Hider/Seeker (17 page)

The first flight out of Guatemala was not until five-thirty the next morning to Newark via Panama. He paid cash at Continental's desk and spent the night at Doris' apartment as she lived close by the airport. She didn't seem to mind, sheltering the notorious Harry Bridger, wanted for murder on two continents with warrants of arrest from the Metropolitan Police, Interpol and soon-to-be the Guatemalan authorities. It didn't seem possible to Harry that he could be in so much trouble. And now he could be endangering Doris. But what else could he do? He had to stay indoors for the night and that was that.

He left early the next morning without waking Doris, and walked a mile to the airport. It was a risk, but one worth taking not to involve her further. Wearing Jairo's checked grey suit, and holding a small leather suitcase lent by his friend, he was looking far too smart for a cabbie from Bow on an around-the-world holiday.

The terminal was busier than he'd expected at that time of the morning. There were plenty of uniformed cops patrolling the terminal – all armed with TAR-21s, Israeli bullpup assault rifles. He had no idea whether there were more than usual, but remained calm. A sniffer dog showed much interest in the soles of his shoes. A quick smile at the cop at the end of the lead, and his wagging friend was off to smell another pair of heels.

Harry followed the flow of fellow travellers towards passport control. Everywhere he looked there were uniforms and guns. He felt as if the eyes of each patrolling cop were upon him. Whether true or not, it made no difference as there was nowhere to go now.

His head was filled with doubts, but he kept reminding himself he was just another anonymous face in the crowd; it would be alright. Then his heart skipped a beat. On the front page of the
Prensa Libre
was his picture. There was no time to catch the headline as the man reading the paper had set off in another direction. But it didn't matter because he could guess what the grey print said. That picture was probably already with the enforcement agencies around the globe, and would at some point come to the attention of Detective Inspector Wallace Gemmell or worse still, the Marottas.

The passengers in front of him started to slow down as they reached passport control. They squeezed into a single file before coming to a halt. He was part of a long queue and stood behind a man in a leather hat, holding a cardboard box under his arm with a Sony logo. Tufts of white hair stuck out from under his hat and the back of his neck was wrinkled and tanned. The man turned around and Harry took a step back, treading on the toes of a middle-aged nun. She smelt of Acqua Di Selva aftershave, which was curious on so many levels. He apologised to her and she smiled back.

Outside the stale terminal building there would be a rising sun and fresh air to breath. Perhaps a warm breeze was developing. He could turn around at that moment and be out there once again. But that would only attract attention as there were at least a dozen people standing behind him in the queue, including a nun that shaved.

He waited in line, craning his neck to see why it was taking so long. In between the heads in front of him he saw a uniformed man seated behind a glass window chatting to another uniformed man standing next to him. Both had thick black moustaches and looked interchangeable. The man seated stopped talking and stamped a passport belonging to a backpacker. Everyone in the line took a step forward. To Harry's right, another two uniformed men were looking in his direction, and this time it was not his imagination playing tricks. He knew better than to make eye contact and asked the nun in broken Spanish where she was heading. She replied, Panama, and he told her that he was on the same flight.

The uniformed officials beckoned Harry. They were gesturing him to come forward. The nun nudged Harry, thinking he hadn't seen them. He could not ignore the men any longer. Making a bolt was not an option. Pushing his way through the line behind him, would be like trampling over thickets.

The two men were waving for him to come forward. People turned towards him; eyeballs everywhere he looked. Then came shouting from passengers at the back of the line, followed by shoving. The nun grabbed his arm and pointed to a passport desk that had just opened up. Relief. He wasn't being picked out for arrest; he was being fast tracked.

Harry sauntered across to the glass window, and a second line formed immediately behind him. He slid his passport to an official sitting on the other side of the window. The man glanced at something below the desk, for what seemed like an eternity to Harry, and, then stamped his passport with a loud thump.

Harry's suitcase was small enough to take on board, but no one searched it, much to his relief, as it contained his grease-soiled jacket with cash in the lining. He followed the gate signs and found a comfortable bench to wait for his boarding call. The ordeal was over.

The Boeing 737-800 took off on time and two hours later he was in Tocumen International in Panama City for a six hour layover. He didn't arrive in Newark until seven-thirty that evening. An hour later he was boarding a taxi to Grand Central, where he knew a cheap hotel that asked few questions.

He took a room on the fourth floor that had all the modern conveniences of a small apartment – a kitchenette, bathroom, TV, phone and internet connection. Harry could live there undisturbed for weeks, if he had to, as the Cockney cabbie blowing all his money in the Big Apple.

