“How do I do that?” Christ, the thought of trying to deflect Ruth away from this was unthinkable. Even if he wanted to, she had the bit too firmly between her teeth for that and would smell a rat.
“Derail it, deflect it, use any means at your disposal to put Cruxys —and more importantly, your relentless lady colleague—off the case. This matter has serious ramifications, Mr. Vaslik. If it goes any further and becomes public knowledge … well, we don’t even want to think about that.”
We. It wasn’t the first time Drybeck had said it. “Who do you mean by ‘we’?”
“Again, not your concern.”
“What if they—she—won’t stop?” He threw it in as an instinctive response—a delaying tactic. He was trying frantically to read beyond this conversation and get a glimpse of what was really going on here, what this man Drybeck was not saying. He’d agreed to help out his old employers in an unspecified situation; but not this. Not a cover-up.
And there was Ruth: with her solid, bulldog approach to a problem that had surprised him. She had already uncovered much that he and others like him would have missed, and had knitted the facts together in a way that, no matter how “shaky,” as she had described it herself, would be enough to catch the attention of people paid to look into these things. And he had seen the way Richard Aston had acted around her to know that if she shouted, he would take notice. Aston trusted and respected her, it was easy to see.
“Are you saying,” Drybeck said softly, interrupting his thoughts, “that you can’t do this? Or won’t?”
“I’m saying—”
“You should think very carefully about your response, Mr. Vaslik. It will affect your entire future, I promise you.”
Vaslik nearly choked on his reply. The threat was unambiguous. The fact that it came from this man made it all the more real. Drybeck had the power to carry it through and Vaslik was sure it was no bluff. It wouldn’t matter what his own defence was, it would be goodbye to his job with Cruxys, and almost certainly a block on any other work he tried to get in this industry, here or anywhere else.
He’d be finished.
Was it worth it? After all, what did he know of all the minutiae behind what Drybeck was working on? He wasn’t part of that world anymore, so why should he concern himself by what went on behind the screen of US intelligence and security?
But what about the little girl, Beth? She was a total innocent in all this. Hadn’t he got a duty to try to find her?
“I can’t. It’s not as simple as you think.”
“I see.” There was a lengthy silence. “Very well. You leave me no choice.”
The connection went dead.
forty-three
A fine drizzle was coating the windscreen by the time Ruth arrived at the Hardman house next morning. It was just after seven, and she had called Gina earlier to check in. Nothing happening.
She felt exhausted. A restless night’s sleep after talking to Vaslik had left her wide awake and unable to clear her mind of the facts sloshing around inside like so much flotsam.
She stepped out of the car and walked to the front door, glancing along the road and noting instinctively the detail of the road. Cars glistening with rain, groups of wheelie bins at the kerb ready for collection, and a woman pedestrian with her shoulders hunched beneath an umbrella as she hurried along the pavement.
Suburban London, the start of a new day. Innocent for some, not for others. She wondered what those other residents of this quiet street would say if they knew what was happ—
She slowed and looked again. Something about the everyday scene was different, a part of the uniformity she’d become accustomed to now out of place.
Her eyes were drawn back along the line of dark vehicles.
Then it hit her. A hundred yards away, parked by a short run of brick wall: a dark-coloured 4WD. Slick with wet, but with one detail out of kilter with the rest of the vehicles: the windows.
They were coated with condensation on the inside, save for a small arced area of the windscreen, where a hand had swept away the moisture.
As soon as Gina opened the door Ruth stepped inside and took out her phone. Swore silently when she saw the battery was dead. Careless. After talking to Slik last night, she’d forgotten to put it on charge.
Gina noted her body language. “Problem?”
“My phone’s dead, and there’s a car along the road with misted windows which shouldn’t be there.” She asked to borrow Gina’s phone and dialled Vaslik’s number. As soon as he answered she told him what she’d seen and to come in the back way.
