The Searcher (5 page)

F
or Hammer, running was thinking. Once a day, sometimes twice: down the hill from Hampstead in the mornings, an easy freewheel to arrive at the office with some momentum, and then back home after work with a problem that wouldn't crack, carrying it up to the top of the city until he had it broken down into pieces.

Not today. However hard he went at the hills he couldn't so much as chip it. He'd read a story once, he forgot where, about a group of Italian resistance fighters who needed to move a massive boulder to build a shelter. It was too big whole, and for hours they hammered at it, big strong men, but it just looked back at them. Then out of the woods came an old man, the last of their party and a mason, and all the others stepped back. He walked all round the rock, ran his hands over it, found his point, and with great precision gave it a distinct but not forceful tap with a sledgehammer. Obediently the boulder fell in two. Today Hammer felt like the first group, hopelessly beating away, his own name a dim ironic taunt.

Sander had released him at seven, after four hours of dogged questioning. No charge, not yet, but he was to return to the station a week from Friday, by which time she would have gone through the haul she'd made that afternoon. No traveling abroad in the meantime. And no talking to anyone about their conversation, unless he wanted to add perverting the course of justice to her list. That included Webster.

The day had been humid and now as he ran the rain started, big soft drops that he barely noticed. Barely noticed the road ahead, or the route that he knew so well, or the people and cars that he threaded in between. Ignored the hamstring that had been tight for days; ran through it, fast on the flat
and faster up the hills. What the fuck had Ben done? The question repeated itself like a mantra. What had he done? How great was his talent for creating so much trouble to so little purpose?

Isaac Hammer sent down; the great detective behind bars. A bunch of people would like the idea. The crooks who had come his way, a handful of other investigators, at least half a dozen lawyers whose noses he had put out of joint over the years. The newspapers would have a blast. Spies, corruption, a fall—it was a good story. He'd have been happy to write it in his day. The shame he could endure, but what he couldn't contemplate, and yet knew was certain, was that there was no way Ikertu would survive. Who wants an investigator whose boss isn't even at liberty? Clients would desert him, and his people would rightly follow. He couldn't sell the company, because without him there was nothing to sell, and even if there had been, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to do it. It was his. He had brought it into the world.

No. If this had been his doing, fine, he'd take the rap. But stand by and watch while someone else destroyed his world? Ben had to stand up. There was no other way. He'd made the decision, he'd done the work. And the least he could fucking do, after the risks he'd so blithely taken, would be to come clean for once, without that slippery evasion he wrapped up so neatly in superiority.

What had he said, when he left? You sell hypocrisy, and value nothing but profit.

For days after their final meeting, Hammer had raged over the words, but recently all he had felt was a great sadness—that their friendship had ended, and that Ben had contrived so skillfully to screw up his life.

Now there came fresh fury at the man's own cant. For what had he endangered everything Hammer had made? For a scrap of pride.

 • • • 

B
eyond Hampstead the streets flattened out and the houses grew less moneyed and soon Hammer was on Hiley Road, wet through and steaming, walking the last few hundred yards to relax his legs and try to cool his thoughts.

He rang the bell, conscious for the first time of just how wet he was. The rain fell cold on the back of his neck and he counseled himself to be calm. Don't hit the fucker. An unexpected nervousness mingled with his fury, light in his throat, and with it a dull memory of relationships, and rows, and the anxious hope that came with trying to make up.

Elsa opened the door, harassed, as if the last thing she wanted was a caller. Her dark hair fell across one eye, and she pushed it back distractedly.

“Christ, Ike.” She seemed concerned more than surprised. “I thought you were a salesman.”

So absorbed had he been that he hadn't thought for a moment that he might see her. The question that only now struck him, and for which he had no answer, was what she would do if Ben was no longer around.

“I'm sorry. I was passing, on my way home, and there's something I need to talk to him about. I thought I'd stop by.”

Her frown grew puzzled. Elsa was the last person in the world to be convinced by a bad lie.

“He's not here. He's away.”

Of course. He would be.

“When's he back?”

“I don't know. Tomorrow maybe. He went to Karlo's funeral.”