After a hot shower, he sat on the bed with a towel around his waist. He punched in a string of numbers into the phone that blocked traces, and then made a call.

‘Good God man, where've you been?' asked Nelson at the other end of the line, waking up from a deep sleep. ‘I was beginning to think funny things had happened to you.'

‘Ran into a few problems here, but okay now.'

‘There's been no more news on Bethany. Elizabeth wants to go to the police.'

‘She can't do that.'

‘I've explained it all to her, but you know how she is.'

‘I'll talk to her tomorrow. Did you get anywhere on Angela Linehan and the boy?'

‘Turned out easier than I thought. I was getting bugger all from my contacts at the airlines. So I tracked down her friend Jean, and was told she was on holiday in Cancun. Twenty hotels later, I find her. Guess who else was staying at the hotel?'

‘Kelly Hubbard and her podgy son?'

‘Exactly.'

‘And I bet she got them all to leave in a hurry when she read I was still alive.'

‘Absolutely. I hired a PI to pay a call on the hotel and he gleaned from one of the doormen that they had checked out all of a sudden.'

‘Did he find out where they were heading?'

‘He paid one of the cleaners to let him snoop around their rooms for ten minutes, but found nothing. The cleaner said she heard Angela and Jean talking a day earlier about leaving.'

‘Did she hear where they were going?'

‘Fifty bucks bought us the Caribbean as their destination.'

‘I presume another hundred didn't help her recall which island?'

‘No that's all he got out of her.'

Harry didn't think that the Caribbean sounded right, particularly as Gabriela had told him that Ernesto had flown more than eighteen hours to buy Angela Linehan a hot piece of property. Guatemala is close to the Caribbean and his journey would have been much shorter. This wasn't looking good. His only lead on Angela Linehan and it was a dud. He said good night to Nelson and chewed on two aspirin to get rid of a headache he was rapidly developing.

Harry tossed and turned all night thinking of Bethany. A new layer of problems had grown over the old ones like scar tissue and he was clueless about what he should do next. Angela Linehan could have got herself another passport by now; she could have paid for someone to fly her or sail her to anywhere in the Caribbean, if that story was true. She could have also turned all the signposts around.

His head told him he couldn't find her in ten months let alone in the ten days he had left. But chance and luck would decide everything. The Marrotas must have had someone in their pocket at the Met because the two gormless officers that were supposed to be guarding his room at the hospital had disappeared far too easily in his hour of need. Someone was feeding the Marrotas information because they knew too much about him and Bethany, making things trickier. Somewhere along the line they got their wires crossed about Bethany expecting his child.

He still trusted Gemmell and would have called him in the middle of the night to launch a search for her if he thought it would do any good. But the Marottas were bound to get a tip-off. There was no way out of this, other than finding Angela Linehan by the deadline set by Roberto Marotta.

The wintry morning light seeped through the blinds and he got dressed into Jairo's suit, as he still had nothing else to wear. Before going out, he called Elizabeth and assured her he'd sorted everything out with Bethany's captors and that she would be home in a couple of weeks. There was no need to worry as everything was in hand. She'd soon see her daughter again, providing the police are kept out of the picture. The news lifted Elizabeth's spirits and they said their goodbyes.

He went across the road to a packed deli for breakfast and ate for two as he pondered what to do next. No ideas came, nothing that seemed practical or workable.

Refuelled on black coffee, ham and eggs, he bought a week's groceries from a convenience store nearby and dropped them off in his room, before heading out to a little computer store he knew off Delancey Street. He thought it would make him feel better if he bought a laptop as it meant he was at least starting to do something to get her back. On his way over, he picked out a couple of shirts, a pair of jeans, a jumper and a parka from an army and navy store he'd stumbled upon.

For under eight hundred bucks, the latest Toshiba Satellite laptop seemed an obvious choice. It had plenty of power for what he wanted and was highly portable, weighing just over four pounds. He told the salesman behind the counter he was in a hurry and as he would be paying cash, could he throw in a headset and adapters.

Clutching his bags of shopping, he left the store and looked for a cab. There was no time to waste, although what he was going to do next was still a mystery.

