“Just get us a nice selection of seafood-lobster, oysters, whatever’s fresh and good today. We’ll take some green salad with that, some bread and butter.” He looked around the table. “You okay with that?”

It was strictly a rhetorical question. The officer was taking command. Carver shrugged his assent.

“Good,” said Vermulen. “I don’t consume alcohol at lunchtime. We’ll take a large bottle of still water, please. Unless you want some wine, Mr. Wynter…”

“No worries,” Carver replied, thinking his way into the character: the north London street kid whose brains had got him into Oxbridge, and whose criminal instincts had bought him a life of confident, class-less wealth. “I’m here for business, not booze.”

“And your business is taking things that are not your own?”

Wynter wouldn’t have let that one go, so Carver didn’t, either.

“I thought the U.S. Army was in that business, too.”

Vermulen laughed. “Touché, Mr. Wynter.”

They talked some more, sparring, each seeing what the other was made of. Then the food arrived, a great plate heaped with half-lobsters, langoustines, oysters, squid, and fillets of the Mediterranean sea bass the French call loup de mer, the wolf of the sea. Once plates were filled and glasses of iced water poured, Vermulen became more serious.

“You are an educated man, Mr. Wynter, so you will appreciate my meaning when I say that I feel that we are living in a time akin to Ancient Rome at the end of the fourth century A.D. Our civilization is still intact. Our comforts are greater than ever. But our will is crumbling. We lack the guts and determination to defend ourselves. And all around us, a dark age is drawing on. Enemies are prowling; populations are on the move. They sense our weakness and they await the moment to strike.”

The rhetoric sounded grand enough, but to Carver it seemed hypocritical, coming from a man in a luxury restaurant, not a warrior on the front line.

“You’re the one who left a military career,” he retorted. “You stopped fighting. How can you blame the rest of us for not doing our bit?”

For a second, Carver could sense Vermulen prickling at this assault on his self-regard. But then he recovered his composure.

“On the contrary, I left the U.S. Army precisely because our defense and foreign-policy establishment was not prepared to fight the necessary battle, the one that I believe will determine the fate of the West: the battle against radical Islam.”

That took Carver by surprise.

“What are you, some kind of Crusader?”

“Absolutely not: I don’t want any war at all. But I fear it’s coming anyway. It began in Afghanistan. It’s being fought in Chechnya right now, and in the former Yugoslavia. Islamic terrorists are aiming to create a radical Muslim state in Kosovo, able to stab a knife right into Europe ’s guts. And the States will be next.”

“You reckon?” said Carver. “What’s that got to do with why I’m here?”

“Because you are going to acquire something I need very badly for our struggle. And by getting it, you’re also going to deny it to our enemy. Now, you come to me highly recommended, so let me make you a serious offer. You bring me what I want, in pristine condition, and I will pay you five hundred thousand dollars, half in advance, in any form you want, into any account you name.”

“What is it you want?”

“A document. Don’t ask me about its contents, because I will not reveal them. All I can say is that they could be vital to the future peace of the world.”

Carver looked as indifferent as Wynter would have.

“You say that as if I should care. So where is this document?”

Vermulen leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“Sitting in a plain brown file, secured by a wax seal. This seal must be intact when you return it to me, or I will refuse to pay the rest of your money. The file is currently being kept inside a safe, located in a house about a dozen miles from here, in the hills above a village called Tourrettes-sur-Loup, due west of the town of Vence. It is guarded by armed men and trained attack dogs, as well as motion detectors, inside and out. There are alarms on the ground-level doors and windows. I have no information as to the model of the safe, or the exact nature of its lock. The combination, if there is one, is also unknown. You’d better assume, though, that it is protected by palm- or eye-scanners, in addition to that combination.

“The occupants of the house are ethnic Georgian gang members, based in Russia. Their leader is a man named Bagrat Baladze. He doesn’t like to stay too long anywhere, so his people and his document will only be at this location for the next ninety-six hours maximum, maybe less. I do not know where they plan to go next and cannot be certain of tracking them. That means it has to be done now. Are you interested?”

Carver didn’t look too impressed. “I’m not sure about that. See, I like to plan my work thoroughly. It can take weeks, even months. But thorough planning prevents stupid mistakes. That’s why I’m sitting here with you, not rotting in a cell.”

“The exact same principle applies in the military,” Vermulen agreed, speaking normally again. “But equally, there are times when speed is of the essence. This is one of them. So can you do it, or do I need to consider other options?”

“Depends. Tell me about the building where these muppets are staying.”

“There are detailed plans in the case.”

“Maybe, but give me the gist of it, all the same.”

“The layout is typical of vacation properties in this area. It’s an old farmhouse, newly renovated. It hasn’t even gone on the rental market yet, not officially anyway.”

“So the builders have only just moved out?”

“I imagine so.”

“Okay, that could be useful. Now tell me about the setting-what’s the size of the grounds? Are there a lot of other properties close by? How about topography and cover-trees, bushes, rocks, that kind of thing.”

“The property is right at the northern edge of the village. It has been chosen for its seclusion and privacy. There are no other houses within five hundred feet in any direction. The lot covers about two and a half acres. It’s on the lower slopes of a four-thousand-foot hill-”

“In Britain, four thousand feet is a mountain,” Carver interrupted.

“Well, it’s just a damn hill to me,” Vermulen replied. “Called the Puy de Tourrettes, faces south, toward the sea. The house is at the highest point of the property, to maximize the views, with a pool directly below the house and an access road that leads downhill to the nearest road. There are trees in front of the house and around the pool; otherwise the ground is virtually bare, denying cover to intruders and providing clear fields of fire. But above the house, on the hillside, you’ve got light woodland and undergrowth. That’s where I’d put my observation post, if I were you.”

That’s where Carver was planning to put it, too.

“Sounds about right,” he said.

Carver’s plate was empty. He pushed it away from him. Then, to Vermulen’s evident surprise, he got to his feet.

“Okay, give me ten minutes,” he said. “I’m going for a walk-helps me think. When I come back, I’ll tell you if I can do the job, what I’ll need, and how much it’ll cost.”

“I already named the fee.”

“But I didn’t agree to it. See you in ten.”