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Hide Me
Ava McCarthy


Feisty security expert Henrietta ‘Harry’ Martinez puts her life on the line when she goes undercover to expose an international criminal gang in this heartstopping thriller.In a game without rules, the winner takes all…Security expert Henrietta ‘Harry’ Martinez has arrived in beautiful San Sebastian, birthplace of her Spanish father. But she’s not here to explore her roots. She’s been hired by glamorous casino boss Riva Mills to expose a scamming crew, headed by ruthless conman Franco Chavez.When the crew's expert hacker is brutally murdered, Harry goes undercover as his replacement. As she infiltrates the dangerous criminal organization, she begins to understand that Chavez’s schemes reach far beyond the casino sting.Suddenly trapped in a deadly global underworld that encompasses international terrorism, organized crime and drug cartels, Harry learns that when you play this game, you play for your life…




Ava McCarthy

Hide Me







Dedication

To my children, Mark and Megan, who are the reason for everything


Contents

Cover

Title Page (#u6e182d76-3a04-5f4a-889f-81702a0b8020)

Dedication



Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Acknowledgements



About the Author

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

Harry pitched head-first over the cliff.

For an instant, she floated. Gunfire ripped the air behind her. Below her, hulking waves exploded, hungry, ready to swallow. Then the cliff rushed skywards and the ocean slammed into her face.

Don’t scream, don’t scream!

Water plunged into her sinuses, packed into her ears. She clamped her mouth shut, choking back the scrap of air she had left in her lungs. Then the current sucked her down into a deep, black tornado.

Her brain clamoured. Growling water thrummed in her ears, funnelling her down.

Don’t breathe, don’t breathe!

The rip tide snatched her. Hurled her in circles. It pitched her upside down and tore at her limbs till her lungs felt ready to burst.

She forced her eyes open. Saw an arrow of white tunnelling past her face. A silent jet-trail.

A bullet?

Jesus! He was going to kill her.

Harry’s diaphragm heaved, fighting for the chance to breathe. Panic screeched through her, and she thrashed her legs, bucked her body. Then the ocean whirled her into another violent twister.

Suffocation crushed her chest. She had to open her mouth, had to inhale!

Don’t breathe!

Her brain lurched, and she felt her eyes roll. Hunter’s face floated before her. Maybe she’d see his body. Was he down here with her somewhere? Had Franco had him killed too?

No more oxygen. Just vapours to fuel her brain.

The undertow grabbed her and whiplashed her into a spiral. She tumbled. Drifted.

Her mother’s face. Always so relieved by Harry’s absences. What would she think when Harry was dead?

Now you don’t have to talk to me, Mom.

Harry glided. Floated in freefall. She felt light. Euphoric, almost. And the reflex to breathe became slowly irresistible.

She couldn’t help it. She opened her mouth. Inhaled.

Cold seawater sluiced down deep into her lungs.


Chapter 1

Twelve days earlier

Cheating the casinos was a dangerous game. A game that could get you killed, if the stakes were high enough.

Harry eyed the roulette wheel, and edged alongside the other punters. Spying on the cheaters out in the open was risky, but she had to get close. She had to know how Franco Chavez was doing it.

‘Coloque sus apuestas.’ Place your bets.

The ivory ball swirled. The fat guy in front of Harry clacked his chips, like a set of castanets, and she stepped around his bulk to get a better view. A tangle of arms reached across the table, and she scanned the faces, wishing she knew what to look for.

She flexed her shoulders and felt them crunch. She’d been in the Gran Casino de San Sebastián for hours, patrolling the high-limit rooms till her feet ached. At this point, she wasn’t sure which bothered her more: the nagging sense that she was wasting her client’s money, or her growing unease that Chavez knew she was watching.

Harry frowned, and drifted away from the table. It didn’t help that no one knew what bloody Chavez looked like.

She slipped into the poker parlour. Roped off from the main floor, it was quieter here. No roulette-rattles, no social chit-chat. Just the tense snick-snick of cards against the baize. She wandered between the tables.

‘Watch their hands,’ her father had said. ‘That’s where the cheating begins.’

Harry started with the dealers. Given enough practice, a crooked dealer could stack the deck, cull cards, fake a riffle, deal seconds, peek at the top, and all with a deftness that was near-impossible to spot. Harry knew because she could do it herself.