“Karlo?”

“The journalist.”

“Jesus. Karlo?”

Karlo Toreli. He had more life in him than ten men.

“I thought you might have known.”

“I'm the last to know things these days. That's kind of unimaginable. Karlo?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Listen, I barely knew the guy. But I liked him.” He shook his head. “Ben's in Georgia?”

He said it with disbelief but there was no reason to be surprised. It was a miracle he wasn't at one of the poles.

“Ike, you're sodden. Do you want to come in?”

He did, of course. This was the only place that offered him noise and laughter and the healthy purpose of family life—in short spells, maybe, and not regularly, but he loved it here nonetheless. In his mind it was always full of talk and warm light. His own house was old, quiet, beautiful, and in it he felt like a passing tenant; this was a home, and to be a part of it from time to time had given him a glimpse of a sort of happiness from which he feared being completely separated. Elsa it was, he was fairly sure, who had been acute enough to spot this lack in him and kind enough to try to fill it.

“No. Really. Better that I keep running.” He smiled. Tried his best, absurdly, to sound breezy. “I like the rain this time of year.”

“You're sure? Is everything OK?”

“Everything's fine. Just an old case that's come alive again.”

No, he wanted to say. Everything is listing pretty badly and for once, after half a lifetime of being paid to be clever and decisive, I don't really know what to do. I thought I did, but standing here I'm losing certainty.

“How are the kids?”

“They're fine. I was reading to Nancy.”

“I'm sorry. You go.”

She gave him that reserved, searching look that meant she wasn't fully persuaded.

“You look terrible. Come in. Really. You read to her. She'd love it.”

It seemed a scarcely imaginable pleasure, after the day he had had, to be in Nancy's room, reading to his goddaughter from a story that had no mention of policemen or mining companies or hacking or prisons. And yet he couldn't. To come and go and not tell Elsa why he was here was one thing; to be in her house and read to her daughter—to draw comfort from her family even as he prepared to fracture it—that was as repugnant to him as it would be to her.

Regret filling him, Hammer forced a final smile. Another thing Ben had fucked up.

“I'll go. He won't want me here when he gets back. Send her all my love.”

“If you're sure.”

“It was good to see you.”

“You, too.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Should be.”

“Have him call me. First thing.”

There was regret in her smile, too, he thought, as he turned away to make the short run home.

H
ammer was expecting to be marched from the cells into the nearest police car and driven directly to the airport, but instead he was taken back to the first room and left to wait. No cuffs, and an open door: a test, perhaps, or a trap. Much later he would wonder whether it had been a show.

A minute or two passed. He got up, stuck his head out of the door, smiled at the uniformed policeman standing guard. So he wasn't free to leave.

“You speak English?”

The guard turned his head, uncomprehending.

“You fancy a nice watch?” Hammer pulled his cuff up, showed him the watch. “It's a Rolex. Real. Worth real money.” He rubbed the fingers of one hand together then began to unbuckle the strap. The guard frowned but leaned in a little. Maybe, if this all worked out, he could come back and buy it back off the bastard.

Above the shouting and the doors opening and closing and the general hubbub he became aware of voices raised outside—a single voice, in fact, a woman's, strong and keen. The guard stiffened and gruffly turned Hammer back toward the room he had just left, pushing him inside.

It was the first time Hammer had heard Georgian spoken by a woman and it took on a different quality, musical but piercing. Someone was getting a dressing-down, and between her controlled, angry questions Hammer heard a man grunting short apologies in reply.

After a minute or two of this, the policeman who had questioned him earlier appeared in the doorway, pushed forward by a woman in a black suit who was slight and full of fury.

“Mr. Hammer,” she said, “please listen.”

Hammer looked from her rigid face to the policeman, whose head was bowed, all the petty menace gone from his little black eyes.

“Sorry,” said the policeman, closing his eyes as the words came out.

The woman stiffened. “Look up,” she said, emphasis on each word. “Again.”

“Sorry,” he said, just meeting Hammer's eye.

“That's OK,” said Hammer, not sure what he was witnessing.

“Go,” said the woman.

Still stooping, the policeman left.

