His clothes were replaceable, his computer well protected—it would take a government to get inside. If they returned his wallet, which they’d graciously let him recover and then instantly taken, at least he’d have access to money. And medication he guessed he could replace. Presumably Georgians got depressed—God knows they had reason to. All he had lost was his passport, and time the one thing he couldn’t control. Six days he had, and the first one, at least, lost to poor planning and bad luck. How long could one go missing in the bureaucracy of Georgia? Weeks perhaps, being processed, interviewed, forgotten.
Still no one came. Without any hope of a response he banged on the door and shouted, in English, Georgian, and Russian. Hello. Gamarjobat. Pazhalsta. Outside he could hear rushing footsteps and doors slamming and distant shouting, and somehow knew that in here he wasn’t a priority.
• • •
Six o’clock in London. The office would be beginning to wind down. Ordinarily he’d be watching them leave, waving the occasional good night from his office, thinking about his run home, wondering what Mary had left for his supper. Except not tonight, of course. Tonight he’d have been adjusting his tie and checking his shoulders for dandruff, maybe brushing his teeth clean of coffee and the residue of the day’s talking before heading out to meet the perfectly nice Barbara Reynolds—a drink at the Connaught and then dinner at that overpriced place round the corner where you paid to watch the preening and the strutting. Not quite a blind date, because they had met once, at the Goulds’, but as good as. An interesting woman, a good woman, but a little earnest. Not quick with the jokes, at least not that evening. Even without the whole jail sentence thing on his mind it would have taken him a while to warm the evening up, and he had been relieved to have a good reason to cancel, but God, how good it looked now, sitting in a cell without so much as a window or a glass of water. He’d have settled for warm beer and a conversation about the growing incidence of death among one’s friends.
At the two-and-a-half-hour mark the door opened and a man in a bad gray suit came in. He had a bouncing walk and a slight frame at odds with a round, young, heavy face. Skinny pudgy, thought Hammer; office-bound but gym-fit, like that sidekick of Sander’s. His thin lips and jutting chin made him look as if he was clenching his teeth, and Hammer wondered whether it was an affectation intended to make him look mean. His eyes helped. They were small and animal and a little too close, and they looked at Hammer from the first as if it was important to stare him into compliance. He was the kind who strove too hard for effect.
Hammer stood and offered his cuffed hand. Thrown by the courtesy, the man looked at it for a moment, then sat down without shaking it.
“Sit,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Hammer, smiling his most winning smile. This was a tactic, built on an inclination. It made sense to treat people with respect, if only to disarm the ones who weren’t expecting it.
The man crossed his legs, made sure that Hammer knew he was comfortable, and gave him a long, appraising look, continuing to establish who was in charge. His suit was beginning to shine at the knees. Hammer kept his smile even.
For a moment the detective, if that’s what he was, studied the top sheet of a sheaf of papers, reading it and rereading it and imagining, no doubt, that he was making Hammer uneasy. Hammer suppressed a sigh. At least Sander knew what she was doing.
“No passport?”
“No passport. It was taken from me. In the riot.”
“In what?” The detective frowned in annoyance, as if the fault were Hammer’s for using a word he didn’t know.
“The riot. The march. The big fight, where you found me.”
Another stare, and a grunt.
“Why in Georgia?” His voice was a clear tenor, probably a fraction higher than he would have liked.
Hammer had thought about how to answer this. To keep his purpose secret made no sense.
“I’m here to find a friend of mine.”
“What friend?”
“He’s an Englishman. He used to work for me.”
“Name?”
“My name is Isaac Hammer. His is Ben Webster. He came here for the funeral of a friend and no one’s seen him since.”
The policeman frowned and stared, grimly unbelieving.
“Why are you here?”
“To find my friend.”
“Who you work for?”
“No one. I’m here for myself.”
The policeman turned the corners of his thin mouth down, shook his head.
“Who you work for?”
“Myself.”
“You will tell me.”
“I have told you.” Hammer maintained his smile. Obstinacy in an investigator was a good thing but should have its limits. “You don’t seem to have heard me.”
For a moment they looked at each other, until the policeman spoke again.
“No passport, no papers. You are in social demonstration against Republic of Georgia. Two weeks now there is election. This is bad. If you are spy, for Russia, for enemy of Georgia, this is crime. Very bad crime.”
“I’m not a spy. I’m a businessman.”
“Who you work for?”
Oh Jesus, thought Hammer. They really are going to lock me up.
He leaned forward on his chair, friendly and confidential, hiding all signs of exasperation, his senses working hard to find the essence of this man. He was rigid, that was for sure, unimaginative, leaning on process in the absence of ideas, but he was serious, too, and not corrupt. There was no point offering him money—if that had been his game he would have signaled it by now. An appeal to logic was the only thing that might work. Hammer’s hands were usually busy when he talked but it was difficult to be expressive in handcuffs, so he clasped them frankly.
“Can you tell me, are you a policeman, or a spy yourself? I’m guessing you’re a policeman.”
