Hide Me

Harry glared at him. ‘No, I haven’t had the chance.’

‘Well, don’t.’

‘What?’

He advanced around the desk towards her. Her heartbeat tripped. Behind him, his colleague was shaking his head.

‘You have an unusual mixture of skills, Miss Martinez.’ Vasco’s eyes bored into hers. ‘Think about it. You’re a professional hacker who knows her way around a casino. You’re part-Irish, part-Spanish. You have a reputation for bluffing and telling lies, not to mention out-manoeuvring the police. You even have a jailbird for a father. This really is a rare opportunity.’

Harry threw him a cagey look and slowly shook her head. Not in denial of his allegations, since most of them were true, but in an effort to ward off what she knew was coming next.

‘I have a proposition for you.’ Vasco loomed over her like an elegant bird of prey. ‘I want you to go undercover, Miss Martinez. I want you to take McArdle’s place.’

Chapter 5

‘That’s crazy.’ Harry stared at Vasco. ‘I don’t know anything about going undercover.’

But even as she said it, she wondered if it was true. If she was honest, a part of her had always been drawn to the notion of becoming someone else. Her whole childhood, after all, had been a kind of double life.

Vasco’s phone rang. He held up a hand, as though halting a line of traffic, then moved behind the desk to take the call. Harry sat back to wait, flicking a glance at his colleague, who’d resumed his seat by the wall. He was scowling across at her, his tangled eyebrows jutting out like twin wire brushes. She shifted her gaze. Vasco was treating the guy as though he was invisible, but there was something about him that Harry found impossible to ignore.

She picked at a fingernail and thought about double lives, flashing on an image of her childhood self: wild hair, fists clenched as if braced for unexpected combat. Outwardly, she’d been the girl she called Harry the Drudge, whose mother made her sit alone in her room after school so they wouldn’t have to talk. The rest of the time, Harry had lived as Pirata, an insomniac who sat at her computer in the dark and prowled the electronic underground. For hours, she’d dialled out over slow modems, sharing ideas and downloading hacker tools. As Pirata, she’d been all-powerful, well respected by her crackerjack comrades. As Harry, she’d led a far more hemmed-in existence.

Vasco wrapped up the call, then looked at his watch, a calculated reminder that he was a busy man. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

‘This is an important case, Miss Martinez. We’ve been watching these people for months. I intend to find out what they’re up to, and you can help.’

‘You’ve got the wrong person.’

‘It’s a global investigation.’ He straightened his shoulders. If he’d been a bird, his chest would have swelled. ‘We’re talking about intergovernmental cooperation, very high profile. The United States is involved, Hong Kong, most of Europe, even your own Irish authorities.’

Harry squinted at him. ‘For a crew of casino cheaters?’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Cheating the casinos is just a sideline. These people are involved in something else, something bigger. And I want to know what it is.’

‘I’m not trained for this kind of thing. It won’t work.’

Vasco ignored her and sorted through the photographs on the desk. ‘We know they have links with other criminal organizations. That’s how they came to our attention in the first place.’ He found McArdle’s headshot and tapped it with a manicured forefinger. ‘What I want to know is, why did they hire a hacker?’

Harry’s gaze slid to the lifeless eyes in the photograph. Her insides flickered, an odd mixture of fear and curiosity. But she bit down on both. This had nothing to do with her.

Vasco was still talking.

‘It will be a short, sharp infiltration. Nothing protracted or drawn out. We set things up so that you’re taken on as McArdle’s replacement. You talk to them, find out who their target is, what they want you to do and why. Then you can disappear. An in-out job. And of course, you’ll be well paid.’

Harry lifted her chin. ‘I’m sorry, but this is not the kind of thing that I do.’

Vasco paused. ‘Perhaps you should reconsider. You seem to forget the awkwardness of your position.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You were following McArdle, right up to the moment he died. The casino cameras can place you tailing him out of the building. By your own admission, you pursued him through the streets, all the way to the Plaza. Where he was ambushed and murdered.’

For an instant, Harry’s brain shorted out, a synapse misfiring between hearing words and understanding what they meant. She shook her head.

‘You know why I was following him. You can’t believe I was involved in his death.’

‘Oh, I don’t. But naturally, my investigation must be seen to be thorough. My men will need to dig more into your background, check out your family, your father’s history, involve the relevant Irish authorities. A long, messy process. And from what I’ve heard, your relations with the Irish police are already quite fragile.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I could make life very difficult for you, Miss Martinez.’

Harry felt her jaw tighten. ‘If you think—’

‘On the other hand,’ he went on, ‘if you cooperate with my request, it might go a long way to redeeming your reputation.’

Harry gaped, her brain still playing catch-up.

