Hide Me

He ran till he’d put a safe distance behind him, then slowed to a walk to cool down. He glanced over his shoulder, panting hard. Jesus, he was too old for this.

He stepped into a doorway to count his haul of notes, separating out the phonies. The English guy would work it out soon enough. He’d realize Marty hadn’t changed his two odd cards, but had thrown two of his jacks down instead. For a second, he’d probably wonder who the hell would do such a thing. But only for a second. The answer, of course, was a conman who’d stacked the deck.

Marty stowed the genuine notes into his pocket and slipped the duds back into his wallet. Truth was, the guy had been suckered because he thought he’d sneaked a preview of the cards. He’d been happy to fleece an obnoxious drunk, once he thought he had leverage. Marty was with W.C. Fields on this one: you can’t cheat an honest man.

Marty did a few neck rolls to loosen his muscles and felt his spine crunch. Pain lanced across his ribs. Jesus. He’d taken quite a beating to cover up for that bastard Franco. The question was, would it be worth it?

He slumped against a wall, waiting for the spasm to pass. One way or another, he planned on using Franco to generate some cash. He’d work with him or against him, he didn’t care which. Marty sighed. Well, not really.

He patted the remaining decks of cards in his pocket, letting his gaze roll over the drinkers across the alleyway.

Another bar, another sucker.

His limbs felt heavy. He stayed where he was and closed his eyes. An image of Franco’s crew drifted into his head, and for an instant he felt the rush of the glory days when he’d been a part of it all. His pulse thudded. He remembered the exhilaration of pulling a con; the electric highs, the close calls, the camaraderie on the road.

He wondered about the crew Franco worked with now, and whether they were as good as him and Riva. He smiled and shook his head, his eyes still closed. Franco, him and Riva: together, they’d been on fire. No one could touch them without burning.

Marty opened his eyes, readjusted to his surroundings, and felt his shoulders slump. Now he was back where he started: a chip thief and a hustler.

He shrugged himself away from the wall, then trudged across to the bar. A dark-haired girl eyed him from inside the doorway. She was petite and striking, like a lot of these Spanish types, and reminded him of the girl who’d been watching the crew at the casino.

Marty hesitated. Something about that girl had bothered him. She’d seen Fat-boy’s eye-rub, but she’d stood apart, hadn’t blended in like one of the crew. Hadn’t looked much like a real punter, either. The other women had been all gussied up, but she’d been wearing a suit.

Was she working for the casino?

Marty’s skin prickled, and he fingered the paltry fifty-euro notes in his pocket. Maybe Franco would like to hear about her.

Maybe someone should tell him.

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.’

Chapter 8

‘Would I wear a wire?’

Harry was surprised at how normal her voice sounded. Zubiri shook his head.

‘Waste of time.’

‘But don’t you need evidence?’

‘All we need is information. Wear some piece-of-shit recorder, and you just spend time changing the batteries.’

Harry peered at him through the artificial twilight of the room. The projector beam had excavated lines like dugouts in his face.

‘I thought devices were more hi-tech these days,’ she said.

Zubiri snorted. ‘The Ertzaintza budget doesn’t stretch to hi-tech equipment. They keep that stuff for National Intelligence. Even if we could afford it, they wouldn’t let us use it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we gotta explain our technology in court. Show how we acquire our evidence. If we use the smart stuff, the gadgets get exposed and so does National Intelligence. They prefer to keep their box of tricks a secret.’

‘I see.’ Harry’s mouth felt dry. ‘So no wire?’

Zubiri leaned forward in his chair and started itemizing things on his fingers. ‘Look, this crew is professional. They’re going to frisk you, they’re going to confiscate your phone, your laptop, your jewellery, anything that looks like it could be a recorder, a transmitter or a GPS device.’ His sombre eyes locked onto hers. ‘These guys catch you wired and you’re dead.’

Harry swallowed, and a bead of sweat began a lazy trickle down her back. Zubiri’s eyes raked her face, as though hunting for signs of weakness. She lifted her chin.

‘Okay, so no recorders or transmitters. How would you know where I was?’

