“From a house nearby? The buildings aren’t that far apart.”
“I know. But Siege was able to pin it down to within ten feet.”
“Somebody in the garden, then?”
Ellworthy looked at her as if she’d insulted him. He thumbed his glasses again with a vicious jab. “No, ma’am.”
They all waited for the punch line.
“The signals were coming from inside the house. The northeast quadrant.”
thirty-eight
“But how?” Gina queried indignantly. “We’ve been with her 24/7. No way could she have got another phone in here.” A radio was playing in the background to cover their voices. Nancy’s phone lay on the kitchen work surface nearby, where Gina had left it after checking the call log. There were no calls or text messages in or out over the past forty-eight hours.
Vaslik and Ruth had returned to the house after the session with Aston and Ellworthy, by which time it was getting dark. They’d been turning over the latest events and wondering if Michael Hardman’s unconventional and peripatetic life had finally taken him a step too far. They couldn’t say anything to Nancy until the body of the dead European was identified, and this latest report of cell phone signals coming from inside the house merely added to the complexity of the problem.
“What about during the trip to the supermarket?” Vaslik suggested. “They sell disposables.”
“They do, but no way. I didn’t leave her side. And if you’re suggesting somebody slipped one to her, not a chance.” She looked absolutely certain of her facts and Ruth believed her. The first thing a pro bodyguard looks out for is anybody approaching their charge. It was page one of the training manual.
“If she didn’t get it on the outside, then whoever placed the bugs must have also left the phone for her to use.”
Vaslik shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Why would they? If they’re spying on her—on us—they wouldn’t need to give her a phone.”
“Unless they wanted updates to conversations they couldn’t hear,” said Gina.
“No. They must know that we’re being careful what we say around her. Anything they did get would be of low value.”
“That leaves only one other explanation,” Ruth said. “Somebody else got in here. Somebody who knows her husband.” She shook her head at the implications. If it had been planted at about the same time as the listening devices, it had to have been in the house when she had come back from hospital to get some clean clothes for Nancy.
“Christ.” Gina looked cross. “Right under our noses—it’s like burglar central. What do we do?”
“Take her shopping again tomorrow,” Vaslik suggested shortly, “and I’ll take her room apart. If it’s there I’ll find it.” The approximate location, narrowed down by Ellworthy to the northeast quadrant, took in Nancy’s bedroom and the bathroom. Unless she had moved it since then, it left a narrow search zone on which to focus.
“We could always go and ask her right now,” said Gina. “Why wait?”
“No,” said Ruth. “We’ll give Ellworthy and his little toy another chance to pick up the signals. If she is making contact with her husband, he might be able to figure out where he is.”
“What about tonight? Do we watch her more closely?”
“I don’t know.” Vaslik glanced at Ruth for agreement. “We should let her think she’s got us fooled.” He hesitated. “How about we leave tonight with only Gina on guard. If Nancy makes any moves, she might just get careless.”
“Good idea,” Gina agreed. “I’m not sleeping much, anyway. If anything interesting kicks off I’ll call you.”
Ruth thought it over but was unable to see an alternative. She felt uneasy about leaving Gina here alone, but something had to break sooner or later. And having three people ready to answer a phone call was pointless if they were all exhausted.
“All right. But call if you have doubts.”
She walked through to the living room, and picked up the digital photo frame. It had been turned off. She wasn’t going to bother checking the failed file on her laptop. If it didn’t open from there, it wasn’t going to. Far better to get the smart card and take that in for Ellworthy’s IT gnomes to work on. Nancy might kick up a flurry if she noticed it had gone, but she would leave copies on a spare data stick as insurance.
Andy Vaslik left the house and made his way to his rented flat in Edgware. He felt dog-tired and in need of food and space, his brain fired up with too many thoughts about what was going on behind the scenes. Trying to pull together the various strands of information when so much was unknown or new brought its own pressures, and he needed to kick back for a few hours and allow the facts to filter through his head from front to back. Front of head intake versus back of head analysis: it was something he’d learned from an experienced homicide detective in the NYPD. Let the two operate at their own speed; trying to force them together merely brought headaches and confusion.
He picked up a pizza on the way and settled down to catch up on CNN. Let the Hardman case flow out of his mind for a short while. Sometimes cases got you like that; you became so focussed on the detail that life outside—the normal, everyday important part of life—seemed to dip into the background. It was one of the reasons for the high number of divorce cases among law enforcement officers.
The rolling news covered the usual topics, including storms in the southwest, oil prices, a shooting at a high school in Tennessee and another failed Hollywood marriage. Par for the course.
He poured a beer and ate another slice of pizza. A number of terrorists attacks and bombings around the world over the previous six months had been summarised, with the usual talking heads from Washington think tanks and unspecified “experts” from the security and intelligence field. It all added up, was the conclusion, to a worrying rise in activity involving various insurgent groups, many of them previously little-known but all suspected of having links to the main players, al Qaeda being the biggest bogey of all.
