The Locker (21 page)

forty-two

“You've been busy. You
and your lady colleague.” The dry tone indicated that it wasn't meant as a compliment.

“It's what we do. Can I help you?” He suddenly felt an acute dislike for this man. Retired rear admirals should stay retired, not pop up years later in some spook desk job pulling strings halfway around the world.

Especially not his strings.

“You don't sound pleased to hear from me. Have I done something to upset you?”

“Not yet. But I'm sure you're considering it.” Vaslik was surprised by his own courage. Retired or not, you didn't cross swords with a man in Drybeck's position. If he was calling the shots on terrorist activity, as his media appearance seemed to indicate, he would have the ears and eyes of everyone who could make irritants like Vaslik disappear overnight with nary a ripple.

“A man who speaks his mind. I like that. No doubt you picked that up from your days in the
rough-and
-tumble of the NYPD, Mr. Vaslik. How would you like to go back there?” The threat was right there, out in the open.

He swallowed, tasting for a split second the bitter tang of fear. Then he steeled himself. “What do you want?”

“That's better. You were correct in your earlier assumption: the ‘event' you spoke of concerns a child.”

“Beth Hardman.”

“Yes.”

“Why? What's the point? It's not about money, I know that.”

“Really?” Drybeck sounded amused for a second. “That shows how little you do know.” His voice changed to one of hard authority tinged with impatience. The verbal
sword-play
was over. “I suggest you listen carefully to me, Mr. Vaslik. What I have to say is of the utmost importance to the safety and security of this great nation of ours. You do not have to like what you hear; you do not even have to respect it. But you will accept it.”

Vaslik said nothing. He was numbed by the sheer wave of power in Drybeck's voice; a man who had commanded warships and thousands of men and women, now focussing that authority of command down the phone. At him.

“It seems matters may have gone beyond what we originally foresaw.”

“I don't understand. What has a child got to do with anything?”

A puff of air. “The event, as we call it, was expected, but we had little intel to go on. We knew the location and the names, but not the execution timetable. All we knew for sure was, it was in the planning stages. Then it accelerated, faster than was anticipated and before we could react.”

“You got
side-stepped
.”

“If you wish.”

“So why involve me?”

“Because of your expertise in these situations … and because you were there on the ground. It was a logical use of resources in a difficult situation.”

“You still haven't told me anything
about
the situation or who's responsible.”

“We were aware that a target had been selected for abduction. The group involved is not important for this discussion, suffice to say they are experienced and adept at hiding their tracks.”

“Why are they doing it?”

“That is not your concern. Unfortunately, the situation has gone beyond our control, partly due, I have to say, to your interference.”

“How? I haven't done anything. I don't
know
anything.”

“The kidnap was planned to ensure a reaction by certain parties. I don't need to explain what that was—”

“You don't have to,” Vaslik cut in. “It was intended to get Michael Hardman's attention. Why? What does he have that's so valuable? The guy's an aid worker, for Chrissake, not some
high-tech
billionaire!”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Vaslik; you're getting emotional.” The reprimand was soft but contained a core of steel. “It doesn't matter what Hardman has or doesn't have. All you need to know is that this … operation has signally failed in its intended outcome, and the group responsible has now gone underground.”

“With the girl.”

“It would seem that way.” His voice was lacking all emotion, as if he didn't care, and Vaslik had to bite back an impulsive retort.

“What will they do?” He was guessing they would have orders in the event of a fail; that could be anything from leaving the little girl at a safe place to … He didn't like to think of the alternative.

“I have no idea.”

“So how do I find them?”

“Find them? Why on earth should you do that?”

“Wh— you want me to stop them, don't you? Isn't that why we're having this conversation? You give me directions and I'll run them down. It's my expertise, as you put it.”

“Actually, quite the opposite. Forget any heroics, Mr. Vaslik. What I want you to do is run interference while we get this mess cleaned up. It's time to close the door on this thing.”

“What?”

“You know what the term means, to run interference?”

“Of course I do.”

“Fine. Then your task is simple enough. You will proceed to divert attention away from this situation. Your focus is on stopping further investigations into this group by your colleague while we pull a cloak over it. That means keeping her and Cruxys away from any further attempts to locate the child or the team involved.”

Vaslik couldn't believe what he was hearing. Drybeck was talking about Beth as if she were a lump of metal or plastic. He exploded. “You want me to help in covering up the kidnap of a little girl? Are you off your freaking head?”

The blast of anger seemed to have no impact on Drybeck's armour. “Hardly. Since that has already taken place, it's too late to stop it. In any case, we doubt she will come to any real harm. What we want you to do is to make sure this investigation goes away.”

“How do I do that?” Christ, the thought of trying to deflect Ruth away from this was unthinkable. Even if he wanted to, she had the bit too firmly between her teeth for that and would smell a rat.

