The Searcher

by Christopher Morgan Jones

  “I know.”

  “I no stop him, he hurt you, that motherfucker.”

  “Koba. I was grateful. Really. Thank you.”

  Koba held his fingers up to the open window and let the wind take his cigarette.

  “We will be quick, to Tbilisi.”

  “That’s great.”

  The quicker the better. Hammer’s anger with Ben was going; in its place arose a steadily swelling fear. For days now he had pictured himself victorious in the act of saving his former friend, refusing to crow but knowing that his own methods had been proved superior, and justified. He might tell himself that he took no pleasure in the notion, that he was a bigger man than that, but his own quest was selfish, a chance to save not just his creation and his name but his idea of himself.

  After his discovery in Batumi, and his last conversation with Elsa, that vain little fantasy had collapsed. If he could simply find Ben alive he would give thanks to the God he hadn’t addressed directly for the last fifty years. And besides, he wasn’t sure that his idea of himself was worth saving. Ben ignored his responsibilities to chase some notion of justice. That was his problem. Hammer’s was the reverse. He had no responsibilities, not really, no one who couldn’t survive without him. And with this freedom, what had he done? Less than he should. He should have been the one out here investigating Karlo’s death and the bombing of Gori. He should be making a difference, in Ben’s trite, true words.

  At least now he had made a start. The central question had changed from a what to a who. Ben had been in Gori. Gori was an hour from Tbilisi, but he had gone there with enough gas to last him a thousand miles. He was on his way somewhere, and it wasn’t Batumi; even if he’d been aiming for the Black Sea, down to Turkey or up into Russia, the coastal road was lined with resorts. With that much fuel he had to be heading for the wilderness. Who benefited from stopping him?

  If Iosava was telling the truth, the president was responsible, and therefore stood to benefit the most. He certainly had the resources and the instincts to mount the deception that followed. But Iosava wasn’t a truth teller, Hammer guessed, by habit or inclination. At best he was a braggart, and at worst? At worst he could be running the whole thing: the bomb, Karlo’s death, the lot. He had the money, the people, the links to Russia. A motive for encouraging Hammer on a false errand. What better way to finish the president for good? What better revenge?

  Hammer would have paid a handsome fee to anyone who could tell him how this place was constructed: who was in hock to whom, who controlled the information, who had the real power. The nearest he had to a friend was Vekua, but he was as suspicious of her friendliness as he was of Iosava’s bullying.

  A plan began to form. Whoever had set the false trail for him wanted him to leave Georgia—probably had hoped it would deter him from ever coming. That much was plain. So on his return he’d see Iosava and Vekua, tell them that he’d failed and was going home, and watch their reaction. That was a start, at least.

  At precisely nine o’clock, with odd punctuality, Hammer’s phone rang, and as deep as he was in thought he knew right away who it was.

  “Ah, the jokers. Good morning. You decided to return my things?”

  “Things, thousand dollars. E-mails, fifty thousand.” It was the same voice, and through the accent Hammer thought he could hear courage being worked up.

  “That’s cute, but you don’t have my e-mails. So a thousand for the computer and the other stuff. OK? The five hundred in my briefcase you can keep. For a couple of days’ work that’s not so bad.”

  The voice said something in Georgian, and then came back to Hammer.

  “We clone hard drive.”

  Koba, sensing a change in mood, looked over.

  “You OK, Isaac?”

  Well, that would really do it, he thought. The head of the firm behind bars, and every former client awaiting a call from a blackmailer. On that computer were the secrets of a thousand clients, not to mention his own, and though it might be protected, in time clever people would find their way in. If he didn’t get it back he might seriously consider disappearing altogether from the world.

  “OK. Seems like you’re smarter than I thought. Which means you’ll understand I can’t just get that sort of money and hand it over. I’m going to need a bank account from you. Also, we need to find a way to come to some trust over what happens next. Far as I know, you’ve made two copies of the disk and you’re going to ask me for more next month and every month. Understand? So we need to meet. I’ll give you a thousand now, show some goodwill, and we can discuss. OK?”

  “Freedom Park, tonight, eighteen hours.”

  “No. We meet at the Marriott hotel. In the lobby.”

  “Freedom Park, under statue.”

  Hammer took the phone from his ear, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

  “OK, Isaac? Problem?”

  “Small problem. Koba, how good are you at following people?”

  “Follow?”

  “Track. See where someone goes.”

  “Ya,” said Koba, in his deep growl, with a great affirmative frown. “Is no problem.”

  • • •

  In a normal country, under normal conditions, he would report the theft to the police and have them wait with him in the park for the thieves. Here, that wouldn’t do: even if they were competent he had no idea of their motives, and little confidence that they wouldn’t take the opportunity to have a go through his files themselves, finding material for heaven knew what fresh fantasies. He was alone in this, as he was in his search for Ben, and though he regretted not having the help that he was used to—oh, for a surveillance team and a Georgian Dean Oliver—there was something about the simplicity of his position that he relished. It was like the first year or two of Ikertu, or all his days as a journalist, trading entirely on his wits. But he had Koba, of course. He had recruited less likely and far less useful people than Koba.

