The Locker

by Adrian Magson

  Just then her phone rang. She took it out and answered.

  “Hi. Is that Ruth?” Talk of the devil. It was Andrew.

  “What have you got?”

  “I think I remember the line of the conversation we were talking about. But it’s nothing, really.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. What did you say, word for word?” She signalled for the others to stay.

  “Well, she wasn’t English, but I have a lot of foreign students in the classes so it didn’t stand out. But there was something about her accent … I was making conversation, you know, trying to find common ground?”

  “Smooth. Go on.”

  “One of my previous fitness students had the same way of talking. It sounded American at first, you know? Like West coast but with a throaty touch … an accent. I thought it was really sexy.”

  Jesus, she thought, he was a sex-nut on legs. No wonder he’d taken a kicking. But he was spot on. Clarisse had talked with a slight American tone, too. It was a match.

  “And?”

  “It was a simple enough question, right? All I did was ask where she came from.”

  “Then what?”

  “I remember now what she said, just before … you know. She said I asked too many questions. Then the lights went out.”

  Ruth felt disappointed. It might be nothing after all. Simply a case of male hormones overtaking common sense and imagination. Out of a feeling of desperation, she asked, “So where did this former student of yours come from? Or did she kick your head in, too?”

  Andrew chuckled. “No way. She was really friendly. She came from Haifa in Israel.”

  thirty-six

  The atmosphere in the Cruxys headquarters was sombre when Ruth and Vaslik arrived to give a report. It was late afternoon and news was coming in that one of the international response teams sent out to Nigeria had suffered gunshot wounds. The exact details were unclear, but the news had gone through the building like a virus. With most of the staff from military, security or police backgrounds, they felt it keenly when a colleague was taken down.

  “They’d cleared the airport and got a small charter flight out to the oil installation that had been attacked,” Aston told them, once they were seated in the briefing room, “but came under fire as the plane touched down. The Nigerians aren’t saying much but the pilot says he saw men in army uniform around the perimeter. It could have been friendly fire.” He flicked a hand towards the story boards where a single researcher was ready to take notes. “We’ve had to transfer one of the research teams to another assignment. Caroline, here, is fully up to date on the Hardman situation, although that doesn’t seem to amount to much at the moment. That’s not a criticism.” He looked at the researcher. “I believe you have a query?”

  Ruth had noticed that a number of photos from the frame at the Hardman house had been printed and stuck to the board, with names added in marker pen. The ones of Michael Hardman weren’t particularly clear but those of Beth and Nancy, always smiling, served to highlight the tragedy of what had happened to split the family apart. There were two shots of Tiggi, showing a tall, leggy blonde with a devastating smile.

  Caroline tapped a varnished fingernail against a blank square on the storyboard, next to the photos, and addressed Ruth. “There’s a file you downloaded from the Hardman’s digital photo frame which came up blank. At least, there’s something there but it wouldn’t open. Our technical guys are working on it, but doesn’t look like a JPEG for a photo, like the others. Could you check it didn’t get corrupted on transfer?”

  “Of course.”

  “Better still, if you could get the smart card and bring it in, they might be able to open it. It might be a document file that got copied by mistake, but it’s a small anomaly we need to tick off.” She smiled at Aston. “That’s all for now.”

  Ruth made a note to check. Any query, any such anomaly right now had to be looked at until it could be dismissed as irrelevant. She couldn’t recall seeing the details of any such file, but she would go back and look at her laptop.

  She turned to the question of what they had learned so far about Tiggi Sgornik and “Helen Stephenson.” It firmed up their suspicions that this entire event had been carefully planned and coordinated.

  “The timing’s too neat to be a coincidence,” she pointed out. “Stephenson’s been around the gym for at least four weeks, probably longer. Tiggi turned up about eight weeks ago and got her flat not far away from the Hardmans at about the same time. Both seemed to have turned up out of the blue, both are foreign.”

  Aston looked puzzled. “You’re suggesting they’re working together?”

  “I think they must be.” She looked at Vaslik, who nodded in agreement.

  “Interesting.” Aston glanced at the storyboard, where the forensic team’s report had been highlighted. “Jakers reports finding blood on the door jamb of the nanny’s room. If you’re right, then it might imply Sgornik changed her mind when they made the snatch, and there was a struggle.”

  “It’s possible. But when she wrote the note to her landlord, Aron, it sounded upbeat.”

  Vaslik added, “She might have been acting under pressure. Nancy says she and Beth had bonded particularly well.” He shifted in his seat. “I’ve seen examples where gang members in abduction cases have gone along with the plan, but once they actually get to see the kidnap in action and see what it does, they have a change of heart. It’s traumatic stuff, seeing a child get taken.” When they all looked at him, he explained, “I once had to assist taking a child away from a religious sect. They were brainwashing her but she couldn’t see it. That stuff stays with you.”

  Aston pursed his lips. “I think we have to assume that she’s one of them, pressured or not.” He told Caroline to get working on tracing the names in Poland and Israel, although they all knew it was probably pointless. Stephenson was undoubtedly a cover name, and if Tiggi was still alive she wasn’t likely to be easily found.