“Derail it, deflect it, use any means at your disposal to put Cruxys —and more importantly, your relentless lady colleague—off the case. This matter has serious ramifications, Mr. Vaslik. If it goes any further and becomes public knowledge … well, we don't even want to think about that.”

We
. It wasn't the first time Drybeck had said it. “Who do you mean by ‘we'?”

“Again, not your concern.”

“What if they—she—won't stop?” He threw it in as an instinctive response—a delaying tactic. He was trying frantically to read beyond this conversation and get a glimpse of what was really going on here, what this man Drybeck was
not
saying. He'd agreed to help out his old employers in an unspecified situation; but not this. Not a
cover-up
.

And there was Ruth: with her solid, bulldog approach to a problem that had surprised him. She had already uncovered much that he and others like him would have missed, and had knitted the facts together in a way that, no matter how “shaky,” as she had described it herself, would be enough to catch the attention of people paid to look into these things. And he had seen the way Richard Aston had acted around her to know that if she shouted, he would take notice. Aston trusted and respected her, it was easy to see.

“Are you saying,” Drybeck said softly, interrupting his thoughts, “that you can't do this? Or won't?”

“I'm saying—”

“You should think very carefully about your response, Mr. Vaslik. It
will
affect your entire future, I promise you.”

Vaslik nearly choked on his reply. The threat was unambiguous. The fact that it came from this man made it all the more real. Drybeck had the power to carry it through and Vaslik was sure it was no bluff. It wouldn't matter what his own defence was, it would be goodbye to his job with Cruxys, and almost certainly a block on any other work he tried to get in this industry, here or anywhere else.

He'd be finished.

Was it worth it? After all, what did he know of all the minutiae behind what Drybeck was working on? He wasn't part of that world anymore, so why should he concern himself by what went on behind the screen of US intelligence and security?

But what about the little girl, Beth? She was a total innocent in all this. Hadn't he got a duty to try to find her?

“I can't. It's not as simple as you think.”

“I see.” There was a lengthy silence. “Very well. You leave me no choice.”

The connection went dead.

forty-three

A fine drizzle was
coating the windscreen by the time Ruth arrived at the Hardman house next morning. It was just after seven, and she had called Gina earlier to check in. Nothing happening.

She felt exhausted. A restless night's sleep after talking to Vaslik had left her wide awake and unable to clear her mind of the facts sloshing around inside like so much flotsam.

She stepped out of the car and walked to the front door, glancing along the road and noting instinctively the detail of the road. Cars glistening with rain, groups of wheelie bins at the kerb ready for collection, and a woman pedestrian with her shoulders hunched beneath an umbrella as she hurried along the pavement.

Suburban London, the start of a new day. Innocent for some, not for others. She wondered what those other residents of this quiet street would say if they knew what was happ—

She slowed and looked again. Something about the everyday scene was different, a part of the uniformity she'd become accustomed to now out of place.

Her eyes were drawn back along the line of dark vehicles.

Then it hit her. A hundred yards away, parked by a short run of brick wall: a
dark-coloured
4WD. Slick with wet, but with one detail out of kilter with the rest of the vehicles: the windows.

They were coated with condensation on the inside, save for a small arced area of the windscreen, where a hand had swept away the moisture.

As soon as Gina opened the door Ruth stepped inside and took out her phone. Swore silently when she saw the battery was dead. Careless. After talking to Slik last night, she'd forgotten to put it on charge.

Gina noted her body language. “Problem?”

“My phone's dead, and there's a car along the road with misted windows which shouldn't be there.” She asked to borrow Gina's phone and dialled Vaslik's number. As soon as he answered she told him what she'd seen and to come in the back way.

He didn't sound surprised. She heard the sound of traffic in the background, which meant he was already on his way. “Thanks for the warning. I'm five minutes out. How many inside?”

“I couldn't see.”

“Let them be; don't go near them. I'll take a look.”

Ruth shut off the phone and wondered what taking a look meant in Vaslik's lexicon.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Gina was watching from the kitchen doorway. She seemed tense, her arms folded tight across her body.

“Why not? Where else would I be?”

“Aston called. He's been trying to get hold of you. He wants you in the office right away. He sounded pissed.”

Ruth felt a prickle of concern. That didn't sound like Aston's normal manner. “Did he say why?”

“No. Have you done something to annoy him?” Gina walked across and retrieved her phone.

“Why do you say that?”

“He didn't sound happy. Thought I'd warn you.” She gave Ruth a look of concern and turned back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the monitors.

Ruth decided not to wait for Vaslik. If Aston wanted to chew her out for something, she might as well get to it. She went back to her car, ignoring the 4WD, and plugged her phone into the charger and headed for Marble Arch and Mayfair.

