Rip Tide

by Stella Rimington

  Before Mark there was the photographer, Ed. She’d met him at the private view of an exhibition of photographs taken by a woman she’d known at university. Ed had been putting together a film about New Age travellers and had been living with them on and off. He viewed the world from a fascinatingly oblique perspective, and her part-time membership of his arty, kaleidoscopic world had provided a welcome escape for Liz from the grim world of organised crime, which she was working on at the time. She’d told Ed that her job was in a government personnel office, but the vagueness of her account must have aroused his suspicions. For one day he’d rung various departments, trying to find out exactly where she worked, and it was then she decided to end the relationship.

  It was Charles Wetherby, her boss, who had held her heart for the longest. It had been strange, almost a non-relationship in fact, since Charles was married to a woman who was slowly dying. Liz knew instinctively that he returned her feelings, but he never spoke about it and while Joanne was alive Liz knew that he never would. It was as though they saw each other through a swirling mist, reaching out but never quite able to touch.

  Then Joanne had died and Liz had waited for Charles to make a move. Instead he’d seemed to draw back from her and take comfort instead from his next-door neighbour, a widow whom he’d known for a long time. She helped him to look after his two boys. Liz was never sure whether this was any more than a relationship of convenience, but was hurt by his hesitation over contacting her. By the time Charles finally did make a move towards her, she had met Martin Seurat.

  And now Martin was talking about her moving to Paris. Liz rolled on to her side and fell into a light sleep, troubled by confused impressions of the Santé prison, the Khans’ house in Birmingham and Martin’s flat in Paris. But as she dozed she could still feel around her wrist the iron grip of the young man who had tried to pull her down the lonely alley.

  Chapter 17

  A welcome blast of air-conditioning greeted Maria Galanos as she got out of the lift on the second floor of the office block in suburban Athens. Waiting for her was a tall, middle-aged American who introduced himself as Mitchell Berger, Athens Director of UCSO. ‘I bet you could do with a cold drink,’ he said. ‘It’s hotter than ever today.’

  ‘They say it’s going to be worse at the weekend,’ replied Maria. The heat was one thing about her homeland that she had never missed when she’d worked abroad.

  She followed Berger along a corridor to his office and sat down while he poured her some iced water from a small fridge in the corner. ‘We all look after ourselves here,’ he explained. ‘There are only eleven of us in this office. I share a secretary with my deputy, Katherine Ball. She’s on her way back from London. Should’ve been here by now but I gather there’s some trouble with the airlines.’

  ‘What’s new?’ said Maria, smiling in response to his grin.

  ‘Well,’ he said, sitting down opposite her behind his desk, ‘we both know why you’re here. I understand they explained the situation to you pretty fully at the embassy. I’ve prepared a list of the staff here, with background details on each one, so you can see who we’ve got. I think you’d better read it here and not take it away with you. We don’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions at this stage.’ He pushed a sheet of paper across the table to her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She read through the short CVs of the eleven staff, noticing with surprise that he had included himself, and with interest that his foreign experience was extensive. ‘Is there anyone you think I should be focusing on?’

  ‘No, not at this stage. As far as I can see everyone here is completely above board. Of course, you wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have some suspicions but they aren’t directed towards anyone in particular. If there is some sort of a leak here, someone must be monitoring the precise make-up of each of our cargoes and passing it on.’

  ‘Who has access to that information?’

  ‘In theory, just the accountant and myself. But in practice, who knows? We don’t exactly have top-level security here. We are a fairly friendly team – just the eleven of us. Let’s hope you’ll make it a Lucky Dozen.’

  He paused, looking thoughtful, then said, ‘I’m sure you know your business, Maria. I gather you’ve done undercover work before. But the fact that we are so small here means you’re going to have to go carefully if you are not to draw unwanted attention to yourself. You’re vastly overqualified for this job so you’ll need to downplay your credentials. Otherwise people are going to wonder why you’re here.’

  Maria nodded and said, ‘My cover story is that I’ve been living and working in England for some years. I wanted to come back home to Athens because a long relationship in London suddenly broke up. And I was getting sick of the ethics of the commercial world – or lack of ethics – and now want to do something more worthwhile.’

  ‘That will do fine.’ Berger smiled and got up. ‘I’ll walk you round the office and introduce you. Then we’ll go and have some lunch.’

  They walked back down the floor’s one corridor, passing an empty office on the left. Berger pointed through the doorway. ‘That’s where Katherine sits. She’ll come to lunch with us if she’s back in time. She’s not in on your real purpose here – I decided to keep that between the two of us.’

  Further along they came into a high-ceilinged room where two Greek girls were sitting at desks in front of computer screens. Berger introduced them as Anastasia and Falana, general assistants who did everything from typing to wrapping parcels. They were little more than teenagers, and could have been sisters with their long, dark hair and big doe eyes. When Berger left to take a phone call, the girls started giggling.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Maria.

  Falana giggled even more while Anastasia explained,‘We were admiring your dress. But Falana’s too shy to ask where you bought it.’

  Maria glanced down at the cherry-coloured cotton frock, which she’d found in a little Covent Garden boutique the previous year. ‘I bought it in London.’

