The Locker

by Adrian Magson

  “Wait.” She grabbed his arm to stop him. It was stringy and lean, all sinew and bone. “Why are you telling me all this? Why this …” She swept her other arm out, indicating the park and the two of them. “ … this charade?”

  He shrugged her hand away. “Because I don’t believe they will get him—at least, not today or tomorrow. But they will soon. It’s inevitable. Somebody close to Mrs. Hardman should know. I’m hoping you can prepare her for what she will undoubtedly hear one day.”

  “What—so I get to break the bad news: that her loving, albeit distant husband is not a charity worker after all, but a slush-fund pal of al Qaeda? Is that going to be on top of telling her that her daughter’s nanny, Tiggi Sgornik, in whose care she was, in your words, perfectly safe, was found beaten to death near Putney Bridge last night?”

  He said nothing, but she was rewarded with noticing a slight tic in his cheek as the news hit home. Perhaps it would serve as a reminder to him that he and whoever he worked for were not as all-knowing as they might think.

  When he finally spoke, it was with an air of sadness. “I’m sorry to hear that, truly. But it changes nothing. In fact it should serve as an additional warning. Don’t make the mistake of starting a crusade and don’t ask questions when this is all over; any over-interest could be detrimental to your future.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course I am.” His voice had gone flat. “Never forget, Miss Gonzales, that terrorist money has a two-way movement. It buys weapons and resources to build IEDs in far-off places, to blow up buildings and tear the limbs from soldiers and innocent civilians alike. Syria is a recent case in point, where we believe Hardman’s been assisting in arming various factions. These things happen in the main away from this green and pleasant land, but some of the cash and valuables that pay for it originate right here. There’s also a risk—a substantial risk—that some part of the arsenal Hardman is helping finance by his activities may be used to train and equip terrorists who might one day end up here in London. On your doorstep. So don’t waste your emotions or energy feeling too discomfited by what might happen to Michael Hardman. Rest assured in the coming days he won’t be thinking about you … or his family.”

  Ruth watched as he walked away and climbed into the car waiting at the side of the road. Then she reached inside her blouse and took out the cell phone nestling just inside her bra.

  She held it to her ear. “Did you get all that?”

  fifty-three

  Andy Vaslik watched from under cover of a tree as the car left the park and turned towards Marble Arch. He wasn’t yet familiar with London or the logistical trappings of the British establishment, but he recognised an official car when he saw one. They all moved with the same steady yet deceptively smooth turn of speed that took extensive training and practice on the part of the drivers. Serenity and a polished bodywork hiding God only knew what secrets.

  And what he’d just heard pretty much beat any secrets he’d come across just lately. Well, almost. It left him breathless. He had to do something.

  “Got it,” he confirmed shortly, thinking fast. “I’ll be in touch later.”

  “Wait—”

  He shut off the cellphone and watched as Ruth stared at the screen of her phone, then looked around for him. But it was in vain. He was already on the move and nowhere near where she would have thought of seeing him. And right now he needed absolute privacy.

  He turned and hailed a cab. Time to get clear of the area in case the mystery man had posted a few friends to watch over who else came and went in the wake of his chat with Ruth. They wouldn’t be interested in her now; they had seen her face-to-face. But they might not yet have his details on record and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. He certainly didn’t want anyone following him.

  He got the cab to drop him off in Piccadilly near Green Park, and walked into the park until he was alone.

  He dialled the Washington number and waited for it to be picked up, as he knew it would be. Drybeck might not work conventional hours every day, but he would have people who did. And they’d be just a call away, especially now.

  He had begun rehearsing this call while listening to what the mystery man—he had to be a member of one of Britain’s security or intelligence agencies, it didn’t matter which—had told Ruth about Hardman. And nearly everything he had said chimed too closely with what Drybeck had told him to be fiction.

  “Drybeck.” The man was in.

  “I have some information,” Vaslik said, adopting a suitable chastened tone of voice; the humbled subordinate recognising his place. Senior officers like Drybeck always liked a little humility in lesser beings.

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Wait one.” He heard a mumble of conversation in the background followed by a door closing. Drybeck was getting rid of a visitor. Then he was back on. “Go ahead.”

  “The British security services are aware of the group you mentioned.”

  “I’d be very surprised if they weren’t; they’re hardly amateurs. So what?”

  He gave Drybeck the bare guts of what the mystery man had told Ruth, skimming over some details for brevity. He doubted it was giving away confidences at this stage, and in any case there was no way Drybeck would be able to identify the source of the information.

  “Really? Is that all you’ve got? It’s hardly news.”

  “But the methods they’re using?” He wanted to test the water, to see if Drybeck would let anything out. He was shocked to find it worked.

  “You’re very naïve, Mr. Vaslik, if you think normal methods are practical in the fight against terrorism. Some of us do what we have to … even if the establishment seems disinclined to approve openly. This is a war we’re engaged in, and I intend to see we do not lose it.”

