The Searcher (15 page)

A
s they left the restaurant the sun was a red line on the horizon and the air had grown humid and thick, and together they trudged up the heavy beach like an old couple, Hammer impatient and ahead.

“I not understand,” said Koba. “Where is your friend?”

“Not here.”

“In Turkey now, yes?”

“If he wasn't here, he isn't there.”

Koba put his hand on Hammer's shoulder, in part to steady himself.

“I not understand, Isaac.”

Hammer stopped. “Someone wants me to think my friend was here. But he wasn't.”

“What someone?”

“I don't know.”

“Perhaps someone steal his card.”

“Perhaps.”

They started up the promenade at the top of the beach, Hammer brisk and always a few steps before Koba, thinking hard. The stalls were shut, the cafés quiet. Cars streamed past.

Whoever had been at the Sheraton, and at the restaurant, and everywhere else, it wasn't Ben. And if the impostor was a mere thief, he wouldn't have booked a flight out of the country on someone else's passport, or spoken Russian and English at dinner. No. This was a sham, a masquerade. A trail had been set for him and he'd followed it. He had been gulled.

In the past three days he had imagined so many fates for his friend: mugged for his money in the wrong part of town, kidnapped for ransom,
knocked down by one of these crazy drivers, working out some personal torment in the wilderness. Drifting down the Kura River to the sea. He could discount all those. Whoever had done this had power, and resources, and a purpose.

Gori was the key. It had sat squarely in Hammer's imagination all day. He needed to know what had happened there: who had done this, and why, and by what dark means. Ben, of course, had wanted the same thing; he couldn't have seen what Hammer had seen and not felt compelled to investigate it. That was Ben. He had to know. And while he was a self-righteous bastard about it, he was right. To stand there and see that much pain and simply pass by, knowing you might help, was a betrayal, of oneself and the people who had died. There was no great difference between that and walking past a murder with your head turned.

His own mission had been feeling less and less righteous; now it felt wrong. Who was he here to help but himself? That unease, the dread that had been following him around, this was the cause of it. A herald of his hypocrisy.

In the trees bordering the wide pavement ahead some unexpected movement caught his eye, and above the noise of the traffic he could hear a sort of roaring that he couldn't identify. He slowed for a moment and was scanning the trees when from them, twenty yards away, staggered a drunk, his silhouette made strange by an overlong coat that swept its skirts across the ground. Howling at the night, he reeled and lurched toward the road, in his hand a glass bottle held high and oddly steady above his head. He looked set to pitch straight into the cars rushing along the street.

“Hey!” shouted Hammer, as loud as he could.

The drunk caught himself, just, swaying this way and that and looking round to see who had challenged him, the bottle now tucked into his chest. Bent almost double, he screamed something at Hammer and started moving toward him, muttering in Georgian as he came.

“Oh, great,” said Hammer.

“Bozis shvilo,” said Koba behind him.

“Gamarjobat,” said Hammer, keeping a straight line. “Lovely evening.”

As Hammer passed, the drunk reached out and grabbed his arm,
slurring a string of words. The deep stink of filth and old booze radiated from him. He was young, as far as it was possible to tell, no older than forty, but had the dismal air of someone whose time was almost up. One glazed eye tried to stay on Hammer's face.

“No, thank you,” said Hammer, jerking his hand away and shrinking from the smell.

Under all his clothes the man was slight but his grip was strong. He was leaning on Hammer now, still talking and making his points, whatever they were, by repeatedly shoving his bottle into Hammer's chest. Through the alcohol his breath had an empty metallic tang.

Puffed up, his big chest out, Koba came forward, screwed his hand into the clothes over the drunk's chest, and in one movement pulled him off Hammer and shoved him backward, hard, so that he fell to the ground in a sprawl. His bottle skittered over the pavement but didn't smash. Before Hammer could register what had happened, Koba stood over the man and kicked him hard in the thigh with the accomplished air of someone who has done such things before.

“No,” shouted Hammer, dragging him back.

“Motherfucker,” said Koba, shrugging Hammer's arm away and glaring back at the drunk, who was stirring on the ground. “He hurt you?”

Hammer had turned from him to tend to the drunk.

“No. I'm fine.”

He squatted down and touched the man's shoulder. His eyes were closed, and the smell of ammonia rose up off him. Koba was still tensed, ready to continue.

“He needs a doctor. Where's the hospital?”

Koba made a low, disdainful noise, took a step back, and lit a cigarette. “Fuck him. Not need.”

“Koba, he's a mess. Get the car.”

“No way. My car?” Koba laughed. “No way in my car.”

As Hammer stood to remonstrate, the drunk raised himself on his elbow, looked stupidly around him, and sat up.

“Are you all right?” said Hammer.

There was no recognition in his eyes, and it seemed likely that he remembered neither Hammer nor what had happened. He blinked a couple of times with his good eye and started to stand, Hammer instinctively supporting him.

“You need to see a doctor,” said Hammer, but his drunken charge was up now, and moving. Without looking back, he stooped to pick up his bottle, all but empty, and stumped back through the trees.

