fifty-one

She struggled with the idea of Nancy’s husband being a bag man for anybody, let alone terrorists—even though she had never met the man. If what Nancy had said about their finances was true, clearly none of the money stuck to his fingers. Or given the people he worked for, maybe he was aware of the consequences if it did. Still, from charity worker to funding extremist groups was a hell of a jump. And yet, maybe not. Humanitarian convictions came in many guises. “It’s a hell of a job to have on your CV.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He gave her a patient look. “Hardman doesn’t do this as a job; neither does he work for a criminal organisation—at least, not in the normal sense. He does it because he wants to. Think about it: he’s a natural fit.”

He was right. In a weird way the job fitted Hardman like a second skin. The charity worker, the westerner, the man on a mission—well, several missions—with a background of working for various aid agencies, using one as cover to gain access or acquire the necessary passes, a seasoned traveller, good at hiding his tracks, even from his wife. And with no apparent connections to anyone else.

“How did he get himself involved with terrorism?”

“He didn’t get ‘involved’—at least, not by accident. There have been previous cases of aid workers doing a bit of smuggling on the side, some even forced into it by unscrupulous criminals. It’s hardly new. But this one’s taken the job to new heights. In fact, you might say he’s made it his life’s work.”

“If you know who he is, how come you haven’t picked him up?”

“We’ve tried. And that was before we knew or suspected his name. The French got very close once in Lahore, but lost him. We had intel on his location three times, but it led nowhere. He’s unbelievably skilled at staying below the radar. In fact,” he almost smiled, “if he ever changes sides, there’ll be a six-way auction to sign him up—including us.”

“But if it is Hardman, he lives right here.”

“We know that now. We didn’t until very recently, so we couldn’t exactly knock on his door. And, as you know, he hasn’t been around for a while.”

“How did you find out?”

“Let’s say an ally let it slip.”

“Ally?”

“A person of interest.”

Ruth let that go; it wasn’t her business how the information had come to light, nor how it had been acquired, whether by luck or circumstance. “How did Hardman get the job in the first place. And why would they trust a European in such a role?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering how he became a money man for al Qaeda.” She was trying to picture Michael Hardman, husband and father, with a wife and daughter in suburban London and photos in a neat electronic frame to prove it, having this double life of extremes. Until now it might have been laughable. But apparently not—if this man was telling the truth.

The man shook his head and stopped walking. Turned to face her. There was nobody within a hundred yards, but he spoke softly. “It would be bad enough if he were simply a fellow traveller, a naïve sympathiser who’d fallen under the spell of human injustice and wanted to do his bit to help. We might have been able to cope with that; naivety is often coupled with impatience and a lack of awareness in the real world. That leads to risk-taking and simple mistakes. It would have saved us a lot of time and countless lives.”

It was something she hadn’t yet had time to consider: that whoever the terrorist money man was, he was ultimately responsible for the provision of weapons, explosives and the paraphernalia of death. The fact that it was being done under the guise of a charity worker seemed to make it so much worse.

“A convert, then?” The idea seemed wild, but Hardman wouldn’t be the first westerner to have changed faiths so dramatically. And converts were usually the most intense and fiery of all extremists.

“Not even that. Michael Hardman never actually existed; he’s an invention. The man we know as Hardman has a variety of aliases but his real name is almost certainly Wesam Bahdari. He hails from Palestine.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s been reliably identified by a childhood friend. They bumped into each other in Paris one day. The friend was working at a hotel desk where Hardman was booking in. Hardman has a small scar above the thumb of his right hand—his writing hand. His friend recognised it when he signed in.”

“And he reported it?”

“Yes. It took a while. The young man he’d known as Bahdari was supposed to have died carrying out a bus bombing in Haifa twenty years ago. Yet here he was walking the streets of Paris using a British name. Bahdari was always paler than many Palestinians, he said, which explains how he was able to pass as European. Bahdari’s reaction to the meeting was apparently quite unpleasant. At first he denied any knowledge of anyone named Bahdari. Then he began making threats. The friend was so terrified by the encounter he went into hiding before deciding to call French Intelligence, who passed on the information.”

“That was good of them.”

He gave a wintry smile. “We work much closer than many people think. But for once the information landed on the right desk at the right time.”

Ruth recalled the images from the photo frame. She’d thought Hardman appeared vaguely Mediterranean, but could see how difficult it would be to pinpoint his true origins.

“So all the trips abroad, the extended periods away?”

“Nothing to do with charity. He’s a mobile banker, using the charity organisations as cover to move around. It made him virtually untouchable.”

“No wonder he didn’t show up for long in the aid agencies’ records.” She was remembering what George Paperas had found.

“He couldn’t afford to. There was always another group to talk to, another cover to assume.”

They walked on a little further. The man was beginning to angle their path back towards the road. Ruth looked back and saw a dark saloon car drifting at walking pace towards them on an intercept course. She sensed the meeting was coming to a point.

“So what’s the kidnap about? We haven’t heard a peep from them yet. What do they want? Is it money, a rival organisation trying to horn in?”

“Nothing like that. Hardman’s a wanted man, pure and simple. He possesses the kind of information that some people would give their grandmothers to acquire. Details of accounts, contacts, acquisitions, deliveries, codes … and people who mean us great harm. I doubt there has been anyone recently on the planet with quite the value this man has.”

“Like the spreadsheet.”

“Yes, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. He knows names we couldn’t even begin to find. Not even Bin Laden knew the kind of stuff Hardman has in his head. So much so that our sources tell us the kidnappers have orders to do whatever they have to in order to get him.”

“So they’re official?”

“As far as we know,” he said carefully, “they’re a freelance team.”

“Same thing these days. That’s appalling … they’re using his daughter as bait!”

“They’re doing what they have to. I’m not saying I endorse it, but it’s a reality.” He appeared unruffled by the idea, as if it were an academic exercise in logic.

“Then what? What will they do to him if he does turn up?”

“He’ll be moved on somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“That’s not relevant to this discussion.”

“You’re talking about extraordinary rendition.”

“Of course not. That’s been abandoned.”

“Can’t you do something to stop it—to get Beth back home?”

“I wish we could. The operation has gone too far. The team looking for Hardman is believed to be a former CIA sub-group aided by a covert Israeli cell, all private contractors with no governmental ties—at least, none that are traceable. We don’t know who the individual members are or where they’re based, nor do we know who controls them … although we have our suspicions. The group itself is small, very mobile and completely off the grid. The members could be in the next street or fifty miles away.”

Ruth remembered the paper napkin from the deli near Grosvenor Square and said, “Have you tried the US Embassy?”