by Holly Watt
‘Yeah, Canada Gold got brutal.’ Azarola nodded appreciatively.
‘He was back and forth between Boston and Chicago all the time,’ added Miranda, who monitored the flight-tracking websites for Walton’s Learjet. ‘Crazy busy.’
‘I heard,’ said Azarola.
‘And, you know Tyler, he’s totally obsessed with racing at the moment. Was Montana Blue running that day at Ascot?’
Azarola avoided the question by ushering her to a seat at the low-slung table. He didn’t know Tyler Walton at all well, diagnosed Casey. But was keen to cover that up.
‘Thank you.’ Miranda accepted a glass of champagne. She leaned back carefully against a blue silk cushion, so no one could brush against the wires running down her back.
‘So how are you?’ she went on.
‘I’m good, I’m good . . .’
They chatted on. Her arrival time had been carefully calculated. Jasper had texted them when the Cyan group had arrived, and Casey and Miranda had arrived two hours later.
After two hours of vodka, Azarola was drunk.
He was smart though, Casey thought. There was a sophisticated mind there, even through the vodka. Both were doing a superb job of pretending to know Tyler Walton. For a second, Casey smiled at what the Chicago magnate would make of it all.
Casey sat down briefly on a stool, dodging a girl, spilling champagne on her shoes. Across the club, Jasper gave her an almost invisible wink. Miranda and Azarola chatted on. The group around the table ebbed and flowed. People danced and table-hopped, and Miranda stayed next to Azarola in a way that looked accidental.
Finally, just for a moment, they were alone at the table. Miranda poured them both shots of tequila, and they did them fast: salt, lemon, gasp.
‘To tell you the truth.’ Miranda’s voice dropped. ‘I haven’t seen much of him since his trip to that camp.’
‘What camp?’ Azarola seemed interested.
‘The camp,’ Miranda said again. ‘Where those people are . . .’
‘Where?’
‘The one where . . .’ Miranda hesitated. ‘The one where people . . . die.’
‘They what?’
‘Oh, I thought you were one of them . . .’
‘One of who?’
‘That group . . .’
He doesn’t know anything about it, Casey thought. He was curious, but there was no distress in his body language, no tightening in the spine. His voice hadn’t tautened, and it was the voice that always gave them away.
Miranda would keep going though, she thought. Because that was what Miranda did.
‘It was all so fucking dark,’ Miranda went on. ‘That group of guys who are killing people there.’
‘They what?’ Azarola’s voice was sudden ice.
‘They shoot them . . . Out in . . .’
‘They shoot . . .’
‘Some girls think it’s hot.’ She almost made it flirtatious, but it didn’t quite work.
‘That is so fucked up . . .’
Azarola was getting angrier.
‘You never did that sort of thing?’ They were trained to ask the question they didn’t want to ask.
‘No.’ Azarola was horrified. It was unfakeable that horror. ‘Never.’
People don’t use the word ‘never’ when they are lying, a Kroll investigator told Casey once. ‘Never’ is impossible to blur later.
‘What sort of a sick fuck do you think I am?’ Azarola’s voice was rising. ‘Is that what Walton gets off on?’
‘Tyler?’ Miranda covered her tracks. ‘Totally not. God, no. It was this other guy I know . . . It’s so loud in here.’
‘Who the fuck was it?’ But Miranda was ready to disappear. He didn’t have her name. He was drunk. She would be forgotten by the morning, hopefully.
‘I have to get back to my friends.’ She waved vaguely across the club. ‘It’s my friend’s birthday . . .’
She was on her feet, smiling blandly. Halfway across the club before he knew it.
‘Get out of here, Casey.’ Miranda knew Casey was still listening in. ‘He doesn’t know anything.’
Casey watched Miranda stride across the club, moving fast without hurrying. She was furious, Casey could see. Miranda hated to be mistaken.
Out of the corner of her eye, Casey saw a latecomer arriving at the Cyan table.
It was the guy on the left, she realised, at the club back in London. The American voice. The one who knew.