He didn’t sound surprised. She heard the sound of traffic in the background, which meant he was already on his way. “Thanks for the warning. I’m five minutes out. How many inside?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“Let them be; don’t go near them. I’ll take a look.”
Ruth shut off the phone and wondered what taking a look meant in Vaslik’s lexicon.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Gina was watching from the kitchen doorway. She seemed tense, her arms folded tight across her body.
“Why not? Where else would I be?”
“Aston called. He’s been trying to get hold of you. He wants you in the office right away. He sounded pissed.”
Ruth felt a prickle of concern. That didn’t sound like Aston’s normal manner. “Did he say why?”
“No. Have you done something to annoy him?” Gina walked across and retrieved her phone.
“Why do you say that?”
“He didn’t sound happy. Thought I’d warn you.” She gave Ruth a look of concern and turned back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the monitors.
Ruth decided not to wait for Vaslik. If Aston wanted to chew her out for something, she might as well get to it. She went back to her car, ignoring the 4WD, and plugged her phone into the charger and headed for Marble Arch and Mayfair.
Andy Vaslik was worried. He was remembering Drybeck’s threat the night before, and what it might mean for Ruth. After the call from her using Gina’s phone, he’d called her back only for Gina to answer and say that Aston wanted her in to the office double quick.
“Any reason?” he asked, although he knew one reason that might outweigh any other.
“He didn’t say. But he didn’t sound a happy camper. I thought you might know … you and Ruth working together.” There was a clear tone of query to her words, and he wondered if she was jumping to the wrong conclusion. It happened all the time with a male-female team; everybody assumed that sharing a car for hours on end meant they had to be sharing other stuff, too. Sadly, as he knew from his days in the NYPD, the conclusion wasn’t always wide of the mark.
“No idea,” he said shortly. It wouldn’t convince her but that was her problem. He shut off the phone. He was just three minutes away from the Hardman house and formulating what he was going to do about the watchers in the car. If it was a surveillance team—and he had no reason to doubt Ruth’s instincts —he wanted to know who or what they were. To do that he had to get a look at their faces.
He turned into the road and threaded his way through a gaggle of wheelie bins left out ready for collection. Others were placed at the kerb further along, wherever there were gaps between the cars. Among the bins were refuse bags and cardboard boxes. He scooped up one of the bags without stopping and studied the cars ahead of him, most of them facing towards the Hardman house. He located the 4WD immediately, the windows covered in condensation, sitting there like a duck among chickens, out of place but unaware.
Not clever, he thought. Not clever at all. Who do they think they’re dealing with—a bunch of boy scouts?
As he got near the car, he clamped his cell phone to his cheek and began a one-sided argument about missing spreadsheets and how anyone with a brain could open an email attachment. The cars were on his right and he had
the bin bag in his left hand, with his right clutching the cell phone shielding his face. He checked the 4WD, noting the number and make, then scanned the windows. The condensation was heavy, making it impossible to discern much detail through the rear windows save that there were two figures in the front, neither of them moving. The wing mirror on his side, however, was smeared clear where the passenger had stuck out a hand at some point and wiped it with his fingers.
At least one of them was awake.
He slowed his pace, nodding vigorously as the one-sided argument continued, aware that the passenger was watching him through the wing mirror. All he could make out was a blur of face; youngish, male, well-fed. Didn’t mean a thing; it could be a couple of local authority public health inspectors on an early shift to watch the garbage trucks at work.
As he drew abreast of the rear doors, he caught a glimpse across the dash. Two take-out coffees were balanced on top, steam rising from each one. It explained the level of condensation, and that they hadn’t been here very long.
He passed the passenger door and in his peripheral vision saw movement as the man turned his head to watch. Vaslik thumbed the screen on his cell and heard the clicks as it recorded a burst of images.
Ten yards ahead stood a group of wheelie bins. He paused long enough to drop the bin bag alongside them and flick some moisture off his hand, before continuing along the road and out the far end, circling the block to the rear access lane to the Hardman house.