“You see? He is fine. Motherfucker.”

Hammer watched the man walking away and took a deep breath. The smell of him was still on his clothes and in the air.

“Isaac, you are too good. Such people do not deserve.”

 • • • 

B
efore going to bed, Hammer picked a pair of tiny whiskey bottles from the fridge in his room, poured them into a glass, and sat on the bed. He had one more duty, and it would be the hardest part of the day.

Elsa picked up on the first ring.

“Ike.”

“Hey. How you doing?”

“I'm OK.”

“Good.”

“Thanks for your texts.”

She sounded cautious, as if she didn't know how things stood between them.

“I wish there'd been more to say.”

“Are you . . . do you have anything?”

He took a drink, uncertain where to begin.

“I'm getting there. He did go to the funeral. He was in Tbilisi and then he went to a place called Gori. That's as far as I can see.”

“You said you had a good lead.”

“I did, but it's like all leads, it only gets you so far.”

Elsa didn't respond.

“Hey. It's progress. Progress is good.”

She was quiet for a moment longer, and Hammer knew she wasn't convinced.

“Ike, please. I can't get more worried. Tell me.”

Oh boy, he thought, and told her about Iosava, and Gori, and the trail to Batumi that had turned out to be a fiction. He left out the men in his room and their visit to the dogs.

“So he was never there?”

“Never.”

“Why? What does that mean?”

“Stop anyone coming to look. Listen, if I'd had a half-decent man in Georgia I'd have sent him, and chances are he'd have been happy with the story. They did a pretty good job, and anyone not looking really closely would have believed it. Or I might have done it all from London, on the phone, checking Ben's cards. Either way we'd think he was in Turkey now, with some woman, and this call would be very different. So whoever did it wants us to look the wrong way.”

“Because something's happened to him.”

That was the conclusion Hammer hadn't wanted to reach. Not with Elsa, at least.

“I can't think what else it means.”

“God, Ike. What's he done?”

What had he done? What had he been thinking? For two days Hammer had been in Webster's world, but now he was jolted back to that other reality, of children and home and simple, immediate responsibilities. See the devastation in Gori and it became your duty to expose what had happened; speak to Elsa for a moment and you knew that was impossible. Both were essential and could not coexist.

This was the same paradox that had colored Ben's every moment at Ikertu. He loved it, he had loved Hammer, but his inability to ignore the tiniest promptings of his conscience had led him to try to destroy it. This Hammer at once understood and didn't understand. Understood the impulse but not the absence of any mechanism to control it. He had loved Ben for it, his seriousness, his sense of justice. But controlling impulses was what it was all about; learning to do so is life.

“Got himself involved. Like he always does.”

Elsa said nothing for a moment.

“I don't think I can take much more of it, Ike.”

“Hey, I may be wrong.”

“No. You're not. Find him, would you? The mess he's made. For you and us. You were right. He needs to clear it up.”

I
n the rain you couldn't see what was coming, and that was almost a comfort. Whether he was disappointed about Borjomi, which again Hammer refused to visit, or ashamed of his treatment of the drunk the night before, Koba drove as hard as the rain fell, overtaking everyone they met, sliding round corners without slowing, playing chicken with any car bold enough to occupy the middle of the road. Hammer didn't protest; it was probably impossible to reconcile Koba's protectiveness with his desire to kill them both on the roads, or to curb either. It had been a long time since he'd met anyone whose energies ran in so many conflicting directions.

He was smoking more than usual, and if it hadn't been for Hammer would have been happy to do so with the windows closed. Hammer had opened his but the car was thick with smoke, and eventually he had to deal with it.

“Koba. Would you open your window a little, please?”

Koba looked across at him, drew on his cigarette, and opened the window an inch as he exhaled.

“I did bad last night. You think.”

“No. I don't. I just need to get to Tbilisi.”

But Koba, determined to be petulant, only raised his eyebrows.

“That man, he is fine. He is fine today.”

“I know.”

“I no stop him, he hurt you, that motherfucker.”

“Koba. I was grateful. Really. Thank you.”

Koba held his fingers up to the open window and let the wind take his cigarette.

“We will be quick, to Tbilisi.”

“That's great.”

The quicker the better. Hammer's anger with Ben was going; in its place arose a steadily swelling fear. For days now he had pictured himself victorious in the act of saving his former friend, refusing to crow but knowing that his own methods had been proved superior, and justified. He might tell himself that he took no pleasure in the notion, that he was a bigger man than that, but his own quest was selfish, a chance to save not just his creation and his name but his idea of himself.

After his discovery in Batumi, and his last conversation with Elsa, that vain little fantasy had collapsed. If he could simply find Ben alive he would give thanks to the God he hadn't addressed directly for the last fifty years. And besides, he wasn't sure that his idea of himself was worth saving. Ben ignored his responsibilities to chase some notion of justice. That was his problem. Hammer's was the reverse. He had no responsibilities, not really, no one who couldn't survive without him. And with this freedom, what had he done? Less than he should. He should have been the one out here investigating Karlo's death and the bombing of Gori. He should be making a difference, in Ben's trite, true words.