  Besides, it was simple enough. There wasn’t much one could do except follow the bastards from the rendezvous and then the money from bank to bank once it had been transferred. He could expect help with that when he got home. Compared to finding Ben, it was a neat enough proposition.

  Koba’s driving became less spiky the closer they came to Tbilisi, but the rain showed no sign of calming. The roads ran with it, the windows streamed; the lights of the cars were the only relief from the settled gray. It might be Sunday but it seemed everyone was out; half an hour outside the city the traffic slowed to a stop and then began to nudge testily forward. Hammer’s watch told him it was noon, and though he had nothing to be late for he was taken by a frustrated sense of urgency. He wanted to go. He wanted to make progress.

  “What is it?” he asked Koba.

  Koba shrugged and lit another cigarette, opening the window a crack.

  In a little while they passed the obstruction: a hatchback had left the road at a bend and was now nose down in a ditch. Other cars had stopped—to help, Hammer presumed—but their occupants were just standing watching, with no activity apparent.

  “Should we stop?”

  Koba laughed and drew on his cigarette, accelerating away on the newly clear road. “Isaac. You not learn.”

  “They might be hurt.”

  “They are fine.”

  “Maybe we should slow down.”

  “Isaac. We will be fine. And if not, we will not. You have fear, here, I think.” He tapped his temple hard with his forefinger.

  Hammer couldn’t argue on either point.

  NINETEEN

  By guesswork, and by keeping the castle in sight wherever possible, and with a deal of Georgian cursing and reversing out of dead ends, they finally found the uneven square that Iosava had made his own. It wasn’t yet noon; almost a full day ahead. As the Toyota approached, rocking through the countless puddles, two sentries left their station under the
long balcony of the house and came toward them, opening their raincoats over the guns at their hips.

  “Nice friends, Isaac.”

  The guards separated and went to each side of the car, standing straight in defiance of the rain. Koba lowered his window, and his guard shouted something at him in Georgian. What do you want? Get the fuck out of here.

  “Gamarjobat,” said Hammer, leaning across Koba. “I’m here to see Iosava. Isaac Hammer. He’ll want to see me.”

  Koba looked at Hammer with a frown.

  “This is Iosava? Otar? You know him?”

  “Not well.”

  “Nice friends, Isaac. Very nice.” Koba shook his head.

  “I know. Just tell him.”

  Raising his eyebrows in resignation Koba translated, and the guard replied with some more Georgian and a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder back toward town.

  “This guy is gangster, Isaac. Real motherfucker. We go.”

  “We’re not going anywhere. Tell him I have something important to tell his boss and if he doesn’t let him know I’m here chances are he won’t be in his job for long.”

  Koba enjoyed that. He translated with relish, and after a little more posturing and a final mean look the guard gestured to his friend to go into the house and deliver the message. The three men waited, the guard with his arms crossed, wet through and staring at Koba, until the second guard reappeared and beckoned to them.

  “Stay here,” said Hammer. “Play nicely.”

  “You will be careful, Isaac. Rich men in Georgia, they think they own all of us.”

  Iosava was at the far end of the great balconied room, at a glass table, hunched over what appeared to be a bowl of soup. Sitting beside him, facing away from Hammer, was a woman in a scarlet dress with a deep V cut out of the back. Through the windows the city was misty and sodden.

  Iosava looked up and rested his spoon in the bowl.

  “You have news?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sit. Here, sit.”

  “I need to speak alone.”

  “She speak no English.”

  “Alone. No company.”

  Iosava glanced at the woman and back to Hammer.

  “More brain in this.” He lifted his spoon from the bowl and let some of the soup slop back in from a height.

  Hammer told himself that he wasn’t here to like the man, and taking a moment to overcome his acute repugnance moved round the table, sitting opposite the woman and at Iosava’s left hand. She was young, and beautiful, Hammer supposed, in an unreal way that he had seldom encountered and struck him as somehow strange. Blond, for a Georgian, and pale-skinned, and red-lipped, and pushed tightly into her dress, which had a rubbery shine to it and was a little overwhelming for lunch. She smiled as he sat, but didn’t speak. The perplexing thing was that she had no flaws. No blemish, no irregularity, nothing to disrupt the perfect symmetry. She seemed to have come from somewhere else, somewhere he had never been and was unlikely ever to be invited.

  Iosava raised a hand to summon a servant and muttered something to him in Georgian. He was dressed more casually than before, in a pale blue sweater whose soft perfection only served to emphasize the pits and cracks of his face.

  “You will eat.”

  “I don’t have time to eat.”

  Iosava looked at him with his black eyes. “You are rude, Americans, always. You eat this, with her,” he said, gesturing with his spoon over the table, which was spread with dishes of smoked salmon, mushrooms, salads, potatoes, bread. “I eat this.” He rapped his spoon against the bowl. “All I can. And even this I cannot.”

  He went back to his soup, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin when some of the liquid trickled back out.

  “My cook, he make best soup in Georgia. He must.”

