Lara Dashian was living under siege. It had begun slowly in the first hours after Jake Tolland’s piece appeared in the London
Times
. Local TV stations had asked for interviews with her and been turned down by Sadira Khan. So had the Dubai stringers for the major news agencies and international press. But then Jake Tolland arrived and said that he had been offered one hundred thousand English pounds to write a book about her story. He said he would share it fifty-fifty with her. Lara was not really interested in a book. She did not understand why anyone in England would want to know about her. But she had trusted Jake, and when he came to her offering to share his money that trust deepened. Her experience of men was that they wanted to abuse and exploit her. The notion that a man might treat her as an equal was far more exciting than any book.
Tolland promised he would keep the book project quiet. But someone took a photograph of Lara saying goodbye to him at the gate of the House of Freedom. When that hit the internet, along with a report of an upcoming book - now said to be worth half a million pounds - the reporters all came back. Once the first murmurings of Hollywood interest in her story began to surface, reporters started flying into Dubai from Britain, Europe and the States. Several prominent young actresses were said to be vying to play her. They knew that the part of a raped and abused prostitute rescued from hell and triumphing over her suffering had Best Actress Oscar written all over it. By the time that Jake Tolland’s agent was unwise enough to get drunk at a launch party and boast that he was about to do a series of deals that would make both his client and Lara multi-millionaires, the House of Freedom had effectively become a prison, its inhabitants entirely blockaded on all sides by hordes of media, police and onlookers.
And then the delegation from the US embassy arrived.
The two women in their knee-length skirt suits were hustled into the refuge compound by a team of large men with black suits and buzz-cut heads. They kept their heads down and faces obscured. When they got into the courtyard they had to keep running, just to get out of range of the photographers up trees, on ladders or shooting from the roofs of nearby buildings. And then they had to get past Sadira Khan.
She stood opposite her two compatriots, hands on hips, watching them disdainfully as they brushed themselves down, straightened their clothes and checked their hair. ‘You wanna say why you’re here?’ she asked.
One of the women came forward and held out a hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘My name’s Renee Sorenson. I’m with the embassy in Abu Dhabi. This is Chantelle Clemens. She works with Harrison James. He’s the White House Chief of Staff.’
‘It’s OK, hon, I know who he is. I’m still a registered voter. So let me guess, this is to do with Lara, right? Or did you come all this way to congratulate me on my selfless work for abused women?’
‘Er, no, ma’am,’ said Chantelle Clemens as she shook hands. ‘We’re here at the President’s particular request. We’d like to speak to Miss Dashian.’
‘The President, you say?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘He gonna rescue us all from this madhouse?’
Clemens smiled. ‘Anything’s possible. But first, please, we really do have to talk to Miss Dashian.’
‘You know I’ve turned down every single request since that story came out?’
‘We heard, yes.’
‘I’m trying to protect the kid, you understand? She’s been through hell. She’s still very fragile.’
‘I understand, and so does the President,’ said Clemens. ‘You can rest assured that we are very aware of the suffering she has been through, and we respect that totally.’
While the women had been talking, the House of Freedom’s inhabitants had been gathering in the background, whispering to one another, fascinated by these new arrivals in their home.
Sadira Khan turned and looked at the girls, who retreated a few paces. Some slipped back through doors into other rooms.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, and the girls came a little bit closer again.
‘Lara,’ she went on. ‘Come here, sweetheart.’
Two of the girls stood to one side to let Lara through. She stood still for a moment, sticking by her friends, examining the American women through her big, brown, bush-baby eyes. Then she looked at Sadira Khan seeking reassurance, found it and stepped forward.
Chantelle Clemens watched the slight, nervous figure step across the hall towards them. Was this really the sex-slave who’d been bought, sold and raped, the way the story claimed? In her cheap T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms she looked about fourteen.
The woman from the White House smiled as she said, ‘Hi, Lara, my name’s Chantelle.’ She almost had to bite her lip to stop herself adding, ‘So you’re what all this fuss is about?’