“Tbilisi police.”
“I thought so. You have that straightforward air. Look. I understand you’re having a tough evening, and things here aren’t easy. Right? You’ve got a police station full of angry people for the third night running, and things could get a whole lot worse real quick. But I’m not a problem. You’ve talked to my driver. You know what happened. But in case you didn’t, let me tell you. This is my first visit to your fine country. Half an hour from the airport I had my things stolen and my nose broken. I’ve had better welcomes but I’m prepared to believe it wasn’t personal.”
He smiled again and went on.
“There wasn’t so much spying I could do in that half hour. OK? All I spied was one little punk taking my passport and another big one cracking my face open. I spied his elbow real close, and if you like I can tell you about that. He stole my bags and I’d love you to find them for me. But right now, all I really want is a bed, and some dinner, and in the morning I’ll go to the embassy and sort out my passport, and you can get on with the riots, which don’t concern me and look like they do need you.” He smiled frankly. “How does that sound?”
It was possible, of course, that the policeman had caught barely a word. Throughout, his pinched little eyes had been on Hammer’s, but now they looked down to his papers. He slid a single sheet across the table, without comment.
Hammer looked at it.
“This is my company, yes.”
“You own company.”
“I own the company.”
“Here, it says intelligence company.”
Hammer gave a reassuring shake of his head. “If I was a spy I wouldn’t advertise the fact on my website. I’m an adviser. I help companies. If anything, I’m more of an investigator, like you.”
“OK. What you investigate in Tbilisi?”
“Where my friend is. That’s all. Ben Webster. Maybe you know what’s happened to him. Would you check?”
The policeman c
ontinued to stare. There was an ill-defined dimple in his chin that Hammer was beginning to find annoying. He took the piece of paper back from Hammer and placed it carefully in the pile. “Karlo Toreli,” he said, watching his fingers thrumming on the table, nonchalant now. “Journalist.” Joornaleest. “You know him?”
“I met him once.”
“Your company,” he tapped the papers firmly with a finger and looked up at Hammer’s face, “it gives him money. Why?”
So he wasn’t completely stupid.
“He did some work for me. Once or twice.”
“Karlo Toreli is dead.”
“I know.”
“Karlo Toreli is bad person to know.”
“Was.”
The policeman did his best to stare Hammer down and then stood.
“Worst thing, we find you are spy, you stay here long time. Long time. I talk to my officer.”
Hammer raised a palm in protest and started to respond, but the policeman cut him off.
“Best thing, we put you to airport, you go home.”
Then Hammer understood. This wasn’t a proper interrogation. It was just the prelude to being deported.
SIX
In a tiny, shabby room in the heavy stone headquarters of the City of London police Sander had been joined by one of her officers from the raid, a flushed young man in a gray suit who looked no more at home here than he had in Ikertu’s offices. He was awkward; he couldn’t look Hammer in the eye for longer than a moment. Perhaps he felt the absurdity of the charge. His shirt was a fraction too small, and he had the tree-trunk neck of someone who lifted weights, but next to Sander his manner was meek, making notes and saying little. She had confidence enough for both of them.
Since the raid, the look of fanaticism in her eyes had calmed to a sort of excited certainty—the eagerness of a fisherman who has landed a catch and is looking forward to gutting it. Hammer understood what she was feeling: the faintly sadistic thrill of knowing. You interrogated someone to catch them out, not to gather information, and he wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t sure she already had enough to make him squirm. Or worse. She could see her cards; his hadn’t yet been dealt. It was possible that he would spend the night in this place, perhaps many nights. And while he talked, outside he would have no voice. Days might pass before he could explain himself, and tonight everyone in his office would go home without the least idea of what had just happened to them. The thought sat in his head like a canker.
Sander started the tape, gave the time, announced the people in the room. Her colleague was called Gibbons, apparently, but a gibbon was a quick, elegant creature and the name didn’t suit him. From a folder of loose papers he took the first document and handed it to Sander, who slid it across the table to Hammer, describing the action and the document number for the recording. Hibbert leaned in to look.
“Have you seen that document before, Mr. Hammer?”
Hammer glanced at Hibbert, who nodded.
“I have.”
“Would you describe it?”
“It’s an invoice from Saber Risk Management to my company, Ikertu Limited.”
Risk management. The idea was laughable.
“In the amount of?”
“In the amount of ten thousand pounds.”
What an absurd English phrase that was.
“Is there any description on the invoice?”
“‘Payment for information services.’ That’s all it says.”
“And the date?”
“June the thirteenth.”
“Of this year?”
“Of this year.”
“Is there a reference on there?”
There was. And there really needn’t have been. How could these idiots be so clever about some things and so stupid about others?
“Project Pearl.”
“Tell me about Project Pearl.”
If there were two cases Hammer would rather had never existed, this was one of them; the other was the marital surveillance he’d described to Rapp. His mistake had been different in each case, however. The first he shouldn’t have taken. Project Pearl he should never have given to Ben.