‘Let’s go, Casey.’ Miranda’s voice again. ‘Azarola could lose his shit.’
Just one moment, thought Casey. Just one moment.
Their system only allowed Miranda to talk at her. The tiny radio earmikes weren’t subtle enough for whispering in a club.
Casey started towards Azarola.
‘Casey.’ She heard the anger in Miranda’s voice as she headed towards the Cyan table. ‘I’ve told you. It’s a bust. Let’s go.’
But Casey was already at the table.
‘Oh my God, hi,’ she gave it six syllables. ‘Patrick Lister!’
The American glanced around, trying to work out who she was shrieking at.
‘Patrick!’ She threw herself into his arms, kissing his cheek.
‘Hi.’ He didn’t want to be rude, which was a good sign. ‘I’m . . . I’m not Patrick . . .’
It was the right voice. That light American accent, fading at the end of a sentence.
‘Shut up.’ She gave it the full Valley Girl inflection. ‘Shut up.’ She took a step back and looked up at him through her eyelashes. ‘Dude, this is like totally freaky. You’re literally his twin.’
He laughed, because people always did. ‘I don’t have a twin. Only child.’
‘No way. No way . . . What’s your name? You have got to be related . . .’
‘Adam.’
‘Adam? Must be Lister though . . . Has to be . . . A cousin or shit.’
‘Fraid not. Jefferson.’
‘Adam Jefferson. Get outta here . . . You must be from LA though . . .’
‘New York.’
‘Shut up,’ she repeated. ‘Long way from home, down here in old St-Tropez.’
‘Nah, we came down from Geneva for the weekend. I’m living there at the moment.’
‘Geneva.’ She rolled the word around her mouth. ‘In Switzerland, right? You work there?’
‘With these guys.’ He gestured at the Cyan group.
‘Awesome. And you’re here for a few more days?’
‘No.’ He looked regretful. ‘We split first thing tomorrow morning. Got to get back for work.’
‘I have got to take a photograph to show my friends,’ she squealed. ‘They will totally die.’
He posed with fake reluctance, smiling for her shot.
‘They will die,’ she promised again.
Over his shoulder, she could see Azarola glowering. Not at her, especially, but his evening was ruined. He was looking for a fight.
‘Well, Mister Adam Jefferson’ – a pause to let him correct it, in case she had misheard – ‘I had better go find my friends. But it was an absolute pleasure meeting you. And I am going to tell Patrick he has a . . . Oh, what is that word? Dopp . . .’
‘Doppelgänger,’ he supplied, and watched her go.
Miranda was in a taxi as Casey emerged, waving a goodbye across the club to Jasper.
‘Well, that was a disaster,’ said Miranda.
‘It might not be,’ said Casey. ‘I found the American.’
‘The one from Gigi’s?’
‘Exactly. I got his name. Based in Switzerland.’
They were always careful, speaking in front of a stranger. The taxi driver was swearing at the limos triple-parked outside the clubs, but you never knew.
‘It doesn’t feel like it’s going to work,’ said Miranda,
‘We’ve found someone who definitely knows one way or another,’ Casey pointed out. ‘Now we can work out exactly how to go for him. Azarola was always going to be trickier. If it’s
someone who is just confirming, it’s less tricky.’
‘Azarola was completely and utterly horrified. He was furious.’ Miranda’s shoulders slumped. ‘I feel like I fucked up.’
‘You didn’t,’ Casey promised. ‘He just didn’t know anything. If anything, it was my fault. I should have found a way to eliminate Azarola earlier. But now we can find the American in Geneva and get everything out of him.’
‘Dash might have had enough of it all,’ said Miranda. She was loosening the wires carefully, so that the taxi driver couldn’t notice. ‘Geneva will cost more.’
‘No.’ Casey leaned forward. ‘Dash loves this story. He can’t give it up.’
‘You must never do that, you know. Go back in, when I’ve called it.’
‘No,’ said Casey. ‘I know. Sorry.’
They had several codes, for walking away. Two quick taps on the table meant abort, drop everything, urgent. You didn’t stop to ask questions. You trusted that the other person would only hit the panic button in extremis. Sometimes, for them, the exit route was more important than the path in.
