Tracers (10 page)

From the moment they had walked in, it was clear something had angered him, and the little Harry had said about Param or his violent death seemed to improve matters. Beyond a brief acknowledgment of Rik’s presence, Jennings had ignored the younger man, addressing all his comments directly at Harry.

‘What the hell were you doing there?’ Jennings demanded, as if they had been laying waste to the Home Counties with a flame thrower. ‘You were supposed to be finding Silverman!’

‘I told you,’ Harry reminded him heavily, ‘we found a lead to Param’s whereabouts and it paid off. At least we now know it’s not Param your clients should be looking for, but Yvonne Michaels.’

Jennings’ jaw flexed briefly before he seemed to backtrack slightly. He tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk. ‘Very well. It appears to have been a mugging, according to the police. What were the local residents saying?’

Harry wondered why that should matter. Local reaction around a crime scene usually follows a pattern: it spreads furiously, feeding on itself like a bush fire, is invariably wrong and heaped with lurid speculation and ill-informed gossip. He explained what the neighbour had said, which seemed to make Jennings relax a little.

‘I see. Did you notice anything?’

‘We didn’t stay long enough. It’s possible we were seen going in earlier, so we’ll have to wait and see. Either way, Param claimed the girlfriend has the money and he’d been screwed. Do you want us to find her?’

Jennings shook his head. ‘Forget it. It’s a non-starter.’ He leaned back and said authoritatively, ‘I suppose it’s possible she killed him; she might have gone back for something after you’d left and they had a falling out. Still, that’s for the client and the police to worry about. Your part’s done.’ He blinked as if making a mental adjustment, and asked, ‘What about Silverman?’

‘We tracked him coming through Heathrow,’ said Rik, shifting impatiently in his chair and making the spindly back creak in protest. ‘We’re waiting to find out where he went afterwards. He was met in the terminal by a young guy and they took a cab from there but we don’t know where to.’ He fixed Jennings with a stare, then asked, ‘Are you sure he’s a professor?’

Jennings allowed a few heartbeats go by before responding. ‘That’s what he was described as, and I see no reason why anyone should have lied. Have you any reason to think otherwise?’ His glanced flickered between the two of them.

Harry shot Rik a warning look and stood up. ‘Not really. He didn’t look much like a dusty professor, that’s all.’ He smiled tightly, wanting to be out of there where he could think clearly. ‘When we find out where he went, we’ll let you know.’

It was as they were walking back to the car that Harry realized Jennings hadn’t shown any interest in how they had fastened on to Silverman and tracked him through the airport. That could only mean that he knew about their visit to Transit Support Services to access the airport tapes.

The only question was, how?

Rik closed the car door. ‘You didn’t mention about the blank we got on Silverman in the university,’ he said. ‘Or that the professor’s friend knows tradecraft. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘Patience, Grasshopper,’ Harry replied vaguely, his mind still on Jennings. There were only two ways the lawyer could have known about them viewing the tapes. The first and obvious one was if Karen had told someone. They had never met her before, but he knew Sandra wouldn’t have suggested it if she hadn’t trusted the woman – she had too much to lose. ‘Two murders, both people traced by us, yet all he’s fixated on is Silverman, as if he’s the answer to the Holy Grail.’ He pushed back the passenger seat and stretched his legs. ‘This is no more about a runaway professor than my Aunt Fanny.’

Rik was nodding. ‘He was more pissed that we’d gone after Param than at the fact that the poor bugger got knifed. You want me to go back in and poke something sharp up his nose? I’d enjoy that.’

‘Tempting, but not yet. Best make sure we get paid first.’ He was considering the second way Jennings could have known what they were up to. At the same time, he was trying hard not to connect dots which might have no relationship to each other. Paranoia was a deadly result of this game – of any game where secrets were a major part of the background, a currency, almost. He’d got used to it in MI5, managing to compartmentalize each part of the job so that he didn’t indulge in pointless speculation. Others he’d known had not fared so well, ending up with careers and marriages in ruins, fearful of their own shadows. But a pattern was beginning to form around everything they were doing which he didn’t like the feel of, and all his antennae were now quivering. First Matuq, then Param . . . and the growing feeling that Jennings wasn’t as put out by the deaths as he should have been. And if he wasn’t put out, it meant he wasn’t surprised. That only led to one conclusion.

