thirty-eight

“But how?” Gina queried indignantly. “We’ve been with her 24/7. No way could she have got another phone in here.” A radio was playing in the background to cover their voices. Nancy’s phone lay on the kitchen work surface nearby, where Gina had left it after checking the call log. There were no calls or text messages in or out over the past forty-eight hours.

Vaslik and Ruth had returned to the house after the session with Aston and Ellworthy, by which time it was getting dark. They’d been turning over the latest events and wondering if Michael Hardman’s unconventional and peripatetic life had finally taken him a step too far. They couldn’t say anything to Nancy until the body of the dead European was identified, and this latest report of cell phone signals coming from inside the house merely added to the complexity of the problem.

“What about during the trip to the supermarket?” Vaslik suggested. “They sell disposables.”

“They do, but no way. I didn’t leave her side. And if you’re suggesting somebody slipped one to her, not a chance.” She looked absolutely certain of her facts and Ruth believed her. The first thing a pro bodyguard looks out for is anybody approaching their charge. It was page one of the training manual.

“If she didn’t get it on the outside, then whoever placed the bugs must have also left the phone for her to use.”

Vaslik shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Why would they? If they’re spying on her—on us—they wouldn’t need to give her a phone.”

“Unless they wanted updates to conversations they couldn’t hear,” said Gina.

“No. They must know that we’re being careful what we say around her. Anything they did get would be of low value.”

“That leaves only one other explanation,” Ruth said. “Somebody else got in here. Somebody who knows her husband.” She shook her head at the implications. If it had been planted at about the same time as the listening devices, it had to have been in the house when she had come back from hospital to get some clean clothes for Nancy.

“Christ.” Gina looked cross. “Right under our noses—it’s like burglar central. What do we do?”

“Take her shopping again tomorrow,” Vaslik suggested shortly, “and I’ll take her room apart. If it’s there I’ll find it.” The approximate location, narrowed down by Ellworthy to the northeast quadrant, took in Nancy’s bedroom and the bathroom. Unless she had moved it since then, it left a narrow search zone on which to focus.

“We could always go and ask her right now,” said Gina. “Why wait?”

“No,” said Ruth. “We’ll give Ellworthy and his little toy another chance to pick up the signals. If she is making contact with her husband, he might be able to figure out where he is.”

“What about tonight? Do we watch her more closely?”

“I don’t know.” Vaslik glanced at Ruth for agreement. “We should let her think she’s got us fooled.” He hesitated. “How about we leave tonight with only Gina on guard. If Nancy makes any moves, she might just get careless.”

“Good idea,” Gina agreed. “I’m not sleeping much, anyway. If anything interesting kicks off I’ll call you.”

Ruth thought it over but was unable to see an alternative. She felt uneasy about leaving Gina here alone, but something had to break sooner or later. And having three people ready to answer a phone call was pointless if they were all exhausted.

“All right. But call if you have doubts.”

She walked through to the living room, and picked up the digital photo frame. It had been turned off. She wasn’t going to bother checking the failed file on her laptop. If it didn’t open from there, it wasn’t going to. Far better to get the smart card and take that in for Ellworthy’s IT gnomes to work on. Nancy might kick up a flurry if she noticed it had gone, but she would leave copies on a spare data stick as insurance.

Andy Vaslik left the house and made his way to his rented flat in Edgware. He felt dog-tired and in need of food and space, his brain fired up with too many thoughts about what was going on behind the scenes. Trying to pull together the various strands of information when so much was unknown or new brought its own pressures, and he needed to kick back for a few hours and allow the facts to filter through his head from front to back. Front of head intake versus back of head analysis: it was something he’d learned from an experienced homicide detective in the NYPD. Let the two operate at their own speed; trying to force them together merely brought headaches and confusion.

He picked up a pizza on the way and settled down to catch up on CNN. Let the Hardman case flow out of his mind for a short while. Sometimes cases got you like that; you became so focussed on the detail that life outside—the normal, everyday important part of life—seemed to dip into the background. It was one of the reasons for the high number of divorce cases among law enforcement officers.

The rolling news covered the usual topics, including storms in the southwest, oil prices, a shooting at a high school in Tennessee and another failed Hollywood marriage. Par for the course.

He poured a beer and ate another slice of pizza. A number of terrorists attacks and bombings around the world over the previous six months had been summarised, with the usual talking heads from Washington think tanks and unspecified “experts” from the security and intelligence field. It all added up, was the conclusion, to a worrying rise in activity involving various insurgent groups, many of them previously little-known but all suspected of having links to the main players, al Qaeda being the biggest bogey of all.

He watched the usual parade of outrage from Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, including a reminder of the Westgate Shopping Mall attack in Nairobi, Kenya, followed by the media circus around the establishment suits and uniforms all putting in their ten cents worth. Among the latter were a US Marine Corps general, buttoned up and sharp as a tack, jaw jutting as if about to go on the offensive, and a man introduced as a rear-admiral who sat on various committees and advised on security matters. This man stepped forward to announce in solemn tones that work was on-going to identify and deal with the perpetrators and those who gave them support and resources.

Vaslik sat up with a jerk, the food forgotten. The deep southern tones carried clearly with practiced authority, drawling out the reassurances the media wanted to hear and the people expected.

He knew that voice.

He knew the face, too.