Tom Cain - The Accident Man

It took Bobby Faulkner a couple of minutes to get his drugged head around the fact that Quentin Trench was dead. Then he spent another couple shouting at Carver, his voice slurred, his thoughts disordered, blaming him for what had happened, calling him a murderer. He said his wife had been right. He said he should have stayed at home and gone to work. Brother-officer my bloody arse! he ranted. Youre nothing but bloody trouble. Shouldve left you in France. Let you sort your own sodding problems out, none of my business. Now Quentins dead, best commander a man ever had. And its all your bloody fault.

Carver let Faulkner say his piece. He considered his options as the other man ranted. He could either suck it up and say nothing. Or he could rip right back at him.

He thought about going for the strong, silent option. It would probably be the more mature response. But he couldnt be sure Faulkner wouldnt try something stupid as long as he saw Carver as a murderer and Trench as the innocent victim. Plus, he was tired and hacked off and hed taken about as much as he could stand tonight and the night before, and the ones before that. So he grabbed Faulkner by the neck, hauled him close till his face was just a few inches away. Carver stared into eyes still bleary with chemicals.

Listen, he said. Listen very hard, because Im only going to say this once. Quentin Trench was a lying, treacherous bastard who tried to kill me and would have killed you next. He stuck something in that hot bloody toddy you guys made, knocked you out. For Gods sake, youre a big boy, you must know youve been drugged. And it couldnt have been me, could it? I was up on deck, on watch.

Faulkner shrugged noncommittally, unable to argue but unwilling to agree.

He shot at me, Carver continued, but he missed. Look. He pointed to the frame of the hatch. There are the bloody holes. And none of this would have happened if you hadnt got him on this boat in the first place.

Carver let Faulkner go and moved across to the tiller, steering the boat north, waiting for the first faint glimmer of dawn.

Why would Quentin want to kill you? Faulkner asked. He loved you like a son. Told me so himself.

He sent me on a mission I wasnt supposed to survive. And when I did, he wanted me dead. Look, Ive spent the past five years working off-the-books, black ops, jobs that never happened. I never knew who gave me the work. I didnt think they knew who I was, either. Better that way, for both our sakes. Turns out I was wrong. One of my bosses knew exactly who I was, because he was Quentin. Ive been working for him all along, I just didnt know it.

Faulkner frowned. Hang on. It was you that called me first about Quentin. Thats why I thought of him when you called again about the boat.

Thats right. I thought he could help me. Pretty stupid, right?

So how did you find out he was out to get you?

Because he made some stupid crack about Alix, the girl I told you about, being a Russian mail-order bride. How did he know she was Russian? I didnt tell you or him that. He had to be on the inside. All I needed to know then was whether you were in on it too. And I knew you were in the clear once I saw you lying there unconscious.

Faulkner was trying to work it all out, struggling against the numbed synapses in his brain.

How do I know youre telling the truth, Pablo? How do I know youre not going to kill me too?

Because I would have done it already. Youve been unconscious or incapable for hours. I could have tipped you over the side anytime. Anyway, you know the truth yourself. What was the last thing you remember before you went out?

Carver watched Faulkner squint up his eyes, trying to create a picture in his head. He took a couple of deep breaths, expelling the air through his nose. He muttered to himself. Then his eyes opened and he shook his head sorrowfully. Youre right. It must have been him. We were down there. I was sitting down, thinking about getting some rest. He came over. There was a mug of something in his hand. I dont remember anything after that.

He knocked you out. Then he came after me. But he forgot how good I am at my job. So he died.

Faulkner leaned forward. What, precisely, is your job, Pablo?

Carver said nothing.

Come on, Faulkner insisted. You turned my boat into a battlefield. Ive got a right to know.

I told you already, said Carver. Black ops, accidents. Like, say, a veteran marine officer with years of experience at sea who runs into a storm on a night crossing of the Channel and gets fatally wounded by a distress flare. It goes off too early while hes trying to warn an oncoming container ship of his presence and blows him overboard. That kind of thing.

So what was this job Trench sent you on, the one where you met this girl? The one you werent meant to survive?

Dont ask, replied Carver. Well both be happier if we drop the subject right now. So, take the tiller for a while. Im going down to the cabin to check a couple of things out. Do you want a cup of coffee to help you wake up?

He went below. The ships radio was mounted on the wall of the cabin by the chart table a couple of steps away. Carver ripped the radio from its mounting and smashed it against the side of the table.

Whats going on down there? Faulkner called down from the cockpit.

Sorry, said Carver. Think I might have knocked something over. Dont worry. No harm done.

He made the coffees and took them back up to the cockpit.

Carver stood with his mug in his hand looking at the southern shore of the Isle of Wight, which lay straight ahead of them a few miles off, a black outline against a dark gray sky, the bottoms of the clouds streaked by the first orange rays of the rising sun.

What was that all about? asked Faulkner.

I was putting your radio out of action. When we get to shore youre going to need a reason why you didnt radio for help when you discovered your two crewmates were missing.

Theres only one lost.

Ill come to that. Heres what youre going to do. The moment you get ashore, get the harbormaster to call the coastguard. Then tell the truth. You were drugged. Youll still have traces in your bloodstream. The mug Trench used will still be rolling around the cabin somewhere.

When you woke up, you clambered up on deck, and both your crew members, Trench and Jackson, were missing. So was the ships dinghy dont worry, it will be. Naturally, your first instinct was to call mayday, but the radio was kaput. Theyre not going to know when that happened. Now youre frantic because two of your oldest friends have disappeared overboard and you havent got a clue what happened. You certainly havent got a clue why there are bullet holes all over your boat. I mean, theres no gun anywhere, is there? Now, think you can manage that?

Faulkner considered for a while, then answered, almost reluctantly, Yes, I suppose so.

They werent far from the English coastline now. Poole lay on the far side of the Solent, northwest of the Isle of Wight, to the left as they were looking. There was just a chance Trench had ordered a welcoming committee to greet them, in case he hadnt got the job done at sea.

Carver turned his head right, to the northeast, gazing at the horizon. Then he turned back to Faulkner.

Change course, he said. We need another harbor.

Yuri Zhukovski told his people to give Alix breakfast. Hed gone at her for hours. Now he was satisfied that she had nothing more to tell him. He just had to decide what to do with her next. He would use her to get what he needed. It was simply a matter of how.

The servant said nothing as she went into the room, but her presence was enough to wake Alix from a fitful sleep that was really nothing more than a semiconscious doze. She winced as she propped herself up and watched the servant carry the tray toward her. The restraints that had tied her were gone, but the bruises showed up inky blue against the skin on her wrists and ankles. Thered been violence too, and the memories of what hed done to her were as vivid as the welts on her body.