Hide Me

‘It might have ended there if it hadn’t been for his sister. She got into debt with a heroin habit. McArdle cut a deal with her suppliers in Belfast: he’d repay what she owed by working for them.’

‘As a hacker?’

Zubiri nodded. ‘He needn’t have bothered. He found his sister’s body in an old warehouse a few weeks later. Overdose. The needle was still stuck in her arm.’

‘Jesus.’ Harry closed her eyes briefly, trying to blot the image out. ‘But he kept working for them?’

‘Once you’re in, it’s hard to get out. Just knowing these people, knowing what they do, is enough to put you at risk. They own you. Try to leave and you end up dead in a ditch.’

‘How long was he with them?’

Zubiri paused. ‘Eighteen years.’

Harry’s eyes widened as she worked it out. McArdle was thirty-four. Which meant he’d signed over his soul when he was just sixteen. She shook her head, recalling herself at that age: masquerading as Pirata, flexing her hacking muscles. Just like McArdle.

Pirata: Spanish for pirate. Just a curious explorer on the electronic high seas, testing the limits of technology. But it wasn’t all innocent. She’d breached securities, trespassed where others wouldn’t. She’d felt the searing heat of true piracy in her soul, and had struggled not to abuse her power. One wrong choice and things might have turned out differently.

They almost had.

At the age of thirteen, she’d given into temptation and hacked into the Dublin Stock Exchange. Fuelled by an illicit rush of adrenalin, she’d tampered with financial data. The authorities had tracked her down, but she’d been rescued by a mentor who’d schooled her in the ethics of hacking. She’d stuck to the code of honour ever since.

Well, more or less.

Harry slid a glance at the folder of photographs. If things had been different, could she have ended up like McArdle? A hacker for hire to the wrong kind of client?

Zubiri followed her gaze, then picked up the folder and tucked it under his arm. ‘You should leave. Go home. Forget about this.’

‘And let Vasco loose on me?’

Zubiri looked away. Harry didn’t move.

Go home. To what? To Hunter? Her mother? Her rocky relations with the police? She pictured Vasco raking over her past, maybe even grilling her father. Her muscles tensed. She thought about McArdle, about her San Sebastián roots; about a whole mess of things that together stirred up an urge to hide away and become someone else for a while.

Suspect or decoy?

Zubiri leaned his knuckles back against the desk, dipping his large head so that he looked up at her from under his brows.

‘Go home. Pretending to be someone else is tougher than you think.’

Harry shot him a surprised look. He leaned in closer. His five o’clock shadow looked coarse enough to strip paint. He continued in his low, oddly accented voice:

‘Not everyone is cut out to work undercover. You need discipline, control.’ His knuckles tightened into fists against the desk. ‘You can’t forget your cover, not for a day, not for a minute. You must become one of the bad guys, laugh at their jokes, do what they do. And keep your fears to yourself.’ Sequins of sweat broke through the stubble. ‘These people are not like you and me.’

‘Vasco said it would be quick. In and out.’

‘Vasco doesn’t know shit. He has never worked undercover. Things get ugly, plans go wrong. You need to think on your feet.’

When Harry didn’t respond, he shook his head and went on:

‘You will be alone. Really alone. More alone than you’ve ever been in your life.’ A small muscle pulsed in his eyelid. ‘You can’t leave at the end of the day to relax with family and friends. You’re cut off. Isolated. You have no one to talk to about what you’re going through, except your contact agent.’

Harry gave him a steady look. ‘Would you be my contact agent?’

He held her gaze. ‘Yes. But I will not be your guardian angel.’

She stared at him for a moment. His disapproval was a little hard to take, though she wondered why she cared. Then she pictured McArdle’s pale, dead face, and slowly got to her feet.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘This is none of my concern.’

Chapter 6

Marty patted the three decks of cards in his pocket, then turned up his collar against the wind. One thing was for damn sure, there was nothing continental about northern Spain in March.

He traipsed past the shuttered apartments and shops, heading for the boardwalk by the river. The salty funk of seaweed hung in the air. He squinted across the water towards Alameda del Boulevard, the big-city street that butted up against the old part of town. He fingered the cards in his pocket. Time to scare up some cash, or he’d end up sleeping in a doorway.

His landlady had ambushed him the night before. A fierce-looking Basque with hennaed hair, she’d chewed him out about the rent. He’d tried to flirt, sweet-talk her round, but the beating he’d taken in the casino hadn’t helped. The blood had made him look like a street brawler. In the end, she’d given him a day to come up with the money.

Marty fingered the plump wallet in his inside pocket, the one he’d stuffed with newspaper and a few counterfeit notes before he’d left his room. The counterfeits were cheap, a shoddy job that in a good light wouldn’t fool anyone. But Marty didn’t plan on handing them around for inspection.

He cut left across the Zurriola Bridge where the river surged out into the bay. The tide was high, whipping the estuary into violent swells that boomed off the embankment walls. Marty hunched his shoulders against the driving wind. Water was loud everywhere in this damn city.

He eased along the Boulevard, wincing at the tenderness in his ribs. Last night had been dumb, his own stupid fault. He’d broken the golden rule: never let yourself get back-roomed. He should have kicked, screamed, run, anything. Marty sighed and shook his head. Truth was, he hadn’t wanted to look like a bum in front of the redhead. He rolled his eyes skyward and fingered the crusty gash around his nose. He’d sure paid for that piece of vanity.

Halfway down the Boulevard he turned right, ducking into the alleys of the Old Quarter. It was darker in here. The narrow streets stood huddled together, dodging the evening light. He peered into the open bars, searching for a likely mark.

It was Riva who’d first taught him that the world was divided into two.

‘Suckers and scammers,’ she’d said, her slate-grey eyes fixed on his. ‘That’s all there is in this life. One’s smarter than the other, that’s the only difference between ’em.’

She’d been just fourteen, only three years older than him, though with fancy clothes and make-up, she could look a whole lot more. He’d bitten his lip, a little nervous about contradicting her.

‘But isn’t one more dishonest than the other, too?’ he’d said.

Riva snorted. ‘Honesty don’t come into it. Would a sucker jump at the chance to hold the upper hand, assuming he suddenly got smart enough? You bet he would. He’d turn those tables quicker’n spit.’ She shook the fine blonde hair from her face. ‘It’s a simple choice, Marty. Sucker or scammer. Top dog or victim.’ Suddenly she’d wheeled away, her bony fists clenched. ‘I know which I’d rather be.’

Cutlery clinked from inside the bars. The sweet scent of onions pepped up Marty’s nostrils. He watched the customers help themselves to pintxos, the Basque equivalent of fast finger-food. He dragged his gaze away. Food was for later, when he could pay.

Marty spotted the mark in the next bar: tall, thin; designer croc on the shirt, sharp crease in the jeans. He was mouthing off to a pale young woman hanging on his every word. Marty eased closer to the open door.

The guy spoke with an educated, English voice. A completed Times crossword lay ostentatiously on the bar beside him. He was swirling the wine in his glass, poking his nose over the rim for a sniff every now and then. Marty smiled.

‘Almost everyone is a potential mark,’ Riva had said to him once.

‘Everyone?’ He’d still only been eleven and hadn’t gotten used to the fact that Riva was always right. ‘Aren’t a lot of people too smart to be taken in?’

‘They sure think they are.’ Her thin, heart-shaped face had split into a smile. ‘That makes them the best marks of all.’

Church bells chimed somewhere behind him, and Marty came to a decision. He rumpled his hair, loosened his tie, then lurched full tilt through the door. The babble of Spanish hammered his ears. He bulldozed his way to the counter, collecting gripes along the way, and collided with the English guy.