The Locker (9 page)

fifteen

George Paperas was in
his late sixties, deeply tanned and full of vigour, one of life's doers. He bustled into the pub from the direction of upper Mayfair, greeted the barman like an old friend and ordered drinks as he made his way over to join Ruth at a corner table.

“It has to be you,” he said cheerfully. “I can see the likeness to your parents.” He tactfully refrained, Ruth noted, from saying which of her parents she resembled most. “I've ordered gin and tonics—I hope you don't mind. It's nearly that time of day and I'm sure we both deserve it. How can I help?”

She thanked him for coming and they talked small talk until the drinks arrived, then clinked glasses. Ruth was hoping Slik would be here but she decided to go ahead and find out what she could from this man. She wanted to get the blunt question out of the way first. If the answer was a yes, it would save a lot of talk.

“Have you ever heard of a charity field worker named Michael Hardman?”

Paperas thought about it, then shook his head. “He doesn't sound familiar. Why?”

“We're trying to contact him. His daughter's gone missing.”

He lifted an eyebrow and asked the obvious question. “Has he gone missing with her?”

“We thought of that, but there are … circumstances that indicate it's unlikely. He's somewhere in Africa, his wife thinks, and has been for a while, working for a small group thought to have had a temporary base in west London. We can't confirm that and we don't know the name of the agency … and his cell phone is out of range.”

“Lord. You've got yourselves a problem, then. There are vast areas in Africa where you can't get a signal unless you have the latest in satellite technology. And there aren't many charities who can run to those, especially the very small groups.”

She laid out the
leather-bound
book Nancy had given her containing the list of charities the couple had compiled, and explained what it was, including the ticks against some of the names. Paperas jumped on it immediately.

“I've seen lists like this before,” he said. “It's a wish list for people wanting to get into aid agency work. They usually begin with the big ones—Oxfam and so on—then work their way down until they find someone prepared to give them a chance.”

“Surely all agencies are crying out for help, even the big ones.”

“It depends what the volunteers are after. There are lots of young people with ideals—and some of them with money—who see the only valid charity work as out in the field, roughing it, to be brutally honest. But most agencies like them to put in some basic grunt jobs and training first before committing them to field work.”

“Why? Help is help, surely?”

“It is if it doesn't slow down the aid effort. Even enthusiastic idealists need to know how to go about it. They have to be trained in procedure, local culture, logistics, health and safety—all manner of things you wouldn't believe. Interacting with local officials is hugely important, as is understanding who you're trying to help and what their sensitivities are. A lot of aid effort portrayed in the media looks as though it's on the hoof and consists of little more than dolling out food, water and ground sheets to starving victims of famine, floods, disease and warfare. People who rush in and don't observe the rules are of no use if they fall victim to disease themselves. It happens, of course, but among the reputable organisations there's a logistical network to ensure that it's rare. Unless aid workers understand what the particular charity wants to accomplish, they're little more than an additional burden. Who did he work with?”

“That's the problem—we don't know.” Ruth explained about his wife's blank spot regarding her husband's work and movements. “I think he's tried numerous agencies, more on the hoof than anything organised.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. “He sounds like a pain in the arse to me. You can't have people turning up in the field unannounced; the local governors and officials don't like it.” He flicked through the pages of the book, then dropped it on the table. “I know many of these, but there are names I've never heard of—and I know more than most people. Some of them are probably
two-man
bands with high hopes and a bit of money from charitable collections, who think they can simply go out to wherever they like and all will be well. I'm afraid it's not that easy. A lot of them get into trouble and are forced to come back with their tails between their legs. And that doesn't help anybody.” He took a gulp of his drink. “Does he have private money?”

Ruth was cautious answering. “Not as far as we know. Why do you ask?”

“I'm wondering why he moved around so much. Most aid workers like to find a niche and stick with it. Chopping and changing really doesn't happen that much. Charity workers like to change direction and face new challenges like anyone else, but too much movement can indicate a lack of staying power. Some of the people I know have been in the same organisations for years. They do it because they feel a passion for the work and the people they help. But there are a few cruisers.”