He was having them followed.

Harry’s phone buzzed. It was the dispatcher from the cab firm.

‘The driver’s here,’ said the man without preamble. ‘His name is Nasir. But don’t hold him up – it’s mental here and I’ve got drivers off sick. I need him on the road.’ There was a rumble of conversation at the other end and another man’s voice came on.

‘I help you?’ he said warily. His voice was heavily accented, but with an overlay of London vowels on certain words. ‘Is no problems, right?’

‘No. No problems,’ Harry assured him. He turned on the mobile’s loudspeaker. ‘We’re trying to trace a man who has gone missing, Mr Nasir. You picked up two men from Heathrow’s Terminal Two on the twenty-seventh, at around two thirty. It was a pre-booked collection. Do you remember that?’

There was a short silence, then, ‘Two men? Yes, I remember.’ In the background, someone shouted and a door slammed. ‘Was a booking. I pick up two passengers.’

‘Good. Where did you take them?’

‘I collect from terminal as arranged, on time. But passenger was impatient. First he say go to Slough. Not a problem for me. But then later he change his mind and say Southall, then he say Hillingdon. Also not a problem. I am flexible.’

‘Where in Hillingdon? It’s important.’

‘Sure. You know ski centre? I drop them off in car park and they get into a Suzuki four-wheel drive. Nice car. Very strong. I am thinking of buying one for my son when he graduates.’

Harry knew the place. Hillingdon Ski Centre was a short hop from the Western Avenue, the main route into the city from the M40. ‘OK, that’s good, Mr Nasir. Did you see the driver of the Suzuki?’

‘No. I did not notice. Sorry.’

‘What was the colour of the car?’

‘Yellow. Like canary. You want the registration?’

Harry wondered for a second if Mr Nasir was being sarcastic. Then he realized the cab driver was serious.

‘You’ve got it?’ He grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen.

‘Sure. I have a memory for all numbers like this,’ Nasir explained proudly, and carefully recited the number. ‘My son also – he is going to be a systems analyst.’

‘What name did they use for the pick-up? I forgot to ask the dispatcher.’

‘Ah, of course. Moment, please.’ There was a clunk as Nasir put down the phone and spoke to someone in the background. Then he came back. ‘OK. I have it. The pick-up was in the name of a Mr Barrett. The younger man, I think. But that not his real name.’ Nasir gave a knowing chuckle. ‘No, sir.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because Barrett is very English name, no? But the man who spoke to me . . . the young man, he is not English.’

‘What language did he speak?’

‘At first, always English. But after, until I drop them off, he does not speak at all.’

‘What about the other man?’

‘Not him either. No words. They sit like strangers, yet they are together like brothers. Even when I speak to them, to engage in small chit-chat, you know, they do not answer except with noises. But, as they walk away, I hear them speak. First the older man, I hear him ask the other where they are going and how much longer it will be as he is tired after his journey. The younger man tells him – seriously but most respectfully – that he must not speak and soon all will become clear.’

Harry experienced the sinking of disappointment. He’d been hoping for something more definite. Then something occurred to him. ‘Was this in English?’

Mr Nasir sounded surprised. ‘No, sir. Not speaking English now. They are speaking my language. Very normal for them, I can tell.’

‘I don’t follow. Your language?’

‘Yes, sir. These two men come from my country, my province. From Karbala, south of Baghdad.’

‘
What?
’

‘Yes, sir. Men are native-born Iraqis.’

EIGHTEEN

T
he atmosphere in the car was tense as they headed towards Paddington, both men trying to come to grips with the revelation about Silverman’s nationality, and the fact that they had either been fooled along with Jennings or had been lied to by him.

Harry was fast coming to believe it was the latter.

‘You think Nasir was mistaken?’ said Rik finally.

‘What? No, I don’t,’ said Harry. ‘Unless Silverman’s fluent in Nasir’s local dialect.’ It was a possibility, yet instinct told Harry that a man like Nasir was unlikely to make such a mistake. Whatever Silverman’s words had been, they had plainly convinced the taxi driver that he was listening to one of his own countrymen.

