The Locker (15 page)

twenty-nine

Carefully noting where everything
lay to ensure they missed nothing, Vaslik and Ruth took Tiggi Sgornik's room apart piece by piece. They lifted everything that could be moved, including the carpet, wardrobe and dresser; checked under the mattress, looking for slits in the fabric, signs that there had been repairs made, anything that might indicate a potential place of concealment. They emptied every drawer, checking the underneath, sides and backs, then moved on to the structure of the dresser and wardrobe, running their fingers across the wood for a trace of a raised or indented surface. They unscrewed the feet, looking for hollows or slots, the familiar hidey-holes for children, spies and those conducting illicit undertakings. Tiggi hadn't owned much clothing, but they scoured every item, pants, skirts and shoes, testing heels and hems, lapels and pockets, looking for signs that a line of stitching had been opened and re-done.

“She seems to have had money,” Vaslik commented sourly. He was staring at the clothing, which was going to have to go back where they had found it. Among it was the empty packaging from a cell phone. He picked it up and examined the labelling. It was a cheap
pay-as
-
you-go
model with no retailer's marking. “Didn't extend to her cell phone, though. Maybe cute only goes so far.”

“You're a cynic, Slik,” murmured Ruth. “But you're right: I doubt it was her—not on a nanny's pay. She's a lucky girl.” She dropped the pair of fluffy slippers she'd been checking and sat on the bed with a sigh. “Are we done here?”

He nodded, sure of himself. “I think so. If there's anything, it's in the fabric of the building and we're not going to find it without using a pickaxe—and I don't think we'd get that past the head chef downstairs.”

Ruth was frustrated. She'd been certain they might find something here, even a sign that Michael Hardman
had
got something going with the nanny. At least it would have given them an avenue to explore. But this was nothing, leading nowhere. A big fat blank.

Her phone buzzed. It was George Paperas.

“I called a few more people,” he announced, meaning aid agencies. “Two more knew of Hardman, another two had engaged him—one in Pakistan, the other in the Maghreb, in Tunisia. This guy gets around. I've got him popping up in Somalia, Kenya, and Algeria, and a couple of other places. The agencies who knew him or could remember him all reported the same story: he worked with them for a few days, two weeks at most, then disappeared. No explanations, just up and gone.”

“How could he just move around like that? Don't aid workers have accreditation or visas?”

“It's complicated. Yes, all humanitarian aid organisations and their staff should have official permission to work in a region like, say, Pakistan. Sometimes they don't get it for local political reasons, sometimes safety. Each group would or should issue their staff with papers to identify them and their reasons for being there. But with the smaller ones, it's not always followed to the letter. To be honest, there are one or two I've come across who don't like the interference and simply want to get on with the job. I can sympathise with that; bureaucracy can get in the way of good deeds. But it's a dangerous thing to do. Like the Christian fundamentalists who got caught distributing bibles in Moscow.”

“Proselytizing.”

“Sure. It was deliberate or stupid, depending on your point of view. But with agency work, having no papers can get you suspected of being there for reasons other than humanitarian help. And in some of the remoter areas, no papers means you won't be missed if they decide they don't like your face.”

Ruth felt her neck go cold. “They'd kill them?”

“Yes. It's happened, believe me.”

On the wall across from the bed was an alpine scene showing a distant
rock-face
capped by snow and edged by cliffs of granite reaching into the sky. Ruth presumed it was somewhere that reminded Tiggi of home, but it prompted a thought about something Paperas had said in his last phone call about Hardman.

“You said that when Hardman was with Oxfam he'd been driving trucks close to the border near Peshawar. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“How close?” She didn't know what prompted the question, but the sight of mountain passes in the picture must have jogged her thought processes.

“Pretty close, if I remember the terrain. If he was delivering supplies, he'd have been pretty much on his own for long periods, and it's not as if he would have been monitored closely by security forces unless he hit a road block. Aid trucks are common, and they're more interested in looking for small groups or individuals travelling at odd hours of the day or night.”

“What about the agency he was working for?”

“Drivers are expected to be independent and to get on with the job. The agencies don't have the time or resources to watch them closely. Why?”

Vaslik was staring at her with a fixed expression on his face, and she wondered what he was thinking. Whatever it was, it had him looking worried.

“No reason,” she said. “Brainstorming, that's all.”

thirty

On the way back
to the Hardman house, Ruth called George Paperas. An idea had popped into her head while she was in Tiggi Sgornik's bedroom. It was bothering her and wouldn't let go, like a toothache. Even saying it out loud would sound ludicrous to almost anybody she could think of, which meant anybody in Cruxys. But Paperas was the first person she could think of on the outside who might have an answer.

Slik was going to be the first to hear it, too, unless she kicked him out of the car, but he'd have to suck it up. Maybe he'd learn something. She turned on the loudspeaker.

“Would any of the paperwork from the aid agencies in Pakistan,” she asked Paperas when he answered, “have been enough to get Michael Hardman across the border?”

She had her eyes fixed on the road ahead, but felt Vaslik tense in the seat alongside her, his head turning to look at her in surprise.

“Into Afghanistan?” George sounded shocked, his voice booming in the car. “Why would he do that? He'd have to be crazy.”

Or some kind of adrenalin freak who loved following disaster, she thought acidly. “Would it?”

There was a lengthy silence. Then he said, “Not by itself, no. I doubt he'd have got official permission anyway, even if he'd asked, not without the agreement of both governments, the coalition forces and God knows who else up to President Karzai himself.”

“But he could still get across of he wanted to?”

“If getting into Afghanistan was that important to him, yes, I suppose so. And he wouldn't have needed any paperwork. The border is too long and porous to be tightly controlled along its full length.”