‘A good false shuffle is like a monkey tapping away at a typewriter,’ her father used to say. ‘There’s a whole lot of activity, but no end result.’

Harry scoured the dealers’ hands for telltale signs, but saw nothing out of place.

She paused to watch the players at one of the busier tables. Four men and a blonde, none of them speaking. The only sound was the chinkle and clatter of chips. Harry sifted through the players’ moves, filtering their gestures, looking for patterns, the way her father had taught her. It didn’t take long. Her eyes came to rest on the single chip that was placed a shade too carefully on one of the players’ cards.

Harry shot him a look. Mid-sixties, thin and morose-looking. She glanced at his hole cards, lying face down on the table, one on top of the other. And at the single red chip that tagged their bottom corner.

The back of Harry’s neck tingled. A lot of players protected their hole cards with chips, but to a cheater the exact placement was key. It signalled the value of his hand to an accomplice at the table.

Collusion-cheating. Effective, and tough to prove.

Harry guessed the guy was using the simplest set of signals: top-left corner for a pair of aces; top-middle for kings; top-right corner for queens, and so on. His cohort was probably the blonde seated two places to his left. Between them, they could raise and re-raise the stakes if one of them had a good hand, forcing bigger bets out of the other players.

Harry stared at the man with the gloomy mortician’s face and felt her insides droop. Force-out teams could bleed you dry, but this guy wasn’t Chavez.

She wheeled away. What the hell was she thinking? Casinos didn’t care about poker cheats. Why should they? The money they hustled belonged to the other players, not the casino. This wasn’t the scale of cheating her client had in mind, and she knew it.

Harry headed back out towards the main floor, not caring to admit that the poker room had been some kind of refuge. She reminded herself that Chavez couldn’t know she was watching, then strode back to the roulette table she’d left a few minutes before. The fat guy was still there, clacking his chips.

‘No pongan más apuestas, por favor.’ No more bets.

The ball curled into the spin. The punters around the table grew quiet, though most gave in to the urge to fiddle with something. The fat guy picked at a scab on his chin. Beside him, a woman twirled a lock of hair so tight it had to hurt.

The ball tick-ticked into a slot.

‘Treinta y cinco, negro, impar.’

The dealer plonked his marker on the winning thirty-five and the table seemed to exhale. People shifted and resumed murmured conversations. The hair-twirler pouted. The fat guy shrugged, rubbed his eyes and went back to playing percussion with his chips.

‘Well, shit, would you look at that?’

Harry jerked her head up. A heavyset man had approached the table, jabbing a finger at the layout.

‘Number thirty-five! Yessir!’ He punched the air with his fist. ‘Five hundred euros straight-up on thirty-five! I believe that makes me a winner!’

His cheeks were flushed and hamster-plump. He whooped and swiped at the air some more, spilling his drink in the process. The crowd fussed over him, mostly speaking Spanish, which he didn’t seem to understand. Even the hair-twirler smiled and stroked his sleeve, probably hoping some of his luck would wipe off from it. Rubbing the holy relic, Harry’s father used to call it.

Harry’s eyes strayed to the dealer. He’d summoned the floorman, who seemed to be giving him a hard time. The lucky winner beamed at them and raised his glass.

‘Looks like I hit the jackpot this time!’

The floorman managed a stiff smile, then nodded and stepped away. The dealer turned to make the payout: €17,500.

Harry studied the winner as he stacked his chips. He was probably in his mid-fifties, his hair dusted with grey and thick as an old badger’s pelt. The suit looked expensive, and from his accent she’d pegged him as a native of some southern US state.

She stared at his chips. The payout was high, but it happened now and then. Usually, the punter would lose it back to the casino in a matter of days. She watched the American place another €500 bet, this time on number thirty. Half a dozen players followed his lead, the simpering hair-twirler among them. The ball swished around, then rattled into number fifteen.

A groan eddied along the table. The American beamed at his new friends.

‘Hey, you win some, you lose some.’

Harry noticed that no one was meeting his eye. He shrugged and gathered up his chips, pushing a generous tip towards the dealer. Then he strolled off in the direction of the other roulette tables.

Harry followed him across the Colosseum-sized room, and watched him lose another €500 on a table at the back. She shook her head. At this rate, the casino would get its money back inside the hour. She sighed, massaging the nape of her neck. Stupid to think he might have been Chavez. He was just another chip-happy tourist.