‘Great. So our absent-bodied professor moves like Action Man, and instead of Hebrew, he speaks like an Iraqi.’

Harry stared out at the passing traffic. ‘I think because he is one. We can forget anything Jennings told us. He’s got some explaining to do.’

‘Unless we screwed up.’ Rik looked worried at the prospect. ‘Could we have latched on to the wrong man coming through the airport?’

Harry had no such doubts. ‘If we’re going by the description, it was Silverman – we’re not that careless. He had the bandage and the facial marking. And it’s Arabic, by the way.’

‘Huh?’

‘The Iraqis speak Arabic. And some Kurdish.’

‘So now you’re a linguist?’

‘I’m all manner of things.’ He chewed his lip. ‘It would help if we could get a line on who owns the Suzuki.’

‘No problem. I can do that. But I’ll have to stop – unless you want to drive?’

‘No. We’ve got time.’ Harry still hadn’t thought about what to do next. He needed a few moments to make a decision.

Rik pulled to the side of the road and retrieved his laptop from the boot. He switched it on and connected via his mobile to the Internet. Harry didn’t bother watching – he’d seen it all before and it still left him cold.

Minutes later Rik scribbled a note on the slip of paper with the Suzuki’s registration. ‘It’s listed to a B. Templeton, South Acres, near Kensworth, Luton. No known recent sale.’

Harry nodded. Unless the car had been stolen or sold without paperwork, it was a start. ‘Sounds like a farm.’

‘Or a caravan site. My auntie had a mobile home at a place called South Acres. Down at Highcliffe, near Bournemouth. We used to go there for summer holidays . . . until it fell over the cliff in a high wind.’ He glanced across and closed the laptop. ‘Are we going to take a look?’

‘Not we. Me. Drop me at my place and I’ll get my car. I need you to be on standby back here. And just in case we get the call to find Yvonne Michaels, you can start researching her background.’

Harry took the piece of paper and studied it. It would be easy to drop the assignment here and now; to forget about Silverman and go find other work. There was plenty out there if you knew where to look. But would it really be that simple? Quite apart from the fact that he and Rik were now linked by proximity to two murders, he was intrigued by what they had so far unravelled. Could he really put aside what he knew and forget it?

They travelled in silence for a while until Harry said quietly, ‘There’s something seriously off about this.’

‘What?’ Rik glanced at him.

‘All of it. Two runners die right after we find them, and an Iraqi comes into the country on a false ticket and goes into a covert huddle. What the hell has Jennings got us involved in?’

‘You think they’re linked?’ Rik looked nervous. ‘Terrorists? An Al-Qaeda cell?’ He let out a long breath at the possibility. ‘Sounds a bit wild. I can’t see Param as a pal of Osama.’

‘Neither can I,’ Harry agreed. ‘But it hardly seems normal, does it? Nasir the taxi man’s normal. His kid graduating and getting a car, that’s normal. Not this.’

Twenty minutes later, Harry was in the Saab heading north. He gave the M1 a miss and threaded his way instead on to quieter county roads, using the time to think. Rik was right, this whole business was wild. But then, the activities of terrorists and criminals usually were . . . if that was indeed what Silverman was. How he, Matuq and Param could possibly tie in together was, on the surface, impossible. The three of them, given what he knew of their backgrounds, were worlds apart. Yet instinct told him there must be a common factor. All he had to do was find it. The idea that he might be slipping into the kind of territory he had decided to leave behind was disturbing. If there was a terrorist dimension to this, and the situation was going hot, it could escalate rapidly into something beyond his control.

As he eased clear of a built-up area of housing and shops, he checked his mirror, automatically cataloguing the traffic behind. A couple of big trucks, a van and one or two cars. They’d been there for a while, all of them. Nothing to worry him. And why should there be? And yet . . .

He felt uneasy. He wasn’t normally given to seeing shadows, yet something about the past few days was beginning to get under his skin. He noted a lay-by coming up. He waited until the last moment, then spun the wheel and braked hard, skidding into a dipped, single-track hollow shielded from the road by a dense layer of bushes. He pulled up and waited, the engine running, watching the mirror.