Greta Lyngstad placed a large bowl of spaghetti covered in tomato sauce and Parmesan cheese in front of Carver and said, ‘Eat. You need it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Carver and piled in. Greta wasn’t the best cook in the world, but he didn’t care. Almost eighteen hours had passed since he’d been rudely interrupted, halfway through his dinner, and not a morsel of food had crossed his lips since. He was famished.
They’d moved from the doctor’s study into his dining-room. Carver was bandaged like an Egyptian mummy from his shoulders to his waist. There were padded dressings on his buttocks - Greta had tactfully left a soft cushion on the dining-chair just to make him more comfortable - and more bandages round his thighs. Grantham and Lyngstad were standing at the far end of the room, by a window that looked out over a small, well-tended garden.
‘So, is he fit to go?’ asked Grantham, nodding in Carver’s direction. He did not seem bothered by the fact that Carver was sitting at the other end of the tables well able to hear every word that was said.
‘I am afraid that I can only discuss my patient’s condition with him,’ Lyngstad replied. He had clearly not forgotten Grantham’s description of his stitching and was not going to forgive him any time soon.
Grantham sighed irritably. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. You ask him, Carver.’
‘Ask who what?’ said Carver innocently.
‘You know.’
‘Dr Lyngstad,’ said Carver, ‘first may I thank you for taking such trouble to patch me up. It must have been very difficult work. I appreciate it.’
‘You’re welcome, Mr Carver,’ said Lyngstad with a little nod.
‘I was just wondering …’
‘Yes?’
‘How long do you think it will be before I can go back to work?’
‘Hmm …’ Lyngstad gave a contemplative sigh, relishing the impatience that was radiating from Grantham as obviously as the light from a bulb. ‘That would depend on your job. For example, if you were a civil servant, in a government department, I would say that you should take at least one month, possibly more, to recuperate - on full pay, of course. On the other hand, if we were at war, and the enemy were at the gate, so to speak, then I would look at your wounds, vicious as they are, and say, “They’re a long way from your heart.”’
‘You mean they won’t kill me?’
‘Quite so, Mr Carver. You will experience considerable pain and discomfort for some time. It could be many weeks before the wounds are properly healed and months, or even years, before the scars begin to fade, if they fade at all. But so long as you keep the wounds clean and bandaged and take painkillers when necessary, you are in no danger. You still have almost full mobility. Your senses are not impaired. No vital organs have been damaged. So if this were a war, and the situation was very serious, then I would send you back to the front line. And since I note both that you are in excellent physical condition and that your body bears clear signs of previous injuries, I should say that you are closer to a soldier than a civil servant.’
‘So he is ready to go then,’ said Grantham.
Lyngstad ignored him. ‘Does that answer your question, Mr Carver?’
‘Yes, thank you, doctor.’
‘Right,’ said Grantham. ‘We’re off. I’ve already had your bags collected from the hotel. No need to hang around.’
‘No,’ said Carver.
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘Exactly what I said. Mrs Lyngstad has made me this excellent bowl of pasta. I can’t just leave it here uneaten, that would be rude. Besides, I’m starving. So first I finish the pasta. Then I go.’
‘Well said, Mr Carver,’ said Lyngstad.
Just then, Greta appeared in the doorway that led to the kitchen, holding a saucepan. ‘I’ve got a little bit more if you’d like it,’ she said.
On his flight to England, Damon Tyzack considered the whole issue of loose ends. So far they had been looking after themselves quite satisfactorily. He’d been tracking news-feeds during the drive into Denmark and had been delighted to learn that so far as the authorities were concerned, the Oslo bombing case was closed. Both Carver and Larsson were dead. The manner of their passing, however, disturbed Tyzack. The official account stated that Carver, who was referred to by his original name Paul Jackson, had died when surrounded by police at his hideout close to the Swedish border. The use of Carver’s old name had niggled at Tyzack. He couldn’t help wondering also how the police had found that hideout. An Oslo police spokeswoman had stated that they were alerted by members of the public walking in the area, but to a man of Tyzack’s conspiratorial temperament, that account seemed too straightforward. There had to be more to it than that.