‘It doesn’t matter. And now we can spend tomorrow plotting on the beach,’ said Miranda. ‘Plage des Graniers is meant to be delightful.’
‘And still be in the office by 9 a.m. on Monday.’ They grinned at each other.
8
‘Geneva?’ Dash did not sound impressed. ‘We sure this isn’t a hiding to nothing?’
‘It might be, Dash. It just might be.’
It was Monday morning. Behind the news executive, crumpled reporters were sneaking in late to their desks.
‘And Azarola definitely didn’t have a clue what you were talking about?’
‘If he did, we’re not going to crack him,’ said Miranda. ‘He’d be the best actor ever, even drunk.’
‘Switzerland . . . No chance you two could do something based in London at some point?’ Dash hadn’t missed their tans. ‘Somewhere on the Circle Line maybe? Although I suppose I should be grateful that this is your European season.’
Miranda rolled her eyes at him. Every November, she and Casey focused on financial skulduggery.
‘Tax-haven time, is it?’ Dash would bawl, as they set out their urgent need to travel to Bermuda. ‘Which Caribbean paradise has grabbed your attention this time?’
‘There has to be a way in,’ Casey had said to Miranda, stretched out on the beach, raking her hands through her hair. ‘How do they find each other in the first place?’
‘Could be some sort of initiation ceremony,’ suggested Miranda now. ‘Some mad Bilderberg extension?’
The Bilderberg group, meeting up in five-star hotels around the world, attracted suspicion at the Post. Politicians, tycoons and those men from the shadows, they all flew to a discreet venue to mutter in corners. One day, Casey planned to be a chambermaid.
‘We’d surely have heard of something,’ said Casey. ‘This lot would make Bilderberg look like Eurovision.’
‘Spare me.’
‘Maybe it’s something you work your way up to,’ said Casey. ‘You go to some ridiculously exclusive game reserve to shoot the Big Five. And after you’ve nailed a lion, someone whispers in your ear about something even more specialised.’
‘How about some neo-Nazi horror?’ suggested Miranda. ‘Ethnic cleansing before they even get on the boats?’
‘I hope not,’ said Casey. ‘But it’s happened before.’
They got back to work. Casey was already tracking Jefferson through school, through college, up the first rungs of the hedge-fund ladder.
‘We could ask to borrow Toby.’
‘What?’ Casey glanced up. She was chewing a pencil to splinters, surrounded by coffee cups.
‘Toby,’ said Miranda. ‘You know, to trawl through the darkest depths of the internet.’
‘Of course.’ Casey got to her feet.
Coming up to lunchtime, the office was accelerating through the day. A fire near Dover, a politician on the ropes over employment figures, a nasty rape in Lincolnshire, which might or might not involve migrants. Nothing unusual.
‘Can I grab Toby?’ Casey appeared at Dash’s desk.
‘Now? Toby’s on the train down from York.’
‘Of course.’
The Deputy Prime Minister travelled back down from his Hull constituency every Monday morning like clockwork, solidly ensconced in first class. The Deputy Prime Minister had a loud voice and a cowed special adviser. He was not an early riser. Toby, one of the junior reporters, solemnly boarded the same train, and travelled all the way down to London, making busy notes.
To the Post’s knowledge, there had been six separate leak inquiries into Toby’s stories.
‘Toby’ll be in Euston by twelve forty-three,’ said Dash. ‘You can have him then.’
Toby lived in ironic T-shirts and skinny jeans, and played around in the dark web. If it was there, Toby – who thought in algorithms and played his keyboard like a Steinway – would find it.
Back from Euston, Toby’s slightly squinting eyes and pallid face lit up at the idea.
‘Usual rules apply,’ said Miranda breezily. ‘If you tell anyone, at all, ever, they will never find your body.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Toby easily.