  “There’s something else you should all know,” he continued. “We’ve received news of three men—one a westerner—killed by gunmen in Herat province, Afghanistan. One of them was carrying papers suggesting they were aid agency workers. After your talk with George Paperas I had several keywords added to our news watch list. This popped up as a result.”

  “What happened?” Ruth felt further dulled by the report. The killing of aid workers seemed so pointless. They were innocent people trying to help, yet presenting easy targets to extremists.

  “That’s the odd thing. The reports say they were killed in a fire-fight.”

  “They must have had an armed escort.” Sometimes the local authorities provided escorts for aid workers in the region. It was usually down to local police chiefs to provide the personnel, but not all of them bothered.

  Aston checked a sheet of paper in front of him. “According to at least two reliable observers who saw them earlier, they were well-armed and there were thought to be four men in the group. They were approaching a village ten miles from Gulran when they came under attack from unidentified gunmen, thought to be Taliban fighters. There was an exchange of gunfire lasting nearly an hour. When it ended three of the men were dead. There was no sign of a fourth. The local villagers brought the bodies to the nearest police post. The local chief thinks two were Afghani and one was European or American, but as they’d been stripped of personal effects apart from one with a card commonly carried by aid workers, they don’t know anything more about them.”

  Vaslik said, “No indications of what they were doing there?”

  “None. But they clearly weren’t on a sight-seeing tour.”

  “How does this affects us?” Ruth asked quietly.

  “By the time the bodies were at the police post, they’d been stripped of weapons and personal effects. Whether that was by the attackers or the villagers is a moot point. The European had been shot
in the face, so identifying him is going to be a problem—or would be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The police found a cell phone concealed in his boot. Under direction from us he took a look and reported several numbers. Two of them are here in London, one to a temporary charity base in Croydon. We’re trying to establish contact with them but it’s proving difficult.”

  “And the other?”

  “The other we recognised through the report details.” He jerked a thumb at the storyboard which included every aspect of the Hardmans’ lives so far known. “It belongs to Nancy Hardman’s cell phone.”

  thirty-seven

  The silence became leaden as they digested the news. If this was true it changed everything. If there was no Michael Hardman, what would happen to Beth? Would she be returned unharmed, of no further use to the kidnappers? Or would the focus fall on Nancy?

  Ruth felt sickened at the possibilities. She forced herself to concentrate on the next steps. Her head was buzzing with questions, but only one kept powering its way to the surface, demanding to be answered. She didn’t expect a response, but she had to try.

  “If we assume these men were not aid workers,” she said slowly, wondering how to broach a ticklish subject, “and the fact that they were armed and fighting supports that supposition, then they must have been Special Forces.”

  “We don’t know that,” Aston was quick to point out. But he didn’t sound convinced. “There have been several instances of fighters of European appearance joining the insurgents. This man could be one of them.”

  “True. But if we assume for a moment that they were members of Coalition Forces, it might answer a lot of questions for us.”

  “How?” One eyebrow lifted. If he was ahead of her, he was hiding it well.

  “If Michael Hardman is the dead European … was he one of ours?”

  There was a long silence during which Aston blinked without comment. Eventually he said, “There’s been no indication so far that he was ever in the military or the intelligence field, has there?”

  “He might have been a sub-contractor,” said Vaslik. “The US uses them; I’m guessing the UK does, too.”

  “It’s possible,” Ruth agreed, when Aston said nothing. “Think about it. There’s been something odd about this whole set up from the start. Hardman’s away a lot and keeps his family on the move from house to house; he’s often out of touch, and phone numbers and at least one address are either fake or dead. He took out a Safeguard contract, when according to his wife they’re always strapped for cash; he’s supposed to be a low-level aid volunteer but doesn’t seem to last more than a few days in any one place before he disappears; and he has no back story that we can find, save a bank account he keeps secret. To do all that he has to have money somewhere … or access to resources.”

  “It doesn’t mean he was working for the security industry or the military.”

  “Can we ask?” Vaslik suggested.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Ruth led with her jaw. This was going to go round in endless circles if they didn’t pile on the pressure and get some answers. “If he is part of the military or the security forces, and his family’s at risk, surely whoever’s running him would want to know.”

  More silence while Aston digested the idea. Ruth didn’t push further. He wasn’t slow, but he was cautious. He would know that poking a finger into the dangerous world of spies, special operations and undercover warfare was a risky business. And companies like Cruxys and others in the field relied on keeping good relations with their secretive counterparts.

  “I’ll ask,” he agreed. “Sir Philip might know.” Sir Philip Coleclough, Cruxys’s chairman, was known to have close connections with the Intelligence and military community in the UK and overseas, and was even rumoured to have been an intelligence operative during the seventies. It would explain how the company never seemed to have problems recruiting good personnel with the right backgrounds.

  “And fingerprint verification of the bodies,” Vaslik suggested, “would be useful.”

