fifty

Hyde Park held its customary evening mix of tourists and commuters, the first enjoying the open space, while the muted roar of traffic from Park Lane showed the concentration of cars and buses deploying the latter out of the capital heading to the west and north.

The note from Aston had specified the area on the northern edge of the park, along the road known as North Carriage Drive. It was a pleasant mix of trees, road and pathways across a large expanse of grass, much favoured by horse-riders and others, and a convenient step for residents on the other side of the Bayswater Road to get out from the narrow streets and buildings.

Ruth entered the park from the north side opposite Albion Street and paused briefly to check her surroundings. She was deliberately early. She would have preferred being here an hour ago to give the place a thorough inspection, but suspected that was something the man meeting her had avoided intentionally by suggesting the rendezvous at such short notice.

Unable to see anything noteworthy, she walked as far as the inner road and turned right along the pavement. It put her in full view so that the man would see her, but its very openness gave her a tiny edge; she might be able to spot anyone taking an undue interest in her, too. And in clandestine meetings like this, you took whatever advantages you were offered with both hands.

She used the pretence of checking her phone to scrutinise the people nearby. Some were jogging, others walking dogs or children, others more purposeful and focussed, on their way to work or home. But no obvious lone spooks lurking beneath the trees.

She couldn’t see Vaslik, although she knew he was there. It was a basic precaution having him watching her back, although she had no reason to be wary of meeting Aston’s mysterious contact. But if there was anybody to see, the American might be able to get a snapshot for future reference.

A movement showed up ahead where there had previously been none. A man with a briefcase had stepped out from behind a group of obvious tourists fifty yards ahead, and stood waiting for her. He gave a nod. Middle-aged, dressed in a charcoal grey suit and shiny shoes, unremarkable, a typical Mr. Nobody, an office worker taking time out to smell the grass.

As she drew level with him he turned and walked with her, gradually leading her off towards the open green of the main park.

“Don’t worry, Miss Gonzales,” he said easily. “I’m not a stalker.”

“It’s your lucky day, then,” she replied. “You’d have got yourself drop-kicked into the bushes. You’ve got some information for me.”

Up close he was older than she’d first thought, with the weathered stringiness of a man who spent a lot of time outside. Early sixties, she guessed; smart, well-dressed, a mid-level civil servant but no regular pen-pusher. There was something too undeniably hard about him for a desk jockey. Maybe they’d pulled him out of retirement for this.

“I don’t have long,” he said without preamble or introduction, “so please listen. This is a once-only meeting.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I do, but you don’t need it. I’m merely delivering information.”

He was a messenger. A courier with no back-trail. “Suits me. Go ahead.”

“Like you, my colleagues and I are trying to find a missing person. We think you might be able to help us.”

“Really?” She was puzzled, and wondered if they had been working unknowingly in tandem. “If you are what I think you are, why would you be looking for Beth Hardman?”

“If you keep interrupting, this meeting is over.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you. The person we’re trying to locate is a man, and is known in criminal quarters as a bag man. He moves money from one place to another. Lots of it. He travels light, avoiding customs hot spots and using back-door entry and exit routes known to very few people.”

“A smuggler?” She stopped and stared at him, bringing him to a halt. “Are you Revenue and Customs?” Maybe a drop-kick would be in order. Why the hell was he talking to her? This was a waste of time.

He gave a dry chuckle and turned to walk on, waiting for her to catch up before continuing. “Hardly. Bank transfers, as you know, leave electronic trails. The bigger the sum moved the more it stands out and risks coming under official scrutiny—especially with recent crack-downs on money-laundering … and the movement of terrorist-related funds around the globe.”

Ruth felt her mouth go dry. The pause had been intentional, she was certain. But where was this leading?

“I still don’t see how this involves me; I’m looking for a kidnapped child.”

“I’m aware of that. Have you ever heard of Hawala?”

“Yes, It’s a banking system in Islamic countries.”

“More or less. It’s centuries old, a form of honour system using a chain of brokers, often outside traditional banking. It’s especially efficient for making payments across continents. Experts refer to it as money movement without moving money. I don’t see the distinction from normal banking and credit, myself, but that’s me.”

“Go on.”