There was a roar from the news desk. Ross had the boxing up on one of the big screens. The crowd screamed. Blood and sweat, and tears and pain. A bellow. Come on, my son. Come on. At her desk Casey went back to drawing up everything there was to know about Adam Jefferson. An analyst at Cyan Cap, he was less discreet than Azarola. LinkedIn, Twitter, Facebook, without enough understanding of the privacy settings. Analysts are junior in an industry which sprinkles titles like vice president and director.
In Geneva, there was a predictable girlfriend. Lulu. Slim, unexcitingly pretty, carefully groomed. Blonde hair, dark eyebrows. Slightly too thin lips, and slightly too much lipliner. Liked yoga; loved ballet flats; adored cats.
You could tell a man from the woman he lived with, thought Casey. The person they chose was a window to the soul.
The man who had chosen Lulu was a man she would be able to turn over.
9
A couple of days later, they flew to Geneva.
Casey always found Geneva stultifyingly dull. Curling round the southern end of the lake, the city felt like it was trying to impose civilisation on the towering mountains. It was a grey day when they arrived, the heavy clouds bellying over the hills. In the brisk wind, the lake was oyster, strewn with chips of silver, the jet fountain in its centre blowing in a metallic arc.
‘Miserable place.’ Miranda huddled deeper into her coat.
The Cyan offices were an ugly building near the river, softened by an ostentatious front entrance. The silver and marble hall was guarded by receptionists in cyan-blue suits. The office was flanked by shops, Rolex and Christian Louboutin. Clean streets; dirty money.
‘This is not where I would choose to work,’ said Casey.
They had found Jefferson’s home address, a flat in one of Geneva’s glossy suburbs. But they wanted to grab him between work and home. In a city notorious for its discretion, anyone would shy away from journalists near the office. Often, people don’t mind talking, but they mind being seen to talk.
They also wanted to speak to him between home and Lulu. Lulu could fill the air with noise and emotion and justification. Away from home and office, he would be isolated. Sometimes, people can tell the whole world, but not their wife. And once someone was safely in their house, you could wait days for them to re-emerge.
One of the old hands at the Post used to knock on a door, looking innocent, ‘I think someone’s scratched your car, madam.’
And when they came out to inspect their untouched Audi, huffing and puffing, he might get fifty yards of questions back to the house.
After a couple of passes, Casey and Miranda waited in a café across the street. Red roses in a little vase on the table, endless coffees and an easy line of sight to the pillared entrance.
They paid for each coffee as it came, which confused the smiling waitress, but it meant they could leave invisibly, in seconds.
The day wore on. They saw Azarola arrive and stay only a few minutes, his PA trailing him. It began to rain, and the pavement mushroomed umbrellas. As the car headlights grew brighter than the day, the more senior staff left. Only the worker bees lingered, battling to stay in the game.
At last the doorman doffed his cap to a slim figure.
‘There he is,’ Miranda said unnecessarily.
Tracking someone invisibly is harder than people realise. Commuters move fast, not glancing at signposts or consulting maps. Casey had followed people who barely looked up as they headed home: fifteen paces to the corner, eight strides across the platform, straight to a favourite seat, next to the window.
They fell in behind Adam, camouflaged by crowds and relieved when he turned for home. They had worked out his likely route, and it was easier to follow someone when you were anticipating their path.
Miranda dropped in about twenty feet behind him, Casey a few paces behind her.
Adam passed the manicured grass of the Jardin Anglais and crossed the bridge, turning right along the broad embankment, which was studded with tidy trees, clipped to stumps and a few leaves. The windows of the apartment blocks were empty blind eyes.
It was a cold day; the last few commuters scuttling along with their heads down, wishing for warmer coats. Adam was hurrying, occasionally pausing to prod at his phone. They waited until he was alone and then almost ran the last few steps, until they were inches behind him.
‘Adam Jefferson,’ said Miranda.
He turned, startled.
Miranda and Casey stood there, in matching dark coats. Bland briefcases, blank faces.
Even if he recognised Casey, there was no way of knowing who they were. And, like everyone, he had a secret. Everyone has a guilty secret. A careless email here; a whispered hint there. A gamble when he already knew the score. It could be anything.
Halfway between work and home, so they already knew far too much.
