The Locker (25 page)

fifty

Hyde Park held its
customary evening mix of tourists and commuters, the first enjoying the open space, while the muted roar of traffic from Park Lane showed the concentration of cars and buses deploying the latter out of the capital heading to the west and north.

The note from Aston had specified the area on the northern edge of the park, along the road known as North Carriage Drive. It was a pleasant mix of trees, road and pathways across a large expanse of grass, much favoured by
horse-riders
and others, and a convenient step for residents on the other side of the Bayswater Road to get out from the narrow streets and buildings.

Ruth entered the park from the north side opposite Albion Street and paused briefly to check her surroundings. She was deliberately early. She would have preferred being here an hour ago to give the place a thorough inspection, but suspected that was something the man meeting her had avoided intentionally by suggesting the rendezvous at such short notice.

Unable to see anything noteworthy, she walked as far as the inner road and turned right along the pavement. It put her in full view so that the man would see her, but its very openness gave her a tiny edge; she might be able to spot anyone taking an undue interest in her, too. And in clandestine meetings like this, you took whatever advantages you were offered with both hands.

She used the pretence of checking her phone to scrutinise the people nearby. Some were jogging, others walking dogs or children, others more purposeful and focussed, on their way to work or home. But no obvious lone spooks lurking beneath the trees.

She couldn't see Vaslik, although she knew he was there. It was a basic precaution having him watching her back, although she had no reason to be wary of meeting Aston's mysterious contact. But if there was anybody to see, the American might be able to get a snapshot for future reference.

A movement showed up ahead where there had previously been none.
A
man with a briefcase had stepped out from behind a group of obvious tourists fifty yards ahead, and stood waiting for her. He gave a nod.
Middle-aged
, dressed in a charcoal grey suit and shiny shoes, unremarkable, a typical Mr. Nobody, an office worker taking time out to smell the grass.

As she drew level with him he turned and walked with her, gradually leading her off towards the open green of the main park.

“Don't worry, Miss Gonzales,” he said easily. “I'm not a stalker.”

“It's your lucky day, then,” she replied. “You'd have got yourself
drop-kicked
into the bushes. You've got some information for me.”

Up close he was older than she'd first thought, with the weathered stringiness of a man who spent a lot of time outside. Early sixties, she guessed; smart,
well-dressed
, a
mid-level
civil servant but no regular
pen-pusher
. There was something too undeniably hard about him for a desk jockey. Maybe they'd pulled him out of retirement for this.

“I don't have long,” he said without preamble or introduction, “so please listen. This is a
once-only
meeting.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I do, but you don't need it. I'm merely delivering information.”

He was a messenger. A courier with no
back-trail
. “Suits me. Go ahead.”

“Like you, my colleagues and I are trying to find a missing person. We think you might be able to help us.”

“Really?” She was puzzled, and wondered if they had been working unknowingly in tandem. “If you are what I think you are, why would you be looking for Beth Hardman?”

“If you keep interrupting, this meeting is over.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you. The person we're trying to locate is a man, and is known in criminal quarters as a bag man. He moves money from one place to another. Lots of it. He travels light, avoiding customs hot spots and using
back-door
entry and exit routes known to very few people.”

“A smuggler?” She stopped and stared at him, bringing him to a halt. “Are you Revenue and Customs?” Maybe a
drop-kick
would be in order. Why the hell was he talking to her? This was a waste of time.

He gave a dry chuckle and turned to walk on, waiting for her to catch up before continuing. “Hardly. Bank transfers, as you know, leave electronic trails. The bigger the sum moved the more it stands out and risks coming under official scrutiny—especially with recent
crack-downs
on
money-laundering
… and the movement of
terrorist-related
funds around the globe.”

Ruth felt her mouth go dry. The pause had been intentional, she was certain. But where was this leading?

“I still don't see how this involves me; I'm looking for a kidnapped child.”

“I'm aware of that. Have you ever heard of Hawala?”

“Yes, It's a banking system in Islamic countries.”

“More or less. It's centuries old, a form of honour system using a chain of brokers, often outside traditional banking. It's especially efficient for making payments across continents. Experts refer to it as money movement without moving money. I don't see the distinction from normal banking and credit, myself, but that's me.”

“Go on.”

“We've known for some time that a number of fringe extremist groups have been working together to amass and move funds, basically in the manner of
co-operative
banks. It's nothing new, of course; it spreads the costs, gives access to a wider source of
fund-holders
, and as long as everyone plays their part and they stay lucky, it reduces the risks. This way they've been moving money without the risk of being recorded.”

“And it works?”

“Yes. We occasionally get lucky and hit on
supply-line
or a block of currency, but in spite of closing down more than a dozen such lines, there's been a steady flow continuing across borders all through the middle east and Europe. Somali pirates, for example, are using it to finance their trade.”

“Go on.”

“We crash one route and a few days later it's business as usual. Even with some of the known money men behind bars with their accounts blocked or closed down, still the organisations have all the cash they need. Or valuables.”