Andy Vaslik was worried. He was remembering Drybeck's threat the night before, and what it might mean for Ruth. After the call from her using Gina's phone, he'd called her back only for Gina to answer and say that Aston wanted her in to the office double quick.

“Any reason?” he asked, although he knew one reason that might outweigh any other.

“He didn't say. But he didn't sound a happy camper. I thought you might know … you and Ruth working together.” There was a clear tone of query to her words, and he wondered if she was jumping to the wrong conclusion. It happened all the time with a
male-female
team; everybody assumed that sharing a car for hours on end meant they had to be sharing other stuff, too. Sadly, as he knew from his days in the NYPD, the conclusion wasn't always wide of the mark.

“No idea,” he said shortly. It wouldn't convince her but that was her problem. He shut off the phone. He was just three minutes away from the Hardman house and formulating what he was going to do about the watchers in the car. If it was a surveillance team—and he had no reason to doubt Ruth's instincts —he wanted to know who or what they were. To do that he had to get a look at their faces.

He turned into the road and threaded his way through a gaggle of wheelie bins left out ready for collection. Others were placed at the kerb further along, wherever there were gaps between the cars. Among the bins were refuse bags and cardboard boxes. He scooped up one of the bags without stopping and studied the cars ahead of him, most of them facing towards the Hardman house. He located the 4WD immediately, the windows covered in condensation, sitting there like a duck among chickens, out of place but unaware.

Not clever, he thought. Not clever at all. Who do they think they're dealing with—a bunch of boy scouts?

As he got near the car, he clamped his cell phone to his cheek and began a
one-sided
argument about missing spreadsheets and how anyone with a brain could open an email attachment. The cars were on his right and he had the bin bag in his left hand, with his right clutching the cell phone shielding his face. He checked the 4WD, noting the number and make, then scanned the windows. The condensation was heavy, making it impossible to discern much detail through the rear windows save that there were two figures in the front, neither of them moving. The wing mirror on his side, however, was smeared clear where the passenger had stuck out a hand at some point and wiped it with his fingers.

At least one of them was awake.

He slowed his pace, nodding vigorously as the
one-sided
argument continued, aware that the passenger was watching him through the wing mirror. All he could make out was a blur of face; youngish, male,
well-fed
. Didn't mean a thing; it could be a couple of local authority public health inspectors on an early shift to watch the garbage trucks at work.

As he drew abreast of the rear doors, he caught a glimpse across the dash. Two
take-out
coffees were balanced on top, steam rising from each one. It explained the level of condensation, and that they hadn't been here very long.

He passed the passenger door and in his peripheral vision saw movement as the man turned his head to watch. Vaslik thumbed the screen on his cell and heard the clicks as it recorded a burst of images.

Ten yards ahead stood a group of wheelie bins. He paused long enough to drop the bin bag alongside them and flick some moisture off his hand, before continuing along the road and out the far end, circling the block to the rear access lane to the Hardman house.

Gina was waiting to admit him. He nodded his thanks and made for the radio, flicking it on. There was no sign of Nancy.

“How many?” Gina asked.

“Two guys with coffees to go. Been there five, maybe ten minutes, max.” Not an
all-nighter
, he meant, and she nodded. The difference between a
round-the
-clock surveillance and a short–term watch wasn't simply about budget or manpower; it more often than not showed the degree of official concern. And he had no doubts whatsoever that the two men outside were official in some way.

“Who do you think they are?”

Vaslik shook his head. He didn't want to speculate aloud on it. “I don't know. Is Ruth back?”

Gina said no, and he felt his gut sink at the implications. It could mean only one thing:
Drybeck
.

The
rear-admiral
must have already flexed his muscles to put a stick in the spokes of the investigation. And Ruth was the sacrificial goat. With Vaslik refusing to help, he'd used his position in Washington and called in a favour. The result was Ruth being dropped from the assignment. He swore silently, knowing he was responsible; he'd told Drybeck exactly what he'd wanted to know: that Ruth Gonzales wouldn't give up, no matter what.

He shook it off. He'd deal with the fallout later. For now he had something to check. He took out his cell phone and called up the image file. The photos he'd taken along the road looked similar, as he expected, but with slight differences. The first showed the passenger of the 4WD, face slightly blurred by the condensation on the side window. He had dark hair, almost Latino looks, clean shaven and roughly about thirty, with a hint of bulk in the shoulders. The driver was just a shadow beyond him, face
half-turned
to watch as the passenger said something. The last two images had been taken just as Vaslik had drawn level with the windscreen, and showed the driver leaning forward from the shoulders to get a better view. It brought his face into better relief. The results weren't brilliant, but better than nothing.

He dialled Eric LaGuardo's number and attached two of the best images. It was a long shot, but Eric had once bragged of having access to the latest in FRS—facial recognition software—on the market, and was dying to use it.

Maybe this would be the excuse he needed.

He added the text
Who these?
and hit SEND.