The Traitor's Story (23 page)

History

Sofi didn’t come back from her parents’ place until Thursday night. She looked weary when she walked in the door, emotionally rather than physically.

Immediately, he said, “How are they?”

“It’s really upset them.” She took her coat off. “I know it seems silly, it was just a burglary, but they’ve never known anything like this.”

“It doesn’t seem silly at all.” He held her and kissed the top of her head, intoxicated by the scent of her after a couple of days without her. “And I shouldn’t have gone there last weekend—I should have thought.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault.” She looked up at him, a reconciliatory smile, and they kissed, haltingly at first, then deeper, falling into each other. And, almost subconsciously, they started to undress as they kissed, edging at the same time toward the bedroom, a little clumsily, without separating.

As he pulled her sweater over her head he said, “Have you eaten?” She nodded and let the sweater fall to the floor as she pushed him over the threshold and to the bed. And they spoke no more, but it was not as it should have been. They made love, so familiar with their own choreography now that there were no missed steps, but still, it was not as it should have been.

Later, much later when she was already asleep, he lay there looking up into the darkness and thought about it, and reasoned that it had been her. In some subtle way he knew she’d been going through the motions, that a small, isolated part of her brain had been elsewhere, perhaps only thinking of her parents, but perhaps more than that, of whether their future would hold through the end of his job. And sensing that she doubted, he doubted, too, fearing it would no longer be the same.

When he woke the next morning, the small lamp was on and he could hear the shower running. She always had breakfast first, and he could smell the coffee in the kitchen. When she came in, she saw he was awake and smiled and said, “Good morning.” She kissed him before retreating across the room, taking her robe off and hanging it on the back of the door.

She started to dress, throwing the occasional smile at him because she knew, and was bemused by the fact, that he found the sight of her dressing even more erotic than that of her undressing. For a moment he wanted to persuade her back to bed, however briefly, but the memory of the previous night stalled him.

He said, “I forgot to tell you, I’m away today, back Sunday morning.”

“Oh,” she said, looking concerned again. “Not this work you’ve been doing?”

She knew nothing about what he’d been doing this week, and yet something about it had unsettled her. Maybe it was just having met Louisa.

“No, it’s the opposite. They’ve asked me to attend a meeting. Everyone else is busy.”

She didn’t look convinced. “That’s one thing I won’t miss about your job—you go away too much.”

He smiled and watched as she finished dressing, then said as it occurred to him, “Is there anything about my job that you
will
miss?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to see what you’re like without it first.” She came over and kissed him quickly. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Travel safely.”

“I will. See you Sunday.”

“I’ll be here, sad and lonely.” She laughed and headed out of the door.

A stray thought flitted into his head, that he would never see her again—a thought so powerful that he almost leapt out of bed to follow her. But it was nothing more than a stray thought, he knew that, the kind that people in his profession seemed particularly prone to.

He didn’t bother going into the office that day. He had nothing left to do and everyone else had already left for Kaliningrad. Instead, he showered and dressed—casual clothes so he wouldn’t look odd traveling with Katerina—and then had a long, lazy breakfast, watching the clock. He’d told Katerina he’d pick her up around four.

At lunchtime his phone rang. It was Louisa, sounding even more like a headmistress over the phone than she did in person.

“Ah, Finn, glad I caught you.” He raised his eyebrows, and with anyone else would have pointed out the nature of cell phones.

“Is everything going to plan?” Even as he asked the question, he realized that wasn’t why she was calling, that she would no longer see any need to keep him informed on the progress of Sparrowhawk. His part in this operation, and essentially in her organization, was over.

“This is probably nothing, but take a look out of your window and see if there’s a black BMW parked in the street.”

He walked through the apartment and looked down. It was parked a little way along, but the BMW was there, with two guys just visible inside it.

Finn wasn’t unduly concerned but said, “I don’t get it—I thought he’d have stuck with the agreement.”

“Clearly he doesn’t trust you to keep your end. We think he’s out here somewhere, but we intercepted a call, which is why we know they’re watching the apartment.”

It meant he’d have to avoid them when he left, but he didn’t think that would be so difficult.

“It’s not a problem, is it? I mean, it can’t compromise the operation?”

“Not at all, no. It’s not that.” She sounded unsure of herself, something so strange where Louisa was concerned that Finn felt the first hint of unease. “This really could be nothing, but when his man told him that you hadn’t left the apartment, Karasek told him to wait a little longer, and then check out the other place.”

“What other place?” He felt sick as the answer came to him even before she’d spoken.

“I’ve no idea, but I thought, just on the off chance, that you
do
have something or someone they want—that . . .”

