“What about the agency he was working for?”
“Drivers are expected to be independent and to get on with the job. The agencies don’t have the time or resources to watch them closely. Why?”
Vaslik was staring at her with a fixed expression on his face, and she wondered what he was thinking. Whatever it was, it had him looking worried.
“No reason,” she said. “Brainstorming, that’s all.”
thirty
On the way back to the Hardman house, Ruth called George Paperas. An idea had popped into her head while she was in Tiggi Sgornik’s bedroom. It was bothering her and wouldn’t let go, like a toothache. Even saying it out loud would sound ludicrous to almost anybody she could think of, which meant anybody in Cruxys. But Paperas was the first person she could think of on the outside who might have an answer.
Slik was going to be the first to hear it, too, unless she kicked him out of the car, but he’d have to suck it up. Maybe he’d learn something. She turned on the loudspeaker.
“Would any of the paperwork from the aid agencies in Pakistan,” she asked Paperas when he answered, “have been enough to get Michael Hardman across the border?”
She had her eyes fixed on the road ahead, but felt Vaslik tense in the seat alongside her, his head turning to look at her in surprise.
“Into Afghanistan?” George sounded shocked, his voice booming in the car. “Why would he do that? He’d have to be crazy.”
Or some kind of adrenalin freak who loved following disaster, she thought acidly. “Would it?”
There was a lengthy silence. Then he said, “Not by itself, no. I doubt he’d have got official permission anyway, even if he’d asked, not without the agreement of both governments, the coalition forces and God knows who else up to President Karzai himself.”
“But he could still get across of he wanted to?”
“If getting into Afghanistan was that important to him, yes, I suppose so. And he wouldn’t have needed any paperwork. The border is too long and porous to be tightly controlled along its full length.”
“You mean he could simply have walked over?”
“If he knew where he was going, yes. It’s not always easy to see. Anything’s possible up there. It’s wild country. All you need to do is find a guide who’s probably halfway off his head on Charas—that’s cannabis—or any of the opiates, and you can cross almost anywhere he’s willing to take you. And you don’t need paperwork to do it.” He stopped speaking, and Ruth swore she heard the penny drop. “Christ, do you know what you’re suggesting?”
“You tell me.”
“Is he using the agencies to get into restricted areas?”
“No comment.”
“I don’t believe it. That’s appalling.”
Paperas was no idiot; he’d worked out what Ruth was thinking. But was she right and how could she confirm it? And what would it prove, beyond the fact that Michael Hardman was a certifiable lunatic? He was hardly likely to come out and admit it.
“I don’t know for sure. I’m thinking out loud, that’s all; trying to figure him out. If he’s got background of any kind, the sort that would make his daughter worth kidnapping, I want to know what it is.” If we don’t, she was thinking, we may never get her back.
“By background, what do you mean?”
“Just that. I mean, what the hell do we know about him or his history? Nothing apart from what Nancy has told us—” She stopped dead and turned to stare at Vaslik. History. “Oh, my God.”
“What?” George asked.
She answered but was now talking at Vaslik. “Something Nancy told me that Michael had said when they first got together. He said it gave him a sense of history.”
“A nice sentiment. So?”
“What if that wasn’t just a sentiment, but the absolute truth? What if it gave him a back story?”
Vaslik was staring straight ahead, but she could see the question in his face, and hoped it was giving way to a realisation that she was right.
“It makes sense,” she insisted. “Something about Hardman brought him to the attention of kidnappers—whoever they are. And unless it’s Oxfam trying a tougher line in recruiting procedures, it’s something he’s kept carefully hidden, even from his wife.”
George sounded doubtful. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. Dig a little more, see what I come up with. Keep it to yourself, though, George,” she finished. “There’s a little girl out there still. And we never had this conversation.”
“Of course.”
She cut the connection and stopped in front of the Hardman house. What now?
“Interesting conclusion.” Vaslik was looking at her with what appeared to be respect. And concern. “How the hell did you come by it?”
“It’s a wild idea, that’s all. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” She wished now that she’d called Paperas when she was alone. In spite of Vaslik’s reaction, she was still out on a limb with this one. “I’m simply trying to figure out things about this man. He’s a puzzle … and I don’t like puzzles.”
“I agree. But there’s still nothing to suggest Hardman’s involved in anything suspicious. He’s just not around … which is weird enough, I guess.” He sounded as if he was talking it out, rather than criticising her, which she was pleased about. “He’s got a few questions against him, that’s for sure; but only because we don’t know where he is. That doesn’t make him a criminal.”
“So what does it make him?” She turned to face him. “Let’s get really wild and assume he used the agency in Peshawar to get across the border disguised as a field worker. Why would he do that? There has to be a reason—a really good one.”
He pulled a face, but nodded slowly. “OK. But he’d also have to be certain of getting there. Nobody crosses that stretch of land without thinking carefully. It’s wild, sure, but also under constant scrutiny. They’ve got drones up there day and night, looking for insurgents and arms shipments. It’d be like a turkey-shoot to anybody who didn’t know their way around.”
