The Traitor's Story (2 page)

Chapter Two

He stood at the door and went through a mental checklist. Hailey was about fourteen, her parents around forty. They were from Connecticut. No, they’d met at Yale. Ethan was from Chicago, Debbie from Philadelphia. He worked in finance. And that was it. How could Finn have met them so many times, spent a reasonable amount of the last two years in their company, and yet learned so little about them?

They undoubtedly knew a great deal about his books, and that had been an intentional ploy on his part, to hide his past behind an obsession with history and his own literary reputation, but it was as if he’d actually become his own cover story.

He pressed the buzzer and waited, wondering as he stood there not about why Adrienne had left him, but what she had ever seen in him to begin with. Debbie was quick to open the door and his thoughts crashed into each other at the sight of her desperate, hopeful face—the expectation dying as she saw him.

“May I come in?”

She stepped aside and closed the door behind him. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be able to help. You’ll try anything, I guess.”

“Of course.” He became distracted by the silence of the apartment and said, “Where’s Ethan?”

“He’s gone to the embassy in Bern. I don’t think it’ll help but we’re trying everything we can. Sorry, come on through.”

He followed her through to the living room and said, “Does Adrienne know?”

Debbie shook her head, and looked worried as she said, “Should I have told her? She and Hailey get along so well together—she’d want to know.”

Were Adrienne and Hailey that close? Most of the time, Adrienne went to the Portmans’ apartment for coffee and glasses of wine and chats—so as not to disturb him while he was working—so he guessed it was possible.

“Probably best not to tell her for now, unless she’d be a comfort to you. From an entirely selfish point of view, I don’t want her coming back to me for the wrong—What I mean is, she clearly needs time away from me.”

Even in the midst of her distress, he thought Debbie might offer him some reassuring words, but she looked uncomfortable instead, as if not wanting to reveal bitter truths that he still hadn’t imagined—probably that it was too late, that Adrienne wouldn’t be coming back at all.

“Okay, look, we’re not here to discuss what a lousy boyfriend I am. You said the police were no good, that you doubted the embassy would help. Why? Why aren’t the police taking it seriously?”

“They’re taking it seriously, it’s just . . . they’re treating her as a
runaway.”

“But you’re convinced she hasn’t run away.” He couldn’t understand why the police would so readily dismiss the disappearance of a child. And then the pieces fell into place—the obvious reason for the police treating the case in this way. “Debbie, did she leave a note?”

“Yes. Yes, she left a note, but it doesn’t mean anything.” She spoke rapidly, eager to get her reasoning out in the open, and put her hand on his arm, too, desperate for him not to walk out. “The note doesn’t make sense, not for someone just running away, and she wasn’t unhappy. She left of her own accord, Finn, but something’s wrong. You have to believe a mother’s instinct. I just know.”

“Do you have the note?”

She left the room and came back a moment later with a sheet of paper.

“It’s a copy. Ethan took the original with him.”

He nodded, took the sheet, and sat down—then started reading aloud. “
Dear Mom and Dad
 . . .” Debbie seemed to grow weak and lowered herself into a nearby armchair. “I’m sorry, would you rather I read it to myself?”

“No, read it out. I know the words by heart, anyway.”

“
I have to go away for a while, but please don’t worry about me. I’m with friends and I’ll be safe. I can’t explain more than that, not yet, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay here right now. Please don’t worry, and I’m sorry
.” She ended by saying she loved them, but he didn’t read that aloud, not wanting to tip Debbie over the edge. “You’ve checked with friends, of course?”

“Everyone we could think of.”

“Which means it’s someone you don’t know about.”

“But you see what I mean? She felt she wasn’t safe here, that she was in danger.”

Finn looked at the note again, struggling to see how Debbie had drawn those conclusions. He also understood why the police saw Hailey as a straightforward runaway.

“Actually, Debbie, she doesn’t say that. She says it isn’t a good idea to stay here right now—that could be because she wasn’t getting on with you, or because there was bad news from school that she didn’t want you to find out about.”

“Our relationship with Hailey is . . . it’s great. I know I’m her mother but she’s a perfect kid, and a first-class student. The school has no idea why she might have run away, and if you knew her better nor would you.” Finn nodded, looking at the note again, and as much as he felt for what they must be going through, he felt worse for their self-delusion, because for whatever reason, their daughter
had
run away. It looked to him like the act of a selfish kid, not a perfect one. “Finn, I realize you and I don’t know each other too well, but I’m not an hysterical woman, and I want to assure you that if Hailey did run away it’s because she was afraid. I don’t know what of, but something frightened her into this.”

