Exposure (21 page)

“Yes, keep me up to date with the sit-rep,” said Helene.

He looked momentarily surprised, then replied: “Ten-four.”

“Okay, see you later,” she said.

He frowned.

“Where are you going?”

“You’re on
my
home turf now,” she said. “Trust me. I’m going to go and find out how to contact Hassan Ali at the conference tomorrow.”

He watched as she stuffed a thick wad of Dinars into an envelope.

“If you get into trouble, speed dial 1,” he said, tossing her a sleek, black phone.

She gave him a withering look, but pocketed the phone all the same.

They arranged to meet up in a couple of hours and Charlie phoned to order a light meal to be eaten on their private terrace. Helene intended to have a swim in the pool after and maybe book a massage – as it was on expenses. But first she had to find Hassan Ali – otherwise she was going to look damned stupid.

She wandered back through the delightful grounds, casually observing the other guests. More conference attendees were arriving, if the array of men in a variety of inelegant leisure wear were anything to go by. Helene took a detour when she heard a pack of British businessmen braying loudly by the bar. She didn’t want to be noticed. There appeared to be far fewer women attending, and those who were seemed to be taking the opportunity to relax under the sunshades, I-pods plugged in and sunglasses discouraging casual solicitation.

At reception, Helene asked to see the conference organiser.

“Is there a problem, madam?” said the concierge, sounding alarmed.

“Nothing that I’m sure can’t be sorted out in a moment,” said Helene.

She was escorted to a small office and greeted by a young, but suave, man in a business suit with flashing dark eyes, Arabian profile and an American accent.

“Good afternoon, Miss Fielding. My name is Aamil al-Rahhbi and I’m the conference organiser. I believe you have a small concern?”

“Thank you, Mr al-Rahhbi. I’m sure it is a very small concern. You see, I am very keen to meet a certain person attending the conference. It would help me enormously if I and my colleague Mr Hector could be seated next to the person at lunch, for example,” said Helene.

“Ah, I see. My regrets, Miss Fielding, but the luncheon seating has already been arranged,” said the young man.

“Naturally,” said Helene. “I would expect such perfectionism towards organisation from an establishment of this kind. I realise that my request would incur some difficulties and I would, of course, wish to compensate your team for their additional work.”

The young man nodded to show that he understood.

“Well, it might be possible,” he said softly. “And who is the gentleman you wish to meet?”

“Mr Hassan Ali of Cube IT,” said Helene.

“Ah, that is a particularly difficult case,” said the young man.

Which didn’t surprise Helene at all. She was used to the subtle bartering that was required.

“Of course,” she said, standing as if to leave, “I understand. Thank you for your time.”

The young man looked slightly panicked.

“Oh, but I’m sure an accommodation can be made for you, Miss Fielding,” he said quickly.

Helene turned.

“Thank you so much, Mr al-Rahhbi. I am very grateful. Please assure your whole team of my gratitude and if a small gratuity could assuage their extra efforts, I would be delighted.”

He looked relieved that she had understood.

Helene passed him the well-stuffed envelope. The young man slipped it into his pocket without a second glance. Very smooth.

Satisfied, Helene allowed him to usher her from the office.

Mission accomplished.

When she got back to the villa, Charlie was nowhere to be seen. Slightly relieved, Helene decided against a massage, instead changing into a newly acquired swimming costume and plunged into the private pool. The water was warmer than she would have normally liked, but it was refreshing all the same. For a moment she had a pang for the chilly seawater of the Jubilee Pool in Penzance’s outdoor lido. Another lifetime.

After swimming some twenty or so lengths, she eased herself from the pool and flopped onto a lounger under a sun umbrella and was soon fast asleep.

The sun had shifted several degrees before the sensation of being watched woke her abruptly. Charlie cast a shadow over her.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” he said. “I thought I was going to have to wake you with a kiss.”

“Knowing my luck you’d have turned into a frog,” she said.

“Not necessarily,” he said, sitting close to her on the sun lounger. “Would you like to risk it?”

