Читать книгу Hide Me - Ava McCarthy - Страница 11

Chapter 7

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Hunter said.

Harry bristled at his tone. She switched the phone to her other ear and yanked the satchel higher on her shoulder.

‘Haven’t you been listening?’ She crossed the street and turned left along the beach promenade. ‘I told them I wouldn’t do it.’

‘Then why are you still talking with them?’

‘They want to give me more details, no strings attached. Look, I’m curious, I admit it. But it doesn’t mean I’ll go along with it.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Would it really be so bad if I did? It’s just an in-and-out job. I find out why they want a hacker, then I leave.’

Harry knew she was being contrary; an instinctive buck against his assumption that he had some kind of say.

‘Who’s in charge over there?’ he said.

‘I’m mostly dealing with a Detective Zubiri, but his boss is a guy called Vasco.’

‘That prick. What the hell does he know about undercover operations?’

Harry blinked. ‘Vasco? You know him?’

‘He phoned a couple of days ago, asked a lot of questions. Sounded like a puffed-up desk-jockey to me.’

Harry recalled Vasco’s slick self-importance, and privately she had to agree. She peeked at her watch, then quickened her pace, her shoes scratching against the grit of sand on the pavement. To her left, the grand façades of apartments and hotels lined the shell-shaped coast. To her right, the waves thwacked in a fizz of foam against the sand.

‘Look, it’s a paying job.’ Harry clutched the lapels of her jacket to stop them flapping in the wind. ‘A consultancy gig with the police. You’re always saying I should work more on the side of the angels.’

She heard him exhale a controlled breath, and pictured him massaging tired, hazel eyes. She chewed her bottom lip, regretting her contrariness. Just once, it’d be nice to have a conversation where they didn’t butt heads.

They’d met a few months earlier when one of Harry’s clients had framed her as a suspect in a murder. Hunter had been the lead detective on the case, and right from the get-go, he’d pegged her as a liar, though eventually she’d cleared her name. Well, more or less.

Afterwards, Hunter had seemed to reassess her. He’d vouched for her with the Garda Tech Bureau in Dublin, who’d since hired her twice as a computer forensics consultant. She’d worked alongside Hunter on one occasion, but in spite of the plug he’d given her, she could tell some of his wariness lingered. They’d met for lunch a couple of times, had even gone to dinner when they’d both been working late. But so far, one thing hadn’t led to another, and Harry had to admit she was probably to blame. Then again, he had complications of his own to sort through.

‘So who are these casino cheaters?’ Hunter’s voice was taut, spiked with the kind of crankiness that comes from lack of sleep.

Harry shrugged. ‘I only know a couple of names. Franco Chavez, he seems to be the ringleader. The hacker was from Belfast with paramilitary connections, a guy called Stephen McArdle.’

‘I’ll check them out, see what I can dig up.’

Harry paused, her pace slackening. ‘There’s no need. Really, I can handle it.’

Silence thickened the airspace between them. She closed her eyes briefly.

Dammit.

The line between interference and support was a fine one, and she’d be the first to admit she had trouble telling the difference. In her defence, she’d learned the hard way to rely on no one but herself. That was the natural fallout when your father was absent and your mother was indifferent all your life. On the upside, it saved on disappointments, but she’d noticed other people found her independence hard to take. She’d yet to decide if that was their problem or hers.

She cleared her throat. ‘Look—’

‘I get it. You don’t need anything. Just let me know how it works out.’

The line went dead. Harry glared at the phone and, for a moment, considered calling him back. Then she sighed and slipped the handset into her pocket. The conversation had already stalled and crashed. Salvaging the wreckage didn’t seem too appealing right now.

She tugged her jacket tighter across her chest. The air was damp and salty, the water a leaden-grey. She’d heard that the Basque country got as much rain as the west of Ireland. Next time, she’d take her cue from the locals and carry an umbrella.

Her phone buzzed against her hip. She whipped it out to check the caller ID: her sister, Amaranta. Mentally, Harry poked a tongue out at herself for hoping it might be Hunter, then debated whether to take the call. Amaranta specialized in big-sister guilt trips, and Harry wasn’t in the mood for one right now. She cursed and put the phone to her ear.

‘Amaranta?’

‘At last. I was about to hang up.’