The woman came round to the side of the desk and offered Hammer her hand. Hammer rose to shake it.

“Mr. Hammer. It is an honor.”

The anger in her face had slipped into a smile as easily as snow melting in the sun.

“It is?”

“I am Elene Vekua. I work for the Foreign Ministry. I am sorry for all that has happened here.” She handed him his wallet and his phone. “These are yours, I think.”

At first sight her face had seemed angled and pointed, as if ruled rather than drawn: a sharp chin and precise cheekbones and an even brow, black hair pulled back from it and tied sleekly behind, thin lips pinched in so that they seemed to disappear. A handsome, unforgiving, symmetrical face, with something regal about it, and something wintry. Watching her force an apology from the policeman, Hammer found it easy to imagine her judging her subjects, and harshly at that.

With the smile everything changed. Austere became welcoming, warmth seemed to fill her pale gray eyes, and the creases of a frown across her brow were smoothed away. Hammer felt himself not judged but studied, as an ornithologist might appraise a rare bird.

“Our police are not so bad, but they are not international people. They have no idea who you are.”

“I'd be amazed if they did.”

“If they ever looked beyond Georgia they would. Your work is important. Come.”

She stood back and ushered him toward the door.

“We're done?”

“I will take you to your hotel.”

“How do you know who I am?” said Hammer.

 • • • 

W
hoever Elene Vekua was, she warranted a driver, and a Mercedes—not flash, but a Mercedes nevertheless. She sat down in the back with Hammer, turned slightly to him with her back straight, smoothed her skirt, and held her hands clasped in her lap. No jewelry, he noticed, no polish on her nails, no makeup at all, so that in every detail she suggested sufficiency, a great confidence in what she had. The cut of her suit was elegant, her posture correct, her whole manner that of someone who didn't need to embellish to be understood, to speak loud to be heard.

Hammer was a careful watcher of people's devices and tics. From the hard long stares, he had the policeman pinned as ambitious but incompetent; Ben, always circumspect with those he didn't know, had a habit of absently buttoning and unbuttoning his cuffs. Hammer's own custom was to place a hand on a person's upper arm as he went to shake their hand, because it gave the impression that he really was pleased to see them. Most of the time he was.

Vekua was an engager. She held Hammer's eye as if everything he said was wise and new, smiled just the right amount, asked questions that didn't flatter him but required answers that did. After his hours in the cell—for which she apologized many times—he felt himself beginning to revive.

It was past one now, and the city was largely quiet, but further along the river they saw groups of police running after the last stubborn protesters, and fires still burned by the grand buildings on the opposite bank. Every so often the driver swerved to avoid pieces of wood and bits of destroyed bus stop and car bumper in the road.

“It always like this?” said Hammer.

“It can seem that way.”

“Looks like my friend picked a good time to come.”

“We are accustomed to it. You are not, I think.”

Hammer had underestimated the tension. Probably Ben had, too. Strange, how hard it was to see a situation until you were in it. He felt his nose, which moved uncertainly under his touch, and shrugged.

“I used to be.”

“The riots are not dangerous. What lies behind is dangerous.”

Hammer waited for her to explain.

“For ten years Georgia has been drunk on her freedom, like a wife who runs from her husband. Russia watches her dance and waits for her to come close enough to snatch back. This is that time. Quietly, through an election. The modern way. And the president knows this.”

“And the other guy? His opponent?”

“He is a friend of Russia. His money comes from men who owe their fortunes to Russia.”

“OK. I get it. So when the bomb goes off, everyone thinks it's the Russians, because who else would do such a thing, and the president says how terrible, don't vote for the other guy, he's a Russian in disguise.”

“Except it went wrong. So now the president is finished.”

“You're kidding me. That's how things work around here? Really?”

“Logic gets twisted in Georgia. In the pursuit of survival.” She shook her head with a sort of thoughtful regret. “You more than anyone know that it is difficult to find the truth. In Georgia it is impossible. To be an investigator here you must be happy with half an answer. Or two answers. You must be happy with doubt.”

“What's your half answer?”

