equal portions. You could hit it, burn it, even shoot it full of bullets and nothing would happen. But put a fuse, a blasting cap, or a timer into it and suddenly you had a bomb.