  “Already on the way.” Aston made notes on a pad. “Can you get some prints from the house?”

  Ruth nodded. “There’s bound to be something. I’m surprised we don’t have them on file.” It was meant as a dig, but Aston took it seriously.

  “We do, normally. It’s not acceptable to civil liberty lobbies, but if any clients do turn up dead, it helps to ID them.” He gave a cool smile. “Some refuse, some prevaricate. Hardman must have done one or both, we don’t know.” He shrugged. “It happens; we can’t exactly drag clients kicking and screaming into the building and take their prints by force, neither can we compel them to volunteer details they would rather keep secret. Anything else?”

  Nobody could think of anything. As they stood up, there was a knock at the door. It was a painfully thin young man in his twenties, wearing heavy glasses, a crisp white shirt and pressed slacks. He looked like a young banking executive, but they knew he couldn’t be.

  “Sorry to intrude,” he said, his accent American. “You asked for this as soon as we got anything.” He handed Aston a sheet of paper.

  “Thank you.” Aston signalled him to stay and made introductions. “James here has joined us from places I’m not permitted to mention, but he has admirable skills in IT and all things electronic. He’s been conducting some equipment tests for us.” While Ruth and Vaslik nodded and sat down again, James took a seat alongside Aston, who excused himself and scanned the sheet of paper. When he’d finished, he dropped it on the table with a deep sigh and looked at the technician. “I think you’d better be the one to explain this; it’s beyond my capabilities.”

  The American nodded and squinted at the other two. “We’ve been conducting some field tests into new equipment co-developed by MIT—the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—our National Security Agency and your own Electronics Security Group within GCHQ in Cheltenham.” GCHQ was the British Government Communications Headquarters based in Gloucestershire, responsible for British signals intelligence and communications. “Not to go into technical detail, but the equipment is called Siege 2. It monitors telephony signals and works at isolating and identifying individual cell phones.”

  “What happened to Siege 1?” Ruth asked. She wasn’t sure where this was going, only that it was taking up valuable time.

  “It failed. They immediately began work on Siege 2.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “Like a lot of other technological developments, it was an idea that came out of 9/11. The FBI were concerned that in hostage situations, or where suspects were concealed among innocent people in a particular location, like an office building or school, it was crucial to identify all users of cell phones in that location. Siege works at isolating each signal, tracing it to source—the provider or subscriber—and, ultimately, pinning down any unidentified users. The aim is to reduce the available targets dramatically and allow law enforcement to move in and … and neutralise the ones they can’t identify.” He looked uncomfortable at the final words, as if designing the technology was fine, but admitting to its ultimate purpose was something he preferred not to think about.

  Aston said, “By ‘unidentified’ users, does that include pay-as-you-go phones?”

  “Some, yes. The majority of extremist and criminal users rely on stolen, cloned, throwaways or pay-as-you-go cells. It’s still at early stages yet, but the speed with which Siege 2 can narrow the list is increasing all the time.” He thumbed the bridge of his glasses. “We conducted a test on this building a week ago and achieved an 88 percent ID rate within the first hour. That’s pretty awesome.” He smiled like the proud parent of a gifted child. “We’re currently looking at other buildings in the area to see who we can spy on.”

  “Really?” Aston looked intrigued. “Will that include our neighbours in Grosvenor Square?” He
meant the US Embassy.

  Ellworthy lost the smile. “Uh … … no, sir, I don’t think so. Unless you order it, of course. It might take some time to set that up, though.” He sounded absolutely serious.

  Aston gave a thin smile and shook his head. “Let’s put that on hold, shall we?” He waved a hand for him to continue.

  “Right. Well, the Hardman kidnap provided us with an ideal test situation. Because we couldn’t rely on getting tracking equipment inside the house unobserved, we set up a Siege 2 monitoring unit nearby.”

  “You what?” Ruth stared at him. Ellworthy blinked and looked at Aston for support.

  “It’s OK—they had my approval.” He looked directly at Ruth. “They didn’t compromise your position in any way; we wanted to keep it to ourselves in case anybody listening in caught wind of it.”

  Ruth subsided, but still felt nettled at not being told. She glanced at Vaslik. His expression was blank, and she wondered what Aston would have done if the American had stumbled on their little “unit” while on one of his walks and gone in all guns blazing.

  “Go on,” she said. “But keep it non-technical; I have a headache.”

  Ellworthy nodded. “Sure. As I said, we placed a monitoring unit nearby, focussed on the Hardman property to detect and source-track any incoming and outgoing calls.”

  “Source-track?”

  “See where they came from. Or went to. There was some interference from other devices, which we expected, but we managed to screen them out.”

  “Devices?” This from Vaslik.

  “Listening devices. I believe you found some in the building. There are others.”

  “How many?”

  “We detected three. Cute technology, too, going by the signals.” He glanced at Ruth before continuing. “Siege also picked up signals indicating a cell phone user sending and receiving text messages. They were of short duration and spaced out, suggesting receiving and responding in turn.”