Vasco fixed her with unblinking, lidless-looking eyes. ‘This case is important to me and, one way or another, I intend to get a result. How cleanly you come out of it is up to you.’

He shot a wrist from his cuff; another showy time-check.

‘I have a meeting.’ He got to his feet, gesturing at his colleague by the wall. ‘This is Detective Zubiri, from our Undercover unit. Talk to him, then give me your answer.’

He snatched a briefcase off the desk and marched out of the room. Harry glared after him, blood seething through her veins. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in a murder case, but Vasco had her in a chokehold. She felt her teeth grind. Suspect or undercover decoy: what kind of half-assed choice was that?

She flopped back in her seat, exhaling a long breath. The silence in Vasco’s wake was suspiciously restful, like the calm of a receding rogue wave. She cast a doubtful look at the detective by the wall. His shoulders were stooped, his clothes wrinkled. For the moment, he seemed disinclined to take up where his boss had left off.

Harry glanced around Vasco’s office, absently taking in the ordered shelves and the clutter-free desk. She recalled the Dublin base where Hunter worked: the unwashed mugs, the overloaded in-trays, the Post-its curling up like tongues from the files. She pictured his face, lean and tired, his sandy hair short as a schoolboy’s, and waited for the pang of homesickness to hit her.

It didn’t.

‘You can go.’

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. Zubiri was ambling towards the desk, his untidy hair coiling out of his head like springs. He gathered up the photos.

‘This is no job for someone like you.’ His voice was low, his Spanish accent distorted by transatlantic tones that probably came from watching American TV.

Harry glanced at the door. Zubiri followed her gaze and shrugged.

‘Why should you get involved? Just so he can look good to the Chief?’ He blew out air with a pff through his lips.

Harry picked at her nail, but made no move to go. She watched him slot the photos back into the folder, McArdle’s bloated face now hidden from view. She leaned forward in her chair.

‘Who are these people? Why are you so interested in them?’

Zubiri shook his woolly head. ‘It’s none of your concern.’

‘Inspector Vasco mentioned criminal organizations. What kind of crimes are we talking about here?’

‘Every kind. The worst kind. Drugs, human trafficking, extortion, armed robberies, fraud . . .’ He slapped the folder onto the desk. ‘These people crop up in a lot of unconnected cases.’

‘And they operate out of San Sebastián?’

Zubiri shrugged. ‘Spain has always been important to criminals.’

‘For drug trafficking?’

‘For everything. Spain is a gateway to Europe, especially for the Moroccans and the Colombians. And Latin Americans can exploit the shared language and culture. Even the Italian clans look on it as a home from home.’

‘I thought all the crime bosses holed up in the south. In the Costa del Sol. Not here in the north.’

Zubiri fixed a pair of black eyes on hers, and Harry shifted in her seat. She was stalling and she knew it, caught between a survival instinct to back away and a more ignoble curiosity. Eventually, he answered her.

‘The northwest has a long history of trafficking with the Colombians. But security on the Galician coast has tightened up. Now the criminals turn to the ports of Euskadi. The Basque country. My country.’

Harry blinked. The intensity of his stare was unnerving. She gestured at the folder on the desk.

‘So where do the cheaters fit in?’

‘Who knows? Dealers, mules, middlemen, hitmen . . .’

Hitmen. Jesus. An image of McArdle’s white face floated before her, the life gushing out of it in bloody bursts. Her insides slithered.

‘Who do you think killed him?’ she said.

Zubiri didn’t need to ask who she meant. ‘We don’t know. But why should you care?’ He leaned forward, supporting his weight on the desk with his knuckles. The backs of his hands were dark and hairy. ‘McArdle was nothing to you. Just a fat Irish hacker working for criminals.’

Harry flinched. A shard of guilt twisted in her chest. She knew she’d blanked McArdle out. Hadn’t thought of him as a person. Hadn’t liked him much, if it came right down to it, though they’d never even spoken. She’d dubbed him ‘the fat guy’, and then found him dead.

She looked up at Zubiri. ‘What else do you know about him?’

He shrugged, straightened up. ‘Quite a lot.’

‘Was he good at what he did?’

Another shrug. ‘So they tell me. Started hacking as a kid. Broke into school networks, messed with phone systems, that kind of thing.’

Harry looked at the floor, as if he might catch a glimpse of her own shady past in her eyes. Zubiri went on:

‘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.

‘Hey, sorry, buddy.’ Marty belched into the man’s face. ‘Didn’t see ya there.’

The English guy stiffened. Marty made as if to flag the barman down, but managed to knock the guy’s glass over instead.

‘Jeez, look at that.’

A Rioja-tinted stain was seeping over the crossword. The guy’s face grew tight, and Marty winked at the mousy-looking woman beside him.