“We’ve known for some time that a number of fringe extremist groups have been working together to amass and move funds, basically in the manner of co-operative banks. It’s nothing new, of course; it spreads the costs, gives access to a wider source of fund-holders, and as long as everyone plays their part and they stay lucky, it reduces the risks. This way they’ve been moving money without the risk of being recorded.”

“And it works?”

“Yes. We occasionally get lucky and hit on supply-line or a block of currency, but in spite of closing down more than a dozen such lines, there’s been a steady flow continuing across borders all through the middle east and Europe. Somali pirates, for example, are using it to finance their trade.”

“Go on.”

“We crash one route and a few days later it’s business as usual. Even with some of the known money men behind bars with their accounts blocked or closed down, still the organisations have all the cash they need. Or valuables.”

“Is that significant?” She was fast getting used to this man’s obliquely direct way of dropping information. If he’d used the word “valuables,” it had been for a reason.

“Very. We’ve noticed a growing pattern over the past eighteen months, especially with some of the smaller freelance groups. Whereas before they were struggling to find support or cash, mostly relying on local sources, they now shop on the world’s market like all the bigger names.”

“How do you know that? You can’t be following them all.”

“We don’t have to. We follow the money. We’ve noticed a sharp rise in the trade of jewellery and gold—even blood diamonds. Much of it turns up miles from where it would normally be found. But it doesn’t stop long before moving on, traded just like electronic money but with no trail unless somebody gets careless … or we get lucky.”

“They use mules?”

“That’s one way. But there’s another—and not some witless uni student on a gap year hoping to make a quick few bucks on the side by hiding diamonds in their knickers. There’s been a lot of chatter picked up on phones and emails about something called khazenat al wada’aa or khezanha. At least, that’s as near as we can make out.”

“What does it mean?”

“There are many variations used by different sources and dialects, but we’ve pinned it down under a generic word meaning “locker” or safe deposit box. Frankly, it makes little difference when you know what it refers to. All we knew was that it was constantly on the move.”

Ruth said nothing, surprised by the irony of the word. A locker was where this had all begun.

“We thought we were following an actual item to begin with,” the man said. “Something tangible like a strong box of some kind. It would certainly make sense bearing in mind the topic. But we soon realised that wasn’t it; the word had been coined, if you’ll excuse the pun, to divert attention if anybody picked up on it, which we eventually did. Talk of a box and that’s what everyone looks for. We spent too long checking left luggage areas, storage facilities, even trucks and cars, looking for travellers or small groups of men with heavy bags they didn’t like leaving alone. It was a simple distraction technique to put us off.” He sighed. “It worked, too, until we realised it was moving too easily to be anything so specific.”

“So you’re saying this ‘locker’ is a person?”

“Precisely. And whoever it is seems able to move through borders without hindrance, carrying money and valuables from place to place, from deal to deal. He’s effectively using what he carries to sign off against weapons, equipment—even manpower. He’s trusted implicitly and each group knows that anything he agrees to carries more weight than any bank, more reliability than any authority they can name save one.” He pointed a meaningful finger at the sky. “But down here, this mule is almost as powerful. The deal is the deal and the mule is the teller—the broker or Hawaladar to use the correct term.”

“Clever.”

“Very. But risky for him in the long term.”

“What are we talking about—hundreds of thousands of pounds or what?”

“More like millions. We know the current market price of weapons, so we can work out a reasonably accurate estimate of what’s he’s carrying by the stuff being financed.”

“One man.” It didn’t seem possible, although nothing she’d heard so far seemed too far-fetched, given the twisted but inventive nature of extremist organisations.

“Certainly—why not? He’s carrying high value items and he is adept at not standing out or drawing attention to himself. He seems to have the skill to blend in wherever he goes and the credentials for being in places Europeans don’t normally go. He undoubtedly has back-up funds with local brokers too, if the deal to finance requires more.” He shrugged. “We don’t know where he keeps it and probably never will, but that’s for somebody else to worry about.”

He stopped and looked at her, head cocked to one side, and she realised he was waiting for her to make the necessary connection.

And then it clicked. He’d mentioned a European.

God, she’d been so bound up in thoughts of Beth that she’d ignored the blindingly obvious. “You’re talking about Michael Hardman.”

“Yes.”