She hesitated, thinking. “Most probably the president did not know. He is a vain man, he thinks he is the center of all things, but he would not do this. He is not evil. And not so crazy.”

“So who did it?”

“In my service there are evil men.”

“Your service?”

“I am a spy, Mr. Hammer. I work for our intelligence agency.”

“You're very direct.”

“You would find out. Perhaps you know already.” She smiled. “A small group did this for the president. Many of my colleagues, they still hate the Russians.”

The car had slowed to let a convoy of police vans pass, sirens going.

“And Karlo Toreli?” he said.

Vekua held his eye.

“That is a very direct question. And sensitive.”

“I'm like you. I like things direct.”

She continued to watch him, making up her mind.

“You told the police that you have no client.”

“Just me. No oligarchs, no Russians, nothing sinister. On my word.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Hammer? Really?”

To save my hide, he thought. Had she spoken to London?

“To fulfill an obligation.”

With a brisk nod she decided.

“I want to suggest a deal. But it is also my best advice.”

“Please.”

“I will tell you what I know. But then you must leave it alone. Just find your friend. If you investigate the bomb, or Toreli, I cannot protect you.”

“I'm no spy.”

“I know this. I am not an idiot. But these people. They think you have been brought here to save the president before the election. Some think this. Others think you are here to destroy him. How? I asked them.” An incredulous smile. “What would he do? He is one man. But he is a spy, they tell me. There is a plot. The American. He works for the oligarchs who oppose democracy in our country.” She paused and held his eyes with hers. There was fire somewhere behind their level gray, he was sure. “This is a joke. They care nothing for democracy.”

“So I'm famous, huh?”

“At times like this everything has a meaning. Your arrival. Your
departure.” Even in the dark of the car her eyes seemed to glow icily. “Do you accept my terms?”

“Go ahead.”

Vekua clasped her hands, utterly serious. This was more like the face he had seen berating the policeman.

“The bomb exploded in Gori, an hour from here. A normal town. Immediately people think of Russia because Gori is close to the border. The target was a normal apartment building, nothing special to it. People were sleeping. A large part of the building was destroyed.”

She paused to let Hammer consider the words. He did; it was hard not to.

“The bomb killed seventeen Georgians and two men who were running from the building. They were rebels, from Dagestan. They set the bomb. We knew them. Their group claimed responsibility.”

“Did they screw up? Or did someone blow it early?”

“The bomb was meant to kill them. Someone wanted them to be found.”

“They were set up.”

“Of course. Whoever was responsible, this is certain. They were running to their car, which was not destroyed. Inside the car were two telephones. Untraceable, clean. One of these phones had received calls from only one other number. We know from network data that all of these calls were made from inside my building. My headquarters. Inside, or near.”

“You've got a mole.”

Vekua didn't respond.

“Do you know who it is?”

“I cannot say.”

She gave him a look that told him this track was closed.

“So this is how it went. Bear with me. Someone in your organization, some renegade group, they get these guys from Dagestan to do the dirty work, and then they send the journalists looking in the wrong direction, and everyone thinks it's the Russians, because who else would pull a stunt like that. Yes? And then Karlo spills the beans that actually, it's not your age-old enemy, it's your government. So what did he find out? What gave the game away?”

“Probably he had a source.”

“No shit.”

Vekua shrugged and held his eye. That's all I'm giving you. The car had crossed a bridge and turned onto cobbles that shone with the rain that had begun to fall. From inside her jacket she took a business card. The streets were narrow now and dark, but the sparsely set lamps gave just enough light. Colonel Elene Vekua. A colonel; he was flattered.

“This is not an easy country. Not today, certainly. If you need help you can call me.”

“Do you know where my friend is?”

“He has not been arrested. I have checked. There is nothing on our computers.”

The car slowed to a stop in a small courtyard of jumbled old buildings.

“How many hospitals are there in Tbilisi?”

“Not so many. But we would know if he was there.”

“I'm sure you would.” Hammer opened his door. “Why are you helping me?”

Here was the smile at its most deliberate.

“Because I want you to find your friend and leave, as soon as you can. Understand, you are an interesting person. Myself, I am pleased you are here. Georgia is not.”