“Cruisers?”

“The ones who don't stick. They do a bit then move on. They're not exactly unreliable, but they can signal a break in continuity. Charities are like commercial organisations; they like to know the workforce is going to be there in the morning when needed.” He nodded at the book. “And the names I know on that list with a tick against them are all very small. One person dropping out midway would floor them completely; they can't function if that happens.”

“I see.” She went to put the book away but he stopped her. “Tell you what I can do. “Let me contact the ones I know and see what I can find out. It's a long shot, but the best I can do. I'll ring you if I find anything.”

She nodded gratefully. “Thanks, George.” She waited while he made notes of the names he knew, then took back the book. Paperas stood up and, glancing at his watch, said goodbye and that he'd be in touch.

When there was still no sign of Vaslik after ten minutes, she tried his phone. It was engaged. She decided to make her way back to the Hardman house. When she emerged from the pub she was surprised to see Vaslik waiting for her across the street. He made no move to join her but gave a subtle signal for her to follow but stay back, before setting off along the pavement towards Piccadilly.

She did so, wondering what he was doing. A few minutes later she caught up with him in the Burlington Arcade, where he was waiting by a men's shoe shop.

“What's going on, Slik? Why didn't you come in?”

He ignored the question. “The guy you were with; was he
old-ish
, tanned, walks like his feet are on fire?”

“Yes. His name's George Paperas. He's a charity consultant. Why?”

“As I came down the street, two guys were waiting, one on each side. When your man came out they immediately latched onto him—one in front, the other further back. I wouldn't have thought much of it, except I recognised one of the tails.”

Ruth felt a flutter of disquiet. “Who was he?”

“The last time I saw him was at the DHS Glynco training facility in Georgia. A guy who knew him from law school pointed him out. He said he must have left law and moved up in the world.”

“Good for him. Why would Homeland Security be interested in George Paperas?”

He shrugged. “That's just it: he's not Homeland.”

“So what is he?”

“He's CIA.”

sixteen

“There's something not right
about the Hardmans story,” said Vaslik, as they walked towards where Ruth had left her car. First they'd checked to make sure they weren't being followed. It had entailed splitting up and circling the block, but once they were certain they were clean, they met up again.

He told her what he'd found at the flower shop in Finchley. “The owner seemed pretty certain of her facts. If she's right, it means Hardman was never anywhere near the place.”

“Damn,” Ruth muttered. “I'm getting more and more confused.” She was also getting tired of Nancy Hardman's economy with facts. It surely wasn't that difficult to remember where you had lived … unless you were being deliberately evasive. But why would she be? And why would the Central Intelligence Agency be following George Paperas?

“Is there any way we can check,” she asked, “about your CIA man?”

He gave her a sideways look. “You can't just ring them and ask. It could be a coincidence—they might have had him in their sights for unrelated reasons. And they never explain. What line of work is he in?”

She told him what she knew about George's background, and he nodded. “That's it, then. Guys like him have a lot of expertise and the CIA isn't ashamed to ask for their help when they need it. If he knows people and he's got the ear of the UN, he'll have access to a lot of information the CIA doesn't have.” He frowned. “Not that I think anybody in the charity field would want to be seen dead talking to them.”

As soon as they arrived back at the Hardman house, Ruth pulled Nancy to one side and said, “Tell me about Finchley.”

“Tell you what?” Nancy looked puzzled.

“It was a previous address. We got it off the Safeguard contract file.”

“I never said
I
lived there,” Nancy protested. “It was where Michael was living when we first met. I was in Edgware. He shared a flat with a friend and didn't want us to move in together.” She smiled. “He felt it wasn't right to start off our life together that way. He's
old-fashioned
like that, which was another thing I liked about him.”

“Did you ever see this place?”

A slight hesitation. “Well, no. I mean, he said it wouldn't be right, so I went along with it. We used to meet at my place. But after a few months we decided to share an apartment he'd found in Harrow.”

“Wow,” Ruth murmured in admiration. “A few months? You must have taken a lot of cold showers.”