  This was a joke, or at least Hammer thought so. Without the usual signs there was no way of telling what Iosava really meant. Even the slightest turn of the mouth, the smallest narrowing of the eye was denied him, and the effect, curiously, was to give him a sort of power. It wasn’t his job to communicate; you had to make the effort to understand him.

  A plate came for Hammer, and the servant piled it with food that, despite his hunger, Hammer didn’t want. Then he took a bottle of wine and made to pour it, stopping as Hammer put a hand over his glass.

  “No, thank you.”

  “You drink with me,” said Iosava. He took the bottle from the servant’s hand and filled Hammer’s glass. This, apparently, was Iosava in a good mood.

  “It is good. Khaketi. Only good thing I can have. And cigars. And her.”

  Iosava raised his glass and drank, tipping his head back to let the wine pour safely down his throat. With an effort, for the good of the case, Hammer took a sip. Let this man think he had submitted; his best hope lay not in confronting him but in catching him out. The woman smiled at him, a practiced, distant, empty smile.

  “After tonight, she go. New one come,” said Iosava. Had he been able to, thought Hammer, he would have grinned. “Russian import.”

  He drank his wine down, wiped his mouth, and pushed back his chair.

  “So. Tell me. What information?”

  “I’m going home.”

  Iosava leaned forward to put his glass on the table, waiting for an explanation.

  “I’m getting out of here. Leaving. Tell me where to pay the hundred grand.”

  “Bullshit. This is not job.”

  Hammer shook his head. “There never was a job. OK? Our agreement was, I find information you need, I share it. What I found you don’t need.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s personal. It doesn’t concern you. Turns out Ben’s got some problems in his life.”

  “I pay for job, job is done. Where is he?”

  “He’s not even in Georgia anymore. He’s gone.” He glanced at Iosava’s Russian friend. “He’s happy enough.”

  The black eyes stayed on him. Hammer would have given another hundred thousand to know what was going on inside that brutish head. Whether somewhere he was registering relief.

  “Then job is yours now.”

  “I’m going home.”

  Iosava took the wine bottle, filled his glass, and drained it, this time wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Hammer waited to see which way he would go, and when he spoke, his voice was like acid.

  “Your friend, he steal from me. Understand? My money. He come here, he lie, he steal. In my home. Like he put his hand here and take it.” He slapped his chest and left his hand on his heart in a gesture of pride and rage. “You want save your friend, you must save him from me. You finish job. Or bad for you.”

  “He never even started your job. There’s nothing to investigate.”

  “Bullshit. He talk to people. He talk to Jeladze, he talk to Karlo’s wife.”

  Hammer breathed deeply and tried in vain to read the shell of a face.

  “He talked to her?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “He called me, first day.”

  “She never said.”

  “She lies. That woman, all she say is poison. Like poison that gave me this face.”

  Hammer stood to leave, suppressing the urge to belt the guy.

  “Mr. Iosava, you have the face you deserve, and I think you know it.”

  He took his wallet from his back pocket and from it handed Iosava one of his business cards.

  “E-mail me your bank details. Otherwise I’ll pay the hundred to charity. Any event, we’re all square. Yes? This thing is over.”

  TWENTY

  Natela’s apartment was in an old Soviet block on Gudauri Street, a quiet street near the university. Hammer had Koba drive him to within a few streets, and after much resistance persuaded him to go and eat whil
e he walked and thought. They would meet later when he’d figured a few things out. Vekua could wait.

  “But you will be wet,” said Koba. “Too wet.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Hammer.

  “Take this.” Koba reached behind him and scrabbling around in the footwell produced a ragged red umbrella, hanging open.

  “Thanks, Koba.”

  “Where you go?”

  “I just need some time.”

  “Why you see Otar Iosava? He is bad man. Bad, bad.”

  “It’s OK. I’m done with him.”

  “What are you not saying to me, Isaac?”

  “Koba, if I could explain it to you, I would.”

  A confidant would be no bad thing—someone to share his theories with, and some of his growing loathing of Iosava—but Koba wasn’t the man. He ran too hot.

  In the rain it was impossible to tell whether anyone had followed them from Iosava’s, and probably as difficult to be doing the following. But Hammer had to be sure, because Natela must know that no one had seen him come. So when Koba dropped him he took the most tangled route, doubling back several times as if lost, until he was certain he was clear.

  The sky had darkened further, and thunder now rolled lazily somewhere in the distance. Her building was painted a tired pink, five stories high, six windows across, and on its own small block, bounded on each side by narrower streets. Four apartments on each floor, Hammer guessed, with a central stairwell. Half the third floor, where Natela lived, was lit up behind half-closed blinds.

  He walked past just once, under the trees across the road, keeping the umbrella low over his head and checking each of the two rows of parked cars. They were all empty, but thirty yards beyond her door, facing Hammer, was a blue Toyota with a solid-looking man sitting in the driver’s seat. The end of a cigarette glowed through the windshield, and as Hammer drew level the man flicked his ash through the small gap he had left at the top of the window. Hammer kept his pace even and carried on to the end of the street.

  Turning left three times he approached the building from the back, hoping to find another entrance and looking for anyone who might be watching it. He saw neither.