For the first time, he noticed the picture facing him on a side table. It was a close-up of Hailey taken out on the lake: long mousy hair slightly windswept, big eyes, a big American smile. She was an attractive girl.

“How old is Hailey?”

“She turned fifteen last month—but Finn, she’s not a streetwise kid, you know. She’s had a privileged existence.” He nodded, but could feel his interest waning and was already beginning to wish he hadn’t intervened. “There’s something else I want to show you. Please, follow me.”

Finn stood and followed Debbie through the apartment to Hailey’s bedroom. There were stuffed toys on the bed, posters on the wall, books everywhere, a laptop on the desk, an iPod in its dock—maybe the computer was dispensable, but what kind of kid went anywhere today without their iPod?

Debbie opened the doors of the closet and said, “Nothing’s missing. Only what she was wearing, but if she’d planned to run away she would have taken extra clothes and she’s taken nothing. Nothing at all.”

He looked at the rails packed with clothes, and at the racks of shoes on the floor underneath. It was amazing that Debbie could tell nothing was missing, but he believed her. It didn’t stop her opening drawers full of underwear and T-shirts. Adrienne had taken more than Hailey had—he was sure of that.

Debbie was still looking expectantly at him, so he said, “Did she take her passport?”

“No, we keep her passport with ours, it’s in the desk in the—I’ll be back in just a moment.” She walked out of the room.

Finn looked idly through the rails of clothes while he waited, though they were crammed too tight to move them very much. Then he stood back, and noticed a shoebox on the floor of the closet—it was so full that the lid had come off.

He crouched down and removed the lid completely. The box was full of shopping bags, most of them plastic, scrunched up and put inside another bag, but also some folded paper bags. He opened a couple and looked at the receipts and the discarded tags still inside, and he became intrigued again, sensing that the rails full of clothes weren’t the whole story here, that there was more to it.

Realizing Debbie hadn’t come back, he went looking for her and found her sitting at the desk in the study, holding a passport. She was crying quietly, and when she saw him she waved him away, embarrassed, and took a tissue and dried her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She held up the passport—Finn guessed it was Debbie’s, that Ethan had taken his with him to the embassy—and she struggled through a tight throat to say, “She took it. Why would she take her passport?”

It was a question that hardly needed an answer, and he was astonished that they were naive enough not to have checked for her passport before now, so instead he said, “Debbie, there’s something in her room that I want you to take a look at.”

She nodded, then looked at the passport again and put it back in the desk drawer. Her faith looked as if it had faltered, as if she no longer believed the beautiful and haunting lie that she’d been telling herself, that her precious daughter wouldn’t do this to them of her own free will.

Slowly, fatigued by emotion, she stood and followed him. He
lifted the shoebox out of the closet and placed it on the bed. He
took the paper bags out, all from the same store, then emptied the plastic bags, which were mostly from just a couple of places.

Debbie’s bewildered expression answered his question in advance, but for the sake of form he said, “Are these the kind of places Hailey usually shops at?”

She shook her head and pointed at the paper bags. “I’ve never even heard of that place.”

The paper bags were from a store called Fate.

“What access does she have to money?”

“We trust her entirely . . .” She ground to a halt, perhaps realizing the redundancy of the statement. “She has a pre-paid credit card, but apart from some extra cash withdrawals there’s nothing suspicious on it. I guess she gets a lot of cash from us, too, but . . . you know how it is with kids nowadays.”

He took a few of the receipts and looked at them.

“It looks like she bought all this stuff over the last week or so. I suspect that’s why none of her clothes are missing.”

“But why? I mean, she chooses her own clothes anyway—she loves the things she has.”

If Debbie’s world had fallen apart with Hailey’s disappearance, it appeared to collapse in on itself further as each of these truths hit home—that her daughter had chosen to run away, that rather than being in so much of a hurry as to leave her clothes behind, she’d been planning her disappearance for a week or more. All of Debbie’s past certainties were as nothing now.

Perhaps this was the moment at which she expected Finn to make his excuses and leave. Yet the very things that had shaken Debbie’s faith had piqued Finn’s interest. For the first time, he saw how this might be something more interesting than a straightforward runaway.

“You checked her computer, of course?”

She nodded absentmindedly. “That’s how much she trusts us—we even know her password. But the computer’s clean: no browsing history, nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No,” she said, apparently unable to see the implication, that Hailey had wiped it, presumably because she didn’t trust them as much as Debbie imagined.