Her back suddenly prickled, like an onset of rash; a tip-off from her skin cells that somebody out there was watching her. She did a quick 360-degree scan of the room. The place was busy, the punters working hard to look as rich as their surroundings. Sequinned evening gowns skimmed the marble floors; dinner jackets looked classy against the claret-toned furnishings. But none of them were paying any attention to Harry.

Her gaze drifted upwards, past the crystal chandeliers to the private mezzanine floor. Her client, Riva Mills, was watching her from the balcony.

Harry tensed. The last thing she needed was someone checking up on her. She turned her gaze back to the table, aware that her raised hackles were due to a lack of progress on the job. Maybe tomorrow she’d terminate the arrangement. Riva seemed to think she needed her services, but Harry wasn’t so sure.

They’d met by appointment the previous day and talked while Riva patrolled the mezzanine floor.

‘Someone’s cheating my casinos, Ms Martinez,’ the woman had said. ‘And I want to know who it is.’

Harry had kept pace with her, studying her profile. She looked to be in her forties, maybe ten or twelve years older than Harry. Her features were fox-like, small and pointed, and her blonde hair was threaded with grey.

‘His name is Chavez,’ Riva continued. Chips snapped and clattered on the tables below the balcony. ‘Franco Chavez.’

‘Then you’ve already identified him?’

The woman threw her a stony glance. ‘I know his name. That doesn’t mean I know who he is.’

Riva swept ahead and Harry followed in silence, resisting a childish urge to pull a face behind her back. She’d done some digging before the meeting and had to admit, the woman’s history was a little intimidating. Raised by her mother in a trailer in Ohio, Riva had left school on her fourteenth birthday and hitch-hiked her way to Wisconsin. She’d lied about her age and got a job as a bunny girl, then lied again to become a casino dealer in Nevada. She’d bought her first casino at the age of twenty-one. Over the next twenty years, she’d built a powerful casino empire, expanding it across the States and into parts of Europe.

Harry eyed the uncompromising set of Riva’s back. She guessed you didn’t succeed in the corporate gaming world by being all soft and nurturing.

Riva came to a halt at the short side of the mezzanine and leaned her elbows on the railing.

‘This Franco Chavez clown is cheating his way across Europe, and my casinos are next.’ She glared at the floor below. ‘Maybe he’s already here.’

Harry moved beside her. Up close, she could see how age had loosened Riva’s skin, blurring a jawline that had probably once been heart-shaped. She tried to picture the underage bunny girl, but her brain shut the image down.

She cleared her throat. ‘Can I ask where you got your information?’

‘My Chief of Security, Victor Toledo. He’s got sources out in the field, and one of them tipped him off. It’s my guess this Chavez is using a computer. Some kind of gadget.’

‘Is that what your informant said?’

‘No, but that’s what all the new cheaters try these days. That’s why I want you.’ She turned a pair of flinty-grey eyes on Harry. ‘It’s what you do, isn’t it? Technology investigations?’

‘That’s putting it broadly, but yes, in a way.’

‘Like I said on the phone, you come highly recommended.’ Riva drilled her with an assessing look. ‘You’ve got the technology, plus you’re half-Spanish, so I guess you speak the lingo.’

‘A quarter Spanish, actually.’

Harry’s father had been born here in San Sebastián. She blamed him for her sooty eyes and dark tangle of curls. The rest of her was mostly Irish. Riva went on as though Harry hadn’t spoken.

‘And if what I’ve heard is true, you’re no stranger to casinos, either.’

Something else Harry could blame her father for. She’d been apprenticed to his gambling career since she was six years old, and there wasn’t much she didn’t know about casinos. She shrugged in acknowledgement, a sense of misgiving chafing at her insides.

‘What about your own surveillance team?’ she said. ‘Surely the cameras can catch Chavez?’

Riva clicked her tongue and whirled away, heels snip-snapping against the floor. If shoes could be bad-tempered, then hers were in quite a snit. Harry trotted to keep up.

Riva spoke over her shoulder. ‘Cameras only record the action. Someone on the floor needs to spot the move first before knowing what tape to re-wind. Those bozos in the eye don’t turn up much on their own.’

‘I thought they were supposed to be experts.’