At least now he had made a start. The central question had changed from a what to a who. Ben had been in Gori. Gori was an hour from Tbilisi, but he had gone there with enough gas to last him a thousand miles. He was on his way somewhere, and it wasn't Batumi; even if he'd been aiming for the Black Sea, down to Turkey or up into Russia, the coastal road was lined with resorts. With that much fuel he had to be heading for the wilderness. Who benefited from stopping him?

If Iosava was telling the truth, the president was responsible, and therefore stood to benefit the most. He certainly had the resources and the instincts to mount the deception that followed. But Iosava wasn't a truth teller, Hammer guessed, by habit or inclination. At best he was a braggart, and at worst? At worst he could be running the whole thing: the bomb, Karlo's death, the lot. He had the money, the people, the links to Russia. A motive for encouraging Hammer on a false errand. What better way to finish the president for good? What better revenge?

Hammer would have paid a handsome fee to anyone who could tell him how this place was constructed: who was in hock to whom, who controlled the information, who had the real power. The nearest he had to a friend was Vekua, but he was as suspicious of her friendliness as he was of Iosava's bullying.

A plan began to form. Whoever had set the false trail for him wanted him to leave Georgia—probably had hoped it would deter him from ever coming. That much was plain. So on his return he'd see Iosava and Vekua, tell them that he'd failed and was going home, and watch their reaction. That was a start, at least.

At precisely nine o'clock, with odd punctuality, Hammer's phone rang, and as deep as he was in thought he knew right away who it was.

“Ah, the jokers. Good morning. You decided to return my things?”

“Things, thousand dollars. E-mails, fifty thousand.” It was the same voice, and through the accent Hammer thought he could hear courage being worked up.

“That's cute, but you don't have my e-mails. So a thousand for the computer and the other stuff. OK? The five hundred in my briefcase you can keep. For a couple of days' work that's not so bad.”

The voice said something in Georgian, and then came back to Hammer.

“We clone hard drive.”

Koba, sensing a change in mood, looked over.

“You OK, Isaac?”

Well, that would really do it, he thought. The head of the firm behind bars, and every former client awaiting a call from a blackmailer. On that computer were the secrets of a thousand clients, not to mention his own, and though it might be protected, in time clever people would find their way in. If he didn't get it back he might seriously consider disappearing altogether from the world.

“OK. Seems like you're smarter than I thought. Which means you'll understand I can't just get that sort of money and hand it over. I'm going to need a bank account from you. Also, we need to find a way to come to some trust over what happens next. Far as I know, you've made two copies of the disk and you're going to ask me for more next month and every month.
Understand? So we need to meet. I'll give you a thousand now, show some goodwill, and we can discuss. OK?”

“Freedom Park, tonight, eighteen hours.”

“No. We meet at the Marriott hotel. In the lobby.”

“Freedom Park, under statue.”

Hammer took the phone from his ear, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

“OK, Isaac? Problem?”

“Small problem. Koba, how good are you at following people?”

“Follow?”

“Track. See where someone goes.”

“Ya,” said Koba, in his deep growl, with a great affirmative frown. “Is no problem.”

 • • • 

I
n a normal country, under normal conditions, he would report the theft to the police and have them wait with him in the park for the thieves. Here, that wouldn't do: even if they were competent he had no idea of their motives, and little confidence that they wouldn't take the opportunity to have a go through his files themselves, finding material for heaven knew what fresh fantasies. He was alone in this, as he was in his search for Ben, and though he regretted not having the help that he was used to—oh, for a surveillance team and a Georgian Dean Oliver—there was something about the simplicity of his position that he relished. It was like the first year or two of Ikertu, or all his days as a journalist, trading entirely on his wits. But he had Koba, of course. He had recruited less likely and far less useful people than Koba.

Besides, it was simple enough. There wasn't much one could do except follow the bastards from the rendezvous and then the money from bank to bank once it had been transferred. He could expect help with that when he got home. Compared to finding Ben, it was a neat enough proposition.

Koba's driving became less spiky the closer they came to Tbilisi, but the rain showed no sign of calming. The roads ran with it, the windows streamed; the lights of the cars were the only relief from the settled gray. It
might be Sunday but it seemed everyone was out; half an hour outside the city the traffic slowed to a stop and then began to nudge testily forward. Hammer's watch told him it was noon, and though he had nothing to be late for he was taken by a frustrated sense of urgency. He wanted to go. He wanted to make progress.

“What is it?” he asked Koba.

Koba shrugged and lit another cigarette, opening the window a crack.

In a little while they passed the obstruction: a hatchback had left the road at a bend and was now nose down in a ditch. Other cars had stopped—to help, Hammer presumed—but their occupants were just standing watching, with no activity apparent.

“Should we stop?”

Koba laughed and drew on his cigarette, accelerating away on the newly clear road. “Isaac. You not learn.”

“They might be hurt.”

“They are fine.”

“Maybe we should slow down.”

“Isaac. We will be fine. And if not, we will not. You have fear, here, I think.” He tapped his temple hard with his forefinger.

Hammer couldn't argue on either point.