The Accident Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

like a bloody museum. He turned his attention to the middle-aged man in beige cords, green sweater, and pale blue button-down shirt standing by the unlit fire, holding a glass of whisky. The man was stocky, powerfully built, just starting to run to fat as time, gravity, and lack of exercise took their toll.
    “I got news from Carver, sir.”
    The other man’s job title was Operations Director. Some of his staff referred to him as “O.D.” When he wanted to give an impression of friendship, he told people to call him Charlie. But Max preferred “sir.” He never liked getting chummy with his bosses. They started taking liberties if you did. Keep it nice and formal, then everyone knew where they stood.
    “How’s he getting on?” asked the operations director.
    His voice sounded tired. He ran a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. He’d had less than three hours’ sleep in the past forty-eight. They’d been working fast, under pressure, cutting too many corners. Max wondered whether the old man was up to it anymore.
    “Fine,” he said. “Just one thing, though. Looks like he’s had a sudden attack of conscience.”
    “Really? How so?”
    “He’s worried innocent people might get killed.”
    The operations director laughed, composing himself when he saw the disapproval on Max’s face. “Sorry,” he said. “Tension must be getting to me. But you see the irony, surely.”
    “Oh, yes, I see that.”
    “Right then, are the Russians in place?” He gave a sharp, frustrated sigh. “I don’t like using new people on a job like this. Still, the chairman assures me they’re top-notch. He must know what he’s talking about.”
    “They’re in position,” said Max. “And the observation teams are ready. Once there’s a sighting, we’ll be ready to move at once.”
    “Excellent,” said the operations director. “Let’s wait for the show to begin.”
     
SUNDAY, AUGUST 31
     
     
5
     
    The time was a quarter past midnight. Samuel Carver stood astride the Honda, waiting to go into action. He glanced down at the black metal tube clipped to the bike behind his right leg. It looked like a regular, long-barreled flashlight, the kind that police or security guards use. It was, in fact, a portable diode pump laser, otherwise known as a dazzler. Developed as a nonfatal weapon for U.S. police forces, but taken up with deadly enthusiasm by special forces around the world, it emitted a green light beam at a frequency of 532 nanometers. Its nickname, though, was misleading. When this light shone in somebody’s eyes, they weren’t just dazzled. They were incapacitated.
    A green laser beam left anyone who looked at it disoriented, confused, and temporarily immobile. The human brain couldn’t process the sheer amount of light data flooding through the optic nerves, so it acted like any other overloaded computer: It crashed.
    Night or day, rain or shine, a dazzler was an accident’s best friend.
    It would only be a matter of seconds now. Carver was positioned by the exit of an underpass that ran beneath an embankment on the northern side of the Seine. If he turned his head fractionally to the right, he could look across the river at the glittering spire of the Eiffel Tower darting up into the night sky. It was past midnight, but there were still a few pleasure boats out on the water. If Carver had been the slightest bit interested, he’d have seen the lovers standing arm in arm by the rails, looking out at the City of Light. But Carver had other things to think about. He was looking toward the far side of the underpass. All he cared about was the traffic.
    The time had come. He took a deep breath, then let the air out slowly, dropping his shoulders, easing the muscles, twisting his neck, and rotating his head to loosen the top of his spinal cord. Then he looked back at the road.
    Several hundred meters away, beyond the entrance of the underpass, he saw a black Mercedes. It was traveling fast. Way too