He was still looking down at the street, and stared with horror now as the BMW reversed slightly, the front wheels turning, edging forward, reversing again, working slowly out of the tight parking spot.

“Thanks, Louisa. I’ll look into it.” He hung up before she could respond and tore through the apartment, picking up his coat and backpack as he slammed through the door, hurtling down the stairs.

The car had gone by the time he got out onto the street. He didn’t hesitate, sprinting quickly away, making rapid calculations—the route the car would have to take, the few shortcuts he could make on foot, still doubting he could be quick enough.

He veered out onto the street, finding it easier to dodge traffic than pedestrians. A couple of policemen looked at him as he tore toward them, but he laughed and waved, giving the impression of someone terribly late rather than up to no good. They both laughed, and one even waved back as Finn sprinted past.

As he reached the junction with Harry’s street, he saw the BMW cruise across in front of him. His lungs were burning now, his legs uncertain—he’d been running full speed in the cold for more than five minutes. He was in pretty good shape, but it had still taken it out of him.

He flew around the corner and saw that the car had carried on past the building, looking for a place to park. If they’d realized there was a pursuit in progress, he guessed one of them would have jumped out while the other parked, but fortunately for Finn there was still a lack of urgency about them.

He slowed to a brisk walk, not wanting to make any movement that might register in the driver’s mirrors. Once inside the building, though, he skipped quickly up the stairs, pulling the key from his pocket as he reached the top.

She was sitting on the sofa with a book, but jumped up now, momentarily fearful, then happy, then confused—the emotions playing out in quick succession across her face.

“But you said—”

“I know, but we have to go now. Is your bag ready?”

She nodded, pulling on her Converse, which were next to the sofa, lacing them quickly. There was a desperate, determined look about her that was painful to witness, speaking as it did of what she’d come to expect from life. She stood, picking up her book.

“Okay, where’s your bag?”

“In here.” She pointed to the bedroom and he followed her in. There was a sports bag on the bed, looking quite bulky for someone who had so few clothes. She opened it and put the book in, and he saw that the other books were also in there. He could hardly deny her that.

He was about to speak again when the doorbell sounded and he froze. She looked at him, seeking an explanation, but he simply put his finger to his lips and closed the bedroom door.

He walked over to the window and looked down. They were on the fourth floor, at the back of the building. He lifted the window. There was a metal fire-escape ladder attached to the outside wall, but it was a couple of windows along, meant to be accessed from the roof rather than inside the apartments.

Some of the apartments at the front had ornate balconies, but there was nothing here, just a narrow decorative ledge running under the windows at floor height. He looked up, too, at the guttering above, but there was no obvious way.

Katerina also leaned out, looking down at the paving below, taking in the options as quickly as Finn had. The bell sounded again, but Finn knew they’d just be checking that Harry wasn’t in, and that once they were certain, they’d work the lock and search the place.

Katerina caught his gaze now and pointed to the fire ladder and nodded. Before he could shake his head or whisper a response, she climbed nimbly over the windowsill and started edging along the building, showing no apparent fear.

He stared for a second, awestruck, then mobilized, grabbing her bag. He held it out of the window, but waited until she’d seen him before he dropped it, not wanting to shock her with the sound of it hitting the ground below.

He climbed out after her, and even as he gently lowered the window, he thought he heard the apartment’s front door open and then close again. He was shocked by how strong the wind was now that he was on the outside of the building, and while Katerina edged along without difficulty, her feet turned sideways, it felt like only the toes of his boots were on the ledge. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, and that seemed to attract the tug of the wind, too, but he didn’t want to drop it now, fearing the noise would be audible from inside the apartment.

He passed the first window. The apartment was empty and a decorator was painting, his back to the window. Katerina had already passed the second window and reached out for the ladder. She made barely any noise as she lowered herself down the rungs.

Finn picked up his pace but wasn’t sure about the soundness of the ladder, and waited for her to lower herself from the bottom rung and drop to the ground before he started down himself. By the time he was on the ground, she’d already retrieved her bag. He took it off her and she smiled.

He was still deciding which way to go and what to do when the window opened above. It could have been a lucky guess on the part of Karasek’s man, but suddenly, Finn remembered the bedding on the chair in the living room, and wondered if that had played a part in convincing him the girl had to be there.

Finn turned his back to the window and started walking; Katerina followed and only she looked back as the guy called something out in Estonian.

As she faced forward again she said urgently, “I think he has gun.”

“He won’t use it, but it’s time to run.”

They moved quickly out onto the street, taking a right, Finn heading instinctively away from where he knew the BMW was parked, and once again calculating—would they be down the stairs yet, out on the street, would one pursue on foot while the other drove?