Helene could see that his hair was damp from the shower and she smelled the soap on his cleanly shaven skin; his blue eyes were teasing, inviting.

“I’ve booked us a place at lunch with Hassan Ali tomorrow,” she said, avoiding a direct reply. “We’ll have to find a way to make our move then.”

Charlie smiled and stood up.

“Dinner has arrived – I’m ready when you are.”

Under his steady gaze she wrapped her towel primly around her and tried to walk naturally. She could feel his eyes burning between her shoulder blades.

She wished she’d kept the yukata, but as it was several thousand miles away she changed into a long-sleeved blouse, the useful harem pants and a new pair of flip-flops.

The humidity of the day increased as evening approached, the air heavy and moist. Helene felt overdressed but Charlie looked comfortable in chinos and an open-necked shirt. Conversation felt too awkward so she gave her attention to the food – a delicious array of delicate, portion-sized dishes: machboos, fish with rice; sweet rice with dates; falafel; spicy chicken wrapped in pita bread; a glutinous looking fish sauce; several delicate pastries; and a dalla pot of thick, black coffee.

Helene used the silence to tease out an idea that had begun to squirm around in her mind.

Replete at last, Helene leaned back. Charlie was sipping from a tiny coffee cup. He watched her look up, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“How do we get him to talk?” said Helene, steering the conversation towards business.

There was no need to explain whom she meant.

Even so, Charlie sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Luck: work on his conscience – I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll have to wing it.”

Helene nodded slowly.

“Okay. I’ve made a photocopy of Kazuma’s sketch. I thought I’d let him catch a glimpse of it at lunchtime, then invite him to meet us here at the villa. At least then we can talk to him in private. But will he come?”

“I wouldn’t take bets on it,” Charlie replied. “Not if he wouldn’t talk to Kazuma – someone he knew and trusted.”

Helene felt a shiver run through her.

“What would scare a man like Hassan?” she said. “An ex-mercenary, a rich and successful businessman. What would scare him this much?”

“I’ve been trying to work that out,” said Charlie. “Someone more powerful: that’s all I can come up with.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought, too,” she agreed. “And who is powerful enough to follow us across three continents – and to have the technology to find our website – someone who might be bothered by the words: White House, Langley and Spycatcher?”

Helene looked directly at Charlie. “You see what I’m saying?”

“Jesus!”

He sat up straighter.

“So my theory is,” continued Helene, her voice barely louder than a whisper, “that whatever we’ve stumbled into, it goes all the way to the White House – maybe even to the President himself. That’s why we’re being hunted and that’s why Hassan is so scared. I’ve been going over and over it: it’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

Charlie stared back at her.

“I think we’d better check the website,” he said at last.

“We should do it out here,” she said. “We’ll have to assume that we’re under surveillance. The rooms could be bugged.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” said Charlie. “If they were watching us they could hear everything we’re saying right now using a boom microphone. The beach is our best bet: we’d know if there was anyone within a quarter of a mile of us.”

“Well if they’re listening now,” said Helene, “they know we’re getting closer. We have to get to Hassan straightaway... the website can wait.”

“Agreed,” he said. “I found out which room he’s staying in.” He raised his eyebrows at her irritated expression. “I had to do something while you were out,” he said, looking smug. Then his expression changed and became hard. “I think we should invite Mr Ali for a walk on the beach.”

Hurrying now, Helene made one adjustment to her wardrobe: she changed her flip-flops for a pair of trainers. She hoped she wasn’t going to have to run after such a filling meal, but better safe than sorry.

But by the time she’d made her way through the hotel’s grounds and lobby, she was feeling sweaty and distinctly underdressed. Several women guests, draped with designer evening dresses and festooned with jewels, had swept their gazes up and down and found her wanting; even some of the hotel staff looked mildly shocked at her lack of adornment.

Typical: she’d have been less obtrusive if she’d looked like a high-class hooker.

“Pay no attention,” said Charlie, hiding a smile.

Helene wasn’t surprised that he’d noticed the negative attention she was getting: he seemed to notice everything. It was comforting to have his support – if that’s what it was.