  The arrogance behind the words was sickening. The admission that Drybeck was connected with the kidnap could not have been more open, Vaslik was certain of it. Unintended, perhaps, although what did a man like Drybeck have to fear from him? He probably even got a kick out of letting it be known to a subordinate that he had such knowledge, such power.

  “You said you had information,” Drybeck reminded him. “Was that it? Please don’t waste my time.”

  Vaslik took a deep breath. This was going to fly or it was going to crash and burn. There was no halfway house. “I’ve got more. About Michael Hardman. Or, should I say, Wesam Bahdari.” He’d kept the name back in case he needed a trigger. Now the time had come to try it out. He would soon find out if it worked or not.

  The silence went on so long, Vaslik thought Drybeck had given up and cut him off.

  “Hello?”

  “I heard you. Where did you get that name?” Drybeck’s voice was ice-cold. And in spite of himself and the dangerous situations he’d been in over the years, Vaslik felt a chill touch the back of his neck. This really was a man not to mess with.

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? You obviously know it, too. Thing is, I know where he’s going to be tomorrow. He wants to see his daughter.”

  “Where?”

  Vaslik was thinking on the hoof. He hadn’t planned on doing this; all he’d wanted was confirmation that Drybeck had connections to the kidnap of Beth Hardman. Now he had that confirmation he was formulating a plan off the top of his head. Quite where it would lead was impossible to predict but Beth’s safety was paramount. And he now had no doubts at all that given the chance, Drybeck was going to brush this entire incident under the carpet … and the Hardmans along with it.

  If there was going to be a hand-over or an exchange, which is what Drybeck would expect, it needed to be somewhere busy, somewhere difficult to police. Somewhere Vaslik could exert some degree of control. He was sure Ruth would blow a fuse when he told her, but that was too bad. From what they had learned so far, with Tiggi Sgornik’s death and the way Drybeck was reacting, time was fast runnin
g out for Beth Hardman. He had to think fast.

  “Central London,” he said. “He wants to see her first, to know she’s safe.”

  “Really?” Drybeck was suspicious. “That doesn’t gel with what we know of him. He’s shown no concern for her so far, so why now?”

  Vaslik heard a noise in the background, a door opening and closing and a muted mumble of voices. Suddenly he knew: the trigger had worked. Drybeck was starting the ball rolling.

  “I don’t know the man so I can’t tell. But he seems serious.”

  “Our intel says he’s nowhere near London.” Still a seed of doubt.

  “Why do you think nobody’s found him? He’s been on his way here all along. It’s taken time.”

  “How? By what route? We’ve been watching for him.”

  “The same way he moves everywhere else. Back roads; paths nobody else uses. He’s an expert at this stuff. The guy’s good at what he does, but he’s paranoid, too.”

  There was a puff of contempt from Drybeck, an indication that he didn’t share Vaslik’s views. “Very well. What time and where?”

  Vaslik breathed easier, and felt a deep loathing for this man. The final decider: the only reason for Drybeck to be interested in the time of the meeting was if he had direct contact with the group holding Beth hostage. It meant he was in a position to direct their movements and do so at short notice.

  Their controller.

  He could hardly believe it. Drybeck probably had them on speed-dial.

  “I said, what time and where? Don’t mess with me, Vaslik. This is too important.”

  Vaslik hesitated, but not because of the threat in Drybeck’s words. The moment he gave the man time and place, events would be set in motion over which he had no direct control. There would be no going back. Drybeck’s people would be waiting, all on the lookout for himself, Ruth and Michael Hardman. And he knew the kind of assets they would be; they would be ready to do anything to snatch Hardman and get him away and out of the country. He didn’t like to think about the possibility of the collateral damage involved.

  He wavered for an instant, suddenly fearful of what might happen. One option was to simply not take the next step, to allow Drybeck’s people to run around central London in vain, chasing their tails. They’d be seriously pissed off and there would undoubtedly be an outcome he didn’t like to think about.

  But it wasn’t an option he could control. At least following through with his plan would provide proof of who was running this business and allow him the chance to stop Drybeck in his tracks.

  “Noon. He’ll be there at noon. Trafalgar Square. But he wants to see the girl. Agreed?”

  There was no answer. The line was dead.

  fifty-four

  When Ruth arrived next morning, the Hardman house was being systematically taken apart by a team of security people. Furniture was being searched and scanned with hand-held scanners, the floorboards were being taken up and the walls were being tested and scanned for recent re-painting or plastering work. The woman in charge answered to the name of Mitchell; no rank, no details. She was standing in the kitchen when Ruth was allowed inside by a constable on duty at the front door.

  There was no sign of Nancy, Gina, or Vaslik.

  “What’s going on?” Ruth demanded, although in the wake of the meeting in Hyde Park yesterday evening, she could guess the answer. That man then had merely been a front-runner. His task had been to lay out the reasoning the security agencies were following. What was happening now was the hard reality of security work. They had a suspect and this was to see what, if anything, lay beneath the fabric of the building; what secrets lay behind the façade of the Hardmans’ seemingly everyday suburban existence.