‘You’d have backup.’

‘Where?’

He shook his head. ‘Basic rule of undercover: you never get told where the backup’s gonna be.’ He tipped his chair back, linking his hands behind his head. ‘Think about it. You rendezvous with a target and you know we got a sniper on the roof? You can’t help yourself, you’ll look up to check he’s there.’ He shook his head again. ‘You won’t ever know where we are. It’s for your own protection.’

Harry suppressed an involuntary shudder. She’d have to be crazy to get involved in a stunt like this. Then she caught the challenge in Zubiri’s gaze, and could tell he didn’t expect her to take the job either.

She shifted in her chair. The projector light flickered as Zubiri’s laptop dozed into standby mode, obliterating Riva’s image from the wall. The room sank into shadow. Zubiri rocked on his tilted-back chair, and Harry glanced at his large, craggy face and thought about his boss, Vasco.

He’d threatened to embroil her in a murder case, to blacken her already tarnished name. She clamped her teeth shut. Her credentials with the Irish police had taken a beating the previous year and, in truth, she was tired of being the bad guy. She’d worked hard the last few months to redeem her reputation, and bit by bit, she’d sensed a growing respect, at least from the Tech Bureau guys. The last thing she wanted was to jeopardize all that now.

The hairs along her arms twitched. It was an in-and-out job. All she had to do was pretend to be a hacker. How hard could it be?

She eyed Zubiri’s face, kept her gaze steady. ‘Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that I’m going to do this. I presume I’d need an alias?’

He missed a beat, as though adjusting for an unexpected turn of events. Then he let his chair drop with a snap back to the floor.

‘We’d prepare some background paperwork. False name, credit card, driver’s licence.’ He cocked a tangled eyebrow in her direction. ‘Unless you have those already?’

Harry felt the colour rise in her cheeks and wondered how much he knew about her occasional identity switches. If he knew about her trespassing caper on the Stock Exchange, then he probably knew about Pirata. Chances were, though, he didn’t know about Catalina.

Catalina Diego had started out as an imaginary friend when Harry was five years old. She took most of the blame for Harry’s misdeeds; she was blonde and beautiful, and her mother loved her. As Harry got older she’d abandoned Catalina in favour of Pirata, but later reinvented her when she began her hacking scams. By the time Harry was fourteen, Catalina had her own email account, driving licence and even a credit card. Harry still used her whenever the need arose.

She shrugged. ‘We could use Catalina Diego. It’s a persona I’ve built up in my professional capacity.’

‘Oh?’

Harry returned his unblinking gaze. ‘I use it occasionally on authorized security tests. She’s got established credentials, a credible paper trail. Plus, I’m used to the name. I won’t blank if someone calls me that.’

Zubiri’s eyes probed hers, then he nodded. ‘Okay. We’d set up a couple of hello phones, get some people to backstop you in Belfast.’ He must have seen her expression, for he went on to explain. ‘Just numbers and contacts who’ll confirm Catalina’s background if anyone asks. We’d use McArdle, too. You could say you knew him, you were in the same line of business.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a dead guy, that’s why. Dead guys can’t deny knowing you.’

Harry blinked. Zubiri went on.

‘You said you had family in San Sebastián.’

‘I said I might have.’

‘You’d need to stay away from places they might be. In case they blow your cover.’

Harry shook her head. ‘No one knows me. I haven’t been here since I was a child.’

Zubiri nodded, satisfied. ‘Stick to the truth as much as possible. The fewer lies you tell, the fewer you need to remember.’

‘What happens if they just don’t believe me?’

For the first time, Zubiri’s gaze faltered. ‘They will.’

‘But if they don’t?’

He jabbed at the keyboard, kick-starting his laptop. Then he trained his eyes on hers. ‘No matter what happens, never, ever break cover.’

Harry experienced a sudden, dizzy rush, like the falling sensation that jerks you out of sleep. Her heart pounded. She eased back in her chair, covering her jitters with slow movements. Zubiri turned to his keyboard, pecking out the password to unlock his snoozing laptop.

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.