Riva snorted. ‘In the old days, maybe. Vegas used to hire ex-cheaters to do their spying. They knew stuff, those old guys. But nowadays, it’s greenhorns fresh out of school with a six-week training course under their belt. They couldn’t spot a slick move if the cheater was sitting in their lap.’

‘But their equipment’s pretty sophisticated, isn’t it?’

‘Yep. That’s half the problem. Shuffle machines, smart card shoes, self-activating cameras. Technology has dulled their edge. I don’t need goddamn automated robots, I need proactive surveillance.’ Riva wheeled around to face Harry. ‘What’s the matter, are you afraid?’

Harry stopped in her tracks. ‘Afraid of what?’

‘The cheaters. You should be. They can be dangerous.’

Harry blinked, and Riva waved a dismissive hand.

‘Oh, not the small-time hustlers, they’re usually harmless. I’m talking about organized crews. Colluding professionals. You think you’re watching them, but half the time they’re watching you.’ She must have read the unease in Harry’s face, for she went on: ‘Just stay in the casino. Nothing can happen in front of the cameras.’

A small shiver scampered down Harry’s spine. Riva glanced at her watch and frowned.

‘Look, do you want the damn job or don’t you?’

Harry hesitated. Good question. She pondered it for a moment, then came to a decision.

‘Yes, I want the damn job.’

After that, they’d retired to Riva’s office to agree terms, and Harry had started billing hours to her new client the following day.

‘No más apuestas.’ No more bets.

Harry whipped her gaze back to the table. The American had gone, his place taken by a blond guy with an easy smile. She watched him flirt with a redhead beside him, then noticed that the fat punter had joined them from the other game. He was standing next to her, still playing castanets with his chips. Harry glanced up at the balcony. Riva had disappeared.

Harry puffed out a breath. She shouldn’t have taken the job, but she’d had her reasons, none of which she cared to examine now. She glanced at the players. Privately, she wasn’t convinced Chavez would use an electronic device. Sure, people tried them: laser scanners predicting where the ball would land; radio transmitters designed to control the spins. But that didn’t mean any of them worked. And what the hell did Riva expect her to do? Scan the room for electronic equipment? Triangulate in on radio emissions? With everyone carrying mobile phones, there wasn’t a lot of point.

‘Treinta y cuatro, rojo, par.’

The dealer placed his marker on number thirty-four. The fat guy rubbed his eyes, then went back to clacking his chips.

Harry’s brain lurched.

The fat guy rubbed his eyes.

Her mind groped with the fuzzy déjà vu, but couldn’t slot it into place.

‘Well, hey! Looky-here!’

Harry stared. The American was back.

‘A lucky five hundred on number thirty-four.’ He laughed and toasted the other players with his drink, setting his ice tinkling. ‘I just keep on reeling ’em in!’

Harry gaped for a moment, then snapped her gaze back to the fat guy. He’d rubbed his eyes before the last win, too, but so what? Maybe he had an allergy. She studied his pasty profile and suddenly, his hands grew still. He turned his head a fraction towards her. If he’d been a dog, he would’ve pricked his ears.

He knew she was watching him.

A shiver twitched between her shoulder blades. She slid a glance at the dealer. He’d called in the floorman who supervised his section of the room. They consulted together, but not for long. Harry watched the American collect his winnings. He’d made €35,000 in less than half an hour.

Movement snagged her gaze at the edges. The fat guy was smoothing a hand over his hair, as though a sudden wind had tossed it. Then he pocketed his chips and lumbered away from the table. Almost in the same instant, the American strolled off and headed for the cage to cash out. To anyone else, their behaviour was random. But because she’d been watching, to Harry it was an orchestrated move.

Collusion.

Her heart rate picked up. The American had joined a long queue at the cage. He wasn’t going anywhere, not for a while. The fat guy, on the other hand, was heading out of the room.

Harry threaded through the crowd, tailing him into the foyer. She dropped back behind an oversized pillar, watching him blunder through knots of cocktail drinkers as he made his way out the door.

She chewed her lip, debating the wisdom of her next move. Then she eased out from behind the safety of her pillar and followed him into the dark streets of San Sebastián.


Chapter 2

‘You will come with me, señor.’

Marty froze. The hand on his shoulder was heavier than a sandbag. He swallowed. Made himself smile. Then he looked up at the plain-clothes security agent.