They ran into a busier street, his knee jarring slightly now from the drop and the weight of the bag on one side, but not bad enough to slow him down. A little farther along, he saw someone getting out of a taxi and he picked up his pace. He didn’t give the guy a chance to decide, throwing the bag in the back and handing him a couple of notes as he asked for the ferry terminal.

Katerina laughed excitedly once they were moving, but she kept looking back, making sure they weren’t being followed. Finn didn’t need to look, not now—no one was that good.

“Are we okay?”

“We’re okay,” he said.

He was already wondering, though, how they’d known. Perhaps it had just been thoroughness on Karasek’s part, following all the leads that Finn’s movements had suggested. Maybe two people had tailed him and Harry that day, or maybe they’d picked up on Harry afterward. Either way, Karasek had come impressively close to finding her.

Katerina hardly spoke after their escape, and didn’t question the change of plan until they were on the boat and heading out. “We’re going to Helsinki?”

He nodded, thinking of the many times he’d been to Helsinki in the last eighteen months, some of the grand times they’d had there. Then he looked at her and realized she wanted an explanation for the change of plan.

“I don’t want to wait in Tallinn for the late ferry. We can take another ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm.” The boat was out on a choppy slate sea now, the sky mean, the promise of a feisty crossing later tonight.

“But you bought tickets.”

“It’s okay, I can buy other tickets.”

The boat listed gently as it rode the swell, and she looked excited and alarmed, and by way of explanation, said, “I’ve never been on a ship.”

He smiled, impressed by how resilient her innocence was. “Your life will be better now.”

“I know it,” she said, with a certainty he wished he could muster for his own future.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

He trained the next day and ran farther still, his pace much quicker now, his stamina returning. As he came back from his run he saw Hailey looking down from the window of the Portmans’ apartment. He waved at her but didn’t go to see them.

On Monday morning, he retrieved a bag from his deposit box, containing his gun, ammunition, cuffs, various other things he’d bought nearly six years ago and barely looked at since. The fact that he’d kept them all this time said something in itself.

He’d bought them early on because at some level he’d believed someone would come after him. After the months had turned into years, he’d begun to relax a little. When the first book had become a success, he’d seen that public persona as offering him a little insulation, had let his guard down further by embarking on what, at the time, had felt like a committed relationship—with Adrienne.

Somewhere along the line, between book tours and research trips and the domestic routine of life with Adrienne, he’d fooled himself—though not her, apparently—into believing that everything had normalized. And yet he’d kept the box and he’d kept the contents, because a faint alarm had continued to sound, transmitting its weak signal no matter how far he traveled from that past. And now this was the day when that precaution paid off.

He took an early afternoon train to Geneva. He checked the building where Gibson was living—if Jonas’s information was correct. It was a modern apartment building with no concierge. Then he walked to the building that housed the BGS office. The address was also the base for a dozen other companies with unchallenging names. For all he knew, every one of them was a front for some intelligence service or other. There were no bars or cafés across the street but there was one farther along the block, and as long as Gibson walked home, which he guessed he would, he would have to pass it.

Finn checked his watch, bought a newspaper, and strolled back to the café, sitting with a coffee at one of the stools inside the window, like a man who just wanted to watch the world go by. The place was almost empty, but as the clock moved toward the end of the working day, a crowd steadily grew, a surprising number of them speaking English.

Finn checked his watch. If Gibson hadn’t made an appearance by six, he would write it off and head to his apartment. He had no idea if the BGS office was anything more than an address, but Gibson had gone out to work every day when he’d lived beneath Finn, so presumably he’d been going somewhere, perhaps even here.

The street outside the café was becoming busier, too, and when Gibson finally did walk past, Finn didn’t spot him until it was almost too late. Gibson glanced in at the window of the café, staring directly at where Finn was sitting, though he showed no sign of having actually seen him.

Finn had probably walked past him many times before, but had never taken much notice. Now he took in everything: the young, featureless face, though he imagined Gibson was in his thirties; the prematurely balding hair masked by the fact that it was almost shaved; not particularly tall, a sinewy build as befitting someone who was a keen cyclist.

Having never paid attention to him before, Finn was surprised at himself, because Gibson had the perfect blend of lean anonymity that should have aroused his suspicions. The only thing Finn had in his defense was that the world seemed to be full of nobodies nowadays—they couldn’t all be mounting surveillance operations.

He put his money on the counter, folded his paper and left that, too, then got up and sauntered out. Once on the street, he picked up his pace a little until he could see the back of Gibson’s neatly cropped head bobbing among the pedestrians in front.

