Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide (12 page)

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

‘Yes, of course. Though the lady I was after seems to have given us the slip this time.’

‘You’ll find her,’ Liz said confidently. Just talking to Martin was a relief.

‘What about you? What is your news?’

‘I’ve been in Birmingham all day, looking into the background of our friend in the Santé.’

‘Ah. How did it go?’

‘Okay, though some of his friends were not very pleased to see me.’

Martin could read between the lines. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not hurt, are you?’

‘No. Not hurt, just a bit shaken up. But I’m fine now,’ she said, and it was true. Just hearing his voice had made her feel better. They talked for a few minutes more, planning their next meeting, then they said good night and rang off.

Liz lay down on the big double bed. She’d bought it when she moved into the new flat where the large rooms had seemed to swallow up the furniture she’d had in the cramped basement accommodation. She snuggled under the goose-feather duvet, wishing Martin were snuggling with her. The duvet dated from the time of Piet, the Dutch investment banker she’d met at a colleague’s party. He had stayed with her when he came to London every third Friday for meetings at Canary Wharf. It was an arrangement which suited them both perfectly: warm, happy and undemanding. Until he’d telephoned one day to tell her that there would no longer be London meetings, and in any case he had met someone else.

She hadn’t had a man in her life since she broke up with Piet until she met Martin last year. It was the first time she’d been involved with someone she worked with. Was it a good idea to mix private life with work? Probably not, but the nature of the work, its secrecy and irregular hours, meant that most of the people she met were in the same business. She had had relationships in the past with people outside ‘the ring of secrecy’, as it was called, but it had never worked out. She’d not been able to be frank about what she did for a living. Piet had never enquired – it wasn’t that sort of relationship. Before him there was Mark Callendar, the
Guardian
journalist, who’d wanted to leave his wife for her. She had been tempted, just for a moment, but had known that, realistically, it wasn’t possible. If she’d got involved in Mark’s domestic upheaval, she’d have become a sort of
Guardian
pet spook – he and his friends had worked out without much difficulty what she did. Her career in the Service would not have prospered. The powers that be would have parked her somewhere safe, until they saw how her private life worked out.

Before Mark there was the photographer, Ed. She’d met him at the private view of an exhibition of photographs taken by a woman she’d known at university. Ed had been putting together a film about New Age travellers and had been living with them on and off. He viewed the world from a fascinatingly oblique perspective, and her part-time membership of his arty, kaleidoscopic world had provided a welcome escape for Liz from the grim world of organised crime, which she was working on at the time. She’d told Ed that her job was in a government personnel office, but the vagueness of her account must have aroused his suspicions. For one day he’d rung various departments, trying to find out exactly where she worked, and it was then she decided to end the relationship.

It was Charles Wetherby, her boss, who had held her heart for the longest. It had been strange, almost a non-relationship in fact, since Charles was married to a woman who was slowly dying. Liz knew instinctively that he returned her feelings, but he never spoke about it and while Joanne was alive Liz knew that he never would. It was as though they saw each other through a swirling mist, reaching out but never quite able to touch.

Then Joanne had died and Liz had waited for Charles to make a move. Instead he’d seemed to draw back from her and take comfort instead from his next-door neighbour, a widow whom he’d known for a long time. She helped him to look after his two boys. Liz was never sure whether this was any more than a relationship of convenience, but was hurt by his hesitation over contacting her. By the time Charles finally did make a move towards her, she had met Martin Seurat.

And now Martin was talking about her moving to Paris. Liz rolled on to her side and fell into a light sleep, troubled by confused impressions of the Santé prison, the Khans’ house in Birmingham and Martin’s flat in Paris. But as she dozed she could still feel around her wrist the iron grip of the young man who had tried to pull her down the lonely alley.