“Which knocks out George’s idea of a junked-up guide; it would be too risky. Supposing Hardman had a sure-fire way across; a reliable guide who did the trip on a regular basis and who knew all the back trails and choke points, the observation posts and patrol routes?”
“Smuggling? Man, I don’t know. I thought the Taliban and warlords had that region stitched up tight. There’s no room for outsiders—especially Europeans.”
He was right. Stupid idea. Any trip one individual could make across the no-man’s land—even two men and a donkey—would find the rewards more than outweighed by the risks. If they weren’t picked up by the security forces from Pakistan or the Coalition, or killed in a drone strike by mistake, there was every chance they’d be stopped and knocked off quietly by the local drugs gangs protecting their territory. What went on in those distant valleys usually stayed there.
And if he was a smuggler, why would he need to create a history for himself in the UK?
“On the other hand,” Vaslik continued tentatively, working his way through the idea, “he wasn’t only working in Peshawar, was he? Where else has he been?”
Ruth stared at him, her breathing rapid and her chest tight. Christ, why hadn’t she thought of that? She called Paperas, again on loudspeaker.
“Sorry, George,” she said. “Another question. I should have made notes. As a matter of interest, where else did Hardman volunteer his services apart from Peshawar? You said a number of organisations remembered him.”
“Hang on. I’ve got a list here.” They heard a rustle of paper, then Paperas came back on. “Definite sightings are … good lord.” He sounded surprised by what he was seeing.
“What?”
“Well, he was in Pakistan, as we know, near Peshawar. And Syria, Turkey, Kurdistan, Lebanon, all for d
efinite. Then I’ve got Mali, Somalia and Nigeria as others places he was seen but not recorded for certain. But—”
“But what?”
“It’s not really the kind of thing they’d mistake.” He paused, his breathing loud. “Frankly I’m amazed he managed to operate in such a diverse area.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, languages for one. Work in this business long enough and most aid workers pick up a working knowledge of one or two. But this chap must have been something else.”
“Wouldn’t he have had local interpreters in some places?”
“Of course. But even so … he didn’t let lack of familiarity hold him back. There’s another thing that’s just struck me. This list reads like—”
“I know what it reads like,” Ruth cut him off short. They were all countries with or connected to highly active terrorist organisations. “Thank you for your help, George. Remember what I said.”
She hung up and looked at Vaslik. “Aren’t you going to say something? Like, am I out of my tree?”
“Well, fuck,” was all he said, his voice soft. “I never saw that coming.”
thirty-one
Vaslik followed Ruth up to the house, where Gina was waiting to let them in. He nodded at the former police bodyguard as Ruth went directly to the living room. He could see Nancy waiting for them, pacing up and down. Her movements seemed unnaturally jagged, and her eyes far too animated to be normal. When she smiled it was fleetingly bright but lacking depth, like a child trying to fool an adult that all was well when it really wasn’t.
“What’s with her?” he asked softly.
“Search me,” Gina replied. “She’s been like it since lunchtime; up and down like a hooker’s drawers. It’s like she’s pissed. I’d have checked the booze stash but she doesn’t have one.”
He’d seen it before in relatives of kidnap cases in the US. The effect of the abduction of a loved one on the nerves was bad enough; the addition of prescription drugs plus whatever else the family had in their bathroom cabinets was generally enough to send them up and down like an express elevator, varying from dulled torpor to freaky bursts of activity and near manic anxiety levels.
He left them to it and ran a security check of the doors, windows and back gate, watched with amused detachment by Gina. He knew she would have been over this already, but it was something he had to do for his own peace of mind. In any case, she would have done the same had their roles been reversed. It was what made them pros in their business.
He ran another check for further listening devices but found nothing. They were there, though, he was certain of it; like woodworm in an ancient staircase. This worried him from two standpoints: the watchers, whoever they were, must know by now who was in the house and what they were—even who they worked for. But there was nothing he could do about that beyond being careful of what was said aloud. More worrying was that whoever had installed the bugs had access to technical facilities way beyond the norm. He had been allowed to find the easy ones, the decoys, but the rest, the ones he hadn’t seen, would be undetectable without scanning equipment. And that took resources he could only guess at.
Back in the kitchen, he turned on the kettle and said, “I have to go out.”
“Again?” Ruth was in the doorway. She gave him a quizzical look before waving him away. “Sorry. I’m being Mother Hen. Do what you have to. I’m going to make a report to Aston about what George Paperas told us. Then I’m going to talk to Nancy and see if there’s anything else I can find out about our mysterious aid worker with the ability to cross borders.”
“Good luck with that,” Gina muttered. “Whatever she’s high on, I wish I had some.”
