The Unseen (15 page)

Sean was answered on the third ring. “I have positive links on the Poor Girl victims,” he told Cobbart. “Also an area of enquiry with direct lines to each victim, PKL computer games. Could be nothing, but my hunch is otherwise. My line of enquiry requires I go undercover as a potential investor. I need funds, enough to get serious PKL attention. Say five hundred k.”

“Don’t ask much, do you?”

“I also need Steve Rawlings in High-Tech to be given resources and time.”

“The whole idea was to keep this low key. Other forces are involved, there is a political side.”

“We have a serial killer in our midst and you sent me out to hunt. This will only get bigger before it’s finished.” He listened to Cobbart’s grunt of dissent and knew he had approval.

“Leave it with me,” the troll said. “That sort of money takes time.”

Sean stopped outside MI5 and watched Victoria cross the busy road. “I’ve got five minutes, maximum,” she said, sliding onto the passenger seat and closing the door.

“You said the Box could tap where we couldn’t. You must have a huge resource file.”

Victoria nodded. “All sorts of goodies.”

“What about subliminal psychotic induction?”

“Used and banned years ago.” She paused, her eyes steady. He thought maybe she was ahead of him. She said finally, “Commercial companies used it to encourage sales. Images were flashed on TV screens and in cinemas. Words, pictures, all designed to produce a subliminal impulse in the viewer.”

“Could it be used over the Net?”

She shrugged, twisting in the seat to face him. “Possibly. The implications would be immense. But I think it very unlikely. You would need to be in deep and with high resources.”

“Mass indoctrination or individual targeting, my question is, could SPI be targeted at certain people so they behave without questioning what they do? Like maybe, go alone into the woods or open the door to Zoby?”

Behind her dark eyes she seemed to hesitate. “You think that’s what motivated those girls?”

“Could be. All three of their hard drives had SPI messages. Obey Crystal, trust Zoby. Can you go into records and see what’s there?”

“Sure.” She checked her watch. “Meet on Monday. I can give you full time then.”

He watched her climb out. “Victoria,” he called. She leant to the window. “I may need a partner to go undercover next week. My plan will look better if there’s a Mr and Mrs.”

She smiled and twitched an eyebrow. “Then I’d better find my woolly combinations. Meanwhile, get a good look at PKL this weekend. I’ll be doing the same.”

He watched her walk back across the road to Thames House and wondered what she knew that he didn’t.

A Harley Davidson motorcycle with French number plates was parked next to the Citroen. A big, heavy bike, definitely one for the boys. Sean found the owner drinking wine with Danielle in the kitchen. He guessed the visitor at least six two, saw broad shoulders and a flat stomach, but not a boy. Shapely backside and hips wrapped in a stretched micro-mini skirt indicated otherwise. Her breasts needed no uplift. Sean sucked on his teeth.

“Monsieur Fagan.” Danielle poured him a glass of wine. She was wearing a new, soft, button-through lilac dress. Minimal buttons fastened at the front gave flashes of what lay beneath. “Please meet Francesca, but friends call her Frankie.” She smiled softly for Sean.

Frankie stood, hip jutted, balled fists at her waist. Her hair was short, her eyes blue, her nails and lipstick crimson. She took the glass from Danielle and handed it to Sean.

“Welcome home, Monsieur Fagan, and thank you for allowing me to stay.” Her smile gave challenge, while her eyes remained confident.

“She stays two nights, Sean, this OK?”

“Sure.” Sean accepted the wine, slowly realising Danielle’s dress was not a casual display but a visual message. He saw the work of Camilla and bet she realised from Danielle’s first interview.

Frankie went beside her, midriff bare save for a silver chain and a stud in her navel. She put an arm round Danielle’s waist and placed her long firm fingers over Danielle’s hip. Frankie raised her glass. “You are so kind, Monsieur Fagan, when you go next to Paris I would love you accept my hospitality. I am bodyguard for celebrities. I know many good places.”

Sean sipped at his wine and looked between the two - and he had thought himself a detective. He grinned acceptance and saw both women relax. “Do I get fed?”

“But of course.” Danielle blossomed in smiles. “The best of French cuisine. We cook together.” She went to the stove. Frankie helped serve his dinner. “Now we leave you in peace.” Danielle placed pans in the sink. “Tomorrow I clean. We go to watch TV in my room.” She took Frankie’s hand, leading her to the stairs.

“Goodnight, Monsieur.”

Sean bet Frankie had a hidden tattoo. That night he dreamt of Victoria.

Richard had sat next to Mrs Zellar throughout lunch and stayed dutifully attentive for the rest of the afternoon. Listening to her broken, mid-European accent describing the jet-setting, money-motivated world in which she lived, he found her mature years becoming more attractive and her slightly exaggerated dress style enticing enough to consider giving her sex. That she would be a willing participant was all too evident in her body language, particularly when he described his privileged background, his Eton and Cambridge education, his contacts amongst the political and wealthy. Bullshit had always been his forte. Dressed in city suits, with the right accent, hairstyle and manner, he had always prided himself on extracting money from the gullible. Her million would be child’s play. Pity he couldn’t rape her as well.

He left Snibbard and Faulkner to deal with the others and drove Zellar back to Shoreditch in his leased Mercedes. During the journey Mrs Zellar became Jovana and Richard began to wonder if he had enough Viagra for the weekend.