Chapter 17

A welcome blast of air-conditioning greeted Maria Galanos as she got out of the lift on the second floor of the office block in suburban Athens. Waiting for her was a tall, middle-aged American who introduced himself as Mitchell Berger, Athens Director of UCSO. ‘I bet you could do with a cold drink,’ he said. ‘It’s hotter than ever today.’

‘They say it’s going to be worse at the weekend,’ replied Maria. The heat was one thing about her homeland that she had never missed when she’d worked abroad.

She followed Berger along a corridor to his office and sat down while he poured her some iced water from a small fridge in the corner. ‘We all look after ourselves here,’ he explained. ‘There are only eleven of us in this office. I share a secretary with my deputy, Katherine Ball. She’s on her way back from London. Should’ve been here by now but I gather there’s some trouble with the airlines.’

‘What’s new?’ said Maria, smiling in response to his grin.

‘Well,’ he said, sitting down opposite her behind his desk, ‘we both know why you’re here. I understand they explained the situation to you pretty fully at the embassy. I’ve prepared a list of the staff here, with background details on each one, so you can see who we’ve got. I think you’d better read it here and not take it away with you. We don’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions at this stage.’ He pushed a sheet of paper across the table to her.

‘Thank you.’ She read through the short CVs of the eleven staff, noticing with surprise that he had included himself, and with interest that his foreign experience was extensive. ‘Is there anyone you think I should be focusing on?’

‘No, not at this stage. As far as I can see everyone here is completely above board. Of course, you wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have some suspicions but they aren’t directed towards anyone in particular. If there is some sort of a leak here, someone must be monitoring the precise make-up of each of our cargoes and passing it on.’

‘Who has access to that information?’

‘In theory, just the accountant and myself. But in practice, who knows? We don’t exactly have top-level security here. We are a fairly friendly team – just the eleven of us. Let’s hope you’ll make it a Lucky Dozen.’

He paused, looking thoughtful, then said, ‘I’m sure you know your business, Maria. I gather you’ve done undercover work before. But the fact that we are so small here means you’re going to have to go carefully if you are not to draw unwanted attention to yourself. You’re vastly overqualified for this job so you’ll need to downplay your credentials. Otherwise people are going to wonder why you’re here.’

Maria nodded and said, ‘My cover story is that I’ve been living and working in England for some years. I wanted to come back home to Athens because a long relationship in London suddenly broke up. And I was getting sick of the ethics of the commercial world – or lack of ethics – and now want to do something more worthwhile.’

‘That will do fine.’ Berger smiled and got up. ‘I’ll walk you round the office and introduce you. Then we’ll go and have some lunch.’

They walked back down the floor’s one corridor, passing an empty office on the left. Berger pointed through the doorway. ‘That’s where Katherine sits. She’ll come to lunch with us if she’s back in time. She’s not in on your real purpose here – I decided to keep that between the two of us.’

Further along they came into a high-ceilinged room where two Greek girls were sitting at desks in front of computer screens. Berger introduced them as Anastasia and Falana, general assistants who did everything from typing to wrapping parcels. They were little more than teenagers, and could have been sisters with their long, dark hair and big doe eyes. When Berger left to take a phone call, the girls started giggling.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Maria.

Falana giggled even more while Anastasia explained,‘We were admiring your dress. But Falana’s too shy to ask where you bought it.’

Maria glanced down at the cherry-coloured cotton frock, which she’d found in a little Covent Garden boutique the previous year. ‘I bought it in London.’

‘London?’ exclaimed Falana, her eyes widening. ‘You have been to London?’ For all the wonder in her voice, Maria might have said she’d been to Mars.

Anastasia explained,‘We both love London. I mean, the idea of London. Neither of us has been.’

‘I used to live there. My mother is English.’

The girls were very impressed by this and soon Maria found herself chatting with them about Topshop and fashion, and clubbing, and Athens nightlife – all as if she were nineteen again. When Berger returned, the Greek girls looked disappointed, though both of them brightened when he explained Maria would be starting work the following day.