Vaslik exited through the back gate. He walked round to the supermarket where he had seen the near-confrontation the day before, and found a corner table in the cafeteria. It was quiet; a trio of utility workers in fluorescent jackets and boots, two mothers with small children and a waitress cleaning tables with a marked lack of enthusiasm. While deserted enough for him to have a corner table away from the others, there was just enough noise to cloak the conversation he was planning. He bought a mug of coffee and sat staring at his cell phone on the table, and chewing over what he knew so far and how that impacted on what he was about to do. He was concerned about the events of the past few hours, especially the topic of Ruth’s conversation with George Paperas. That had taken an unexpected turn, and something he hadn’t been ready for.
He was surprised by Ruth’s doggedness, and the way she was able to stitch ideas together from very little. He’d seen it before in professional investigators, but usually those with vastly more experience and training. They’d take what seemed a slanted view of evidence or events, and out of nothing, formulate an idea that had been missed by others … and which usually turned out correct. Ruth didn’t have the long experience, but she certainly had a natural talent for lateral thinking.
Which might be a problem.
For example the napkin he’d found at the house along the road; she had noticed it, he was sure, probably recognised it, too. Maybe not instantly, but that was why he’d removed it: out of sight, out of mind. But it would come to her sooner or later. And if it meant what he thought it did—and if she came to the same conclusion—then it would only be a matter of time before the questions began. And he could see no way of avoiding them save for playing dumb. And that would only work for so long.
He picked up the cell phone and wondered what the hell he was doing. Why was he even thinking about whether Ruth might be a problem or not? They were colleagues, for God’s sake, tasked with working on the same assignment. What did he owe to anyone outside this immediate job, save a questionable loyalty?
He checked the contacts list. The number he selected was buried deep among home-based details, like his dentist and lawyer. The kind of stuff nobody would bother looking at. It was a number he’d been given shortly after arriving in London, with instructions that he should only call in if completely unavoidable.
The number had the Washington dial code 202.
Screw unavoidable, he thought sourly. This was a car wreck waiting to happen…
The number, which he figured would be a twenty-four-hour government switchboard, rang out ten times before it was picked up.
“It’s Vaslik,” he said simply, when a woman’s voice answered. “I need to talk.”
“Wait one.” The woman sounded calm, almost casual. East coast, he guessed, possibly Virginia or round there. He had an ear for accents. “We’ll get back to you.”
“Hold on—” He wanted to explain, but the woman had gone. She hadn’t asked for his number.
He dropped the phone on the table and sat waiting, feeling uneasy. His caller details would have shown up on the read-out display as a matter of course. But that wasn’t how the woman would know where to call him back; they had the number on file and the moment he rang in, a data file was activated giving his name, background and every little detail down to the size of his shorts. Big government in action; it was high-tech and improbable to most ordinary citizens, but scary to those who really knew what went on in the name of national security.
Five minutes trickled by, then ten. He developed an itch in his back. That was a bad sign; it meant whatever instinctive antennae he’d been born with to warn against hunters had kicked in. It had served him well enough in the past, and he wasn’t about to ignore it. The landscape here might be different from New York, but the predators and prey were the same the world over.
He finished his coffee and picked up his phone, and left the supermarket. He had no destination in mind but continued movement was better than being static. It would help pass the time and keep him off whatever radar might be tracking him. He wasn’t familiar enough with the communications infrastructure in London to know if the locations of towers was sufficiently dense to triangulate his position quickly; bu
t one thing he was sure of was that his call to Washington just now would have been pinged and added to an automatic trace log. At this moment a duty officer was probably checking out a map of London and trying to work out his precise location. To do that, they would need another connection with his phone.
It rang.
“Mr. Vaslik.” The voice was male, heavy with authority, vaguely familiar, with a southern drawl. A voice accustomed to command. A voice he was surprised to realise he’d heard somewhere before. “You were told to watch and wait. To be ready to assist.”
“I know.” He took a deep breath, wondering why he knew that voice, then said, “Something’s going on here … something I believe is potentially outside my control.”
“How so?”
“I was told to stand by … to assist if called. It sounded like something specific might happen, maybe to do with national security. But I wasn’t told what that was. I still don’t know.”
“Because you don’t necessarily need to know.” The man sounded impatient, as if talking to a child—or a junior officer pushing his head above his pay grade. “Are you mobile, Mr. Vaslik?”
“Yes, why?”
“No reason. Perhaps you could explain why you have called?”
“I need to know … there are plenty of specialists already here who could do whatever is necessary, without involving me. “I’m a private contractor now, and my scope of activities and experience is narrow. I’m no longer in DHS.”
“So?”
“Is there a child involved in whatever’s going to happen?”
There. It was out.
The line clicked and hissed, and the man on the other end said nothing. Vaslik became aware of a noise overhead. He looked up. Saw a shape in the distance. A helicopter, swinging towards him, too high to distinguish any markings, merely a dragon-fly shape against the clouds. A coincidence, he told himself. No way they could have locked onto him this fast and got a chopper in the air. But he started walking again as a precaution.
The Locker Page 16
