The Accident Man Read Free Page A

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    The chopper came from the east, in the first faint rays of the rising sun before the last star had disappeared. Carver saw it away in the distance, caught between the blue black sky and the icing-sugar snow. He didn’t need to pack. Inside his ski jacket he wore a black nylon money belt. Its pouches contained four different passports, each with two matching credit cards. There was also a spare phone and twenty thousand dollars in cash. Gold cards were all very well, but Carter had yet to go anywhere that didn’t accept U.S. green.
    A little blizzard of snow flurried in the air as the helicopter landed fifty meters away. Carver watched it touch down. Christ, it was another Bell. An image flashed into his mind of a JetRanger crashing, the sound of screaming, an almost physical impression of terror. He closed his eyes for a second and muttered to himself, “Get a grip.” Then he eased the zipper on his jacket and walked over, loose-limbed but watchful for any sign that he’d been set up.
    “G’day,” the New Zealander copilot shouted over the clattering pulse of the rotor blades. He held out a hand and pulled Carver onboard. “They said we either had to pick you up or kill you. Glad you ticked Box A.”
    The smile on the copilot’s face was broad. But his eyes were flat and expressionless.
    Carver grinned back, playing the game. “I’m glad too!” he shouted. “You might have got hurt.” He slumped into his seat, fastened the seat belt, put on his headset, and sighed. So much for his holiday. He hadn’t even had time for a decent cup off coffee and already he was knee-deep in bullshit.
    He rubbed his thumb and forefinger back and forth along his forehead. He’d had nothing to do for a week but ski and sleep. He should have been rested and refreshed. Instead he felt tired to the bone.
     
     
    Less than two hours later, Carver was on a brand-new Gulfstream V, climbing to forty thousand feet, flying northeast out of Christchurch, en route to Los Angeles, some 5,800 nautical miles away. The GV was the longest-range private jet in the world, but by the time it got to California, the plane would be gliding. It would sit on the tarmac just long enough to refuel and pick up a new air crew, then take off again for Europe.
    There was a shower onboard. Carver cleaned up, shaved, and changed into a soft, shapeless gray tracksuit handed to him by the flight attendant. “I hope it’s the right size. They gave me your measurements….” She paused. “But you never really know whether something fits until you try it on.”
    She was a pretty brunette with big brown eyes, soft full lips, and a glossy ponytail. She spoke in that way girls do Down Under, rising slightly at the end of every sentence, turning each statement into an ingratiating question. Now she stood in front of Carver with her weight shifted to one side, her hips cocked, and the dark blue fabric of her snug, knee-length skirt stretched tight across her thighs. She was looking at him appraisingly, with a smile that suggested she was happy with what she saw. Either she really liked him, or her job description included a fuller range of executive services than your average “trolley dolly.” Carver considered the latter option. He and the girl both worked for people who believed that anything could be paid for. He’d been bought. Presumably she could be too.
    “What’s your name?” he asked.
    “Candy,” she said.
    Carver couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud. The girl even had a stripper name to go with her professional seduction routine. But then she surprised him. She blushed.
    “No, really. It’s short for Candace.”
    He realized he’d missed a third possibility, that Candy was a nice kid trying to brighten up her workday with a bit of mild flirtation. The way normal people did. Christ, he’d become a cynical bastard. When had that happened? Stupid question: He knew exactly when. He could time it down to the last minute. It suddenly