Hide Me

Harry’s gaze slid to his fingers. Instinctively, she found herself trying to shoulder-surf his code, and had to refrain from craning her neck. But she couldn’t make it out. He was hunched over, shielding his hands, as though trying to stop her cheating on a test. All she could tell was that the password was long and, from the way his hands moved, contained numbers and symbols as well as letters.

She awarded him a mental thumbs-up. A hacker would work up quite a sweat trying to power-drill his way through that one.

Light bounced against the wall. Riva’s mugshot flickered back into focus, and Harry noted from the information bar that they’d reached slide four in a total of fourteen. She snuck a glance at her watch. Zubiri hadn’t struck her as the show-’n’-tell type. Just how many mugshots did he have?

He hit a key and Riva vanished, replaced by McArdle’s post-mortem shot.

‘We’ve managed to identify four members of Chavez’s crew. McArdle you already know.’ Zubiri flipped ahead to the next photo. ‘And this guy too, though maybe not his name. Washed-up actor called Clayton James. Also known as James Clay and Jimmy Clayton.’

Harry stared up at the sweaty, florid face and the greying thatch of hair. It was the American who’d collected the crew’s winnings at the casino.

‘We’ve run him through our databases, the FBI did the same.’ Zubiri switched in another shot, this one showing Clayton drinking in a bar. ‘Compulsive gambler, dumped by his wife and kids, left the movie business thirty years ago and turned to forgery, theft, embezzlement and serious fraud.’

Harry took in the man’s breezy smile, and the eyes that didn’t quite share in the joke. Zubiri moved on to the next shot, one that Vasco had already shown her: the thirty-something brunette with the stage-make-up look.

‘Virginia Vaughan, known as Ginny.’ Zubiri cued up another slide, showing the brunette standing on the steps of the Gran Casino. ‘She travels on an Irish passport and doesn’t have a record. We think she’s close to Chavez, but we don’t know for sure.’

Harry studied the woman’s striking face. Despite the showgirl pancake, there was something chic about the exotic planes and angles of her face.

Zubiri moved on. Another photo. Vasco had shown her this one, too: a man in his late forties, red-gold hair cut like a Marine’s; straight, bleached brows.

‘Name’s Gideon Ray.’ Zubiri switched to a shot of the man crossing a sunlit plaza. He looked tall and lean, his freckled face creased in laugh lines at some kids kicking footballs through the archways. Belatedly, Harry realized he was in the Plaza de la Constitución. She glanced at Zubiri.

‘Is he another conman?’

Zubiri gave her a level look. ‘All we know about Gideon Ray is that he kills people.’

Harry’s breath caught in her throat. Slowly, her eyes crept back to the smiling man in the photo. ‘Who does he kill?’

‘Drug traffickers, terrorists, an occasional arms dealer.’

‘Why?’

‘We don’t know.’

Harry hesitated. ‘Did he kill McArdle?’

‘They work on the same side, so we don’t think so.’ Zubiri shoved his chair back, stretching out his stocky legs. ‘There might be others in the crew, but if so, you’d meet them when you went inside. Along with Chavez.’

Harry’s brain suddenly felt swamped, the reality of the situation hitting her like a landslide. If she took this job on, she’d have to mix with these people. Talk with them, work with them, do what they do. She’d have to blend in and fool them into thinking she belonged. Harry’s pulse accelerated. She looked up at Gideon Ray’s smiling face; recalled Ginny Vaughan’s glamour-girl mask, and Clayton’s phoney warmth. A part of her wondered what was behind all the camouflage, but mostly she intended never to find out.

Zubiri fixed her with a stern look. ‘Don’t forget, just because you’re undercover doesn’t mean you try to be something that you’re not. If you don’t drink, then don’t drink. If you don’t take drugs, don’t start now. And never say you’ve been to prison if you haven’t.’

Harry nodded, her head still reeling. Zubiri went on.

‘These people are lifelong criminals, and you’d be part of their world. But remember: you can’t commit a crime when you’re undercover. It’s a strict rule. If you do, the department will not support you. Under any circumstances.’

Harry studied his intense, deep-set eyes, the unruly curls, the rumpled shirt, and couldn’t help comparing his bohemian image with Vasco’s slick efficiency. She cocked her head to one side.

‘Did you follow that rule when you worked undercover?’

He blinked once, but didn’t look away. Eventually, he said, ‘Attack is the best form of defence. Always answer a question with a question, and if you have to lie, look up at the ceiling.’

Harry felt her eyebrows knit together, and for the first time, Zubiri smiled.

‘I learned that one from the RUC in Northern Ireland. If you’re asked a question, you usually picture the answer in your mind’s eye, so you look up for it. When you lie, there’s no picture, so you look down. They used it when interrogating terrorists.’

‘You worked undercover in Northern Ireland?’

‘I worked undercover in a lot of places.’

‘Inside ETA?’

The smile faded. ‘For many years. Some of my superiors worried I was really with ETA, working undercover as a cop.’

‘Was Vasco one of them?’

Zubiri blew a characteristic pfft through his lips. ‘Vasco, he’s just a handshaker. Doesn’t know shit about undercover work. Doesn’t even speak Euskara very well. Me, I’ve spent a lifetime hunting criminals, and I’ve found them, too. Some were even wearing the same uniform as me.’

Harry contemplated his large, slab-like face. He returned her look, as if trying to reassess her. That happened to her a lot these days.

Suddenly, he seemed to make up his mind about something. He snapped the laptop shut, then got to his feet, slipping a phone from his pocket.

‘I have a call to make.’

Harry sat upright in her chair. ‘What, no more slides?’ By her calculations, they still had three more to go.

‘None that concern you.’ He shot her a challenging look. ‘Or so my superiors tell me.’

He held her gaze a shade longer than necessary, then turned and headed for the door. She stared after his blocky, shambling frame as he disappeared into the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar. Harry’s eyes slid back to the laptop.

Three slides left.

None that concern you.

A charge whispered down the back of her neck.

Slowly, she reached across the table and clicked the laptop open.

Chapter 9

Breaking into a laptop was like picking a lock: all you needed was time. Harry shot a glance at the half-open door. Right now, time wasn’t on her side.

She edged around the desk to get a better view. The laptop was locked, password-protected. Her skin prickled as she tuned into Zubiri’s voice outside in the corridor. He was drilling quick-fire Basque at someone on the phone. She eyed the projector, then reached out to switch it off. No sense in magnifying her snooping to wall-sized proportions.

The projector hum died away. The room darkened to a charcoal dusk, somehow intensifying the silence. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Infiltrating a cop’s laptop had to be a crime, whatever way you looked at it. Computer intrusion, property violation, data theft. On the other hand, the police wanted to set her up as a decoy. Surely that gave her dibs on all the facts? Harry shook her head, shelving the debate. Rationalizing her morals was a luxury for later. Right now, she needed information.