  ‘London?’ exclaimed Falana, her eyes widening. ‘You have been to London?’ For all the wonder in her voice, Maria might have said she’d been to Mars.

  Anastasia explained,‘We both love London. I mean, the idea of London. Neither of us has been.’

  ‘I used to live there. My mother is English.’

  The girls were very impressed by this and soon Maria found herself chatting with them about Topshop and fashion, and clubbing, and Athens nightlife – all as if she were nineteen again. When Berger returned, the Greek girls looked disappointed, though both of them brightened when he explained Maria would be starting work the following day.

  ‘You’ve made a hit with them, I see,’ he said, as they walked down the corridor.

  ‘They’ve forgotten more about pop culture than I ever knew.’

  Berger introduced her to the rest of the staff, including a Frenchwoman in her forties called Claude, who travelled much of the time to the crisis-stricken areas where UCSO aid was sent. They walked into another room that led off the large central office. Here Berger left her with the chief accountant, Alex Limonides.

  Limonides must have been at least sixty. He was gaunt, with wrinkled walnut skin and receding hair, its thin strands carefully brushed over his balding scalp. His pale grey suit, far too big for him, was almost falling off his thin shoulders. His breath smelled of sweet tobacco. As they sat down together to look at the books, he offered Maria a filterless cigarette the colour of dried corn; when she refused, he politely put the packet away without taking one for himself.

  There was nothing very complicated in the UCSO accounting systems: the overheads of the office itself were straightforward, mainly rent and salaries; the details of the cash in from various sources, and the outgoings including any purchases of aid made locally and payments to the shipping brokers, were all recorded in the ledgers. Any accruals of cash were transferred to the London office when they hit £25,000. It was all very easy to understand and there see
med little opportunity for petty theft, much less big-time larceny. But Maria reminded herself that it was information, not money, which someone was stealing.

  Limonides showed her how the cargo manifests were compiled, then confirmed by the shipping agency they used. Interestingly, this was still done on paper – long foolscap sheets more suggestive of a Dickensian counting office than a modern international charity. The lists were kept under lock and key in the drawer of Limonides’ wooden desk. About as secure as an ice-cream wrapper, Maria thought to herself. Besides Limonides, only Berger and an accountant in the London office would have known the full contents of a shipment. No new ones were scheduled for the next six weeks; that should give her ample time to familiarise herself with office procedures and discover if anyone had been snooping around.

  At one point they were interrupted by a phone call. The elderly Greek picked up the receiver and listened impatiently. Then he replied, in disapproving tones, saying that he would certainly pay the invoice in question, as always, but only within the thirty days of their standard terms. Xenides, he declared, must know this by now, and it was not the business of UCSO to advance funds to other organisations. With a terse goodbye, he put the phone down and gave a weary sigh, then resumed his briefing of Maria.

  After twenty minutes more, she felt that there was nothing she didn’t know about UCSO’s financial systems, and was grateful to be rescued by Berger and taken for lunch. They walked a short distance down the baking hot street to a taverna, where they sat under an enormous mahogany ceiling fan that revolved like a slow helicopter, just stirring the air.

  ‘First impressions?’ he asked as the waiter brought a basket of pitta bread and large glasses of ice-cold water with lemon.

  ‘Everyone was very welcoming. It’s a friendly atmosphere.’

  ‘It needs to be – the office is too small to allow for any friction. The only politics are about the venue for the Christmas lunch. Falana always wants to go somewhere trendy.’

  ‘They’re funny girls.’

  Berger nodded with a smile. ‘What did you make of Mr Limonides?’

  Maria laughed. ‘He’s very old school, and quite charming. When I said I didn’t smoke, he wouldn’t have one himself.’

  ‘But as an accountant . . . ?’

  ‘He’s cautious and precise – just what you want. I didn’t see anything that any auditor could even begin to query. The only unusual item I noticed was Sundries in the P&L. Usually, it’s a trivial amount – we used to call it “toothpaste money”. But yours is very large – over ten thousand sterling. Why?’

  For the first time, Berger hesitated; he seemed almost embarrassed. Then he explained: in some of the countries receiving UCSO aid, it was necessary to make informal payments (he neatly avoided the word ‘bribe’) to ensure that the aid was delivered to the people who needed it. Otherwise, he went on, anything from Range Rovers to one-hundred-pound bags of flour could find their way on to the black market, or into the garages and larders of Government Ministers. ‘It’s not admirable, or ethical, or something I’d want to appear in the press. But ultimately, it’s necessary.’

  Maria nodded and they concentrated on their lunch for a while. Then she asked, ‘When I was talking to Mr Limonides he had a phone call complaining about an unpaid invoice. I think the company was called Xenides.’

  ‘Ah, that would have been Mo Miandad – he’s the shipping agent for the company that leases the ships and hires the crew. Mo’s a bit of a rogue, not quite upright enough for the likes of our Mr Limonides. His family emigrated here in 1947 at the time of Partition in India. Mo was born here. The family are now very well off but it’s said that they disowned him because of his behaviour – apparently he became involved with a married woman and got her pregnant. He’s certainly a bit of an acquired taste, particularly if you’re female. Asia’s answer to Casanova.’

