fifteen

George Paperas was in his late sixties, deeply tanned and full of vigour, one of life’s doers. He bustled into the pub from the direction of upper Mayfair, greeted the barman like an old friend and ordered drinks as he made his way over to join Ruth at a corner table.

“It has to be you,” he said cheerfully. “I can see the likeness to your parents.” He tactfully refrained, Ruth noted, from saying which of her parents she resembled most. “I’ve ordered gin and tonics—I hope you don’t mind. It’s nearly that time of day and I’m sure we both deserve it. How can I help?”

She thanked him for coming and they talked small talk until the drinks arrived, then clinked glasses. Ruth was hoping Slik would be here but she decided to go ahead and find out what she could from this man. She wanted to get the blunt question out of the way first. If the answer was a yes, it would save a lot of talk.

“Have you ever heard of a charity field worker named Michael Hardman?”

Paperas thought about it, then shook his head. “He doesn’t sound familiar. Why?”

“We’re trying to contact him. His daughter’s gone missing.”

He lifted an eyebrow and asked the obvious question. “Has he gone missing with her?”

“We thought of that, but there are … circumstances that indicate it’s unlikely. He’s somewhere in Africa, his wife thinks, and has been for a while, working for a small group thought to have had a temporary base in west London. We can’t confirm that and we don’t know the name of the agency … and his cell phone is out of range.”

“Lord. You’ve got yourselves a problem, then. There are vast areas in Africa where you can’t get a signal unless you have the latest in satellite technology. And there aren’t many charities who can run to those, especially the very small groups.”

She laid out the leather-bound book Nancy had given her containing the list of charities the couple had compiled, and explained what it was, including the ticks against some of the names. Paperas jumped on it immediately.

“I’ve seen lists like this before,” he said. “It’s a wish list for people wanting to get into aid agency work. They usually begin with the big ones—Oxfam and so on—then work their way down until they find someone prepared to give them a chance.”

“Surely all agencies are crying out for help, even the big ones.”

“It depends what the volunteers are after. There are lots of young people with ideals—and some of them with money—who see the only valid charity work as out in the field, roughing it, to be brutally honest. But most agencies like them to put in some basic grunt jobs and training first before committing them to field work.”

“Why? Help is help, surely?”

“It is if it doesn’t slow down the aid effort. Even enthusiastic idealists need to know how to go about it. They have to be trained in procedure, local culture, logistics, health and safety—all manner of things you wouldn’t believe. Interacting with local officials is hugely important, as is understanding who you’re trying to help and what their sensitivities are. A lot of aid effort portrayed in the media looks as though it’s on the hoof and consists of little more than dolling out food, water and ground sheets to starving victims of famine, floods, disease and warfare. People who rush in and don’t observe the rules are of no use if they fall victim to disease themselves. It happens, of course, but among the reputable organisations there’s a logistical network to ensure that it’s rare. Unless aid workers understand what the particular charity wants to accomplish, they’re little more than an additional burden. Who did he work with?”

“That’s the problem—we don’t know.” Ruth explained about his wife’s blank spot regarding her husband’s work and movements. “I think he’s tried numerous agencies, more on the hoof than anything organised.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. “He sounds like a pain in the arse to me. You can’t have people turning up in the field unannounced; the local governors and officials don’t like it.” He flicked through the pages of the book, then dropped it on the table. “I know many of these, but there are names I’ve never heard of—and I know more than most people. Some of them are probably two-man bands with high hopes and a bit of money from charitable collections, who think they can simply go out to wherever they like and all will be well. I’m afraid it’s not that easy. A lot of them get into trouble and are forced to come back with their tails between their legs. And that doesn’t help anybody.” He took a gulp of his drink. “Does he have private money?”

Ruth was cautious answering. “Not as far as we know. Why do you ask?”

“I’m wondering why he moved around so much. Most aid workers like to find a niche and stick with it. Chopping and changing really doesn’t happen that much. Charity workers like to change direction and face new challenges like anyone else, but too much movement can indicate a lack of staying power. Some of the people I know have been in the same organisations for years. They do it because they feel a passion for the work and the people they help. But there are a few cruisers.”

“Cruisers?”

“The ones who don’t stick. They do a bit then move on. They’re not exactly unreliable, but they can signal a break in continuity. Charities are like commercial organisations; they like to know the workforce is going to be there in the morning when needed.” He nodded at the book. “And the names I know on that list with a tick against them are all very small. One person dropping out midway would floor them completely; they can’t function if that happens.”

“I see.” She went to put the book away but he stopped her. “Tell you what I can do. “Let me contact the ones I know and see what I can find out. It’s a long shot, but the best I can do. I’ll ring you if I find anything.”

She nodded gratefully. “Thanks, George.” She waited while he made notes of the names he knew, then took back the book. Paperas stood up and, glancing at his watch, said goodbye and that he’d be in touch.

When there was still no sign of Vaslik after ten minutes, she tried his phone. It was engaged. She decided to make her way back to the Hardman house. When she emerged from the pub she was surprised to see Vaslik waiting for her across the street. He made no move to join her but gave a subtle signal for her to follow but stay back, before setting off along the pavement towards Piccadilly.

She did so, wondering what he was doing. A few minutes later she caught up with him in the Burlington Arcade, where he was waiting by a men’s shoe shop.

“What’s going on, Slik? Why didn’t you come in?”

He ignored the question. “The guy you were with; was he old-ish, tanned, walks like his feet are on fire?”

“Yes. His name’s George Paperas. He’s a charity consultant. Why?”

“As I came down the street, two guys were waiting, one on each side. When your man came out they immediately latched onto him—one in front, the other further back. I wouldn’t have thought much of it, except I recognised one of the tails.”

Ruth felt a flutter of disquiet. “Who was he?”

“The last time I saw him was at the DHS Glynco training facility in Georgia. A guy who knew him from law school pointed him out. He said he must have left law and moved up in the world.”

“Good for him. Why would Homeland Security be interested in George Paperas?”

He shrugged. “That’s just it: he’s not Homeland.”

“So what is he?”

“He’s CIA.”