The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) (27 page)

Craig nodded. “If fear of Islamic expansion was prevalent at the time then there must have been scholars whose opinions backed it up. Perhaps they went one step further and actually blasphemed against Islam.”

Annette and Davy glanced at each other; it was starting to make sense. Fatwās had been launched against modern writers for blasphemy, so it made sense that if a medieval anti-Islamic text existed, it would be considered blasphemous as well. Perhaps even more offensive because the modern world valued it so highly. Annette asked the question.

“What’s the value to the collectors, sir? The book’s age, its rarity or the right to hold an anti-Islamic and basically racist opinion and think they can get away with it because it’s written in a historical text?”

“Good question and the answer is I don’t know. I’ll go back and read the threads again. The books would be very old and very likely beautifully worked, and their rarity wouldn’t be in doubt; how many artefacts of any sort survive from that period? All of that would contribute to their value, but the reason behind wanting to destroy them must be the text. Except… it can’t only be that, because there must be other examples of anti-Islamic sentiment in old writings. I think the monetary value placed on the books by the collectors was probably the final straw. Imagine if something that we found grossly offensive was valued even more highly by someone because of that; we’d be angry too.”

Smith nodded. “I think you’ve nailed it, and I think using an antique watch as a timer was them telling us the bombing was about something old.”

Davy cut in. “Des drew a blank on finding more details on the pocket w…watch. It was too badly damaged. All he could say was it was probably 18th Century.”

“Not as old as the Crusades but definitely pointing us to the past.”

Craig decided to play a hunch. He raced into his office and reappeared a minute later, holding a fresh printout and reading aloud. “During the 15th and 16th Centuries clock making flourished. In 1504, the first portable timepiece was invented in Nuremberg, Germany by Peter Henlein.”

Ken gawped at him. “1504! So that’s why they used it as the timer. The last crusade ended just before then; the watch was pointing us to medieval times…Very clever.”

Craig nodded. “There was no way they could have acquired a pocket watch old enough, so the 18th Century one had to do, plus it was more reliable.”

Ken shook his head. “It was symbolic. My guess is if it hadn’t worked Delaney or Kouri would have detonated it by hand anyway. That’s what the tilt switch was for.”

Liam was still thinking about the books. “But who was going to buy the Belfast book? If Jules Robinson brought something that valuable into his shop, he must have had a local buyer lined up.”

Craig nodded. “Good point, Liam. I doubt it was anyone in Papyrus that day so we need to dig deeper. But there’s something more urgent. The chat-rooms mentioned a pair of books, let’s call them volumes one and two, so the real question is, if volume one was destroyed at Papyrus and there’s a volume two in Paris, then who’s buying it? Is it the same buyer or a new one? We need to find out because whatever we may think of them they’re a target as well.”

***

5.30 p.m.

Craig was peering at his computer screen when the knock came on his office door. He said “come in”, certain that it would be Nicky saying goodnight. Instead he was surprised when Carmen appeared. She opened the door slowly, as if afraid of what might lie behind it, and stood in the doorway like a pupil who’d been summoned by the Headmaster.

Craig smiled vaguely and glanced behind her, expecting to see Nicky.

“Nicky’s gone home. She said it was OK to knock.”

Craig shook himself free of the web he’d been stuck in for the previous hour and beckoned her to sit.

“Of course it is. We haven’t had a chance to say hello properly. I’m sorry, that’s my fault, as you’ll have seen the case has rather taken over.”

He held up the percolator, pouring a single cup at the shake of Carmen’s head.

“The case is the reason I knocked. I’d like to offer my help.”

Craig noticed two things. One, that Carmen was pretty but there was none of the warmth that was usually attractive to men; whether that was deliberate he could only guess. He corrected himself. It was obviously attractive to at least one man on the team, if Ken Smith’s longing gaze and blushes were anything to go by. And two, that she never called him ‘sir’. Not that he minded, he’d got used to chief or whatever the cool term of the day was from Davy, and Liam had never called him anything but boss. He didn’t mind how Carmen addressed him, but the fact that she didn’t address him or come to think of it, any of her senior officers by a title, was slightly strange.