He could also have told her that a computer was never clean, but as he no longer knew anyone who could look at it for him, there hardly seemed to be any point. Besides, even if he was here helping, he still hadn’t admitted anything about his past, and he knew that it was best to maintain that stance.

He crossed the room, saying, “Is this her only iPod?”

Debbie nodded, not sure what he was doing. He picked it up and scrolled through the songs. A lot of them were things he didn’t recognize, but there was a lot of middling pop on there, too—the kind of thing beloved by girls of a certain age.

He put it back in its dock, the pieces coming together. He picked up some of the bags, then turned and looked at a confused Debbie.

“I’ll need to take these. I’ll also need a good recent photograph.” He looked at the laptop, but taking it would only hint at a level of sophistication above and beyond what he was bringing to the table. “I’m not promising anything. Adrienne was wrong in what she told you. I don’t have any contacts, but I can help as a friend.”

She shook her head, and he wondered if it was because his description of himself as a friend was incongruous, but then she said, “I don’t understand—what’s changed your mind? I’m grateful, of course, but you seem more keen to help now that it looks . . .” She gestured at the bags on the bed.

“Debbie, I don’t know a great deal about the psychology of runaways, but I know what I see here. She created a new identity for herself, and she thought it through, even down to leaving her old music behind. She created a new identity.”

“But why would she do that?”

“I don’t know, but if we can find out, it might tell us where she’s gone.”

Even as he spoke, he thought of a dozen locations in Europe, hoping for Hailey’s and her family’s sakes that she hadn’t headed to any of them. But wherever she’d gone, a new identity was as likely to get a girl like her into trouble as it was to keep her out of it.

And another even more troubling thought was lurking at the back of his mind. Because he’d found himself in a similar situation to this once before—in those weeks before Kaliningrad, when he had done the right thing without thinking, and had lost everything in the process.

History

Tallinn—late February

Finn was done for the afternoon, and was making his way out of the office as Perry came in. Perry gave him a knowing, exasperated look, as if they were both working in the middle ranks of some ramshackle multinational, his expression meant to represent their collective response to the latest mess-up.

“You quit at the right time, Finn.”

A few people had expressed sentiments along those lines to him in the last ten days, but there was something more weighted in Perry’s tone.

“What do you mean, Ed?”

“You haven’t heard?” Perry looked around, although the corridor was empty, the building silent. “Just pop into my office for a minute—I won’t keep you long.”

Finn followed him to his office and shut the door behind them, but remained standing even as Perry sat down behind his desk.

“It’s all over the media. A highly placed source in the Kremlin claims that, and I quote, ‘a senior British intelligence officer in the Baltic has been selling sensitive information to Aleksandr Naumenko.’”

Finn offered little more than a shrug, because although this allegation was more serious than usual, it had the familiarity of a common irritant about it.

“Are we giving any credence to it?”

“Officially, no—but we think it’s genuine.”

“The Baltic won’t mean us, though. Someone in St. Petersburg?”

Perry shook his head. “The media don’t know this, but our contacts are pointing to us.” Finn offered an appropriately surprised expression. “Exactly. Which begs the question . . . I mean, I know it can’t be either of us, but who else does that leave? They’ll wonder—
who has the kind of information Naumenko would pay for?”

Finn saw where Perry was going with this and started to shake his head.

“No.”

“I’m not saying it’s him, Finn. I realize he’s your friend and I like Harry as much as you do, but I guarantee he’ll be their prime suspect.”

“Friendship has nothing to do with it. Harry Simons is
not
selling secrets to Aleksandr Naumenko.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Trouble is, even a hint of suspicion can blight a person’s career.” He looked genuinely conflicted about Harry, as if he did suspect him but didn’t want to. Then he said again, “I’m sure you’re right.”

“I am, and I’m willing to bet, too, that this Kremlin source is a phony.” Finn opened the door with the relaxed air of someone who didn’t have to concern himself with these things anymore, and said as he was leaving, “Don’t lose sleep over it, Ed. These things never come to anything.”

He made his way out of the building, relieved that he’d seen the news on the wires earlier in the day, happier still that Naumenko had told him about it three weeks ago. That’s when the real shock had come, but the early warning had provided enough notice for him to be unfazed by it now.

It had given Finn the opportunity to practice his disillusionment, and to announce his resignation a full ten days before the news leaked out. It had given him time to develop a surface calm, and the discipline not to correct the inaccuracies, the worst of which concerned the nature of the crime—he’d been working with Naumenko but had never sold information to him, not least because Finn doubted they knew anything that Naumenko needed to pay for.