Finn kept a decent distance behind him, knowing the few turns Gibson would have to make in advance of him reaching them. Only as they got closer to the apartment building, and there were fewer people on the street, did he close in. Usually that would be the time to drop back, but Gibson had no idea he was being followed, and Finn wanted to reach the door with him.

Gibson was wearing a suit, an open raincoat over the top of it, a scarf—that much Finn had seen when he’d looked into the café window—and he was carrying a laptop case. Was he armed? It was impossible to tell from behind, maybe not at all with the loose-fitting beige raincoat.

Finn saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a bunch of keys, sorting through them as he neared the door of the building. It was probably a new apartment for him, so he no doubt had to remind himself each time which key was for which door—the mental effort required provided perfect cover for Finn now that they were essentially alone, the one other man on the street walking away from them on the other side.

Gibson reached the door, put in the key. Finn picked up his pace, breaking into a run as he pulled his gun. He almost barreled into Gibson, pushing him through the door, and Gibson responded at first as if ready to defend against an assault or deal with an accidental collision.

He didn’t drop the laptop case, but stumbled and turned and said something, then froze in two stages, the first as he recognized Finn, the second as he saw the gun.

“Keep your hands visible and move backward to the elevator.”

“What do you want?” He was a Scot—Ethan had told him that, but the delicate and slightly high-pitched voice came as something of a surprise.

Finn didn’t answer and Gibson got the message, moving carefully toward the elevator, reaching up and pressing the button. Finn stepped in behind him, pushed the gun into his back and turned him around. He gave a little shove with the gun then, and Gibson reached up and pressed for the fourth floor.

As the doors closed and the elevator moved, Finn said, “I’ve only killed two people in my life, and one of them was an accident, so when we get to your floor don’t do anything to make me add to that tally. You understand?” Gibson nodded. “If there’s anyone about, don’t try anything, or I’ll kill you and I’ll kill them, and I don’t want to kill anyone. Understand?”

Gibson nodded again and said, “We can sort this out—”

Another increase of pressure, the metal of the gun pushing up against his spine, was enough to reduce him to silence. And the precautionary talk proved unnecessary, because the corridor was empty and they moved quickly into his apartment, even with Gibson fumbling in his nervousness and his unfamiliarity with the keys.

Once inside, Finn reached and turned on the light. It was a large, open-plan apartment, modern but well decorated. Unlike the shell of a place he’d left behind, the walls here had a handful of generic modern art canvases, as if the place had been put together by a designer rather than someone exploring his or her own taste.

“Put the case on the floor.” Gibson crouched and put the case down. “Now drop the raincoat off your shoulders and onto the floor, then step forward.” Again, he followed the instructions carefully. “Arms out wide and turn slowly.”

Gibson turned, then let his arms drop and said, “If you told me what it is that you want . . .”

“Strip.”

Gibson looked at him in consternation.

“What?”

“To your underwear. Strip.” Finn gave the gun a little shake in his hand, reminding Gibson that he was hardly in a position to negotiate.

Even still, as Gibson took off his jacket—no shoulder holster—loosened his tie, pulled his shirt free, he said, “Mr. Harrington, I don’t know what you want from me or what you think is going on, but I don’t think this’ll solve your problems, whatever it is you’re thinking of doing.”

Finn didn’t respond and Gibson finished undressing. He stood there in a pair of tight-fitting trunks that once again brought to mind his love of cycling, a pile of clothes at his feet. Finn took the pair of handcuffs from his bag and threw them across.

Gibson caught them, but started shaking his head as he calculated what was coming.

“No, please, Mr. Harrington, if you’ll just listen—”

“Relax, Gibson, this isn’t how I get my kicks. We have some serious talking to do and I don’t want to sit pointing a gun at you the whole time. Now put them on, hands in front.”

Gibson stared at him, probably trying to read his thoughts, and reluctantly attached the cuffs to his wrists.

“Now what?”

“Bathroom.”

Gibson, his eyes desperately trying to calculate what this meant, turned and walked to the bathroom. Finn pushed him inside, then turned on the light. There was a large tub in one corner.

“Into the bath, lie down, head by the taps.”

“What, you’re gonna waterboard me? Are you crazy?”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin waterboarding someone. If you give me instructions, I’ll give it a go.”

“How would I know? I just—” Finn gestured with the gun toward the bath, and Gibson stopped talking and climbed in. “On my back or front?”

“On your back—we need to talk, remember.”

Gibson crouched, putting his cuffed hands on the side of the bath to help himself into a sitting position, then gingerly laid back, his body twitching against the cold surface.

