Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide (23 page)

Precisely, thought Fane, who had never been gung-ho about either the Iraq or Afghan adventures. To him, Al Qaeda was a global movement that used criminal means; it was best tackled through intelligence and, when necessary, specifically applied force, not with the blunderbuss of NATO’s military might – unless the US and its allies were going to be happy to fight a ‘war against terror’ on fifty fronts. But Bokus obviously didn’t agree, so Fane merely nodded.

The American added enthusiastically, ‘If we can find the Somalian end we could go in big-time.’

Fane had visions of F16s and Huey helicopters swarming over the Somalian coast, firing indiscriminately at targets that would turn out to be non-existent or entirely innocent. He suppressed a shudder, and the temptation to say ‘Down, boy’
.
He extemporised quickly, ‘That’s exactly what we had in mind. We’re planning to place our people on the next UCSO ship leaving Athens. We’ve set it up so it looks like a particularly attractive shipment; if things run to form, they’ll try to hijack it.’

‘When does it sail?’

‘Two weeks’ time,’ said Fane, thinking by then he could arrange to put someone on board. Anything to keep the Yanks from barging in; if Bokus had his way they’d never find out the truth. It would be lost in American overkill.

‘All right, but we want in on this. You haven’t got the firepower there to handle it yourself.’

Firepower was the last thing Fane was thinking about at this stage. But he replied, ‘When the time comes, Andy, you will be kept fully informed. I’m sure there’ll be a role for Langley in all of this. But let’s see it play out first. No point scaring them off by showing our hand too early.’

And he stared at Bokus until the other man nodded his agreement. Fane did not find his response reassuring, but it would have to do for the moment.

Chapter 33

The bar of the Venus de Milo was half-empty. A few couples sat at tables munching olives, pickled octopus and
taramasalata
with thin slices of pitta bread, to accompany their drinks. At the bar just one stool was occupied, and that by the broad rear of Hal Stimkin. Berger had been woken that morning by Stimkin summoning him to an urgent lunchtime meeting. Once again Berger had woven a circuitous path by foot from his office to the hotel, through half-deserted midday Athens, stopping periodically to peer into shop windows to check behind him for surveillance.

‘Join me?’ asked Stimkin, nodding at his glass of beer as the barman came up.

Berger shook his head. In this heat even a little alcohol made him drowsy for the rest of the day. ‘A tall glass of lime and soda, please. Lots of ice.’

‘If you’re hungry the food’s good here,’ said Stimkin. ‘My shout.’

You mean the Agency’s shout, thought Berger, as he shook his head again.

‘You’re either a cheap date, pal, or a man in a hurry.’

‘I’ve got a lot on. What did you want to see me about?’

Stimkin bided his time, taking a long pull on his beer. ‘Well, it seems the situation at your office may be of interest to Langley after all.’

‘Oh,yeah? Why the change of heart?’

‘Hard to say. I get the feeling someone’s been talking to them.’

‘Like who?’

‘Somebody on the Brits’ side of things.’

‘MI6?’

‘It’s gotta be, don’t you think? They were already involved, and maybe after this girl got murdered they figured they should let us know what the score is.’

‘What
is
the score then?’ asked Berger. He couldn’t see why Six would approach CIA Headquarters at Langley about a problem at the UCSO office in Athens. There didn’t seem to be anything in particular about the hijacking of the UCSO ships or even the murder of Maria to make them go running to Langley. It wasn’t that he’d expect them to hide stuff from the Americans – in these post-9/11 days there was a constant trans-Atlantic flow of intelligence. On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine Six volunteering information that had nothing to do with the CIA. UCSO wasn’t American-based – it didn’t even have an office there.

‘I was hoping you’d tell me. Any news about the girl?’

‘The Greek police have interviewed me three times, and they’re still all over the office and Maria’s flat, but they’re not giving anything away.’ Stimkin raised an eyebrow, but Berger shook his head. ‘It’s probably because they don’t have
anything to give away. They seem mystified. Did Langley learn anything from the Brits – anything new?’

‘I think the short answer’s no. I was just told to make contact with you again – and from now on to do it regularly. They want to know what develops.’

Berger nodded, but he was still puzzled. ‘What I can’t understand is why Six went to talk to Langley.’

‘They wanted something – it was standard
quid pro quo
.’

‘What did they want?’

‘Confirmation that there was an Agency operative in UCSO – ex-operative actually.’

‘
Which
operative?’ The barman looked over, and Berger realised he’d raised his voice.

Stimkin lifted his glass and turned to Berger with a smile as phoney as a $3 bill. ‘Here’s looking at
you
, kid.’

Berger’s shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he got back to the UCSO office, but he felt as if he’d been hung out to dry. Now he was supposed to keep Stimkin and the Agency ‘posted’, when they still hadn’t provided the protection he was looking for after Maria Galanos’ murder. And if MI6 knew he was ex-Agency, who else did? There was no reason to suppose the Brits would have leaked anything, but he hated free-floating information; you never knew where it would end up. He’d survived a long career under cover in various hell holes and war zones, but he’d always been extremely careful who he trusted with information. The thought that stuff about him was out there, and he had no control of it, made him very uneasy. If it ended up in the wrong hands his life could be in danger.

All right, Berger told himself, so I haven’t got the help I wanted. That’s no reason to sit here like a patsy, waiting to become the next victim. He would have to take action himself. He needed to find Maria’s killer – in his mind there was no doubt the murderer was the same person who’d been leaking information to the pirates. He didn’t believe there was a larger conspiracy at work – the pirates in Somalia only needed a single person to tell them which ships to target; there was no reason to involve anyone else; that would just increase the risk of exposure. No, he was sure he was looking for one individual.