  As they walked the short distance back to the office, the shops were reopening after the midday break. Maria was about to thank Berger and head off home when a taxi drew up beside them. A blonde woman got out and thrust some money at the driver.

  ‘You made it,’ Berger said, as the woman stepped on to the pavement, pulling a small suitcase.

  ‘What a nightmare,’ she replied. ‘The French air controllers had a wildcat strike, bless them. For a while, I thought we were going to fly to Athens via the North Pole.’

  ‘Let me introduce Maria Galanos,’ said Berger. ‘She’s joining us tomorrow. Working with Mr Limonides.’

  The woman stepped forward to shake hands. ‘I’m Katherine Ball. I heard you were starting. Welcome to UCSO.’ She gave Maria a warm smile.

  ‘You’ll see each other tomorrow,’ Berger said.

  ‘Yes, see you then,’ said Maria. She turned to Berger. ‘Thanks for lunch. I’ll be in the office first thing.’ And as she walked away, she wondered if there really could be anything sinister about the Athens office of UCSO. Everyone seemed so charming and straightforward.

  Bruno Mackay at the embassy had seemed confident there was something wrong there, but then Bruno Mackay had struck her as confident about everything.

  Chapter 18

  Richard Luckhurst had always liked the idea of ‘gardening leave’. But confronted with it, he realised that there was only so much gardening he wanted to do. When in quiet moments at sea he’d thought about retirement, he’d seen himself tending his roses, edging the lawn and erecting the big greenhouse he had always wanted. But faced with the opportunity to do all that, he couldn’t even find the enthusiasm to cut the grass.

  His employers had been firm: he couldn’t sail for another four weeks, and even that was contingent on a doctor’s certificate. Not from his own GP, a nice old buffer who Richard knew would say he was fit as a fiddle, but from the company’s medic – a pompous ass who’d ask him how he was feeling ‘in himself’.

  Luckhurst felt fine. Not for him this post-traumatic stress nonsense. He’d been well treated by the kidnappers in Somalia, and his only worry had been about the welfare of his crew. But they had been all right too. None of them had been hurt or seriously threatened, just a bit scared and very bored. The food had been disgusting, it was true, but that was all he could really complain about, and even that had had a side benefit – he had lost half a stone, something which he’d struggled unsuccessfully to do for years.

  But he’d be putting it all on again if he couldn’t get back to work soon. The company had him down provisionally to take command of an oil tanker sailing from the Gulf of Aden to the east coast of America. But that was a month away, and just now a month seemed an eternity to him.

  He was sitting outside on the patio, trying not to notice how long the grass had grown, while his wife Sue was inside, vacuuming. They’d settled in this pleasant Birmingham suburb twenty years before. Their children had grown up here – largely without their father, he thought ruefully. Sue was such an old hand at running the place that he felt he’d only get in her way if he offered to help. She must find it strange having him around so much. In any normal year, he was away at sea ten months out of twelve.

  He was listening with half an ear to the radio as he dozed in his deckchair. On Radio 4 a presenter was leading a discussion about the threat posed by home-grown terrorists. What a world we live in, thought Luckhurst. He’d grown up during the Cold War, and like many children of that era had felt scared by the idea of nuclear missiles pointing at his town. When the Soviet Union had collapsed at the end of the eighties, he’d felt a profound sense of relief. But now the Cold War seemed to have been replaced by something just as frightening and more difficult to understand. You couldn’t blame it all on Osama Bin Laden, thought Luckhurst. Even if that sinister character died tomorrow, there seemed to be countless followers around to carry on where he’d left off.

  They were saying on the radio that the danger zone was shifting – not everything was coming out of Afghanistan or Pakistan now. Some security expert from an institute somewhere was saying that many of
the hardliners were moving away from their traditional hideouts and setting themselves up in lawless places in other parts of the world, where there were no effective governments and they could live and operate without interference. A Middle East correspondent from Reuters added that he’d learned that training camps were being set up in some of these places and new recruits from Britain were being sent there instead of Pakistan. Al Qaeda were planning to use these places as bases from which to hit new targets, he said.

  They’re everywhere, thought Luckhurst, only partly reassured when a man identified as ‘a security consultant’ paid tribute to the excellent job the intelligence services were doing in tracking down these new threats. Then the Reuters man piped up again, pointing out how hard it was to track anyone in Yemen where, he said, Al Qaeda had a growing foothold. And if Yemen got too hot for the terrorists, there was always near-neighbour Somalia.

  At this mention of the country where he’d been so recently a prisoner, Luckhurst opened his eyes and sat up. Memories came flooding back. He was in the cage again, in the camp somewhere near the Somalian coast. He could visualise dinner coming, carried by Taban – yes, that had been his name, the young boy he’d befriended. Luckhurst wondered what had become of him, remembering that last evening, just before the hostages were freed, when Taban had seemed so alarmed. The boy had said there had been Westerners visiting the camp – not hostages, but associates of the pirates. He’d said one had spoken English – a brown Englishman. Could this be one of the British Pakistanis the man on the radio was talking about?