The Locker (26 page)

fifty-two

“That's not even funny,”
the man countered mildly. “We asked them, but the Americans say they have no connection with the operation.”

“And you believe them?”

“Of course. There are some individuals in the various agencies that I will never get to, but there's nothing I can do about that. Whoever they are, agency or private, American or Israeli, they won't stop now they've started; they're operating in isolation for security reasons and have a simple objective: to draw Hardman out of cover. They're counting on him coming back to London once he hears about his daughter.”

“He knows by now—his wife's been texting him.”

He looked sceptical. “Yes, we heard about that. For good measure we also spread the word among some back channels his wife wouldn't have been able to reach. It was worth a try; anything to get him to come in.”

“Do you believe he will?”

“No, I don't. If he's as committed as he seems—as others are—his family is part of his cover. In fact, given what Nancy Hardman told you about their first encounter in Paris, it's possible even then that he was looking for a European woman to get close to—to groom as cover and provide him with a legend. Nancy happened along at the right moment.”

Andy had suggested something similar—that Nancy and Michael being together had seemed almost deliberate. “So,” she said, “they're a means to an end, nothing more.”

“Correct. She's collateral damage in the greater cause, I'm afraid. Threatening her and Beth will have no effect other than to harden him in his aims.”

If this was true, Ruth had to face an awful thought: she'd been taken in by Nancy all along and that it had all been part of an act. “Is it possible she knows what Michael does?”

“We simply don't know. Nothing's certain in this business, but I wouldn't bet either way. We don't have anything worth a mention to hold against her. Anyway, I thought you might have a better take on that than I.” He looked at her for a response, and she was surprised he actually seemed interested in her answer.

“I don't know, either. I don't want to believe that she does, but it's possible.” Ruth couldn't imagine any mother being capable of living with the knowledge that she was part of a situation that had led to her daughter being kidnapped. It defied belief. And yet she knew there were women, mothers, sisters, who had done just that in various parts of the world, in the belief that almost any loss was worth the cause. “She loves Beth, I know that.”

“I'm sure she does. I just don't think Hardman feels the same; he'd be here otherwise.”

“So you think Beth's expendable in his eyes.”

“It doesn't matter what I think. All I can judge is the reality of the situation.” His tone was almost indifferent. “I wouldn't concern yourself about the daughter. I understand she's perfectly safe, being looked after by the nanny.”

“
What
?” Ruth wanted to slug him, to jolt him into her vision of what was real. Then she realised the awful truth: he didn't know. He obviously hadn't yet heard about Tiggi Sgornik's murder. She wondered what he did know and gritted her teeth to hide her anger. She decided to test him. “Is she American, too?”

“I have no idea. I doubt it. Probably Israeli. Their female operatives are particularly adept at this kind of assignment.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to be going.”

“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—”

H
e 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 running 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.