“Here’s where we get off,” said Carver.
He led Alix uphill along winding streets and through narrow alleyways between looming old apartment buildings.
“They always built tall in Geneva,” commented Carver, seeing Alix gaze upward, following the rows of shutters toward the distant sky. “The original town was surrounded by walls. It couldn’t spread out. So the only way to go was up.”
“My goodness, a history lesson.”
Carter looked apologetic, almost bashfuclass="underline" “Sorry, didn’t mean to lecture.”
“No, it’s okay. I like it. I didn’t know you cared about things like that.”
They passed a second-hand bookstore with two arched windows set in a wood-paneled facade. The shop was closed, but there were shelves on the outside, open to the street, filled with old hardcovers and paperbacks. Alix stopped for a second, amazed at the bookseller’s confidence.
“But anyone could steal them,” she said.
“Come off it, this is Geneva. We’ve got UN buildings stuffed with bent officials and banks filled with dollars ripped off from Third World aid. No one bothers to steal books. They steal whole countries here.”
Alix looked at him. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Just that there are people cruising around this city with diplomatic plates and fancy suits who make what I do look like charity work. Come on.”
There was a small café next to the bookstore, with a few plastic tables out on the cobblestoned street and some steps down to a tiny, low-ceilinged room within. Carver walked in.
Alix followed, then watched as the owner came out from behind the counter and gave Carver a bear hug before launching into a torrent of high-speed French. She couldn’t follow it, but it sounded as though the man called Carver “Pablo.” After a while, he disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared carrying a plastic bag filled with provisions. Carver tried to pay. The man wouldn’t let him.
The café owner then glanced in Alix’s direction and grinned. He looked her up and down, and said something to Carver with a wink and a nudge in the ribs. She didn’t need to speak French to know what that was about.
“I’m sorry about Freddy,” said Carver once they’d started walking again. “He gets a bit overexcited in the presence of an attractive woman. If you saw his wife, you’d know why. Anyway, he’s a good bloke.” He held up the bag. “At least we won’t starve.”
They climbed a flight of stone steps that led into a cobblestoned yard, set against the side of the hill. External staircases and covered passages wound around the buildings that surrounded the yard like the endless stairways of a Maurice Escher drawing. “Well,” said Carver, “Here we are. I’m afraid I’m on the top floor.”
Alix looked up again, this time with a look of dread. “Do we have to climb all those stairs? Please tell me there’s an elevator inside.”
“Sorry. The local authorities wouldn’t allow it. Said it would ruin the historic character of this fine four-hundred-year-old building. At least it keeps me fit.”
He grinned and Alix smiled back, enjoying this other, lighter side of Carver’s character.
She had no idea what to expect when they got inside Carver’s apartment. The killers she’d known in Russia were either total slobs or hygiene freaks. The first group lived in porn-strewn pigsties where the only things that ever got cleaned were the weapons and the only decoration was the inevitable wide-screen TV. The second group were anally retentive and emotionally barren. They lived in sterile environments filled with steel, chrome, leather, and black marble. The only thing the two groups had in common was the wide-screen TV.
There was a third group, of course, the men who gave the killers their orders. They tended to have expensive mistresses and trophy wives. They let the women do the decorating. It kept them occupied during their occasional breaks between shopping expeditions.
Carver did not live like a Russian. He lived like Alix’s idea of a proper Englishman. The apartment had exposed beams and wooden floors covered in old, faded, slightly worn rugs. There were bookshelves filled with biographies and works of military history alongside paperback thrillers. There were old vinyl records, CDs by the hundred, and rows of videos. The living room had a pair of enormous old armchairs and a huge, battered Chesterfield sofa arranged around an open fireplace. Alix imagined herself here in the winter, curled up on one of those chairs like a cat, basking in the warmth of the fire.
Carver had disappeared into the kitchen next door. Alix could hear his voice through the walclass="underline" “I’m just fixing some coffee. Would you like an espresso? Cappuccino?”
“You can make that?”
“Of course. I’m not a total savage. What would you like?”
“Cappuccino, please. No sugar.”
There was a painting above the fireplace, a seaside scene, dated 1887 and painted in a bright, not quite impressionist style. A group of friends were standing at the water’s edge. The men had their trousers rolled up; the women were lifting their skirts just enough to be able to dip a toe into the sea.
“It’s Lulworth Cove,” said Carver, walking back into the living room with two cups of coffee in his hands. “It’s on the Dorset coast, just a few miles west of my old base.”
“It’s very beautiful.” She smiled. “What was this base?”
Carver laughed. “I can’t tell you that. You might be a dangerous Russian spy.”
“Oh no,” said Alexandra Petrova. “I’m not a spy. Not anymore.”
Carver looked at her pensively. “So, are you going to tell me that story? The long one you were talking about?”
She sipped her coffee and licked a splash of white foam from her top lip.
“Okay. But there are things I must do first.”
“What kind of things?”
“Well, all I want to do now is wash.”
“Fair enough. The bathroom’s just down the corridor, on the right. You go and do whatever you’ve got to do. I’ll make us something to eat. And then you can tell me your story.”
26
Papin was making slow progress. There weren’t too many photo-composite artists prepared to answer the telephone on the last Sunday morning in August. At last, he tracked someone down, but the picture was not ready until past ten a.m. Then he had to find someone willing to put it on the air.
On any other day, the threat of an English killer and his sexy blond accomplice would have led the news bulletins and been splashed on the front page. But this was not an ordinary day. The networks in France, like everywhere else in the world, had only one subject under discussion: the death of the princess. And so, ironically, they relegated the man who had killed her to a brief few seconds and a hastily displayed facial composite photo.
Marceline Ducroix, who had served Carver his pastries and coffee in the twenty-four-hour joint in Châtelet-les-Halles, saw the picture on the TV in the back office, where her father and uncle were sitting watching the news. The two men were engaged in a loud argument over whether the car crash was an accident or the result of a typically evil Anglo-Saxon plot. Their conversation distracted her.
The English killer wanted by the authorities sounded like the polite, well-dressed man who had spoken perfect French to her that morning. Even so, she wasn’t sure it was him. “Then don’t go to the cops,” said her father, when Marceline asked his advice. “They are all sons of whores. The less you have to do with them, the better.”