Gina was waiting to admit him. He nodded his thanks and made for the radio, flicking it on. There was no sign of Nancy.
“How many?” Gina asked.
“Two guys with coffees to go. Been there five, maybe ten minutes, max.” Not an all-nighter, he meant, and she nodded. The difference between a round-the-clock surveillance and a short–term watch wasn’t simply about budget or manpower; it more often than not showed the degree of official concern. And he had no doubts whatsoever that the two men outside were official in some way.
“Who do you think they are?”
Vaslik shook his head. He didn’t want to speculate aloud on it. “I don’t know. Is Ruth back?”
Gina said no, and he felt his gut sink at the implications. It could mean only one thing: Drybeck.
The rear-admiral must have already flexed his muscles to put a stick in the spokes of the investigation. And Ruth was the sacrificial goat. With Vaslik refusing to help, he’d used his position in Washington and called in a favour. The result was Ruth being dropped from the assignment. He swore silently, knowing he was responsible; he’d told Drybeck exactly what he’d wanted to know: that Ruth Gonzales wouldn’t give up, no matter what.
He shook it off. He’d deal with the fallout later. For now he had something to check. He took out his cell phone and called up the image file. The photos he’d taken along the road looked similar, as he expected, but with slight differences. The first showed the passenger of the 4WD, face slightly blurred by the condensation on the side window. He had dark hair, almost Latino looks, clean shaven and roughly about thirty, with a hint of bulk in the shoulders. The driver was just a shadow beyond him, face half-turned to watch as the passenger said something. The last two images had been taken just as Vaslik had drawn level with the windscreen, and showed the driver leaning forward from the shoulders to get a better view. It brought his face into better relief. The results weren’t brilliant, but better than nothing.
He dialled Eric LaGuardo’s number and attached two of the best images. It was a long shot, but Eric had once bragged of having access to the latest in FRS—facial recognition software—on the market, and was dying to use it.
Maybe this would be the excuse he needed.
He added the text Who these? and hit SEND.
forty-four
“I’m sorry, Ruth. We’re taking you off the Hardman case.”
Richard Aston sounded matter-of-fact in his apology, but his hands clenched in front of him showed a visible sign of tension. Martyn Claas, sitting alongside him, looked completely calm, even pleased.
The three of them were alone in the Hardman briefing room, with Ruth facing the two senior Cruxys men. The building was still quiet save for the usual skeleton staff manning the operations desks, and only the vague hum of traffic outside signalled the activity of a normal day. She had been summoned up here the moment she had arrived, but hadn’t expected this.
She felt a genuine sense of shock on hearing the words, and wondered what had happened. “Why? What’s changed?”
“Lack of progress,” Claas muttered, “if you really need an explanation.” He waved away Aston’s attempt to cut him off and continued forcefully, “You haven’t even scratched the surface of this business, and that’s not good enough. You may not be aware, Ms. Gonzales, but every day spent on these cases is a dent in our bottom line. We need a swift conclusion, not a lengthy investigation that goes nowhere. There is not an unlimited budget at your disposal to take a leisurely view of a missing person or their private circumstances. Nor do we have the resources of the authorities. For that reason I am closing this down.”
“It’s been just three days and there’s fuck-all leisure about it,” she protested fiercely, and wanted to slap the smug smile off Claas’s face. “What are you going to do—leave Nancy Hardman hanging while her daughter’s being held captive God knows where?”
“I’m sure the police will be happy to take over. They are accustomed to dealing with cranks. What is your problem?”
“It’s immoral!” She stopped. “What do you mean, the police? You can’t.”
“We have to take a pragmatic view. For all we know the girl had been taken by her father—a domestic dispute. It happens all the time. We must hand this matter over to the proper agency to deal with it. It will ensure the best outcome all round.”
