“You think?” she asked. “Of course, I have considered that proposition, but I myself am not so certain. Many agents regard marriage as a useful adjunct to their cover; Petrova may well be one of them. That, however, is not my main concern at the moment, and it should not be yours.”
She put the coffee cup down on the table, and when she looked at him again there was finally a sign of real emotion. Zhukovskya was angry.
“You have caused a great deal of trouble, Mr. Carver. The document you stole was the property of the Russian state. It was removed from a state facility approximately ten weeks ago. It would have been recovered yesterday by elements acting on behalf of the state, had you not interfered. They had orders to destroy it, rather than let it fall into the wrong hands.”
“For heaven’s sake, what is this thing?” asked Grantham.
“A list of small-scale nuclear weapons, also property of the Russian state, currently positioned in Europe and North America, a few in South America, Asia, and Australia, their locations and arming codes,” recited Zhukovskaya in a flat voice.
The color drained from Grantham’s face.
“How many weapons?”
“Around one hundred.”
“My God… and what about the U.K.?”
She looked at him blankly.
“But they’re all on this list…” said Grantham.
“Yes, and thanks to Mr. Carver, it is now in Vermulen’s hands.”
Carver grimaced, uncomfortably aware that his priorities needed a radical reordering.
“Where’s Vermulen gone now?” he asked.
Grantham seemed relieved to be able to answer this question, at least.
“Back to his yacht. It spent the night moored off the Italian coast, right down south, near Reggio di Calabria, slipped anchor shortly before dawn, heading east. We lost it soon afterward, between satellite sweeps.”
“At least you have satellites,” remarked Zhukovskaya wryly.
“So find the boat again,” said Carver. “Send in a few of my old mates from the SBS, or some of your Spetsnaz boys, to board the boat. Seize the document, and Bob’s your uncle.”
Grantham was not impressed.
“No, Carver-in that scenario Bob would actually be a major diplomatic incident in which the Americans went ballistic about the unauthorized hostile seizure of a boat owned by one respected, powerful U.S. citizen and used by another, while the Italian government tried to decide whether this constituted an act of war within their territorial waters.”
Carver tried again.
“All right, then, who’s the other citizen?”
“Sorry?”
“Who’s the other U.S. citizen, the one who owns the boat? See, there’s something odd about all this money Vermulen’s got to splash around. Unless he’s made a shitload since he left the armed forces, someone’s bankrolling him. And if it isn’t the U.S. government, maybe it’s the bloke who owns the boat. So who’s that?”
“Some good ol’ boy from Texas called McCabe,” replied Grantham impatiently, not seeing the value of the question. “Made a fortune in oil and mining. The boat belongs to one of his many corporations. But I don’t see him being interested in bombs. The man’s a born-again Christian, had a dramatic conversion a few years back, devotes his time to philanthropy and good deeds.”
Carver gave a clipped, disbelieving laugh.
“McCabe… Waylon McCabe?”
“Yes. Why-do you know him?”
“Our paths crossed.”
“And he lived to tell the tale? That’s unusual.”
“Unique, as it happens. And I’ll tell you one thing about Waylon McCabe-I don’t care how much of a conversion he had; he’s a bastard, pure and simple. Whatever he’s doing with Vermulen, I guarantee it’s not a good deed.”
Carver frowned: The pieces were starting to come together in his mind.
“Hang on-you said that boat was going east… which would take it into the Ionian Sea, and then the Adriatic, towards Yugoslavia. When we talked, Vermulen mentioned Yugoslavia. He said that was one of the places the Islamic radicals he was going on about were fighting, trying to open up a back route into the West.”
He turned to look at Zhukovskaya.
“Did you put bombs in Yugoslavia?”
“I cannot possibly answer that question,” she said, needled by the impertinence of such a direct inquiry.
Carver smiled, feeling the balance of power around the table start to tilt in his direction.
“I think you can, Deputy Director. You’re in the crapper, too. Not just your organization, or your country, but you, personally. You sent those idiots in the chopper to get the document, and now they’re crispy bacon at the bottom of a gorge. You’ve got to put that right-that’s why you’re here. And you…” He turned his gaze on Grantham. “Well, it wouldn’t go down too well in Whitehall if anyone found out who you’d been using to do your dirty work, or how we first happened to meet. As for me, I got Vermulen this list. Plus, something tells me you’ll be able to date McCabe’s religious conversion to the day he miraculously escaped an air crash in the wilds of the Yukon. That was down to me, too. We’re all in this together, like it or not, so answer the question: Yugoslavia?”
He was pushing his luck, but she seemed disinclined to object. He’d been right: The mighty deputy director was in no position to complain.
“Two,” said Zhukovskaya. “One in central Belgrade, the other near the Trepca mining complex. It is the single most valuable natural resource in Yugoslavia, producing lead, zinc, copper, gold, and silver-a natural target for economic sabotage.”
Grantham nodded to himself, as if agreeing that the locations made sense. He did not bother to ask her how the KGB knew the location of weapons that were lost to the rest of the Russian military and government establishment. He, of all people, needed no lessons in the keeping of secrets from a security service’s political masters.
“Where is this place?” asked Carver.
“Kosovo,” said Grantham, before Zhukovskaya could reply.
“Where Vermulen’s supposed Islamist terrorists are busy starting a civil war. Christ, is that mad bugger going to nuke them? That would get a war going, all right.”
“Personally, I would not do anything so obvious…” said Zhukovskaya.
Grantham looked at her inquisitively.
“A false-flag operation?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I like that better, I think. Much more effective to make the world think that the terrorists had the bomb. We think alike… but would Vermulen? He has intelligence experience… it is possible. But how to stop him? That is the problem.”
“Get me to Trepca,” said Carver. “That’s the one lead we have. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Just you?” asked Zhukovskaya.
“You got anyone else you can call?”
82
Her cover had worked too well. Alix Petrova was a trained field agent who had seduced, deceived, and even killed dangerous men. But Natalia Vermulen was an innocent personal assistant who’d just married the boss, and as far as her new husband was concerned, his duty was to keep her safe, not lead her into harm’s way. So she had no argument when, as they lay in bed-her head on his chest, her hand on his shoulder, the early-morning light, reflected from the ocean, playing on the walls of the yacht’s master bedroom-he told her, “You can’t come with us tonight.”
“I understand,” she said. “It’s just… I want to be with you. I can’t help it.”
There were tears welling in her eyes. As she blinked them away, she realized that they, at least, were genuine. She truly felt like crying, even if she was lying about why.
He felt the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin.
“It’s okay,” he said, wrapping his arm around her and holding her tight against his body. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I have to do. I had some crazy notions, but what I’m planning is going to be a lot simpler, and a lot safer now.”