“Good, now stay there for a minute, make yourself comfortable while I check the apartment. If you’re thinking about getting out of the bath once I leave the room, don’t, not unless you have a rocket launcher hidden in your medicine cabinet, because I will kill you.”

Gibson stared up at the ceiling, not responding, looking humiliated. Finn stepped backward out of the bathroom, and quickly checked the other rooms, backtracking each time to pass the open door and get a glimpse of Gibson’s knees just visible in the bath.

There was a bedroom, a guest room that looked unused and had a bed full of cushions, a study lined with bookshelves, a well-equipped kitchen, the same tastefully low-key decor throughout.

When he got back to the bathroom, he found Gibson as he’d left him.

“Okay, let’s get started. What’s your first name?”

“Steve.”

“Who do you work for, Steve?”

“BGS.”

“Which stands for?”

“Brac Global Systems.”

So far, so compliant, answering questions he knew Finn already had the answers to.

“Private company or government-affiliated?”

“Private. Most of us have a government background, but it’s a private company.”

“Most of us? How many of you are there at Brac Global Systems?”

This was Gibson’s first hesitation, but Finn sensed it was because of ignorance rather than evasion.

“I’m not sure. I’ve only ever dealt with three or four other people.”

“Good. So I’m guessing you answer directly to the boss?” Gibson looked at him, not sure how to respond, perhaps trying to calculate where the questions might be leading. As Finn spoke, he put the gun down and took off his watch. He put one hand on the cuffs to stop Gibson lashing out, then leaned over and put the plug in behind Gibson’s head. “What I mean is, if you’ve only dealt with a few people, you must answer to somebody, and if he answered to somebody else you’d have met him, too. So it’s a leap, I know, but I’m guessing you answer directly to the boss of Brac Global Systems. It’s good that there’s a mixer tap. Let me know if it’s too warm or too cold.”

“I can’t tell you who I answer to.”

“Why not? It’s a private company, it’s not like you’re bound by the Act. Remember, let me know if it’s too hot or cold.” He moved the lever midway and turned on the water, checking it with his hands before letting it fall with a surprisingly full flow onto Gibson’s face. Gibson sputtered and moved his head frantically to the side. “That’s good, move your head to the side.”

Gibson pushed himself up the bath so that his head was squashed uncomfortably into the corner, the water gushing down the side of it. He sounded outraged as he said, “You said you weren’t going to waterboard me.”

“I don’t think this is waterboarding. I think your face has to be covered for waterboarding, and you have to be held under the flow of water, you know, so it simulates drowning. I’m not sure of the technique, but then I don’t need to know because I said I’m not gonna waterboard you and I mean what I say.”

Gibson still didn’t believe him and, in his oddly cowering position, said, “Then what’s the idea?”

“The idea, Steve, is that you tell me what I need to know or I’ll drown you. It’s not torture, it’s more all or nothing than that.” Gibson
looked at him, measuring the seriousness of his intent, fear taking shape behind his eyes for the first time. “Who do you answer to?”

“Ed Perry.”

That answer, delivered in haste, made immediate sense. He could imagine a hundred different reasons why Perry might have decided to come after him, not least that Finn had ruined Perry’s career as well as ending his own with a black mark against it.

“And it’s Ed Perry’s company?” Gibson gave a compliant nod. “Why have you been watching me—what’s that all about?”

“For a client.”

Finn nodded. “The client’s name?”

“I don’t know.” Finn leaned into the flow of water and splashed some of it over Gibson’s face. “Karasek.”

Perry and Karasek, still working together after all this time. Somehow, it gave Finn a little more confidence, increasing his chances from potentially suicidal to dangerous—and perhaps even beyond that, to merely foolhardy. And if he were to succeed, there wouldn’t be just satisfaction, but also a line drawn under his past, albeit a dotted one.

“And what’s the purpose of it? A two-year surveillance operation is a pretty serious commitment.”

Gibson looked confused. “But it’s only been a year.”

“Two. BGS had a woman there for a year before you.”

Gibson shook his head. “I don’t even know any women who work for BGS.”

Finn shrugged and said, “Why was I being watched?”

“I don’t know. We were only ever told on a need to know. Half the stuff your friend’s daughter intercepted was notes I’d written to myself, trying to work out what exactly was going on.”

“Had you come to any conclusions?” Gibson shook his head and Finn leaned over. Gibson flinched and then relaxed a little as Finn turned off the flow of water. “What’s the next part of the plan?”

“I don’t know that, either. First there was the hack, then the girl disappeared. Perry got rattled, told us to stand down until he decided on the next move.”