The irony was that to the men of the hotel, those robed and those in suits, she may as well have been invisible. Helene tried to remember when it was that men had first stopped looking at her. From her fortieth birthday? Between forty and forty-five? Post fifty? She couldn’t remember, nor did she care. Much. It would have been a liberating thought… if it weren’t so damned depressing.

At Hassan’s door they encountered their first serious problem: two serious problems, weighing at least 200 pounds each.

“Masa alkhair,” said Helene, nervously.

The two bodyguards exchanged a glance. Helene immediately caught their mood. She realised she’d made a mistake: it had been too long since she’d been in the Middle East.

“You should do the talking,” she whispered to Charlie. “I’ll stand back.”

Silently she passed him the photocopy in a sealed envelope.

“Evening, gents,” said Charlie. “We’d like to see Mr Ali, please.”

“He is not to be disturbed,” said the human portcullis on the left.

“He’ll want to see us,” said Charlie.

“No exceptions,” repeated the giant in good English.

“It’s important that he gets our message,” said Charlie, the slightest hint of granite in his voice.

It made the guards look directly at him for the first time. This man commands, their body language seemed to acknowledge.

“Please give him this envelope and we’ll leave,” said Charlie.

He didn’t offer to bribe them: there was no point insulting the men who were going to help.

Portcullis accepted the envelope with a nod of his head: Helene and Charlie had no choice but to leave.

“What now?” she hissed.

“There are only two ways to leave the building from here,” he said. “Down the fire exit and along the main corridor. Take your pick. Have you still got your phone?”

She nodded.

“Good. Phone me if you see him first: speed-dial 1.”

“And do what while I’m waiting for you?” said Helene impatiently. “Am I supposed to wrestle him to the ground, knocking out the two goons first, of course?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Charlie coolly, “but I was rather hoping you’d use your charm. I’m told you have some.”

“Great plan,” snarled Helene, and stalked off.

God! but he could put her back up.

She waited, spending two frustrating minutes thinking of things she should have said to Charlie to cut him down to size.

But then she heard someone leaving Hassan Ali’s hotel room and walking towards her. He was alone. He was about the same age as Charlie, she noted, but shorter and more wiry-looking. His mouth seemed to be permanently pouting. It made Helene think of botox.

He saw her at once and his face hardened.

“Miss La Borde? Is this a subtle threat?”

He surprised her: his voice had a Black Country accent that he seemed to wish to suppress. Hassan Ali held up the photocopied sheet of paper. Helene realised he hadn’t used her alias.

“No!” said Helene startled. “We just needed to get your attention so you’d talk to us.”

“We? Who’s with you?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“You must know,” she said softly. “You know who I am and you know why I’m here. You must know
who
I’m with.”

She paused, but he didn’t reply: “The man who flew the helicopter,” she said, “We must talk to you. Please. Will you come with me now?”

“If you’re lying to me, Miss La Borde,” he said slowly, “I’ll choke the breath from your throat and leave your corpse in the desert for the cormorants to feast on your dead eyes. I hope I’m being clear.”

“Crystal,” said Helene, trying to swallow with a throat as dry as bones. “I’d like to phone my partner to join us, if you don’t mind.”

“No tricks!” he snapped.

“None, I promise,” she said, her voice crackling with sincere fear.

She pressed speed-dial 1 and heard Charlie’s curt, “Yes?”

“He’ll meet with us,” said Helene, “where we agreed. Five minutes.”

“Are you wearing a wire, Miss La Borde?” Hassan asked silkily.

Helene shook her head dumbly as Hassan Ali swept a small, black device up and down her body, pushed her round and repeated the exercise across her back.

“So far, so good,” he said.

They walked down the main staircase. Helene was glad he had decided against the lift: she didn’t think she could have faced being alone with him in a confined space. Walking helped to disguise the trembling in her legs.

A spectacular sunset cast a bloody glow over the beach. Charlie was silhouetted at the water’s edge.

“Thanks for coming,” said Charlie.

“I do recognise you,” said Hassan.

Then he swept the device over Charlie who stood, arms stretched out as if preparing for crucifixion.