He watched the usual parade of outrage from Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, including a reminder of the Westgate Shopping Mall attack in Nairobi, Kenya, followed by the media circus around the establishment suits and uniforms all putting in their ten cents worth. Among the latter were a US Marine Corps general, buttoned up and sharp as a tack, jaw jutting as if about to go on the offensive, and a man introduced as a rear-admiral who sat on various committees and advised on security matters. This man stepped forward to announce in solemn tones that work was on-going to identify and deal with the perpetrators and those who gave them support and resources.
Vaslik sat up with a jerk, the food forgotten. The deep southern tones carried clearly with practiced authority, drawling out the reassurances the media wanted to hear and the people expected.
He knew that voice.
He knew the face, too.
thirty-nine
The man’s name was Drybeck. Rear Admiral Walter Drybeck, to give him his full title. Jesus, he’d met the guy once on a visit to some government facility run by the navy. He thought he’d disappeared into retirement years ago, put out to grass with a bunch of other senior warhorses to make way for the new fitter, younger generation.
He pushed the pizza to one side and turned up the volume.
“I can say to the American people that we are taking steps to deter and defeat these extremist organisations and those giving them funding. I can’t say more than that as it might compromise the work of some very brave and resourceful people in the field. Thank you.” He nodded and stepped away from the microphones, leaving behind a hubbub of clicking cameras, voices demanding more details, more reassurance, more drama.
Vaslik didn’t move, stunned by the realisation of where he’d heard the voice before. The same voice with the long, drawn-out final syllable; the one he’d heard over the phone earlier that same day.
Compromise.
Drybeck? Was he the mystery man he’d been talking to?
Three miles away, Ruth Gonzales sat at a corner table in a deserted bar and sipped at a glass of red wine. She was also fired up—too much so to want to go home just yet. She didn’t want to let go of this, but also recognised that some down-time was necessary otherwise she’d be no good to anyone, least of all Nancy and Beth.
But now some other things were occupying her thoughts. The first was nothing to do with work; it was a private text message from somebody she hadn’t expected to hear from again. She read it through again and felt oddly unsettled. Someone had once said you should never take a backward step. She couldn’t recall who it was—probably her father, who was always good for a wise word or two in moments of crisis.
The second matter came from listening to Ellworthy, the techno-geek, explaining the operation of Siege 2. Something he’d said had popped into her head. Now she was struggling to think back, because at the time, she’d known it was important but hadn’t been able to grasp it before it dropped off the edge.
And that feeling hadn’t gone away.
She closed her eyes, trying to claw back what he’d been saying. It had been in the final few minutes of his talk, she was certain. He’d been drawing to a dramatic close, talking about the wonders of Siege 2 and how it could isolate mobile phone signals inside a house from any other telecomms traffic.
No, wait. He was American; he hadn’t said “mobile,” which was common in the UK. He’d said “cell.” She opened her eyes with a snap, nearly spilling her drink. Ellworthy had also been talking about the listening devices located inside the house; the ones Vaslik hadn’t been able to find. He’d said “Cute technology.”
Damn, that was it! She’d heard Slik say: “Didn’t extend to her cell phone … cute only goes so far.” It was no more than a throwaway comment, but the three distinct words had echoed in her brain for a split second before fading. Now she remembered them—and where they had first appeared.
It was in the note left for Nancy at the gym: Your cell phone is dead, your home phone won’t answer and your daughter, Beth, is alone with Tiggi, her cute Polish nanny.
The note had been written by an American … or somebody schooled in the American system. Brits didn’t use the words “cell phone,” and “cute” usually referred to kids, kittens, and baby ducks.
Helen Stephenson aka Clarisse. She had sounded American but with something deeper, more foreign. And she was highly trained in an aggressive Israeli martial art.
And there was Tiggi, the too-perfect sounding Polish nanny. Not by itself an anomaly; she knew one or two English people who talked as if they were in the nineteen-forties. But it was yet something else that stood out.
What the hell did it all mean? Her thoughts began to rush with detail, drawing in snippets from the path of the investigation. The napkin in the lunch remains Slik had picked up from the bin next door to No. 38. In spite of only a glimpse, she had instantly recognised the stylish lettering of the logo. The Mount Street Deli was one she knew well, and not more than a spit away from the Cruxys office in Mayfair. And the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square.
And now the third thing that was bugging her: it was the Mamoun Restaurant across the street from where she was sitting. Before coming to this bar she’d called in and spoken to the manager, Mr. Khouri. He was a plump, sharply-dressed man with a voluminous moustache and soulful, dark-rimmed eyes.
“Yes, I recall the incident,” he’d said immediately, when she asked about the argument. Perhaps with the inbred caution of a man wary of a scene, he’d drawn her discreetly away from nearby diners. “May I ask what is your interest in this, please?”
“I’m working with the police. The man is missing and we’re trying to find him. His wife says he is depressed and unwell. You can probably guess what we’re thinking.” The fabrication came easily, with the awareness that anything approaching the truth in the form of a kidnap enquiry, might scare him into silence.