“That’s precisely what the kidnap note said not to do. You have no idea what will happen when the cops show up.” She looked at Aston for support, but he shook his head, his lips set in anger. She guessed he had been outvoted and the signal was telling her not to push back. But she was beyond caring. “Have you any idea of the dimensions of this case? Have you even considered what’s behind this kidnap?”
“The whys and wherefores are not my concern,” Claas replied and made to stand up with a glance at Aston. “I think this discussion has gone far enough. I do not intend trading words with an employee in this way.”
“Wait!” Ruth stood up too and walked round to the storyboard. It carried nothing of what she had discussed with Vaslik last night, nor of her suspicions about who might be behind Beth’s kidnap. But now maybe it should do, because if this Dutchman had his way, this was the last throw of the coin she had left. Good or bad, it had to count.
She stabbed the board with her finger, standing in a way that blocked Claas’s progress to the door. “See this? It’s all bullshit. It’s detail, but none of it counts because there’s something going on here that’s a million miles away from Nancy and Beth Hardman. That kid’s been taken for reasons we can’t even begin to know about—and there are people not far from here who know why.”
“People?” Claas looked at her with an expression of pity. “What on earth—I don’t have to listen to this hysteria. Please get out of my way.” He made to push past her but Ruth wasn’t moving. She was too angry.
“I haven’t finished yet. You really want to treat this like a domestic? See this?” She pointed at the copy of the kidnap note, which had been enlarged for emphasis. “The language: American. It’s also intelligently constructed, so not the work of some crank. This woman?” A stab at the photo of Clarisse taken from the CCTV footage at the gym. “She sounded American but we believe she’s Israeli and possibly a former member of the Israel Defense Forces. Tiggi Sgornik?” Another stab at the board, where Tiggi was smiling out at the room like a catwalk model. “Also probably Israeli, born of Polish immigrants, because the one
thing she isn’t is a first-generation Pole.” Claas made to interrupt, going redder in the face, but she waded on, determined not to allow him to close her down without a fight. “The listening devices in the house? Installed by experts so that we were meant to find some, but not all. The visual surveillance on the house? Also expert. An approach by a team that included Clarisse was clearly a run-up to a kidnap attempt on Nancy Hardman, possibly because they saw lifting Beth wasn’t producing the result they wanted quickly enough.”
She saw George Paperas’ name had been added to the board and grabbed a red marker pen, slashing through the name with a vicious cross. “George was a UN aid expert who was helping me with background information that might have found Michael Hardman. He was followed from a meeting with me by two men, one identified as a CIA agent.”
“I don’t see the relevance—”
“You should. Two days later he was dead, murdered by a hit-and-run driver that a witness claimed appeared to be waiting for him.” She paused for breath, aware that somebody else had entered the room. But she wasn’t willing to stop now. “And this morning, there’s continued close surveillance on the Hardman house, only they’re not even bothering to hide anymore.” She tossed the pen onto the table, where it clattered across the surface and pinged loudly off a water carafe before landing on the floor.
Claas looked ready to burst. “What is your point?”
“My point is, this kidnap was conceived and carried out to get the attention of a man we know absolutely nothing about; a man with a secret bank account, who keeps disappearing into countries where he can’t be contacted; who manages to support his family with no visible income. I don’t know about your home life, Mr. Claas, but that’s not a domestic where I come from. And if you leave Nancy Hardman and her daughter hanging like this, word will get out and our reputation will be in ruins within twenty-four hours.”
She walked out of the room, brushing past a vaguely familiar figure with short-cropped grey hair and steel spectacles. Another new board member, she recalled, although she couldn’t remember his name. She carried on down to the basement where she found James Ellworthy crouched over a monitor, humming to himself over a screen full of data. She dropped the smart card from Nancy’s photo frame on the desk in front of him. She wasn’t sure why she was bothering, but it was better than inactivity or kicking the furniture. And another confrontation with Claas would not end well for either of them.
The Locker Page 22