“Is that significant?” She was fast getting used to this man's obliquely direct way of dropping information. If he'd used the word “valuables,” it had been for a reason.

“Very. We've noticed a growing pattern over the past eighteen months, especially with some of the smaller freelance groups. Whereas before they were struggling to find support or cash, mostly relying on local sources, they now shop on the world's market like all the bigger names.”

“How do you know that? You can't be following them all.”

“We don't have to. We follow the money. We've noticed a sharp rise in the trade of jewellery and gold—even blood diamonds. Much of it turns up miles from where it would normally be found. But it doesn't stop long before moving on, traded just like electronic money but with no trail unless somebody gets careless … or we get lucky.”

“They use mules?”

“That's one way. But there's another—and not some witless uni student on a gap year hoping to make a quick few bucks on the side by hiding diamonds in their knickers. There's been a lot of chatter picked up on phones and emails about something called
khazenat al wada'aa
or
khezanha
. At least, that's as near as we can make out.”

“What does it mean?”

“There are many variations used by different sources and dialects, but we've pinned it down under a generic word meaning “locker” or safe deposit box. Frankly, it makes little difference when you know what it refers to. All we knew was that it was constantly on the move.”

Ruth said nothing, surprised by the irony of the word. A locker was where this had all begun.

“We thought we were following an actual item to begin with,” the man said. “Something tangible like a strong box of some kind. It would certainly make sense bearing in mind the topic. But we soon realised that wasn't it; the word had been coined, if you'll excuse the pun, to divert attention if anybody picked up on it, which we eventually did. Talk of a box and that's what everyone looks for. We spent too long checking left luggage areas, storage facilities, even trucks and cars, looking for travellers or small groups of men with heavy bags they didn't like leaving alone. It was a simple distraction technique to put us off.” He sighed. “It worked, too, until we realised it was moving too easily to be anything so specific.”

“So you're saying this ‘locker' is a person?”

“Precisely. And whoever it is seems able to move through borders without hindrance, carrying money and valuables from place to place, from deal to deal. He's effectively using what he carries to sign off against weapons, equipment—even manpower. He's trusted implicitly and each group knows that anything he agrees to carries more weight than any bank, more reliability than any authority they can name save one.” He pointed a meaningful finger at the sky. “But down here, this mule is almost as powerful. The deal is the deal and the mule is the teller—the broker or
Hawaladar
to use the correct term.”

“Clever.”

“Very. But risky for him in the long term.”

“What are we talking about—hundreds of thousands of pounds or what?”

“More like millions. We know the current market price of weapons, so we can work out a reasonably accurate estimate of what's he's carrying by the stuff being financed.”

“One man.” It didn't seem possible, although nothing she'd heard so far seemed too
far-fetched
, given the twisted but inventive nature of extremist organisations.

“Certainly—why not? He's carrying high value items and he is adept at not standing out or drawing attention to himself. He seems to have the skill to blend in wherever he goes and the credentials for being in places Europeans don't normally go. He undoubtedly has
back-up
funds with local brokers too, if the deal to finance requires more.” He shrugged. “We don't know where he keeps it and probably never will, but that's for somebody else to worry about.”

He stopped and looked at her, head cocked to one side, and she realised he was waiting for her to make the necessary connection.

And then it clicked. He'd mentioned a European.

God, she'd been so bound up in thoughts of Beth that she'd ignored the blindingly obvious. “You're talking about Michael Hardman.”

“Yes.”

fifty-one

She struggled with the
idea of Nancy's husband being a bag man for anybody, let alone terrorists—even though she had never met the man. If what Nancy had said about their finances was true, clearly none of the money stuck to his fingers. Or given the people he worked for, maybe he was aware of the consequences if it did. Still, from charity worker to funding extremist groups was a hell of a jump. And yet, maybe not. Humanitarian convictions came in many guises. “It's a hell of a job to have on your CV.” She couldn't think of anything else to say.

He gave her a patient look. “Hardman doesn't do this as a job; neither does he work for a criminal organisation—at least, not in the normal sense. He does it because he wants to. Think about it: he's a natural fit.”

He was right. In a weird way the job fitted Hardman like a second skin. The charity worker, the westerner, the man on a mission—well, several missions—with a background of working for various aid agencies, using one as cover to gain access or acquire the necessary passes, a seasoned traveller, good at hiding his tracks, even from his wife. And with no apparent connections to anyone else.

“How did he get himself involved with terrorism?”

“He didn't get ‘involved'—at least, not by accident. There have been previous cases of aid workers doing a bit of smuggling on the side, some even forced into it by unscrupulous criminals. It's hardly new. But this one's taken the job to new heights. In fact, you might say he's made it his life's work.”

“If you know who he is, how come you haven't picked him up?”

“We've tried. And that was before we knew or suspected his name. The French got very close once in Lahore, but lost him. We had intel on his location three times, but it led nowhere. He's unbelievably skilled at staying below the radar. In fact,” he almost smiled, “if he ever changes sides, there'll be a
six-way
auction to sign him up—including us.”