At 6.30 p.m. the office was empty and while he clicked on lights she walked across the main open-plan floor and stood looking from the window towards the city.

“So, Richard, you bring me here to show your empty office or for other reason?”

“To collect and fill in your share forms, of course. Were you thinking of something else? Maybe you would like a drink first? My flat is upstairs. Comfortable, convenient.”

She laughed. “Deal money first, Richard. It is my rule.”

“OK. A million sterling. If you want to give a cheque I can make out the necessary papers right now.” He put a hand to her waist hoping to consolidate his position. A million kept it from going further.

“Negotiate, Richard. That is also my rule. By morning I could double my investment.”

Richard removed his hand. She was several year his senior with the scrag-end appearance of the everlasting bimbo, but for two million he’d go down to her smiling. “Why not two million now? As I’ve said, within a year you would have doubled the value of your investment. Maybe more.”

“Not my investment, Richard. The money I spend belongs to others.”

He smiled without mirth. “You’re laundering,” he said, eyebrows raised. Who provided the money was no concern of his, so long as it ended in his account without causing problems.

“Laundering has become such a dirty word, Richard. I am investing for those who wish to place their funds beyond reach of unscrupulous tax agencies. Offshore, legitimate business. Kids games, Richard. Perfectly safe, perfectly respectable.” She smirked, showing little white teeth.

“Good as blue chip.” He maintained the grimace of stretched lips. “So, deal done. Whose name you want them in?”

“Tomorrow, I tell you tomorrow. You also bring twenty thousand worth of shares in the name of Jovana Zellar. Free. Maybe I can increase our transaction. Maybe much higher.”

Richard kept his smile. Under the bullshit this one was a true, grabbing little scrubber. He put his hand back on her waist. “How much more?”

“My shares?”

“OK,” he said, considering the shares nothing. Money in his account was the priority. “What do you intend to spend?”

“Two million plus.”

He shrugged. “You arrange for two and a half million within forty-eight hours, I’ll arrange for Mrs Zellar’s shares.”

She checked her watch. “I give you the address of my hotel. I must contact my principals. That will take time. In two hours bring my shares and we will arrange a day for our main transaction.”

“You that eager for your cut?”

“No, Richard. I’m eager to see if you can put a smile on my face with your tongue.”

In the flat above his office Richard removed a Remington 870 pump action shotgun and a 12-bore side-by-side from the back of a cupboard and expertly took both to pieces. He placed each component on the table before him, glanced at his watch, then put in a call to Oscar Wileman in America. He queued fifteen minutes for his turn to speak on a scrambled line. While he did so he oiled both weapons and checked his supply of cartridges.

When Wileman answered Richard dispensed with any pleasantries. “Our research for the required inclusion in the WorkWell application will be finished within five days. All will be contained on one set of flash drives.”

“You must deliver them without suspicion or problem of any kind.” Wileman’s voice rebounded down the line in monotones.

“I’ll ensure my end is clean. But if I need to disappear I’ll be looking for cover.”

“Don’t worry, Richard, just deliver the goods. I’ll give you deep and total sanctuary.”

Richard hooked the phone to his chin and began to reassemble the guns. “Have you tried what I sent already?”

“I have, covertly on our own staff. Like getting into work early, working longer hours, obeying company instructions. The results were remarkable. You’ve done well, Richard. Governments will definitely be interested. And that’s where my concerns lie. If they have any inclination, they will also be watching. You must take detailed precautions. Destroy everything other than the master copy. And that you must deliver by your own hand.”

“Stella still working for you, Mr Wileman?”

“A trusted and proven employee, I’m sure she will welcome your arrival.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Wileman, I’ve taken care of everything.”

“You better have. Just image what Al-Qaeda could do with this on air traffic controllers. What a paedophile could do with kids. What a manipulator could do with the stock exchange.”

“Just imagine,” Richard repeated, aiming the shotgun to darkness beyond his windows.

Katherine sat on a bench inside the main courtyard of Trinity College, Dublin. The sun shone warmly on her face and for moments she closed her eyes in the luxury of summer joy.

When she looked again, a young man stood before her. He was smartly dressed in blazer and flannels over a neat, compact figure. She found him handsome and hoped he didn’t detect the momentary flush on her face.

He bowed, a sharp, heel-clicking gesture she thought dashing.

“You must be Zoby,” she said.

“I am indeed, Sister Katherine. Here to drive you to the photo session in a nearby country house. Princess Kay-ling and our PR management are waiting with your two thousand euros and share certificates. May I?” He reached for her yellow plastic carrier bag.

“Thank you, but I’ll manage.” She picked up the carrier which contained her lunch and ten prayer cards of the Virgin, brought to give as presents, also her old flash drives. All but the last one. New for old was too good an opportunity to miss.

Zoby ushered with his hand and she walked beside him out of the courtyard. She could trust Zoby and was happy to enter the Mercedes. He said little during the drive and shyness kept her from asking questions. This was her first time alone with a man for years. Thrill of the adventure was enough. The journey lasted forty minutes before they entered the woodland car-park of a country house. People lounged in the Saturday morning sun. Some looked towards her and she sensed her blush again. It was strange to feel important. Zoby flicked down on the car key causing a flash of yellow lights. A thud of locks disturbed the woodland clearing. It dismissed all others with panache.