  “I’ve got the necessary paperwork if you want to see it,” Mitchell replied, although she made no move to produce it. A tough-looking woman in her forties, with hair cut short and the businesslike attitude of a professional, she gave a ghost of a smile. “Not that you have the authority to ask. But I like to be polite. Ruth Gonzales, isn’t it?”

  Ruth nodded, nettled by Mitchell’s superior tone. “That’s correct. We searched the place already. What are you looking for?”

  Grey eyes settled on her. “You know what the householder is suspected of doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll know what we’re looking for. Anything and everything.” She gave a puff of air and a wry smile. “Not that it’s looking too promising right now. Interesting set of listening devices, though.” She nodded at the kitchen worktop where a scattering of tiny electronic components had been dropped. “I’d love to find out where they originated from. Somebody else is interested in the Hardmans, I take it?”

  “Yes. We’re just not sure who, though. Where’s Mrs. Hardman?”

  “Upstairs with Fraser. Now there’s an odd choice for this work. I thought she was classified unfit for service. Or does the private sector not worry too much about the fine detail, like if someone’s still traumatised and a danger to herself and everyone around her?”

  It was a long speech but Ruth was determined not to rise to the bait. Mitchell was merely setting out their respective turfs: Ruth’s in the private sector, her own in the official one where the firepower was infinitely greater. “Gina’s fine. She’s solid, in fact. Are you going to put any of this back?” She was referring to a thick layer of plaster on the floor and worktops where a man in overalls was digging into the wall with a hammer and cold chisel. Some of the cabinet base-boards had been kicked in to search the cavities underneath, and the sink was hanging by the water pipes while another man lay on his belly checking the furthermost corners of the kitchen with a flashlight.

  “Of course. It’ll be back in top condition by close of play today. The owner won’t even know it’s been touched.”

  An exchange of voices came from the front door. Moments later Andy Vaslik appeared, barely restrained by the constable, who was looking red in the face.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the officer muttered. “He insisted.”

  “That’s fine,” Mitchell nodded. “Let him in. You must be Vaslik.”

  “That’s me.” He waved a hand. “Don’t worry—I can see you’re having fun.” He looked at Ruth. “You got a minute?”

  Ruth didn’t, after his vanishing act the previous evening, but it was better than staying here listening to the sounds of destruction going on around them.

  She excused herself and followed him outside.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” he said immediately, and sounded genuine. He nodded towards the end of the street. “I don’t trust this place enough to talk freely. Let’s walk.”

  He led the way a half pace ahead of her, his shoulders set, and Ruth followed, intrigued by his manner. He looked shaken, his lips tight, as if he hadn’t slept well. Eventually he began talking.

  “After hearing what the spook said yesterday, I had to talk to somebody. It turns out we have what some would call a situation.”

  “No shit,” she muttered. “I knew that much last night. Why the secrecy?”

  “Because I had something I wanted to check and I could have been wrong. I like to get my facts straight.”

  “And?”

  “I wasn’t wrong. I now know who’s behind the kidnap.”

  fifty-five

  Ruth stopped walking. They were out on an open street, with nobody within earshot. She wondered what she was about to hear.

  “Go on. Yours or ours?”

  He explained, relating the phone conversations with Drybeck, the threats and the call to Washington yesterday evening that had told him what he had begun to suspect. He admitted that a tiny part of him still wasn’t sure he believed it.

  She listened carefully, wondering how much he was leaving out. She still didn’t know him well enough to trust him completely, but she had a feeling he wasn’t being e
ntirely open.

  “I’m guessing this Drybeck is higher up the pole than your pal Eric. How come you know him?”

  “I don’t, not really. He’s a Washington power player and sits on at least one security committee.” He hesitated. “That’s all I know for now. I’ll tell you more later.”

  She leaned towards him, sensing he was being evasive. “Bullshit. You’ve been acting strange right from the start of this job, Slik. Actually, forget that—Andrei. Is Vaslik even your real name or is that a load of bullshit, too? The Russian family background and the balalaika crap—real or not?”

  “It’s real.”

  “Great. Pity I’m not sure if I believe you or not. You’ve had me fooled, you know that? But then, it’s not too hard to pull the wool over my eyes, is it? I’m just an ex-cop, whereas you’re—what are you really—CIA? FBI? One of those black ops departments run out of a Washington brownstone with a budget the size of our national debt?”

  “I’m what I said, which is freelance. It was after I got the job with Cruxys that I was contacted by Homeland Security. I was asked to be on standby while I was here in London. There was no threat to you, Cruxys or your country; I was told it was purely a watching brief and to be ready to give whatever assistance I could if requested. I was misled. I didn’t know Drybeck had gone rogue.”

  Ruth said nothing, so he continued.

  “The DHS is now one of the biggest departments of the federal system. They work with other agencies and sometimes wires get crossed—which is kind of what happened here.”

  “Well, that’s OK, then.” Her tone was brutally cutting and made him wince. “Did somebody not get the memo?”

  “Something like that. Nobody will admit to it publicly, but there’s a lot of competition and rivalry between departments and agencies. Sometimes bad choices get made trying to do the right thing.”