‘Be with you in a sec, pal.’ He gestured at the roulette table. ‘I’ve a bet riding here.’

Fingers crushed the tendons in his shoulder. ‘You just lost, señor.’

Sweat trickled down Marty’s back. The ball was still spinning. He tried to shrug, but the hand was cramping his style.

‘Hey, what the hell,’ he said. ‘Wheel’s been against me all night, anyway.’

He winked at the redhead beside him and got to his feet, still craning his neck to look the agent in the face. The guy must’ve been six-seven, six-eight at least. Marty could see his own blond hair and stupid grin reflected in the agent’s mirrored shades. What kind of jackass wore those things inside? Maybe he should mention it. You’re a jackass, you know that? The agent grabbed his arm and Marty kept his mouth shut.

The guy’s grip was like a tourniquet. He hustled Marty through a herd of Japanese tourists, then propelled him across the room. Balls plink-plinked, playing hopscotch on their wheels. The agent shoved him through an unmarked door and into a deserted hallway, and when he locked the door behind them, the skin on Marty’s arms puckered. He’d been back-roomed before, but never in one of Riva’s casinos.

He flashed on the image of her leaning against the balcony. The sight of her had jolted him, he didn’t mind admitting it. She looked good. The cheekbones were still high, the body still well put together. It was the first time he’d seen her in nearly twenty years.

The agent’s fingers dug hard into his biceps, jerking him towards a door near the end of the passageway. Marty read the nameplate:

V. Toledo, Director de Seguridad.

His gut tightened. Jesus, not that prick again.

The agent opened the door and shoved him into the middle of the room. Marty squinted against the harsh fluorescent light. The place was whiter than a dentist’s surgery, with the dead-air quality of soundproofed walls.

‘Sit down.’

Marty’s stomach relaxed a little. The bald guy behind the desk wasn’t Victor Toledo.

Marty shoved his hands in his pockets and stayed standing. Keep your mouth shut. That was the rule of survival in situations like these. On the other hand, an innocent person might have said something by now. He cleared his throat.

‘Look, what the hell’s going on here?’

The bald guy glared. His features were large and blunt, as though thickened by a punch in the mouth. Marty jutted out his chin.

‘I’m a paying customer. That goon of yours—’

The agent’s boot sideswiped the back of Marty’s knees. He felt the crack, the dead legs, then crumpled into the chair behind him. For a moment, he lay sprawled, his chest thumping. Then he eased himself upright, not looking at the agent, and straightened his jacket and tie. The bald guy glanced down at a file on his desk.

‘Name?’

‘Roselli. Who the hell’re you?’

‘Age?’

‘I’m not talking till I see some identification. How do I know you’re not just a coupla hoods?’

The bald guy’s head jerked up. Marty’s armpits prickled with sweat. Then the guy pushed a casino ID across the desk. Alberto Delgado, Seguridad de Gran Casino.

Marty shoved it back. ‘That’s not what it says on the door.’

‘You will answer my questions, Señor Roselli.’ His Spanish accent was thick, making much of the rolling ‘r’ in Marty’s name. ‘Your age?’

‘Thirty-eight. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Address?’

‘Hotel Plaza.’

That wasn’t strictly true. He was renting a room in a cramped house on the other side of the river. It had been recommended to him by the barman in the Hotel Plaza, whose sister-in-law ran the place. The room she’d given him was old and musty, and he shared a bath with six other tenants. It was cheap, but already he was behind on the rent.

‘Empty your pockets.’

‘What?’

‘Everything on the desk. Now.’

Marty sensed the agent’s bulk shifting behind him. He took the hint and fumbled in his pockets, tossing items onto the table: a scuffed wallet with forty euros in cash; a fake driver’s licence; six red casino chips, worth five euros each; and a stick of gum with pocket-fluff on the wrapper.

Delgado’s lip curled. ‘This is all you have? No credit cards? No traveller’s cheques?’ He leaned forward. ‘No high-stakes chips?’

Marty shifted in his seat. As his sum of worldly goods, the pile didn’t amount to much, but if he was careful it could last out the week. Then again, careful wasn’t his style. He shrugged.

‘I don’t carry all that stuff around. Everything else is back at the Plaza.’