Nancy blushed at the comment and plucked at a piece of stray cotton on her sleeve. “Yes, it was tough—especially the not …
being
together, if you know what I mean.”

“No sex. I get it.”

“When we did move in together, he said something which I thought was really sweet. He said us being a couple finally made him feel whole—and gave him a sense of history. Then Beth came along and we were three.” Her eyes glistened at the memory and she grabbed for a handkerchief.

Ruth stared at her and wondered with a tinge of guilt whether Nancy was cosmically dumb or genuinely sweet. Then she realised that there was something she'd just said that plucked at the corner of her mind, but it wouldn't become clear.

“So what happened with Finchley?”

“I think he continued paying some rent on that for a while so as not to let his friend down.”

“Do you know the name of this friend?”

“No. Sorry. I never met him. Michael said they were at college together. I gather he was having a hard time.”

“I don't suppose you know which college?” She already knew the answer to that one, but had to ask.

Nancy looked sheepish. “No. If he told me I forgot. Why—what's the problem?”

“Nothing. Crossed wires, that's all.” Damn, she thought. Another puzzle. Why would Hardman tell his wife he'd kept up an address in Finchley when there wasn't one? Even if he'd had a genuine place in the area, why lie about it? One thing was certain: wherever the apartment was, it certainly hadn't been above any flower shop.

Unless the “friend” had been a woman.

Nancy was still in
sugar-sweet
memory mode. “It was when we were in Harrow that Michael began, as he said, to build his life,” she said quietly, adding,
“our”
life. He'd given up working in the city shortly before we met and had begun working with charities. Once we were together he started with the list and went on from there. It was like a door had opened into the real world, he said. The start of a whole new life.”

“Lovely,” Ruth said, and wondered if the holes in that story were genuine, or a product of her own suspicious mind. Was the man for real? Nancy was no slouch in the looks department, yet Michael had resisted moving in with her for months. Then he'd started doing charity work. By any standards, sainthood was just a matter of time.

She went in search of Slik, who was out checking the rear lane, and gave him a
run-through
of the conversation. It gave her a chance to vent in safety.

He seemed amused by her scepticism. “You should visit the States; there are lots of guys who don't believe in cohabiting before marriage. What's wrong with that?”

She gave him an icy look, suspecting that he was winding her up. “What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong, Slik: this is London, not some
small-college
town along the bible belt where touching below the chin is a mortal sin. Sex before marriage here is a way of life and I don't believe for a second the crap about him paying rent just to help out a friend—unless the he was a she. As for starting their life together and making him feel whole—Yuk! Give me strength.”

Vaslik nodded. “I agree. But
sugar-sweet
is not a criminal offence.”

“You agree with me?” It surprised her. “Since when?”

“Since a while back. As I said earlier, there's something a bit screwy about this whole
set-up
. Trouble is, I doubt we'll ever find out where he was living when he met her. In fact I can't help thinking it was almost deliberate—as if he chose her because of the kind of person she is.”

“Really? I think she comes across as gullible, but she's no kid; we're not talking about a grown man taking advantage of a school girl.”

“Maybe not. Anyway, I don't think the Finchley place matters any more. Everything he did was from there onwards. The rest is a blank.”

They toured the block, checking cars and faces, talking out the kinks in what they knew so far. A lot of it made no real sense, but there wasn't much they could do until the reasons for Beth's kidnap and the kidnappers' interest in Michael Hardman became clear.

“Do you have family?” Vaslik asked, as they turned a corner.

“Sure. Two parents, five aunts, three uncles and a few cousins.”

“I didn't mean that kind.”

“I know.” She smiled. “You meant husbands, boyfriends or significant others.”

“Yes.”

“I'm not married and my last significant other bailed out three months ago. That do you?”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to pry. Did he get promotion?”

“She.”

He didn't miss a beat. “Same question, switch gender.” He was smiling now, but she wasn't sure whether he was teasing her or simply pleased with himself at having wormed out an answer.