‘You’ve made a hit with them, I see,’ he said, as they walked down the corridor.

‘They’ve forgotten more about pop culture than I ever knew.’

Berger introduced her to the rest of the staff, including a Frenchwoman in her forties called Claude, who travelled much of the time to the crisis-stricken areas where UCSO aid was sent. They walked into another room that led off the large central office. Here Berger left her with the chief accountant, Alex Limonides.

Limonides must have been at least sixty. He was gaunt, with wrinkled walnut skin and receding hair, its thin strands carefully brushed over his balding scalp. His pale grey suit, far too big for him, was almost falling off his thin shoulders. His breath smelled of sweet tobacco. As they sat down together to look at the books, he offered Maria a filterless cigarette the colour of dried corn; when she refused, he politely put the packet away without taking one for himself.

There was nothing very complicated in the UCSO accounting systems: the overheads of the office itself were straightforward, mainly rent and salaries; the details of the cash in from various sources, and the outgoings including any purchases of aid made locally and payments to the shipping brokers, were all recorded in the ledgers. Any accruals of cash were transferred to the London office when they hit £25,000. It was all very easy to understand and there seemed little opportunity for petty theft, much less big-time larceny. But Maria reminded herself that it was information, not money, which someone was stealing.

Limonides showed her how the cargo manifests were compiled, then confirmed by the shipping agency they used. Interestingly, this was still done on paper – long foolscap sheets more suggestive of a Dickensian counting office than a modern international charity. The lists were kept under lock and key in the drawer of Limonides’ wooden desk. About as secure as an ice-cream wrapper, Maria thought to herself. Besides Limonides, only Berger and an accountant in the London office would have known the full contents of a shipment. No new ones were scheduled for the next six weeks; that should give her ample time to familiarise herself with office procedures and discover if anyone had been snooping around.

At one point they were interrupted by a phone call. The elderly Greek picked up the receiver and listened impatiently. Then he replied, in disapproving tones, saying that he would certainly pay the invoice in question, as always, but only within the thirty days of their standard terms. Xenides, he declared, must know this by now, and it was not the business of UCSO to advance funds to other organisations. With a terse goodbye, he put the phone down and gave a weary sigh, then resumed his briefing of Maria.

After twenty minutes more, she felt that there was nothing she didn’t know about UCSO’s financial systems, and was grateful to be rescued by Berger and taken for lunch. They walked a short distance down the baking hot street to a taverna, where they sat under an enormous mahogany ceiling fan that revolved like a slow helicopter, just stirring the air.

‘First impressions?’ he asked as the waiter brought a basket of pitta bread and large glasses of ice-cold water with lemon.

‘Everyone was very welcoming. It’s a friendly atmosphere.’

‘It needs to be – the office is too small to allow for any friction. The only politics are about the venue for the Christmas lunch. Falana always wants to go somewhere trendy.’

‘They’re funny girls.’

Berger nodded with a smile. ‘What did you make of Mr Limonides?’

Maria laughed. ‘He’s very old school, and quite charming. When I said I didn’t smoke, he wouldn’t have one himself.’

‘But as an accountant . . . ?’

‘He’s cautious and precise – just what you want. I didn’t see anything that any auditor could even begin to query. The only unusual item I noticed was Sundries in the P&L. Usually, it’s a trivial amount – we used to call it “toothpaste money”. But yours is very large – over ten thousand sterling. Why?’

For the first time, Berger hesitated; he seemed almost embarrassed. Then he explained: in some of the countries receiving UCSO aid, it was necessary to make informal payments (he neatly avoided the word ‘bribe’) to ensure that the aid was delivered to the people who needed it. Otherwise, he went on, anything from Range Rovers to one-hundred-pound bags of flour could find their way on to the black market, or into the garages and larders of Government Ministers. ‘It’s not admirable, or ethical, or something I’d want to appear in the press. But ultimately, it’s
necessary
.’