“The occupants of the house are ethnic Georgian gang members, based in Russia. Their leader is a man named Bagrat Baladze. He doesn’t like to stay too long anywhere, so his people and his document will only be at this location for the next ninety-six hours maximum, maybe less. I do not know where they plan to go next and cannot be certain of tracking them. That means it has to be done now. Are you interested?”
Carver didn’t look too impressed. “I’m not sure about that. See, I like to plan my work thoroughly. It can take weeks, even months. But thorough planning prevents stupid mistakes. That’s why I’m sitting here with you, not rotting in a cell.”
“The exact same principle applies in the military,” Vermulen agreed, speaking normally again. “But equally, there are times when speed is of the essence. This is one of them. So can you do it, or do I need to consider other options?”
“Depends. Tell me about the building where these muppets are staying.”
“There are detailed plans in the case.”
“Maybe, but give me the gist of it, all the same.”
“The layout is typical of vacation properties in this area. It’s an old farmhouse, newly renovated. It hasn’t even gone on the rental market yet, not officially anyway.”
“So the builders have only just moved out?”
“I imagine so.”
“Okay, that could be useful. Now tell me about the setting-what’s the size of the grounds? Are there a lot of other properties close by? How about topography and cover-trees, bushes, rocks, that kind of thing.”
“The property is right at the northern edge of the village. It has been chosen for its seclusion and privacy. There are no other houses within five hundred feet in any direction. The lot covers about two and a half acres. It’s on the lower slopes of a four-thousand-foot hill-”
“In Britain, four thousand feet is a mountain,” Carver interrupted.
“Well, it’s just a damn hill to me,” Vermulen replied. “Called the Puy de Tourrettes, faces south, toward the sea. The house is at the highest point of the property, to maximize the views, with a pool directly below the house and an access road that leads downhill to the nearest road. There are trees in front of the house and around the pool; otherwise the ground is virtually bare, denying cover to intruders and providing clear fields of fire. But above the house, on the hillside, you’ve got light woodland and undergrowth. That’s where I’d put my observation post, if I were you.”
That’s where Carver was planning to put it, too.
“Sounds about right,” he said.
Carver’s plate was empty. He pushed it away from him. Then, to Vermulen’s evident surprise, he got to his feet.
“Okay, give me ten minutes,” he said. “I’m going for a walk-helps me think. When I come back, I’ll tell you if I can do the job, what I’ll need, and how much it’ll cost.”
“I already named the fee.”
“But I didn’t agree to it. See you in ten.”
58
Carver had walked past the swimming pool, ringed by deserted lounge chairs, and up through the hotel’s wooded grounds. He was gone a shade over eleven minutes.
“Well?” said Vermulen, as Carver returned to his seat.
“You’re on. But the price is a million, sterling, same half-and-half split, now and on delivery of the item. Take it or leave it.”
Before Vermulen could answer, Carver went on. “And there’s one other thing. I came out here on a commercial flight, expecting to take a meeting. So I wasn’t carrying the gear for the job. Some I can get myself. But some you’re going to have to supply.”
Vermulen looked to either side, to check that he could not be overheard.
“What are we talking about: weapons, specialist equipment?”
“That kind of thing,” agreed Carver. “I need nonfatal weapons, specifically a multiple-shot forty-millimeter grenade launcher, preferably an MGL Mark One. I want six rounds of CS gas for the launcher plus three M-eighty-four stun grenades, a collapsible twenty-one-inch baton, a lightweight ballistic-grade protective vest, a combat-level gas mask, and twenty-five-milligram Valium tablets…”
“You don’t look like the nervous kind,” Vermulen observed.
“Yeah, well, looks can be deceptive. Now, I want every item within forty-eight hours. Leave it as poste restante in the post office at Vence. And, finally, I’m going to be spending a lot of time over the next few days keeping out of people’s way, nice and quiet. So all communications will be via text-messaging-no calls unless I decide otherwise. I’ll give you a number to use, and I’ll need you to give me one, too.”
Vermulen’s jaw tightened. His face darkened with anger, like the shadow of a cloud scudding across the ground.
“You know, Mr. Wynter, you have quite an attitude for a hired hand. I don’t know that I like being given orders by a man who’s working on my dollar.”
“I’m not giving you orders, General. I’m explaining the way things have to be if you’re going to get the item you’ve ordered, and I’m going to walk away unscathed.”
“I could determine another way of doing the job. I have men of my own.”
“The matelots on your boat? Bunch of sailor boys in shorts? I don’t think so.”
“That wasn’t who I was thinking of,” said Vermulen. He looked at Carver, his eyes narrowed. “You know, that’s an interesting word, ‘matelot.’ ”
“It’s French,” said Carver, knowing he’d just made a stupid, careless, amateur mistake, still a few percent off his best.
“That it is. Also happens to be the slang that British marines use for regular naval personnel. I’ve heard them say it myself. So I’m wondering how come you know that word, and also seem to be so familiar with the designations for military ordnance: MGL grenade launchers, M-eighty-four grenades. If I recall correctly, you have no military experience. So perhaps you could tell me how a civilian came to be so familiar with all that soldier talk?”
Carver shrugged. “I get around.”
Vermulen said nothing. He wasn’t convinced. Carver went all out.
“All these years, doing what I do, you think I don’t know the tools of my trade? And ‘matelots’-that’s what my dad always used to call sailors. Dunno where he got it from. National Service, maybe? Or more likely down the nick, doing porridge with some old bootneck. See, that’s more slang. I can do some Cockney rhyming for you, if you like.”
A wry smile crossed Vermulen face. “Okay, you win. So, assuming you get the goods, when and where will you make the delivery?”
“It’ll be right here, at the hotel bar, just off the front hall, either three or four nights from now-I’ll text the exact time once the mission has been accomplished. There was a bird on your boat-sorry, a woman…”
“Yes, my secretary.” There was a hint of suspicion in Vermulen’s voice.
“You trust her?” asked Carver.
“Of course.”
“Good-then she can do the pickup. You and I can’t meet again-we’ve taken enough of a risk as it is. So what’s going to happen is a nice, respectable woman is going to meet an old friend in the bar of a hotel. What’s her name, by the way?”
“Natalia Morley.”
“Natalia… very nice. Anyway, Natalia and Kenneth will say hello, how are you, all that stuff. They’ll have a nice little drink. She’ll ask him what he’s been up to, he’ll take out the file, and she’ll cast an eye over it politely. At some point, she’ll take a call from her ‘husband’-that’s you, obviously-and she’ll tell him that she’s just bumped into good old Kenny. Then, when you’ve asked her if I’ve got the goods, she’ll hand the phone over to me, like you’re just dying to have a word with your old mate. You’ll tell me that you’ve wired the outstanding payment into my account. When I’ve got confirmation from my bank, I’ll pass Natalia the document, nice and discreet, and she’ll put it in her handbag. Then we finish our drinkies, say good night, and go our separate ways. All right?”