The plain-clothes agent snorted. Marty tugged at his threadbare cuffs, surprised to find his fingers so steady. Suddenly, a pair of hands thrust his head forward and the desk slammed up into his face.

Pain crunched through Marty’s nose. He tried to yell, but his tongue felt thick. The hands pinned him down, crushing his mouth and eyes. Then they wrenched his head back and Delgado’s face filled his vision.

‘Maybe you should look again,’ Delgado said.

Marty coughed, aware of something warm trickling from his nose. He slipped a trembling hand into his pocket, extracting the black chip he’d stolen earlier. It was worth five hundred euros.

Delgado snatched it, nodding towards the agent. ‘Luis here saw you lift it from a customer’s rack.’ He sneered, then stowed the chip in his pocket. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see the owner gets it back.’

Luis sniggered, then released his grip. Marty’s skin felt clammy. He touched his nose and winced. Shit. All this for a lousy five hundred euros. He closed his eyes for a moment. Lousy or not, it would have paid the rent he owed and set him up for another few weeks.

He opened his eyes, backhanding the blood from his lip. Delgado picked up the red chips and rattled them idly through his fingers. Then he slipped them into his pocket. Marty’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. He watched Delgado strip the cash from his wallet and pocket that too.

‘Hey!’ Marty half-stood from the chair. ‘Those’re mine!’

Delgado raised his eyebrows. ‘You are a thief. We just proved it. I am confiscating stolen goods.’

He flipped the battered wallet onto the desk. Marty felt his fists curl.

‘You can’t prove I stole anything. It’s just your word against mine.’

‘You think so? Maybe we caught you on camera.’

‘Bullshit.’

Marty traded glares with Delgado. He guessed they ran quite a sideline, shaking down two-bit grifters. But sometimes it paid to call a bluff. The Gran Casino had hundreds of cameras, but even so, not every angle was covered. Sometimes, surveillance had to spot a move first before knowing to pan after it with the lens.

The reality was, on a floor this crowded, Marty might just have got away with it.

Delgado’s lip curled into another sneer. ‘You really think you can fool the cameras?’

‘Hey, I’m just saying, maybe your pal Luis here made a mistake.’

‘You would like to see yourself in action?’ Delgado gave a humourless laugh, then clicked his fingers at Luis. ‘¿Qué mesa?’

‘Mesa cinco.’ Table five.

Delgado snatched up the phone and barked orders to someone on the other end. Marty’s Spanish wasn’t up to much, but he was hoping this was the first time they’d bothered to check surveillance.

Delgado ended the call. Then he pointed a remote control at a TV screen on the wall, and the casino floor snapped into view. He sat back, swivelling in his chair.

‘Now we will see how a lowlife operates.’

Marty slid a finger under his collar, his gaze fixed to the screen. Without sound, the roulette floor looked static and dull; just a bunch of well-dressed dummies tossing chips onto the baize. And there he was, hovering near table five.

His blond hair looked tousled, his skin nut-brown from the sun. Marty watched himself flirt with the curvy redhead, re-living the buzz as she responded to his cheesy lines.

Then he saw the mark: short, thickset; mouth as wide as a toad’s. Luis pointed at the screen.

‘Esta es.’ That’s him.

They watched as the toady guy shoved the redhead aside, thrusting a chip down the front of her dress to keep her quiet. Even seeing it for the second time, Marty felt his temper climb. He knew what had happened next, though you couldn’t tell from the screen. He’d opened his mouth to intervene, but the girl had stopped him with a pleading look. Marty had got the message. They were some kind of couple. Step in, and maybe she’d pay for it later. So he’d bitten back his temper and taken revenge the only way he knew how.

Marty peered at himself on the screen. In a minute, he’d move closer to the toady guy, waiting for him to lean across the layout, leaving his rack of chips exposed. Easy pickings for a chip-thief with deft hands. A party of Japanese tourists drifted into view, heading towards the table. Marty spotted Luis, tree-trunk solid, watching from the other side.

Something tapped at Marty’s brain. His eyes shot back to the tourists, and he recalled how they’d blocked his exit from the table. He stared as they flocked across the floor. Soon, he’d be completely hemmed in. With that kind of coverage, the camera was going to miss his sleight of hand.

He leaned back and let out a long breath. Then his pulse jolted as he realized something else.

This was Franco’s table.

Shit.

