Three weeks later, the phone had rung. The caller didn’t give his name. Nor did he ask for Carver’s. “We can agree on names later,” he said.

The man represented a group of rich, powerful, civic-minded individuals based in London. His employers solved certain problems that lay beyond the reach of government agencies, restricted by treaties and laws. “I was told you might be able to help,” he added. “You come very highly recommended.”

As the call was ending, the man had said, “Tell you what, why don’t you call me Max?”

“All right,” he’d replied. “And you can call me Carver.” It was his birth-mother’s name. The Jacksons had told him that much, soon after his twenty-first birthday. They felt he had a right to know. Later on, when he set about creating an entire new identity for himself, he settled on Samuel for a first name. No particular reason why, he just liked the sound of it.

Now Carver dialed the number Faulkner had given him. Another woman answered the phone, her voice older, with a diction that spoke of finishing schools and debutante balls long ago. Pamela Trench, the colonel’s wife, told Carver that her husband had gone grouse shooting in the Scottish highlands for the weekend. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but he’s out of reach of a telephone. Can I take a message?”

“No, don’t worry.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs. Trench spoke again. “I’m glad you called, Paul. It’s just that, well, we never had the chance to speak after that poor girl…”

The well-meant words blindsided Carver, hitting him like a body blow before he had time to steel himself against the memories. “I know,” he muttered.

“It must have been ghastly for you.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t too great.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know, we were all thinking of you.”

Carver managed to say thanks before he snapped the phone shut. He struggled to suppress the images that filled his mind: two cars, two accidents, two innocent women dead because of him. He was gripped by a shame that was soul deep, a stain that could never be erased. And with it came a cold, hard rage, an implacable need for revenge and retribution against those who had sent him, unknowing, to commit an evil act. He would make them pay for the damnation they had visited upon him.

But he couldn’t afford to lose his self-control now. His life and that of another woman depended on that. So he sucked in his anger, along with everything else, and walked back to his seat. Alix was still fast asleep.

Carver woke Alix just before the train pulled into Lausanne on the north shore of Lake Geneva. They changed trains and arrived in Geneva at ten forty-five, bang on time, then caught a bus through the business district. It crossed the river Rhône, past the Jet d’Eau fountain that sent a plume of water more than 150 feet into the sky. Close to the river, the buildings were faceless modern offices, shops, and banks. It could have been any central European city. But behind them rose the hill that led up to the city’s cathedral of Saint Pierre. This was the Old Town, the heart of a city that dated back two thousand years: the real Geneva.

“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 bashful: “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 wall: “I’m just fixing some coffee. Would you like an espresso? Cappuccino?”