Ten long minutes later he was inside a warm cab heading back to his hotel. He was in no mood for small talk as he had too much on his mind. But the cabbie from Mumbai, picking up on Harry's English accent, insisted on telling him about his nephews and nieces in Willesden. Did he know the area? Harry's head was elsewhere, focused on private airstrips in the Caribbean, the types that didn't attract attention from the authorities. A local detective would know them, would pay the right people to get the answers. Had they seen two women in their early thirties and a schoolboy arrive in the middle of the night? But what was he thinking? There were too many islands to contemplate, and even if he narrowed it down to just fifty likely places, he would run out of time.

‘Are you married, sir?' asked the driver, trying to engage with Harry again as he didn't get a response from his first question. His dark eyes in the mirror were searching to make contact with Harry's.

‘Was.'

‘I have one wife, eight children and thirty-three grandchildren.'

‘Ever thought of starting your own corporation?'

The driver smiled. ‘Two of my boys have a property business; three of my girls are doctors. My other girls have not aspired to their same heights, apart from one who has still time to fulfil her dream.'

‘What does she want to be?'

‘An opera singer. She's so passionate about her work. When I see her passion I do not mind spending the money on her singing. It has always been in her since she was tiny and has never changed. Always, singing, singing, singing – with such emotion in her voice. She's a classically trained vocalist, who can sing everything from the great arias of opera to the classics of Hollywood.'

‘You must be very proud,' said Harry, looking at two women carrying Chanel bags out of one of its stores. ‘Where are we?'

‘I had to go through SoHo because of the traffic diversions. We're on Spring Street, corner of Wooster. I see you're admiring the pretty shop. My daughters would spend all day in such a place – if their husbands gave them half a chance. But not my Chandani.'

As the driver rambled on about Chandani meaning star in Hindi, and how appropriate a name it was for his aspiring mezzo-soprano daughter, an idea came to Harry. It was going to have to be his starting point for tracking down Angela Linehan as he had nothing else to work on. The talk of passion had set his mind thinking about behaviour being the mirror of everyone's true image. No matter how much Angela Linehan would try to change her outer self, she would never change who she was inside. She could alter her name, her looks, her surroundings, but she could never change her true passions. Some habits simply don't die. If he was going to find her, that was where he would start first.

When they reached the hotel, Harry handed the driver the biggest tip he'd ever received.

‘My goodness, what is this for?' asked the cabbie.

‘To help your daughter pursue her passion.'

‘You must be a great music lover.'

‘Isn't everyone?'

The morning had almost gone and he'd only just booted up his laptop to start the serious work. Harry plugged in a USB stick that he carried around his neck whenever he travelled. It knew which key to speak to its twin stuck in the side of his other laptop at the lock-up in London. Within minutes he had secure remote access to all his files and secret directories he used in his trade.

He couldn't remember the name of the luxury store in New Bond Street where he'd spotted Angela Linehan's white angora coat. He Google-mapped it to discover it was the French couture house, Vezier. A directory pinpointed the company's headquarters in Paris with offices in London, New York, Tokyo Dubai, Beijing and Moscow. He started to tap away on the keyboard and pulled up from his sources, the head office's private internal telephone directory, making note of the name of one of the senior credit controllers, Louis Bouffard.

Having changed the caller ID of the hotel telephone number by reprogramming it to that of Bouffard's, he was all fixed up to make his first call. He plugged in the headphones and dialled up from his laptop. The London offices of Vezier picked up and he asked to speak to the head of sales.

‘Do you mean Mrs Sanderson?'

‘I've forgotten her first name,' said Harry in a French accent.

‘Mary –'

‘I'm lucky she's not away skiing,' he went on.

‘Mary? Skiing? She never goes anywhere without her dogs?'

‘Yes, her cocker spaniels.'

‘Shih Tzus.'

‘Those two dogs are her life.'

‘Five.'

‘Sorry, five.'

‘I'll put you through.'

Handel's Water Music played in the background while the call was re-routed.

‘Hello?'

‘Mary, its Louis from credit control in Paris.'

‘Louis?' There was hesitation in Mary Sanderson's voice as she couldn't place the name.

‘Louis Bouffard? You've forgotten me already?'

There was again a hesitation. ‘No, of course not.'

‘I'm disappointed that I have disappeared from your head so soon. It hurts my ego, you know. We spoke a year ago?'

‘I do remember, what can I do for you?'

‘I'm so sorry I'm in such a rush, I need to take my dog to the vet before it closes.'

‘What's wrong with him?'

‘Her. She's pregnant, I think.'

‘What type of dog do you have?'

‘A Shih Tzu.' Harry had opened a page on Shih Tzus on the web while he had been talking to her.

‘Men don't usually go for Shih Tzus.'