Marty’s gut clenched. In another thirty seconds, they’d catch Franco’s move. Marty scanned the players, spotting Fat-Boy in position. There was Cowboy, placing his €500 bet.

Marty dragged a hand over his mouth. He’d been following that sonofabitch Franco for weeks and had nicknames for all his crew. Then he noticed again the pretty, dark-haired girl standing on the sidelines. He’d seen her clock Fat-Boy’s eye-rub and his swift exit signal, but she didn’t seem part of their play. Surveillance, maybe? But who’d be dumb enough to tangle with Franco?

He slid a glance at Delgado. The asshole had him cornered, but not in the way that he thought. If Marty let the tape run, he’d probably be in the clear. On the other hand, they’d hit on Franco.

He watched the roulette wheel and his breathing speeded up. Where there was gambling, there was cheating. And where there was cheating, there was money up for grabs. Marty had been down on his luck for ten years, and for a while now he’d figured that coat-tailing on Franco was his only way out.

He held up his hands. ‘Okay, forget it, you’re right.’

Delgado narrowed his eyes. Marty licked his lips and went on:

‘I stole his stupid chip. You can stop the damn tape.’

Delgado’s face turned crimson. Slowly, he got to his feet and made his way round the desk, his gaze pinned on Marty.

‘You think you can make fools of us? Waste our time?’ He snapped his fingers at Luis. ‘Maybe you should see what happens to thieves in this casino.’

Luis snatched Marty’s arms and wrenched them behind his back. Marty’s shoulder muscles screamed. Delgado strode towards him, rolling up his shirtsleeves, and Marty tensed his gut.

Somewhere on the screen, that bastard Franco was making his move and Marty was going to pay for protecting him. Sweat slid down his face.

But hey, what the hell?

After all, once upon a time they’d been friends.


Chapter 3

Harry nudged through the crowds, following the fat guy along the cobbled streets of the Old Quarter.

Glasses clinked from the tourist-filled bars, and the air was thick with the salty scent of sausage. Harry fixed her gaze on the figure ahead. He must have been a hundred pounds overweight, but it didn’t seem to slow him down.

She picked up the pace, trying to fix her bearings. Navigational challenges were never her strong point, and she hadn’t been here long enough to tag many landmarks. She scanned the medieval-looking buildings. There were plenty of signs, but most of them in Basque, with its unintelligible x’s and k’s.

Up ahead, the fat guy moved like a barge, parting the crowds in a backwash behind him. He made a sharp right, and Harry trotted after him into another lantern-lit alleyway.

She recalled how he’d smoothed a hand over his hair at the casino. If her guess was correct, it was some kind of signal, a cue for his accomplices to cut and run. Right now, he was probably headed for an emergency location, or maybe back to wherever he was staying.

Just stay in the casino. Nothing can happen in front of the cameras.

She flicked a quick glance over her shoulder. All she planned to do was pinpoint an address. At least then she’d have something to offer Riva before terminating their arrangement.

Harry winced. Backsliding out of a job made her insides squirm, but the truth was, Riva didn’t need her. Harry’s expertise was in computer security, investigating forensics and security breaches for criminal and civil litigation. At least, that was the whitewashed version. Actually, she’d been a hacker since the age of nine and that was still what she did best. But whatever her skills, she certainly wasn’t equipped to crack open a ring of casino cheaters.

She huffed out a breath, picking her way over the cobbles. The maze of laneways reminded her of Temple Bar, Dublin’s alleged Bohemian Quarter, though the cobbles here were easier on her feet. The thought of her native Dublin triggered another squirm. Ever since her return from Cape Town a few months before, she’d had trouble settling back into her hometown. All her ties were there: her parents, her sister, her friends, her business. And Hunter, of course. The detective who’d recently stirred her body chemistry, brewing up something she didn’t quite recognize. But still, Dublin left her feeling displaced. Like a jigsaw piece tidied into the wrong box.

The truth had crystallized during a rare phone call with her mother.

‘A vagrant, just like your father,’ her mother had said. ‘You’ve moved three times in the last twelve months. Different homes, different countries, different jobs. Are you the same with men? Hopping from one bed to the other?’

Harry’s cheeks stung at the memory. Jesus, weren’t mothers supposed to be on your side? But at least the woman’s hostility had made her face facts. Harry’s sense of dislocation wasn’t new. Nothing like having a frosty mother all your life for making you an outsider in your own home.