“But if it is Hardman, he lives right here.”

“We know that now. We didn't until very recently, so we couldn't exactly knock on his door. And, as you know, he hasn't been around for a while.”

“How did you find out?”

“Let's say an ally let it slip.”

“Ally?”

“A person of interest.”

Ruth let that go; it wasn't her business how the information had come to light, nor how it had been acquired, whether by luck or circumstance. “How did Hardman get the job in the first place. And why would they trust a European in such a role?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering how he became a money man for al Qaeda.” She was trying to picture Michael Hardman, husband and father, with a wife and daughter in suburban London and photos in a neat electronic frame to prove it, having this double life of extremes. Until now it might have been laughable. But apparently not—if this man was telling the truth.

The man shook his head and stopped walking. Turned to face her. There was nobody within a hundred yards, but he spoke softly. “It would be bad enough if he were simply a fellow traveller, a naïve sympathiser who'd fallen under the spell of human injustice and wanted to do his bit to help. We might have been able to cope with that; naivety is often coupled with impatience and a lack of awareness in the real world. That leads to
risk-taking
and simple mistakes. It would have saved us a lot of time and countless lives.”

It was something she hadn't yet had time to consider: that whoever the terrorist money man was, he was ultimately responsible for the provision of weapons, explosives and the paraphernalia of death. The fact that it was being done under the guise of a charity worker seemed to make it so much worse.

“A convert, then?” The idea seemed wild, but Hardman wouldn't be the first westerner to have changed faiths so dramatically. And converts were usually the most intense and fiery of all extremists.

“Not even that. Michael Hardman never actually existed; he's an invention. The man we know as Hardman has a variety of aliases but his real name is almost certainly Wesam Bahdari. He hails from Palestine.”

“Are you sure?”

“He's been reliably identified by a childhood friend. They bumped into each other in Paris one day. The friend was working at a hotel desk where Hardman was booking in. Hardman has a small scar above the thumb of his right hand—his writing hand. His friend recognised it when he signed in.”

“And he reported it?”

“Yes. It took a while. The young man he'd known as Bahdari was supposed to have died carrying out a bus bombing in Haifa twenty years ago. Yet here he was walking the streets of Paris using a British name. Bahdari was always paler than many Palestinians, he said, which explains how he was able to pass as European. Bahdari's reaction to the meeting was apparently quite unpleasant. At first he denied any knowledge of anyone named Bahdari. Then he began making threats. The friend was so terrified by the encounter he went into hiding before deciding to call French Intelligence, who passed on the information.”

“That was good of them.”

He gave a wintry smile. “We work much closer than many people think. But for once the information landed on the right desk at the right time.”

Ruth recalled the images from the photo frame. She'd thought Hardman appeared vaguely Mediterranean, but could see how difficult it would be to pinpoint his true origins.

“So all the trips abroad, the extended periods away?”

“Nothing to do with charity. He's a mobile banker, using the charity organisations as cover to move around. It made him virtually untouchable.”

“No wonder he didn't show up for long in the aid agencies' records.” She was remembering what George Paperas had found.

“He couldn't afford to. There was always another group to talk to, another cover to assume.”

They walked on a little further. The man was beginning to angle their path back towards the road. Ruth looked back and saw a dark saloon car drifting at walking pace towards them on an intercept course. She sensed the meeting was coming to a point.

“So what's the kidnap about? We haven't heard a peep from them yet. What do they want? Is it money, a rival organisation trying to horn in?”

“Nothing like that. Hardman's a wanted man, pure and simple. He possesses the kind of information that some people would give their grandmothers to acquire. Details of accounts, contacts, acquisitions, deliveries, codes … and people who mean us great harm. I doubt there has been anyone recently on the planet with quite the value this man has.”

“Like the spreadsheet.”

“Yes, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. He knows names we couldn't even begin to find. Not even Bin Laden knew the kind of stuff Hardman has in his head. So much so that our sources tell us the kidnappers have orders to do whatever they have to in order to get him.”

“So they're official?”

“As far as we know,” he said carefully, “they're a freelance team.”

“Same thing these days. That's appalling … they're using his daughter as bait!”

“They're doing what they have to. I'm not saying I endorse it, but it's a reality.” He appeared unruffled by the idea, as if it were an academic exercise in logic.

“Then what? What will they do to him if he does turn up?”

“He'll be moved on somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“That's not relevant to this discussion.”

“You're talking about extraordinary rendition.”

“Of course not. That's been abandoned.”

“Can't you do something to stop it—to get Beth back home?”

“I wish we could. The operation has gone too far. The team looking for Hardman is believed to be a former CIA
sub-group
aided by a covert Israeli cell, all private contractors with no governmental ties—at least, none that are traceable. We don't know who the individual members are or where they're based, nor do we know who controls them … although we have our suspicions. The group itself is small, very mobile and completely off the grid. The members could be in the next street or fifty miles away.”

Ruth remembered the paper napkin from the deli near Grosvenor Square and said, “Have you tried the US Embassy?”