‘She belonged to my late wife. But I adore Trixibelle.' He glanced at the webpage and noted Shih Tzus' chief characteristics. ‘She was so hard to train but she is so good with children, needs no exercise and makes a splendid…'

‘Watchdog,' said Mary, finishing off his sentence.

‘
Exactement
.'

‘Can you believe, I have five Shih Tzus?'

‘No, how do you manage?'

‘They're my life. I don't know what I would do without them.'

‘As I said, I'm in a hurry to go to the vet, but I have an urgent matter to sort out first.'

‘How can I help you?'

‘We're clamping down on credit and we noticed that one of your client's account has not been paid for months. Her name is Angela Linehan.'

He could hear Mary Sanderson scratching on her keyboard at the other end of the line. ‘You must be mistaken. Her account was closed just before Christmas.'

‘Really? One thing less to worry about I suppose.'

‘Is there something else?'

‘There is another matter. I have been asked to personally deal with an online fraud case.'

‘Do you know point of delivery?'

‘Usually PO Box addresses in the Caribbean and Mexico.'

‘We don't deal with the Americas here. But I can put you through to Martha in New York. She deals with this sort of thing and she's another dog lover.'

Moments later he was reading out the pre-paid credit card number he set up for Angela Linehan under her new name of Kelly Hubbard. While Martha's fingers tapped away, she spoke about her golden retriever, Mr Hix, who slept on her bed every night, which was more than she could say about her previous husband.

‘Bingo. Cancun. Two swim suits bought at a concession in a hotel a couple of weeks ago.'

‘Nothing since?'

She was already a step ahead of him and working on pending payments. ‘Well you're in luck.'

Those words were still echoing in his head, when she continued. ‘Two Spring outfits were ordered online just forty-eight hours ago, awaiting delivery.'

That didn't make much sense to Harry, why would Angela Linehan still be using her pre-paid credit card as Ernesto had plenty of time to have set up a MasterCard for her. There would be no need to take the risk of using her old card. Ernesto's MasterCard would have been untraceable.

But none of that was important now because all he wanted to know was where the outfits were being sent to.

‘You know what?' said Martha. ‘I can't find the delivery details. The screen's frozen.'

Harry held his breath while she played around on the keyboard. This could be the break he'd been hoping for, but then came silence at the other end of the line. There was no reply when he called out Martha's name. The line was still live and he could hear muffled voices in the background. When she returned to the phone she announced that the whole network was down. He snapped. There is nothing anyone can do at the moment, she said, in defence of her department.

Did she know how long they would be down for? His voice was becoming harder. She didn't care for his tone or his manners, and told him she would call back, once they were up and running again. He doubted she would because he was just an irritating Frenchman from head office. The last thing he wanted was to be calling her back as she might not be at her desk and he'd end up playing phone-tag or worse still, talking to her supervisor who might ask difficult questions. This was a one-shot-call. It either paid off or it didn't. She wanted to get off the line, so he gave her the number to a voice-mail messaging service he used, explaining he would be out of the office, travelling.

He flung his headphone to the floor and stomped around the room, emitting obscenities and kicking over furniture. The man next door thumped on the walls to quieten down, and he thumped back. A two-way of colourful language flowed between the five-inch wall dividing them, before Harry decided his neighbour was right.

Vodka was his preferred remedy for overcoming setbacks. In large quantities it worked slowly but thoroughly, and the boy from the liquor store across the road was only too happy to deliver the bottles to his room.

An idea came to him as they often did when well lubricated. It started to mature in his mind, becoming more real and lifelike with each up-righting of the bottle. There was no way he was going to be able to save Bethany in the nine days that were left. An online gremlin had put paid to his only lead. His inability to supress his anger on the phone with the dog-loving Martha had blown his chances. She wasn't going to be calling him back.

All he had to do was call Roberto Marotta and tell him he was making progress, but needed more time. A month, max. Then he'd ask to speak to Bethany. Just hearing her voice would be enough reassurance to keep him going while he sorted out another method to extract the information he required from the House of Vezier.

Roberto Marotta answered Harry's call within two rings. ‘I was wondering how long it would be before I heard from you again. You know it's an offence to leave the scene of a car accident? You left my men with broken bones and they're not happy about it.'

‘Big boys like them will get over it.'

‘I hope you're calling to tell me you have located the money.'

‘I'm onto something,' said Harry, ‘but I'm going to need more time.'

‘We can't do that.'

‘Extend the deadline.'

‘No.'

‘Don't you want to see your money again?'