‘Least it missed his clothes. Them fake designer brands don’t wash too well, do they?’

The woman’s eyes widened. Marty waited a beat. Then he burst into a wheezy laugh and punched the English guy on the arm.

‘Just kiddin’, pal. Whooo!’ Marty patted himself on the chest. ‘Here, lemme buy you another.’

The English guy closed his eyes briefly. ‘No, thank you, we’re just leaving.’

‘Aw, come on.’ Marty spread out his arms. ‘Hey, I know I’ve had a few, but I’m celebrating. Look—’ He glanced over his shoulder, then dug the fat wallet out of his pocket and slapped it onto the counter. A wad of fifty-euro notes curled out over the sides. ‘See that? Casino money. Poker action was sizzling and I cleaned ’em out! Know what else?’ He fumbled in his pocket for a pack of cards. ‘I stole one of their decks as a keepsake!’

Marty wheezed out another laugh, and thumped the English guy on the shoulder. At the same time, he moved in front of him so as to block his exit, and slipped the cards out of the pack.

‘Hey, I’ll play you for that drink, buddy, just one poker hand for fun.’ Marty bungled a shuffle, dropping some cards on the floor. Then he straightened up and dealt two sloppy hands of five. ‘I just can’t lose today.’

The English guy edged away, sending his friend a snippety, drink-up signal. ‘Another time.’

Marty poked him hard in the chest with the cards he’d just dealt him. ‘Whassamatter? You afraid to lose in front of your lady friend?’

The guy narrowed his eyes and glanced down at his chest. Something flickered across his face, and he hesitated. Marty knew what had snagged his attention. The cards were spread in a clumsy fan that allowed the guy a peek at what he’d got.

It was hard to ignore four kings.

Slowly, the English guy took the cards from Marty and set them face down on the counter. His fingers hovered over them. Marty twisted away, as if in search of a drink, and treated the guy to a seemingly accidental flash of the other hand. He knew what he’d see there: three jacks and two odd cards. Marty swivelled back, and the guy flicked a furtive glance at the floor.

‘You still chicken?’ Marty picked up his wallet and peeled a crackling note from his wad. ‘Or maybe you’d like to make it more interesting.’ He leered at the colourless woman beside them. ‘Whaddaya reckon, fifty bucks too rich for your pal here?’

Marty smacked the fifty-euro note on the counter, covering it with his palm. The English guy’s lips disappeared into a thin line, and Marty could almost see the wheels turn. Fact was, the guy’s four kings beat Marty’s three jacks hands down. Even if Marty changed the two odd cards and drew the fourth jack, it still wouldn’t beat four kings.

The guy’s jaw pulsed a little. Maybe he suspected he was being hustled, but at this point, chances were he thought Marty had botched the deal.

The guy reached for his wallet. ‘One hand.’

The disdain had left his face, replaced now by something craftier. He flicked a fifty-euro note next to Marty’s. Immediately Marty picked it up and used it to cover his own. Another of Riva’s rules: bury the funny money. In case anyone got too curious.

Marty examined his cards and chuckled. ‘So how many d’you want, pal?’

‘I’ll stay pat.’

Marty frowned. ‘No cards?’ He double-checked his own. ‘Alrighty. Well, I’ll take two.’

He discarded two of his cards onto the counter and dealt another couple from the pack. He palmed his five cards and squeezed them into a tight fan. He let out another belly laugh.

‘Woo-hoo! What’d I tell ya? I just can’t lose today.’ He rummaged in his wallet, lurching up against the bar. ‘It’s gonna cost you another hundred to see these babies.’

He smacked two more fifties on top of the others, again covering the duds with his palm. The Englishman glanced at his cards, ground his teeth a little. Then he produced two fifties of his own and tossed them onto the counter.

‘I call your hundred.’ A smile slid over the Englishman’s face. ‘But you won’t top these.’

He spread his cards on the counter with a snap. Four big kings, fat and important-looking. Just the way Marty had dealt them. The English guy reached for the cash, but Marty smacked his hand away.

‘Hold on, not so fast.’ He fanned his cards out on the counter. ‘Where I come from, a straight flush whups four kings every time.’

The English guy’s mouth opened and the woman beside him gasped. For a second, they stared at Marty’s hand: seven, eight, nine, ten and Jack, all in a tidy row. And all of them suited hearts.

Marty gave them another second to take it in, then snatched up the cash, whirled around and shouldered his way to the door.

His heartbeat drummed against his ribs. He raced outside, wheeled left then right, criss-crossing the rabbit warren of streets. Adrenalin blasted through him, dulling the pain in his torso and setting his fingertips tingling.