Even if there weren’t, the very fact that he was worried told Tyzack something. He was operating much closer to the surface than ever before, straying uncomfortably into the public eye. It had begun with Jana Kreutzmann and her damned investigations into people-trafficking. Then there had been the whole business about Pablo the Pimpernel. He’d ordered Selsey to discredit Carver among his allies in MI6, and to send a message that Carver himself would see. But the whole thing had spiralled infuriatingly out of control. Lara Dashian was rapidly becoming the most famous whore in the world. People were talking about books and films about the grotty little tart. Unbelievably, the latest reports were even suggesting she might appear on the podium with Lincoln Roberts at his Bristol speech. That, Tyzack thought, would actually be doing him a favour. He could get them both at the same time.
That left Selsey. Tyzack was under no illusions at all about the MI6 officer’s long-term reliability. If a man could betray one master, he could just as easily betray another. Of course Selsey did not know that Tyzack was his paymaster, but he knew enough to make it much easier for others to uncover connections that might make life very difficult indeed. In the meantime, buying Selsey’s silence could well prove an expensive proposition and Tyzack never liked spending money when there was another, simpler option.
It might be necessary to deal with Selsey personally. And if he was going to do it, the sooner the better. Once the President had been hit, things might get a little hectic and he’d be wanting to lie low. He knew where Selsey lived. Tonight he’d pay a house call.
Bill Selsey wished for nothing more than the chance to go home. He wished he’d never gone down to meet that manipulative old bastard Percy Wake. He wished he’d never been seduced and deluded by the prospect of easy money and a cheap thrill. He wished he’d never harboured such childish resentments against Jack Grantham, and, even more, that he’d not been so stupid as to believe that he could outwit Grantham in a contest of wills and cunning. And he wished he’d never walked into Sir Mostyn Green’s office and seen him sitting there with a face like thunder while Dame Agatha Bewley introduced herself and said, ‘We’ve never met, but I feel as though I know so much about you.’
And now here he was, tied to a chair in a windowless basement while the man opposite him, with the soft face and the steely eyes, loosened his tie, took a drink of water and said, ‘Right, Bill, let’s go over this one more time. We found the money, all of it. You hadn’t even moved it out of the account it had been paid into. I mean, I’m sorry, Bill, I know you were never out there in the field, but even so, that’s bloody stupid, isn’t it?’
Selsey gave a sad, beaten shrug. ‘Maybe.’
‘No, Bill, not maybe: certainly. There’s no doubt at all you were bloody stupid. But what I want to know is, who put that money there? Eh? Who paid you all that lovely dosh?’
‘I don’t know,’ Selsey pleaded. ‘I swear I was never given a name.’
‘Oh right, so the money just arrived, did it? Maybe the Easter Bunny put it there, is that what you think? Or the Tooth Fairy? Or Father fucking Christmas?’
The man got up and walked right up to Selsey’s chair till he was looming over him.
‘I don’t like your attitude,’ he said. ‘You know what I think? I think you’re taking the piss. I think you know, but you just don’t want to tell me. So, one more time: the money, who gave you the money?’
‘I really don’t know,’ whimpered Selsey. ‘I don’t … I don’t …’
And then he started to cry.
Assistant Commissioner Peter Manners, commanding officer of the Metropolitan Police’s Counter Terrorism Command, S015, cleared his throat, the way a man does when he’s about to state a position and wants the world to know it. ‘No disrespect, Dame Agatha, but I have to say I take the same view as Tord Bahr. I’ve got a lot of time for the man, he’s bloody good at what he does, and I can assure you that we have been working with his people to ensure that there are no loopholes, no weak spots, no opportunities for anyone to make an attempt on the President’s life. It’s a responsibility we all take very, very seriously.’