Harry rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. She pictured her sister: ash-blonde and elegant, just like their mother. Harry was the one who’d inherited the dark Martinez looks, but it was Amaranta who’d got the exotic Spanish name. By the time Harry was born, her mother had tired of all things Spanish and had christened her Henrietta, after her own mother. It was her father who’d rescued her and shortened the name to Harry.

Amaranta huffed into the silence, then quickly got to the point. ‘You know that Mum’s in a complete state because you’re in San Sebastián?’

Harry squinted into the phone. ‘Why would she care where I am? And how does she even know? We haven’t spoken in over a month.’

‘Exactly. Don’t you think you should call her?’

‘No.’

Harry let that one sit. She knew it sounded truculent, but had no intention of being drawn into explanations. Her relationship with her mother was like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Their exchanges usually ended on a sour note, and Harry often broke contact for weeks at a time to give them both a chance to recover. Eventually Harry would go back, peeling off whatever scab had managed to form and exposing herself to another injury. Never once had her mother initiated a reconciliation. Harry suspected she was secretly relieved by her daughter’s occasional absences.

‘You’re being childish,’ Amaranta said eventually.

‘Not really. We both know she doesn’t like me, so why pretend?’

‘That’s putting it way too strongly, and you know it.’

‘Just because she’s different with you doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’

‘You were Dad’s favourite and I never objected.’

‘Well, maybe you should have.’

Harry bit her lip, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Waves crashed like thunder-claps into the silence, and even Amaranta didn’t rush to fill it this time.

Their family had always been split into two teams: Amaranta and their mother versus Harry and their father. It was something she and Amaranta had accepted many years before, and it had brokered a sort of truce between them. Sure, they still bickered, but sibling rivalry was never the cause. The truth was, the family pairings had suited them. For Harry’s part, she’d stopped craving her mother’s affection so badly. Her father had become her safe haven and proved that her mother might be wrong; that Harry might be lovable after all. She guessed it must have been the same for Amaranta.

Harry kicked a pebble along the promenade. At the time, the arrangement had seemed well balanced, but as an adult the after-effects were starting to feel a little unstable.

Amaranta sighed into the phone, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. ‘It’s a little late for all that now, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Look, why not just call Mum?’

Harry’s brain jangled at the thought. ‘I don’t get why she’s so uptight. What’s wrong with me being in San Sebastián?’

‘You tell me. It’s just another job, isn’t it?’

Harry closed her eyes briefly. ‘More or less.’

They kicked the topic around for a while, but could shake nothing else from it and so wound things up and said goodbye. Harry stowed the phone away and tried to put the exchange out of her head. Thinking about her mother had never brought her much comfort.

She continued along the promenade for another hundred yards, then turned left on to Calle de la Infanta Cristina. Her stomach muscles tightened. In front of her stood the grey, triangular block that housed the Ertzaintza station. She straightened her shoulders, smoothed down her hair, then marched through the door and asked for Detective Zubiri.

An officer escorted her down a narrow corridor, and she trotted behind him, her shoulder aching from the weight of her satchel, which held her laptop and computer forensics toolkit. She probably wouldn’t need them, but if she was supposed to be a hacker then she may as well look the part.

The officer showed her into a room and clicked the door shut behind her. Harry did a quick survey of her surroundings.

She was alone in the room. The lights were dimmed, the blinds drawn. The only illumination was the glow of a projector and laptop on the conference table. The projector whirred. Dust motes swirled in the slanting cones of light, and Harry moved closer, peering at the image cast up against the wall. It was a headshot of Riva Mills.

Harry stared at the pointed features and taut lips. The blonde hair was fine and silky. It was the only thing soft-looking about her.

‘You’re late.’

Harry turned to find Zubiri watching her by the door. His shaggy hair hung low over his brows, obscuring his eyes a little. She glanced at her watch.

‘Not really.’

He stomped across the room, his large head dipped low like a charging bull. He took a seat in front of the laptop, gesturing for Harry to sit to one side, presumably so she could view the slideshow on the wall.

She pulled up a chair, nodding towards the photo of Riva. ‘We’re starting with her?’

‘We start where I say. Tell me what you know about her.’

Harry settled her satchel by her feet, playing for time while she coached herself to let his rudeness slide. She counted to three, then straightened up.

