Carver nodded. “It fits. They got you out of the apartment before I arrived. They waited to see that I had completed my work there. Once they knew that you would be killed, they called Kursk to deal with me. Like I said, neat. So now we have a new question: Why did they want us dead?”

“I don’t know. Truly.”

“It must have something to do with the job. Did you see inside the car?”

“Not really. I had my visor down and the flash from the camera was, you know, reflecting off the windows. I think there were four people: two in front, two in back. One of them might have been a woman. I don’t know.”

“Where’s the camera now?”

“The motorcycle. In the box at the side.”

“Was there film inside it?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. It just flashed.”

“That makes sense. No photographic evidence.”

She looked at him. “So now what?”

Carver had been watching her as she spoke. She had a wide mouth, full lips, and cool blue eyes. One lid was slightly heavier than the other, one pupil fractionally out of line. Those minuscule asymmetries should have marred her looks, yet the imperfection was mesmerizing, drawing him in. With an averagely pretty, even beautiful girl, he’d look once. With this one, it took an effort to drag his gaze away.

“Now we make a decision,” he said. “I could shoot you, right here and now, and disappear into the night. That has the advantage of simplicity. But I don’t want to kill you unless I absolutely have to. So, have you heard the expression ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend’?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I think we should work on that basis. We’ve both been set up by the same people. Our best hope is to get to them before they get to us. So, they’re our enemy. I guess that makes us friends.”

She raised her eyebrows, gave a little pout, and shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, if you say so, let’s talk about that. But first, prove to me that you are a friend. Get me a cigarette. There is a pack in my bag, Marlboro Lights.”

He felt around in the bag, still keeping his eyes on her, until he felt the cigarette pack. He pulled it from the bag, flipped open the top, and shook it so that a couple of cigarettes poked farther out than the rest. Then he reached over, holding the packet close to her mouth.

She leaned forward, feeling for the cigarettes with her lips, using her tongue to separate one from the rest. She slumped back against the bus shelter wall with the cigarette in her mouth.

“Got a light?”

There was a lighter in the bag. He put the flame to her cigarette. As she breathed in, igniting the tobacco, their eyes met, no more than a foot apart. She didn’t say anything, just let him feel the tension as her unflinching, disconcerting gaze held his.

Several seconds went by before Carver realized he’d broken a basic rule. Their heads were so close she could easily have butted him, smashing his nose. He jerked back, as if evading a blow that never came. She didn’t move, just kept looking at him.

“Do you still have the helmet?” he asked.

“In the bushes, over there, with the leather jackets,” she replied, nodding toward a clump of greenery that lay between the bus shelter and the sewer museum’s ticket kiosk.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. First we make them think that they’ve won. That means getting ourselves killed, the more publicly, the better. So…”

Carver explained what he intended to do and what Petrova’s role would be. She nodded occasionally. Every so often she asked a question or suggested an alternative course of action. The hostility had ebbed, however temporarily, from her voice. Her tone was practical, functional, getting the job done.

At the end he said, “What do you think?”

“I think we have the same enemy and I think your plan has a chance of success. Beyond that, I don’t bother to think. I have only one more question.”

“Yes?”

“What is your name?”

“Samuel Carver. Most people just call me Carver.”

“Okay. Most people call me Alix. And now that we have been introduced, are you going to untie my hands?”

Carver nodded, then pulled a pair of scissors from the same pocket the plastic cuffs had been in. He stepped behind Alix as she shuffled forward, making some space between her back and the shelter. Then he got down on his haunches and forced one blade between the plastic and Alix’s left wrist, making her wince as the metal and plastic dug in. Once he’d cut it free, he repeated the process on her other wrist. As he stood up and came around to face her again, she started to rub her lower arms, in an effort to restore circulation.

Then she held out a surprisingly dainty hand toward Carver. He reached out and shook it, as if sealing their deal.

“No, you fool,” she said. “I want you to help me up.”

Carver chuckled edgily and Alix smiled back. For the first time there was a flicker of warmth, a hint of the woman behind that calculating facade. He pulled her back onto her feet, then slung her bag around his shoulder. She let out a pained sigh as she straightened her spine, then felt the small of her back with her hands.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “You know, just business.”

He regretted the crass words the moment he’d spoken them. There was bitterness in her short, humorless laugh, and when she glanced at him again her eyes had the battered vulnerability of a woman who’s no stranger to violence.

“It’s never just business,” she said.

Then she picked up her helmet and they walked together toward the Alma Bridge.

Nobby Colclough had spent fifteen years as a Metropolitan Police detective before he decided to trade his skills in the private sector. He was used to stakeouts. So now he was sitting in an unmarked Renault Mégane, parked in the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile, watching the world go by. And waiting.

It was after one o’clock in the morning when he got the word from Max telling him the Russians were on their way. He saw them a few minutes later, riding up on a flashy black bike. Jesus Christ! Max hadn’t mentioned that one of them was a bird. She was wearing her skirt pulled right up to her waist so that she could straddle the bike, leaving every inch of her thighs exposed to his gaze. She got off, giving him a quick flash of her panties, then pulled the skirt down over her backside, giving it a little wiggle on the way. Colclough swallowed hard. He wanted to know if the face was as good as the body. Pity the daft tart still had her helmet on.

Now the bloke got off the bike, grabbed the girl’s hand, and hurried her toward the door. Filthy little monkeys couldn’t wait to get at it. Well, sod ’em. They were about to get a blow job all right.

He watched them go in, then called in to base.

“They’ve arrived,” he said.

“Stay on the line,” came the voice from the other end. “I’m betting Carver set his explosives with short-delay fuses. He’ll want to get the targets into the apartment before detonation. Shouldn’t take long. Are the lights on yet?”

Colclough looked up. “No. The dirty beggars probably stopped for a quick one on the stairs. Oh, hang on. The lights have just gone on. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Colclough was half right. The place was about to blow, but Carver and Alix had not hung around on the stairs; they’d raced up. Just before they went into the apartment, Carver stopped. He took her black bag off his shoulder, felt inside it for any weapons, then, satisfied, gave it to her.

“You may need this. Remember, we’ve got exactly sixty seconds, and you’ve got to look different when we leave. Go straight to the bedroom, get changed, grab what you need, and get out. Ready?”

Carver opened the door, walked in, disabled the alarm, and turned on all the lights. As Alix ran into the bedroom, he went into the living room, drew the curtains, and took off his helmet, which he placed on the floor in the middle of the room.