Understanding touched his face. “Ah, that is sad. He was very angry, I remember, and it was very quick—like a man on the very edge of his temper. Before, he was very pleasant, a nice man and valued customer. Then suddenly, very different.”
“Before? So this wasn’t his first visit?”
“Not at all. He had been here a few times, always I assumed with business colleagues. But this was the first time with a lady.”
“Do you recall if he paid cash or card?”
He smiled regretfully. “I am sorry—I cannot. Also, that is beyond my authority. I have to respect customers’ privacy, even the difficult ones.”
“I understand.” She felt the manager beginning to close up as he turned to eye the restaurant, which was busy. “Just one thing more.”
“Of course.”
“What language did he speak to your waiter?”
“Language? Why, Arabic, of course.”
She jumped as her phone buzzed, bringing her back to the present. It was her father.
“Dad? What’s wrong?” He almost never called her. “Is mum all right?
“When did you last speak to George Paperas?” He sounded short of breath, with none of his usual attempts at humour, as if trying to get something difficult out.
“Umm, I don’t know … it was—hang on.” Her brain wouldn’t function; it was too full of detail, of questions—and now concern about why her father was asking about George Paperas. “Yes—it was this morning. We spoke on the phone. Why?” Even as she uttered the last word, she had an awful premonition. “Dad?”
“George is dead. He was knocked down, hit by a car on his way home.”
“Oh, God.” It was all she could think of to say. So inadequate.
“A witness claims it was deliberate. The car was waiting in a side street, engine running.” He paused, then, “I got that through a mate in the Met. It’s not public knowledge yet so don’t tell anyone. What kind of dirty business did you get him involved in, Ruth?”
He sounded too upset to continue and ended the call abruptly. She mumbled a goodbye, flinching at the accusation in his voice.
Deliberate? But why? Paperas was just a charity expert. He’d been helping her out and … she felt a cold prickle travel up the back of her neck as she recalled something.
The two men Vaslik had seen following Paperas from the pub.
According to Vaslik, one of them was CIA.
She dialled Vaslik’s number.
“Slik? Are you at home?”
He sounded distracted. A television was blaring in the background; a news presenter with a nasal American accent. Slik was getting a taste of home courtesy of CNN. She envied him being able to switch off like that.
“Yes. What’s up?”
“Stay where you are. I’m on my way round. I’m going to blow your mind.” She checked his address in her contacts page and left the pub, aware that she probably shouldn’t be driving; she was over-tired and had consumed the best part of a glass of wine. But this was too important to leave until morning.
forty
“George Paperas is dead.” She let Vaslik have the worst news first. It would prepare him best for what came next; after that anything might seem possible.
“You’d better sit down.” He pointed to a chair and handed her a coffee. She thought she noticed a tiny tremor on the surface of the drink. “Tell me what happened.”
She relayed what her father had told her, certain that Slik would check the details for himself. He listened carefully, a frown clouding his face when she mentioned the two men he’d seen following Paperas from the pub.
“I know the CIA doesn’t get great press,” he murmured, “but it doesn’t make them responsible for every unexplained death.”
“Maybe not. But there are other pointers.”
“Really? Like what?”
She hesitated, using the coffee to gain
time, organise her thoughts. Now she was here, facing him, nothing seemed as certain or as compelling as it had back at the pub. What if Vaslik laughed her back out onto the street? As an experienced investigator he’d have every right, because from his viewpoint the few scrappy bits of “evidence“ she’d assembled were at best lame, at worst, pathetic.
She put down the coffee and started talking, laying out everything she knew or suspected. She began with Helen Stephenson’s appearance, her possible nationality and her part in making Tiggi Sgornik’s effects disappear; the obvious professionalism of the bugging exercise carried out on the Hardman house; the surveillance and failed snatch on Nancy near the supermarket—both involving Stephenson; the interest in George Paperas which had probably begun with her own meeting with the charity consultant. That brought her to Aron’s comments about Tiggi, her thoughts about the language of the kidnap note and the napkin from the Mount Street Deli.
All through her talk, Vaslik had remained expressionless, letting her speak. Even the American-sounding connection hadn’t raised a glimmer of movement. But the last one brought a look of incredulity to his face. “You’re serious? You think a napkin points to this being …what—a CIA plot?” He gave a bark of laughter. “Jesus, Ruth—can you hear yourself? Next you’ll be saying they’re running this out of Grosvenor Square and Tiggi is actually a Polish graduate and CIA officer! That’s a hell of a stretch.”
She stared at him, surprised by the passion in his voice. Slik the obelisk, the unemotional, reserved former cop, who took a slap in the face from a furious Nancy without a flinch, suddenly transformed.
“Hey—I know it’s shaky, OK?” she countered with just as much passion, but feeling the colour rise in her cheeks at the possibility that he might be right, that she had slipped into the realm of fantasy. “If you have anything better, let me have it.”
It was a weak gambit, but it was all she had left. If Slik didn’t go with her on this, at least enough to consider it as a possibility, she was lost. She might as well shut up shop and go home.
The Locker Page 20