He’d still been a fool, throwing away a promising career at the age of thirty, with little idea of what he’d do next. Technically he was a traitor, too, though he didn’t think of himself in those terms. In a sense, it was worse, because he hadn’t acted on a point of principle or out of greed. He’d been drawn by the intrigue of it alone—but then he supposed that wasn’t so very unusual in their profession.

He still hadn’t told his parents that he’d resigned, or that he’d have to stay with them until he decided where to go. He had money, of course, but he’d have to be careful about how he used it, for the first few years at least.

No, he hadn’t told his parents, and that notion seemed to sum up the immaturity of his behavior—it was as if he’d been sent down from college.

It had been a cold day, and the air already held the promise of it turning into a fiercely cold night, but the sky was blue and with the sun lowering in the west, the buildings were full of light. The pale-brown church on the square, a church he’d walked past nearly every day for the last eighteen months, was luminous now, more so than he’d seen it even in summer.

He’d never been in there, but he saw someone walk out of it now and Finn changed course, heading for the door. He’d probably only be in this city for another couple of weeks, and if he came back it would be to visit Sofi’s parents rather than as a tourist, so he guessed it was now or never for this church.

He stepped inside, immediately lulled by the respite from the cold, and by the peacefulness. It was Lutheran—light and airy, its pale vaulted interior almost completely unadorned. He walked a little way up the aisle and sat in one of the white wooden pews.

There was no one else in there, and quite unexpectedly he found everything falling away from him: the storm that had been
rumbling away in his thoughts, the questions, the self-recrimination,
the low-level fear of being exposed even now. It all fell away, and when he did think again it was unencumbered, wondering only how old this church was, what its history might have been.

He’d look to see if there was a leaflet in English before he left, but right now he didn’t want to move. He sat, only vaguely conscious of the city noise beyond. And he’d been there for ten minutes, maybe more, when the door opened behind him and someone else came in.

He turned briefly to check, but it was a young woman walking with her head down, up the aisle to a pew four rows in front of him. She walked along the pew until she was almost obscured from Finn’s view by the pillar that was between them.

She sat with her head bowed, and Finn wasn’t sure if she was crying quietly or perhaps just shivering from the cold. He’d got a glimpse of her face—pretty, pale skin, high cheekbones—but it was obscured now by her hair, which was long and reddish-blonde, worn loose.

She was hardly dressed for the weather, so maybe she was cold rather than upset. She was wearing Converse, which had made hardly any sound as she walked, skinny jeans, and a thin sweatshirt, but nothing else—no sweater, no coat or scarf.

He wondered briefly if she was a junkie, but he doubted even a down-and-out would be walking around the city dressed so lightly. And from the little he’d seen of her, she looked too healthy, too well maintained. But whatever her story, and whether or not those were tears falling, it was none of his concern.

The door opened again. He noticed the woman flinch at the sound, then become rigid and silent, almost as if she were holding her breath. Finn glanced around and saw a heavy-set man walking up the aisle. The guy had already spotted the woman and was smiling with what looked like a mixture of relief and playfulness. He’d seen Finn, too, but without paying him any attention.

The guy reached the pew where the woman was sitting and stepped into it before saying a few words. She answered him without looking up, her words barely audible, and it was clear now that she had been crying because Finn could hear it in her voice. But they’d spoken in Russian, not Estonian—an even better reason for him to pay them no attention.

A flash of anger crossed the guy’s face and he walked along the pew and pulled the woman up by her arm, not in a way that hurt
her, but forcefully enough that there was no question of this
game being over. He pulled her back along the pew and out into the
aisle, and as a last desperate gambit she looked at Finn, her eyes pleading, and said a few words, tremulous, earnest.

Finn didn’t understand, but the guy looked at her with a threat and tapped her on the nose with his finger. The guy still didn’t look at Finn, as if utterly confident that no one would choose to intervene in his business.

He was right about that, and it was none of Finn’s concern that she was quite possibly being trafficked, that unimaginable things had probably been done to her, that more would follow, that a lifetime of misery was probably the best she could hope for. It was even less of a concern to him now than it might have been two weeks ago.

It simply wasn’t his problem, but she had looked at him, and the surprise of seeing her face clearly, her eyes, had taken him aback. She was tall and slender, and it had been an easy mistake to make without seeing her face properly, but now he could be in no doubt that this was not a young woman but a girl, maybe only thirteen or fourteen, and she was pleading to be saved from this man.