As the thoughts ran through Craig’s mind, other thoughts were occupying Carmen’s. Old Giant Cullen had been right; Craig liked to run a happy ship and, much as she hated the word nice because it was so insipid, he was nice. But he was very far from insipid.

He was also very attractive in a film star sort of way; well that was what her granny would have said. A rugged Cary Grant. Eat your heart out girls. Except that she couldn’t imagine Craig even looking in the mirror, judging by the usually vertical position of his hair.

Their mutual assessment completed, Craig smiled warmly.

“You’re already helping the investigation, Carmen. It’s great to have you and Ken here for a few weeks. You’ve been working on things for Liam and Annette, haven’t you?”

She nodded impatiently. “Yes, but I can do more. I didn’t want to say in front of the others but my degree was in computer science and since I left Uni I’ve taken a lot of courses. I write programmes in my spare time.”

Craig’s ears perked up. He knew why she hadn’t said it in the briefing. Computers were seen as Davy’s terrain and he could just hear what Liam would have said about her hobby; sad, geeky girl, then he’d have used the revelation to explain all her character flaws. But he was interested in computers himself and would love to have more time to explore them so he leaned forward, interested.

“Go on.”

Carmen blushed a faint pink. “I’ve even hacked a few sites that I shouldn’t have.”

Craig rolled his eyes. That was all he needed; cyber-crime bursting through the door to arrest one of his staff. Carmen was still talking. “Nothing major but… what I’m trying to say is I know my way around the Dark Web, and if Davy and you are busy with other things…”

Craig nodded furiously. “Yes. Thank-you. That would be great.”

She was taken aback by the speed of his acceptance, but what she didn’t know was that Craig had spent almost twelve hours over the previous two days navigating the firewalls and hidden doorways savvy programmers had created in their sites. He would cheer if he could hand the task over to someone else.

Craig turned his screen towards Carmen then pulled a chair beside her, spending the next thirty minutes outlining how far he’d got in the various fora, and the avatar and profile he’d created in that world.

“I think it’s best if you stick with the I.D. I’ve created. I’ve been posing as a very amateur book collector to gain people’s confidence. They’re less likely to see me as competition for any significant steals or buys and tell me the gossip.”

Carmen nodded; good ploy.

“There seem to be four main chat-rooms and three big auction sites, not to mention the private instant message chats that are going on all the time. My guess is that’s where the really useful information is, but I’ve no idea how to hack into them.”

Carmen glanced up from the screen and smiled. It was the happiest Craig had seen her look. “I have. I can get in and out without them seeing me.”

As Craig looked on she navigated herself in and out of chat-rooms and websites, finding cyber backdoors and alleyways that he’d completely missed. She was just about to eavesdrop on a private exchange when Craig noticed the time. It was almost seven o’clock.

“It’s getting late, Carmen.”

She didn’t hear him, absorbed in her cyber-world. Craig stood in front of her and smiled, then gestured pointedly at the clock.

“Tomorrow, Carmen.”

She shook her head furiously. “No. Tonight. These people won’t wait. With one book gone the value of the other will rocket. If it hasn’t already been sold and gone underground it easily could do by morning.” She gazed up at Craig, almost pleading him to let her stay. “I’ll keep going until I’ve found them. If you could just tell security downstairs that I’ll be here late.”

Craig hesitated. It felt like a cop-out by him, even though she’d got deeper into the Net in ten minutes than he had all day. He came up with a compromise.

“Only if you have something to eat with me at The James first. You can’t stay here all night without food.”

Carmen glanced at the screen then felt her stomach rumble and agreed. She shot Craig’s computer a longing look as they left. She couldn’t wait to see what was lurking in its various worlds, and get paid overtime to dig deeper than she’d gone before.

***

Paris. 11 p.m. local time

The small café stood in near-darkness. Only one candle flickered on the final cleared table and once he’d finished cleaning the coffee machine Augustin would snuff that out, using the brass douter his father had used before him. He loved his café. It had been his life since birth. Running across the polished boards of the living quarters upstairs with his sister, and sneaking downstairs when Maman wasn’t looking, to steal a Pain Au Chocolat from the window display. How he’d loved that display; to his child’s eyes Éclairs had vied with Mille-feuilles for ‘King of the Window’. He was always sad that they’d be eaten by coffee-drinking customers later that day.