“You mean he could simply have walked over?”

“If he knew where he was going, yes. It's not always easy to see. Anything's possible up there. It's wild country. All you need to do is find a guide who's probably halfway off his head on
Charas
—that's cannabis—or any of the opiates, and you can cross almost anywhere he's willing to take you. And you don't need paperwork to do it.” He stopped speaking, and Ruth swore she heard the penny drop. “Christ, do you know what you're suggesting?”

“You tell me.”

“Is he using the agencies to get into restricted areas?”

“No comment.”

“I don't believe it. That's appalling.”

Paperas was no idiot; he'd worked out what Ruth was thinking. But was she right and how could she confirm it? And what would it prove, beyond the fact that Michael Hardman was a certifiable lunatic? He was hardly likely to come out and admit it.

“I don't know for sure. I'm thinking out loud, that's all; trying to figure him out. If he's got background of any kind, the sort that would make his daughter worth kidnapping, I want to know what it is.” If we don't, she was thinking, we may never get her back.

“By background, what do you mean?”

“Just that. I mean, what the hell do we know about him or his history? Nothing apart from what Nancy has told us—” She stopped dead and turned to stare at Vaslik. History. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” George asked.

She answered but was now talking at Vaslik. “Something Nancy told me that Michael had said when they first got together. He said it gave him a sense of history
.”

“A nice sentiment. So?”

“What if that wasn't just a sentiment, but the absolute truth? What if it gave him a back story?”

Vaslik was staring straight ahead, but she could see the question in his face, and hoped it was giving way to a realisation that she was right.

“It makes sense,” she insisted. “Something about Hardman brought him to the attention of kidnappers—whoever they are. And unless it's Oxfam trying a tougher line in recruiting procedures, it's something he's kept carefully hidden, even from his wife.”

George sounded doubtful. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm not sure yet. Dig a little more, see what I come up with. Keep it to yourself, though, George,” she finished. “There's a little girl out there still. And we never had this conversation.”

“Of course.”

She cut the connection and stopped in front of the Hardman house. What now?

“Interesting conclusion.” Vaslik was looking at her with what appeared to be respect. And concern. “How the hell did you come by it?”

“It's a wild idea, that's all. Don't get your knickers in a twist.” She wished now that she'd called Paperas when she was alone. In spite of Vaslik's reaction, she was still out on a limb with this one. “I'm simply trying to figure out things about this man. He's a puzzle … and I don't like puzzles.”

“I agree. But there's still nothing to suggest Hardman's involved in anything suspicious. He's just not around … which is weird enough, I guess.” He sounded as if he was talking it out, rather than criticising her, which she was pleased about. “He's got a few questions against him, that's for sure; but only because we don't know where he is. That doesn't make him a criminal.”

“So what does it make him?” She turned to face him. “Let's get really wild and assume he used the agency in Peshawar to get across the border disguised as a field worker. Why would he do that? There has to be a reason—a really good one.”

He pulled a face, but nodded slowly. “OK. But he'd also have to be certain of getting there. Nobody crosses that stretch of land without thinking carefully. It's wild, sure, but also under constant scrutiny. They've got drones up there day and night, looking for insurgents and arms shipments. It'd be like a
turkey-shoot
to anybody who didn't know their way around.”

“Which knocks out George's idea of a
junked-up
guide; it would be too risky. Supposing Hardman had a
sure-fire
way across; a reliable guide who did the trip on a regular basis and who knew all the back trails and choke points, the observation posts and patrol routes?”

“Smuggling? Man, I don't know. I thought the Taliban and warlords had that region stitched up tight. There's no room for outsiders—especially Europeans.”

He was right. Stupid idea. Any trip one individual could make across the
no-man
's land—even two men and a donkey—would find the rewards more than outweighed by the risks. If they weren't picked up by the security forces from Pakistan or the Coalition, or killed in a drone strike by mistake, there was every chance they'd be stopped and knocked off quietly by the local drugs gangs protecting their territory. What went on in those distant valleys usually stayed there.

And if he was a smuggler, why would he need to create a history for himself in the UK?

“On the other hand,” Vaslik continued tentatively, working his way through the idea, “he wasn't only working in Peshawar, was he? Where else has he been?”

Ruth stared at him, her breathing rapid and her chest tight. Christ, why hadn't she thought of that? She called Paperas, again on loudspeaker.

“Sorry, George,” she said. “Another question. I should have made notes. As a matter of interest, where else did Hardman volunteer his services apart from Peshawar? You said a number of organisations remembered him.”

“Hang on. I've got a list here.” They heard a rustle of paper, then Paperas came back on. “Definite sightings are … good lord.” He sounded surprised by what he was seeing.

“What?”

“Well, he was in Pakistan, as we know, near Peshawar. And Syria, Turkey, Kurdistan, Lebanon, all for definite. Then I've got Mali, Somalia and Nigeria as others places he was seen but not recorded for certain. But—”

“But what?”

“It's not really the kind of thing they'd mistake.” He paused, his breathing loud. “Frankly I'm amazed he managed to operate in such a diverse area.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, languages for one. Work in this business long enough and most aid workers pick up a working knowledge of one or two. But this chap must have been something else.”

“Wouldn't he have had local interpreters in some places?”

“Of course. But even so … he didn't let lack of familiarity hold him back. There's another thing that's just struck me. This list reads like—”

“I know what it reads like,” Ruth cut him off short. They were all countries with or connected to highly active terrorist organisations. “Thank you for your help, George. Remember what I said.”

She hung up and looked at Vaslik. “Aren't you going to say something? Like, am I out of my tree?”

“Well, fuck,” was all he said, his voice soft. “I never saw that coming.”