“Where are we going?” asked Alix.

“Aaah,” said Carver. “That’s a surprise.”

Two Russians came for Kursk and bundled him into their car.

“Mother of God, Grigori Mikhailovich,” said the driver, “You stink like a Chechen shithouse. It’ll cost me a fortune to have the car cleaned.”

“Shut it, Dimitrov. I need painkillers. Strong ones. Now.”

“Of course, Grigori, whatever you say.”

They took Kursk to a cheap hotel. The owner was expecting them. He was a Russian. He would do as he was told and keep his mouth shut. Dimitrov disappeared. Ten minutes later, he returned. The owner told him Kursk was upstairs in his room, having a shower. When Dimitrov knocked, Kursk opened the door wearing nothing but a towel. His body was covered with vivid black and purple bruises, and slashed by bloody abrasions.

Dimitrov followed Kursk into the room. He held out two pills. “Demerol,” he said. “My last ones. I will get more as soon as I can.”

Kursk washed the pills down with neat vodka, wiping the back of his hand across his face when he’d finished. “Okay, now get out of here,” he said. “I need to get some rest.”

He’d been out for less than an hour when there was another knock on his door. Kursk got up and strode across the room, stark naked. He opened the door.

“I thought I told you not to fucking disturb me.”

Dimitrov held out a phone. “It’s Yuri,” he said.

There were no introductions, just a voice on the other end of the line saying, “Get on the next train to Milan. Take Dimitrov.”

Kursk rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, sure… why?”

“Your partner kept her mobile on. We have tracked it traveling southeast across France. It looks as though she is on a train bound for Milan. The Englishman – his name is Samuel Carver – is almost certainly with her. They were spotted dancing together at some club in Paris. Platon was there with a couple of his latest women. He called me. And I am told that this Carver is carrying a computer that may contain information I do not wish to be made public. I will make sure we have people to meet the train at every stop. If Petrova and Carver get off, they will be followed until you arrive.”

“And then?”

“And then, Kursk, you will kill Carver and get that computer.”

“What about the woman?”

“Bring her back. I will decide what happens to her.”

Alix slept most of the way. Carver sat opposite her. He’d crashed out on the plane on the last transatlantic leg of the flight, waking only minutes before they landed in Paris. But even if he’d been tired, he wasn’t in any mood to sleep. So he looked out the window, watching the suburbs of Paris give way to the flat landscape of northern France, then the rich, rolling hills of Burgundy, and finally, past Dijon, the limestone cliffs and gorges of the Jura and the first foothills of the Alps.

He thought about himself and what he’d done, thought about the girl, tried to figure out what he was going to do. His head was swirling with unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. Carver told himself there was no point fretting about things that were done and beyond recall. The princess was dead. Nothing was going to change that. He had to stick to the rules: concentrate on what he could control. But who was he kidding? He’d chosen to complicate his life by bringing the girl, how much control did he have over her?

He was watching her sleeping, slumped against the side of the carriage, when she slowly opened her eyes, still half-asleep, caught him staring, and gave him a lazy smile that turned into a yawn.

“What were you thinking?” she murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

She perked up, her eyes now awake, looking directly at his own. “Were you wondering what it would be like to have sex with me?”

Carver drew in a sharp breath. “Bloody hell, you don’t mince words, do you?”

She laughed, her expression filled with the satisfaction of a woman who looks down upon the single-minded simplicity of men in general, yet is proud to have that power over one man in particular. “It wasn’t so hard to know, the way you were looking at me.”

“You reckon? I wish it were that simple.”

That surprised her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean maybe I was thinking about you. But I was also asking why I’ve put myself in the position where I can have those thoughts. I’m trying to work out just how much of a risk I’m taking, letting you into my life.”

She nodded. “Hmmm, that is a lot of thinking.”

Now it was his turn to smile. “Well, maybe I’m just more thoughtful than I look.”

“Is that so? Well, I’m too sleepy to worry about your thoughts right now.” She stretched her arms wide, loosened her shoulders, then settled back into her seat.

“Wake me up when we get there,” she said. “Wherever ‘there’ is.”

Carver waited until he was sure Alix was asleep again before rising from his seat and walking down the carriage to the well of empty space between the exit doors. Then he pulled out his spare phone and dialed a London number. A woman answered. She said, “Hello?” in a tired, brittle voice. Carver could hear a baby wailing in the background.

“Hi, Carrie,” he said. “It’s Pablo. Is Bobby around?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she answered. “And yes, I’d be delighted to tell you everything I’ve been up to in the three years since you last bothered to call.”

“I’m sorry, Carrie. You know, I’d really love to talk, but not now. Can I have a word with Bobby?”

“I’ll get him for you.”

Carver could hear her shouting, “Darling! Phone for you!” then the click as an extension was picked up. A man’s voice called out, “Hang on a second.” Then there was another muffled shout of, “I’ve got it,” and the background sounds of mother and baby were silenced.

“Sorry, that’s better,” said the man.

“Hi, Bobby, it’s Pablo.”

“Christ! Good to hear from you. What the bloody hell have you been up to? It’s been ages.”

“Yeah,” said Carver. “Look, sorry to be antisocial, but I haven’t got much time. Do you have a number for Trench? Need a word with him, and I heard he’d retired.”

Bobby chuckled. “Retired? Well, he’s not the CO anymore, but I’m not sure I’d call it retirement. Security consultancies here, company directorships there – the old man’s quite a mover and shaker. So why do you need him? Looking for a job?”

“Something like that. Listen, do you have the number or not?”

“Oh sure, absolutely. Hang on a minute.” There was a brief pause and then, “Okay, here it is…”

“Thanks, mate. Look, I know we should, you know, catch up with things. Sounds like you guys have been busy, anyway. I’m happy for you; I always thought you’d make a great dad. But I really can’t talk now. Speak later, yeah?”

Carver ended the call. He thought about the last time he’d seen Colonel Quentin Trench, the man who’d been his commanding officer, his friend, even his father figure. Back then, he was Paul “Pablo” Jackson, recently resigned from the Royal Marines, a former officer and a gentleman, turned self-destructive, brawling drunk. He’d spent the night in a cell, courtesy of the Dorset Police. He’d become a regular customer of theirs.

“Hello, Pablo. This isn’t very clever,” Trench had said, stepping past the copper at the door and looking around the cell.

“Not very, no,” he’d replied, ashamed to let Trench see him this way, knowing he’d let the old man down as much as himself.

“Still feeling touchy, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you take it out on someone your own size, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You could put your talents to better use than scrapping with beer-sodden louts. Let me get the word out. You never know, something may come up.”