“She went to Australia on a police exchange program. I'm not sure if she's coming back, though.”

She and Lisa had begun drifting apart, their lives on divergent courses until a row had propelled Lisa into applying for the exchange post. It had suited them both at the time, providing a seamless and easy
cut-off
to their three year relationship. Ruth had missed her almost immediately, and was still unsettled by the constant reminders of her and the distance between them.

She wasn't sure if Lisa felt the same way; only time would tell or until one of them made the first move.

Vaslik nodded but didn't say anything.

She stopped walking. “Is that it? You ask but don't give?”

He turned and waited for her to catch up, staring at the sky. “I'm divorced, no kids, no pets. Cops and marriage don't always go together, DHS even less so. Since we split I've been too busy moving around and haven't had time to develop a significant anything.”

“You should,” she advised him, detecting a glimmer of something softer in his outer demeanour. It made him seem suddenly less faceless. “The
ice-man
image really doesn't suit you.”

They arrived back at the rear of the house and found Gina waiting at the back door.

Vaslik nodded and walked past to check the front of the house and the street.

“Anything?” said Ruth. There was no sign of Nancy and the building was silent. She thought Gina looked brighter, as if she'd got a second wind. Or maybe she'd taken some of her happy pills.

“Nothing. No mail, just a charity bag drop. I thought that was ironic, considering. You?”

“Lots of questions, not many answers.”

“It's still day one.” The kitchen clock showed 6:30 and Ruth wondered where the time had gone. She was beginning to feel drained. But Gina was right; they were still at the beginning. The kidnappers were probably waiting to see who showed up first—the cops or Michael Hardman.

She asked Gina if she had slept.

“
Cat-napped
.” She blinked as she said it, instantly conscious of the similarity in wording and their reasons for being here. “Sorry.”

Ruth waved it away. It was too easy to get paranoid about what was said in these situations in a rush of
over-sensitivity
for those left behind. “Don't worry. I once
baby-sat
a senior banker who'd received death threats; a note said he was going to be chopped into
minced-meat
for refusing a loan. I mentioned at one point without thinking that I could kill for a burger; he wasn't impressed.”

Gina turned her head towards the front of the house. “How's the
all-American
boy? Has he come onto you yet?”

“I'm not his type. You?”

“I don't think he trusts me enough for that. The feeling's mutual, come to that.”

“Why?” She felt disloyal talking about a colleague like this, but her interest was piqued. Damaged or not, Gina Fraser was still a cop by instinct and training. Her job entailed studying people and making assessments based on behaviour, attitude and her own instincts.

“Not sure. There's something about him. I've met a lot of American cops and quite a few of their Secret Service people. Vaslik feels more spook than cop.” She checked the camera monitors then said, “Or maybe it's
post-traumatic
shock kicking in and making me suspicious of everybody around me—even the friendlies.”

Ruth admired her honesty. “A spook? How's that, then?”

“I don't know … he's very
self-contained
, as if he doesn't really fit—or maybe doesn't want to. Like he's rising above everything and playing a part. Their Secret Service agents are like that: totally focussed on the Main Man and disconnected from the rest of humanity unless they pose a threat.”

“He's a kidnap specialist and a former Homeland Security agent. Not so different, I guess.”

Just then Vaslik stepped back into the kitchen. “All quiet. We staying here?”

“Yes.” Ruth felt tired. She needed something to eat, then sleep. She would have preferred her own flat and bed, but the likelihood was that if the kidnappers made contact, it would be sooner rather than later. And Gina needed to be spelled, too; she couldn't keep going even if she pretended otherwise. Being high on adrenalin was no substitute for rest, and they would need her at her best if this thing went off.

“You don't have to,” said Gina, reading her mind. “I'll call if anything happens.”

“We're staying.” Ruth gestured at the sofa. “We'll take turns to kip; four hours on, four off. You go to bed and I'll take the first stag.”

Gina shrugged and wandered off towards the stairs, yawning, while Vaslik looked unmoved. It was nothing he wasn't used to. He made a show of checking the sofa for firmness and went to do another scan of the building.