Finn stood up, and for the first time the guy acknowledged his presence, pointing at him, a warning, followed by a couple of words in Estonian that Finn didn’t get, even after eighteen months of hearing the language daily—it was just as well he hadn’t been hired for his linguistic skills.

The girl also spoke again, imploring, even as the man’s grip tightened on her arm.

Finn stepped out of the pew into the aisle, and looked at the guy as he said, “Do you speak English, because I’m about to call the police.”

“You big man, huh?” He put his finger on Finn’s chest, prodding him as he said, “Sit down! And keep your nose
ou
t
!”

Finn hit him.

The guy reeled back awkwardly, falling against the end of the pew across the aisle, his head hitting it with a dull crack. He’d released the girl, and she stepped back, toward the altar. Finn glanced at her, wanting reassurance that he’d just done the right thing, that he’d read this situation correctly. She was still looking at the guy in fear, though, as if dreading what his response would be.

The guy himself laughed, struggling to get back on his feet, then cursed Finn in Estonian, spitting the words out. Finn waited until he was halfway up, both of his arms occupied with the effort, his balance off, then planted a kick on the side of his head.

It sent him crumpling back down again. Something fell out of his jacket onto the floor, a small hunting knife, and Finn wondered how it had come loose. The guy was wearing a shoulder holster, too, but he saw the knife and tried to reach for it. Finn kicked it clear, then powered another swift kick to the guy’s ribs, reached down, and pulled the gun free before taking a quick backward step. He slipped the gun into his overcoat, showing that he meant no more harm.

The guy was beat, and knew that he was hurt now. He reached up, feeling the back of his head, cursing again, but under his breath this time. Finn glanced at the pew the guy had collided with—there was no blood on it.

When he looked back, the guy was staring up at him, but in
recognition now, and with a sickening jolt the guy found a place
in Finn’s own mind. One of Karasek’s men—no one he’d ever spo
ken to, but he’d seen him a few times. He was angry with himself for not identifying him earlier.

“I know you,” said the guy, pointing. “Big mistake, asshole.”

Finn wondered if these people learned English by watching cheap gangster films. But, language aside, Finn also knew the guy was right. There were just too many ways in which this was a mistake—number one being that he had no way of keeping this girl safe, not now.

“The girl didn’t want to go with you.”

“Not your girl. Karasek’s girl.” He tried to push himself up but was still unsteady, and settled for pushing himself farther along the aisle, away from Finn. “You’re dead man now. Dead man.”

Finn looked back at the girl, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he was hoping that she would offer a way out of this. She
looked terrified, though—aghast that he was even having a con
versation with the man. There was no question of Finn letting him take her—as much of a mistake as this was, he just couldn’t let that happen.

He turned back, trying to think of a conciliatory note, but the guy was struggling to his feet. Sensing Finn’s gaze back on him, he repeated, “Yeah, big mistake, asshole.”

They were still alone in the church. And alarming as it was, Finn saw there was only one solution, only one way out. He moved forward, scooping the knife off the floor before knocking the guy back off his feet. He followed through with the movement, dropping a knee onto his chest, putting his free hand over the guy’s mouth and forcing his head back onto the floor.

He said something urgent, hot, and garbled against Finn’s palm. He tried to swing a punch, too, but Finn slid the blade quickly and forcefully across the side of his neck, a smooth movement until the end, when the blade snagged on something gristly. The blood pulsed out in gulps rather than spurting, and the guy seemed to realize too late what had been done to him. His eyes had a look of astonishment, and his body twitched with an odd rhythm beneath Finn’s weight.

Finn waited, watching the pool of blood grow, the stillness and peace of the church feeling ominous now, as if they were about to be disturbed. The guy was dead, or as near as made little difference. Finn stood, dropping the knife onto the body.

He turned and looked at the girl then, expecting her to be in shock at what she’d just witnessed. But, far from looking horrified, she gave a nervous little nod as she stared at the body, and looked at Finn with moist eyes and a weak smile that seemed nothing less than gratitude.

He beckoned for her to follow, and walked back to the door of the church. When he reached it, he turned and found her right behind him. His coat would look ridiculous on her, but he took his scarf and handed it to her, then his gloves.

As she put them on he said, “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

She smiled again and said something back to him in Russian, and it hardly seemed to matter that neither understood the other.

Using hand gestures to back up his words, he said, “You, come with me.”

She nodded and they walked out of the church. Across the square he could see a car by the side of the road, its doors open. A police car had stopped behind it, and the policemen were inspecting the empty vehicle. He noticed that the girl recoiled slightly from the sight.