He checked with Hibbert, and went ahead.
“Project Pearl was a dispute between Canadian Gold, our client, and a mining company called Mistral. Nasty outfit. They were having a fight.”
“A fight?”
“A lawsuit. Over a mine near Tashkent.”
“What was your job?”
“To understand Mistral. Put pressure on them.”
“To dig dirt.”
“No.” Hammer was firm. “More subtle than that. To see what they’d done before, if there was a pattern. Work out what would make them negotiate.”
“To dig dirt.”
Hammer knew she was trying to rile him, and that he shouldn’t react. But at the same time it would be quicker and simpler for everyone if she stopped.
“Ms. Sander, if someone took something from you, would you just let them?”
“I’d leave it to the law.”
“This was Uzbekistan. There is no law.”
“Of course. You must like it there.”
He paused, watched her carefully, trying to work out where this animus was coming from. Chances were it was one of two things: she knew of colleagues who passed information to private eyes for cash, something Hammer liked as much as she did, or she resented the money to be made doing what he did. Or perhaps she was simply taking out a bad day on a reasonably substantial, reasonably rich suspect—a decent scalp. Probably he would have done the same.
“And Saber? What were these information services?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t engage them.”
Sander took a deep breath, eyebrow raised.
“Really? Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you run the case?”
“Ben was the case manager.”
“Ben Webster?”
“Yes.”
“Who has left the company?”
“Yes.”
“But this was your case.”
“It’s normal for me to delegate projects.”
“Is it normal for you to delegate responsibility as well?”
Hammer didn’t answer, and for a moment he and Sander simply looked at each other. He could feel pride rising in him, and outrage, and enclosing everything a keen frustration. She had him, and it was his fault.
“Why don’t I tell you what Saber does, Mr. Hammer? Seeing as you don’t know what your company’s been paying them for.”
Sander sat back, crossed her legs, jutted her chin in readiness, eyes on his all the time.
“Saber Risk Management, Mr. Hammer, is two former Special Branch officers, one of whom specializes in computer crime. He used to investigate it, and now he commits it. What Saber did for you was hack into Mistral’s network and suck out of it every e-mail they could find. Information from which ended up in the lawsuit your client filed a month later in a Toronto court. That’s the kind of work Saber does. That’s what they did for you.”
“My client can’t be expected to comment on work done by another company,” said Hibbert.
“He can comment on what his company asked them to do.” Sander smiled her non-smile. “Mr. Hammer, if you help me now, maybe I’ll feel more inclined to help you later on. If you decide to be clever, it makes it marginally harder for me and a lot harder for you. Do you understand?”
Hammer nodded, more in recognition than anything else. He had been waiting for the line. Sander went on.
“Your lawyer will tell you to say as little as possible. Not to give us anything to work with . . .”
“But at some point I have to cooperate and it might as well be now. I’ll be helping myself. It always ends up in the same place.
I know how it goes, Inspector. I’ve sat on that side of the desk. And you’re right. It never does anyone any good to hold out. So I won’t.”
Sander, registering the change in tone with the smallest of nods, pressed on.
“Ben Webster. Why did he leave?”
She was good, he had to concede. Hammer breathed deeply, thrummed his fingers on his leg. He’d been in his suit for far too long, and in this windowless, featureless room it felt as if the air was running out. With no hurry he took off his tie, rolled it neatly, placed it on the table, and undid the first button on his shirt. A small act of control.
“He’d run his course. Have you spoken to him?”
“You’re telling me you wouldn’t know?”
“We no longer speak. And for all I know he might be in the next cell.”
“This isn’t a cell. Why don’t you speak?”
“We agreed about less and less. He left to set up his own company, do his own thing.”
“So you didn’t get rid of him when you discovered the hacking he’d been doing behind your back?”
Hibbert started to speak but Hammer raised his arm to check him.
“He resigned, all on his own.”
“Had he been with you long?”
“Ten years, give or take.”
“Really? He’s here and happy for ten years and then this happens,” she laid a hand on the documents on the table, “and within a couple of months he’s gone?”
Hammer smiled, shook his head. Sander watched him, her eyes wide open and waiting for an explanation.
“Ben doesn’t really do happy. Not consistently.”
“No?”
“He’s a complicated guy.”
“You mean he’s a liability.”
“I don’t employ liabilities. I’ve worked with a lot of good people and he’s one of the best.”
“Then it must have been a blow to lose him. You didn’t fight for him to stay?”
Sander was beginning to piss him off. What was all this about, anyway? Why the fuss, the sham gravity? Somebody had hacked some people who were, any sane person would agree, scum. Polluters, corrupters, chiselers away at anything good. Whoever had done this work had made the world a little healthier, and to treat it as a more terrible crime than the ones it had exposed was absurd. A very modern neurosis, wrongheaded, hysterical, trivial. And here he was, caught squarely by it.
The Searcher Page 4