When his parents had died his sister had handed the keys to him, strangely happy to tie herself to the mechanic from five streets away and start producing babies of her own. He already had his child; the café’s polished wood and shining glasses were more beautiful to him than any enfant. Now he was getting old and had no son to leave his empire to, and the wet Paris winters and humid summers had taken their toll on his bones. It was time to sell and move to the Dordogne and by tomorrow he would have the money to fund his dream.

Augustin set the last dried glass on the aging marble counter and whistled softly beneath his breath. He didn’t hear the front door open or see the woman till it was too late. Not until he felt her gun’s silencer against his neck, forcing him out from behind the safety of his counter to sit by the last candle’s fading light. She sat down opposite, shifting the gun to press its silencer hard against his throat, so that his voice tightened as he spoke.

“I have only what is in the till. Take it, take it.”

As he squeezed out the words Augustin stared frantically at the girl, for that’s what she was, a girl no older than twenty-five. Her clothes were good and she looked well-fed, so why was she stealing? He answered his own question. She wasn’t stealing; she was here for something more and he knew immediately what it was.

Jenny Weston’s French was good and she hissed out her words in a perfect accent.

“How much?”

Augustin’s eyes widened in fear at her tone. He knew exactly what she meant; he also knew that his only hope lay in bluff. “What?”

She pressed the gun harder against his Adam’s apple, making him recoil in pain. “How much?”

Claude Augustin closed his eyes in defeat and optimistic faith; if he couldn’t see her perhaps she would cease to exist. The pressure reminded him otherwise. Finally he croaked.

“Nine million euros.”

“When and for whom?”

Augustin shook his head in reflex, some childhood code of honour making him reluctant to tell tales. A sharp reminder of his predicament swiftly changed his mind.

“Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Banque de Paris, Rue des Lilas d'Espagne. The seller will be there. Alain Berger.”

Jenny was getting bored dragging each fact from him, and quite enjoying the power to frighten a grown man; it was a rare sensation. The camp had a strict pecking order and women definitely came last. She pulled back the gun’s slide, loading the chamber with a round, and smiled maliciously as beads of sweat rolled down the Frenchman’s flabby cheeks.

“Who is the buyer?”

Augustin’s eyes widened further, in cartoon-like panic. If he gave her the buyer’s name he was a dead man. There would be nowhere he could hide; Troy Keaton had people everywhere. The illogical nature of his thoughts completely escaped him but the pressure of the barrel focused his mind.

“Their name. Now!”

“He will kill me. He is a very powerful man.”

Jenny smiled inwardly, half-sickened by how much she was enjoying her task. Killing wasn’t meant to be a pleasure, but it became one when there was no other happiness left in life and Fintan had been her last real source of that. Her voice became persuasive.

“I can help you if you tell me. I have many friends.”

Augustin weighed his options rapidly, coming down on what he thought was the best side to save his life. He didn’t know that chance was already lost.

“Troy Keaton. He lives in Geneva. He is from a wealthy family in New York. They’re in business in…”

Claude Augustin never finished his sentence because Jennifer Weston already knew what their business was; the name Keaton was well known in the terrorist world. As her finger squeezed off a silenced shot she made plans to get the information to Fareed. She watched dispassionately as the plump man fell sideways off his wooden café chair, and lay face pressed against his polished floor. Then she snuffed out the final candle and turned the door sign to ‘Fermé’, leaving the same way that she came.

***

Paris. Friday 9 a.m. local time

Alain Berger stared at the young woman with an untrusting expression on his face. Where was Augustin? He didn’t like doing business at the best of times, but doing it with a complete stranger who said she’d been sent by the buyer attracted him even less.

“Why should I believe you? I’ve been dealing with Augustin and I’m going to continue with him to the end.”

Jenny Weston smiled seductively then let her eyes roam across Berger’s body; they held a clear message. Her mouth said “Augustin’s part in the transaction is over. My boss wants me to handle it now.” But her eyes said ‘if you play ball there could be more than money in this for you’.