‘I only know what I could find out from public sources. She’s from Ohio. Ran away from home at the age of fourteen, bought her first casino when she was twenty-one.’ Harry turned to study the striking face projected on the wall. ‘I guess a lot must have happened to her in those intervening years.’

Zubiri grunted. ‘What else?’

‘She owns eleven casinos, three of them here in Spain. She’s lived in San Sebastián for the last ten years, though I’m not exactly sure what her link with the place is.’

She threw Zubiri a questioning look, but he didn’t fill her in. Instead, he jabbed at his keyboard. Riva’s headshot disappeared and another photo flashed into view: Riva shaking hands with some guy on a podium. The man wore a broad smile and a ceremonial chain, but Riva’s expression was sombre.

‘She’s well respected in the community here,’ Zubiri said. His American-flavoured accent seemed more pronounced, as though he’d been practising overnight with CNN. ‘She’s on the board of trustees for two children’s homes. Contributes to local causes. Fundraises for local schools and hospitals. A real philanthropist.’

Harry caught his tone and shot him a sideways look. ‘Are you saying it’s a front?’

‘I’m saying there’s a lotta stuff people don’t know about Riva Mills.’

‘Such as?’

Zubiri flipped ahead to the next slide. A mugshot: the profile and front-view of a young girl. A waif, really. Maybe thirteen or fourteen, with bony shoulders and a pinched, heart-shaped face.

Harry blinked. ‘She has a criminal record?’

‘Juvenile. Back in the United States. Fraud, cheque forgery, theft.’

‘Did she go to prison?’

Zubiri shook his head. ‘They gave her a break on account of her background. They say her mother was abusive. Unstable. Plus there was a younger brother, some problem kid, that Riva mostly took care of.’

Harry stared at the photo, at the razor-sharp cheekbones sloping into dainty features. She had trouble reconciling this undernourished girl with the businesswoman who ran a casino empire. She glanced back at Zubiri.

‘Okay, so my client isn’t all that she seems. God knows, it wouldn’t be the first time. But what’s that got to do with the casino cheaters?’

Zubiri leaned back in his chair and took his time about answering, almost as though he begrudged her the information. Eventually, he said,

‘She may be involved.’

‘In what? Ripping off her own casinos?’

Zubiri laced his hands across his wrinkled shirt. ‘Who told her about the cheaters?’

‘Her Chief of Security, Victor Toledo. He got a tip-off from a source.’

‘What source?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’

‘What about the scam the crew pulled in the casino? Do you know how they did it?’

‘No. But now we know who to watch, we could pull the surveillance tapes. They might tell us something.’

Zubiri shook his head. ‘Pulling the tapes would alert Riva to their identity. I don’t want the cheaters stopped. Not yet. Not if we want them to recruit you.’

Harry stirred in her seat, aware of a shifting in her gut. Now they were getting to the real reason she was here.

‘I haven’t agreed to do it yet.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘But assuming I did, how exactly would they end up recruiting me?’

‘Same way they ended up recruiting McArdle. Through recommendations from Irish paramilitaries.’

Harry’s heart did a quick flip. ‘You’re kidding.’

Zubiri was watching her closely. ‘That’s how McArdle got most of his clients. Word of mouth, vouched for by his oldest employers. And we know Chavez’s crew has links with terrorists. It’s one of the reasons we’re watching them.’

Harry’s palms felt clammy. ‘So Chavez put the word out that he needed a hacker and his contacts in Belfast put him in touch with McArdle?’

‘Exactly.’

Harry shivered, the hairs spiking up along her arms. Terrorists and paramilitaries. The words conjured up an underworld of hatred and fanaticism, generations of rage that had nothing to do with her. She swallowed.

‘And now you think Chavez will put out feelers for a replacement?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how will you know?’

Zubiri sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking jaded. ‘The Irish and the Basques are closer than you think. Your paramilitaries have been buddies with our ETA separatists for almost forty years. Explosives in exchange for training. Handguns for solidarity. Our police force has had undercover agents in your country for decades.’ He leaned forward, every line in his face etched deep. ‘There are no guarantees Chavez will approach Belfast again. But if he does, our operatives will know about it.’

‘And do what?’

‘Intercept the enquiry. Redirect it to us and let Chavez know a replacement is on the way.’

Harry’s mouth felt dry. Zubiri fixed his eyes on hers and nodded.

‘And then you go in.’