He told his secretary to hold all calls then took some blank pieces of paper and went to work.

Two hours later he looked down in frustration at several pages of notes. The task had seemed straightforward enough – he’d begun with the people in the office who had greatest ease of access to the cargo manifests. First was his own secretary, Elena, whom he relied on and trusted completely. She knew everything that went on in the office and could see any papers she chose. But he felt sure she was completely loyal, and there was also the simple fact – he felt guilty even thinking it – that she was very stupid.

Which still might have made her someone’s dupe, except that everything about her history suggested she would never have been exposed to anyone with links to a band of North African crooks. She was from a remote part of the upper Peloponnese, and had grown up in near-poverty on a goat farm. When she’d left school, Elena had scraped together enough money to enrol in a correspondence secretarial course and had then taken a bus to Athens to find a job. She lived a simple and pious life, fuelled by her devotion to the Greek Orthodox Church and her duty to her ageing parents, to whom she sent a quarter of her monthly pay check without fail. Berger just couldn’t see it.

Other candidates with access to the manifests included Katherine Ball. She was so English that again he found it difficult to imagine her involvement in an African-based conspiracy to rob UCSO, but unlike Elena she was very clever, and seemingly nerveless. They might have had an awkward relationship – she worked for Blakey in London, and when she visited Athens was clearly his emissary – but she never challenged Berger’s authority. He liked her; she was quick-witted and amusing, and in any case she had been back in London when Maria was murdered.

Of the likely candidates, this left Alex Limonides, since as the office accountant it was he who – until the arrival of Maria Galanos – had been responsible for drawing up each shipment’s manifest. But the fact that he would be the obvious suspect seemed to make it less likely that he was involved. And he was the greyest of grey men – so utterly correct in his behaviour that it was impossible to imagine him leading a secret life. There was too the air of ineffable sadness about him since the death of his wife, to whom he’d been devoted. All in all, in Berger’s assessment, it didn’t add up to the remotest likelihood that Limonides was a threat.

There were others on the staff to consider, though none with an easy way to get at the manifests or even to know when shipments were scheduled. Only one of these stood out, the Frenchwoman, Claude Rameau, and Berger had to admit to himself that she figured in his calculations chiefly because he disliked her so much.

She was Parisian, Sorbonne-educated, attractive despite her unfeminine appearance – she stuffed her blonde hair under a beret, and usually wore baggy trousers and men’s shirts, though she had been known to dress smartly when meeting potential donors. Claude held strong views – about the perfidy of George W. Bush, the endemic corruption in most aid agencies, the uselessness of the UN, and even about the operations of UCSO itself – and she was prepared to air them to everyone, from the newest recruit to the most august trustee on the charity’s board.

Rameau had made it a condition of her accepting employment with them that she should report only to UCSO’s overall head, David Blakey. Berger had wanted to resist this as it made her an anomaly in the Athens office, which was her base, but Blakey was so keen to get her on the staff he had accepted her proviso. This made for a very difficult working relationship with Berger and she had become something of a thorn in his side.
Je m’en fiche
, her rude way of saying she didn’t give a fig, characterised Claude’s dealings both with him and with the logistical people – Limonides, who had the unenviable task of vetting her expenses, and Elena, whose job it was to make sure that air tickets, appropriate currencies and complex itineraries were all in order for her non-stop travelling. If perhaps too much to expect gratitude from Claude Rameau for these labours on her behalf, it would still have been good to have received something other than her manifest disdain.

He sensed that Rameau’s political views were extremely left-wing, or more accurately anarchic, and that conventional views of what constituted a criminal act would not apply in her case. Berger wouldn’t put any form of extreme behaviour past her, except perhaps murder. He tried to ignore his strong personal dislike of the woman but had learned to trust his instincts after so many years when they had proved to be life-savers, so he put Rameau at the top of his suspect list. But he did it rather half-heartedly. What after all would induce her to side with people stealing aid intended to improve the lot of the Third World?

Looking with dissatisfaction at his list, Berger decided he needed a break. Elena was out that afternoon at the dentist, so he went to make himself a coffee in the small cubicle kitchen along the corridor. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he went to the fridge to get the milk out. Through the thin stud wall he could hear the two Greek girls next-door, chatting away and laughing together. Suddenly their voices lowered. Berger closed the fridge door silently, the better to listen. His Greek wasn’t entirely fluent, but he could follow their conversation easily enough.

‘They were leaving the building when my friend saw them,’ Anastasia was saying in lowered tones. ‘It wasn’t his wife he was with.’

Falana giggled briefly, then said soberly, ‘It might be nothing. He does business with many clients, I’m sure. This could have been one of them.’

‘Ah,’ said Anastasia teasingly. ‘It’s admirable that you are so trusting. But there’s a small problem with your idea.’

‘What’s that?’ Falana squeaked.

‘They were leaving a hotel. And not the kind with a restaurant or bar. More the type where you rent a room by the hour.’

They were both giggling now, and Berger suddenly reached out and quietly pulled the kettle’s plug from the wall – he didn’t want its boiling to be audible next-door.

Falana said, ‘But how did your friend know it wasn’t his wife? They might want privacy – who knows? Maybe his parents live with them.’

Anastasia laughed alone now, scathingly. ‘Honestly, Falana, since when were you so naïve? Though I’m sure Mo would be delighted to hear you defend him this way.’

Berger was suddenly furious with himself. He hadn’t even included Mo Miandad, the shipping agent, on his list – yet the man was in the office two, sometimes three, times a week.

‘No,’ said Falana stubbornly, ‘it could well be his wife. It’s perfectly likely.’

Now Anastasia’s laughter was openly scornful. ‘Don’t be so stupid! Mo’s wife is Pakistani, right?’