Glass shattered on the cobbles behind her. Harry squeezed through a scrum of tourists, still keeping tabs on the fat guy. Her feet ached, and it occurred to her she was wasting her time. Maybe he was just a regular punter who had nothing to do with Franco Chavez.

She squinted through the alleyway. The fat guy shot a glance over his shoulder. Then he dipped his head, switched gears and put more distance between them. Harry frowned. Had he spotted her?

She hung back, her eyes roaming the busy tangle of streets. Tiers of wrought-iron balconies loomed above her, and every alley seemed to converge on a Gothic church spire. Her back tingled. She was worryingly far from her navigational comfort zone.

Something tugged at her gut, willing her to turn back. Was there really any point in following a guy who knew she was there? She slowed her pace, giving in to the notion. Then suddenly the fat guy stopped and spun around.

Harry jerked to a halt. Goosebumps erupted along her arms. He was staring right at her. His gaze drifted over her shoulder, his eyes widening. Then he whirled away and barrelled down the laneway.

Harry whipped her head around. What had he seen? She scoured the narrow backstreet, searching for false notes. She peered at the tourists, at the local Basque vendors, but nothing seemed out of place.

Was someone else following him?

She snapped her eyes back. He’d almost disappeared, and she took off after him at a jog, not sure of her intentions. She followed him to the end of the laneway and found herself on the edge of a large, open square. Sandstone buildings enclosed it on all sides, with rows of balconies rising up like seats in an amphitheatre. At ground level, the square was bordered by a colonnade of shadowy archways.

Harry felt her limbs relax. Finally, a place she recognized: the city’s old bullring, Plaza de la Constitución.

She slowed to a walk, scanning the area. It was less crowded in here, and the place scattered echoes like an empty church. You could still see the numbers over the shuttered windows from a time when the balconies were rented out as seats.

Harry spotted the fat guy scurrying for cover under the walkway of arched porticos. She hesitated. The porches looked gloomy, in spite of the lanterns dotting the colonnades. Better to stick to the safety of open country. Besides, he had to emerge sooner or later to exit back onto the streets.

She struck out across the plaza in line with the archways, trailing his ample silhouette as he blundered in and out of the shadows. Voices echoed in the hollow acoustics, and for an instant, Harry heard the roar of crowds lusting for blood at the bullfights. An image thrust itself into her head: a quivering animal, slashed and butchered, who could do nothing but stand and bleed. She shuddered, shaking the memory off. Her father had taken her to a bullfight as a child. It was the first time she’d seen violent death.

She blinked and focused back on the porticos, waiting for the fat guy to reappear. She slowed to a halt. Flicked her gaze across the arches.

There was no sign of him.

Shit. Had he doubled back? She whirled around, scouring the square. Nothing.

Dammit.

Harry peered at the gloomy archways. The notion of going in there made her spine hum. She dug her nails into her palms, then edged across the plaza and stepped under the portico, retracing the fat guy’s steps. By now, the square was almost empty. Her shoes slapped chapel-like echoes off the walls, and a chill skittered through her. Then something behind her made a bubbling sound, and she turned.

The fat guy was sitting on the ground, leaning against one of the columns. He was staring up at her, his eyes wide. He looked as though he was about to accuse her of something. Then she saw the bloody gash that had ripped his throat open, and she screamed.


Chapter 4

‘You’re a long way from home, Miss Martinez.’

Harry eyed the detective perched against the desk in front of her. He was leafing through her passport, his nostrils flared as though he’d found a dead bug between the pages.

‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I’m working for a client.’

She shifted in her chair. Riva was certainly one of the reasons she was here, anyway. The detective regarded her down the length of his nose. It was slightly hooked and, with his close-set eyes, it gave him the look of an eagle.

His name was Vasco. He was an inspector with the Ertzaintza, the police force of the Basque country, and so far he was the fourth guy to interview her about the events of last night.

He turned his attention to a stapled report, probably her signed statement. Fatigue shuddered through her. The police had grilled her till three in the morning, and had started again soon after breakfast. By now, it was early evening and what little sleep she’d got had been slashed by images of blood-soaked, slaughtered bulls.

‘You have been in San Sebastián before.’

Harry frowned. He made it sound like an accusation. And besides, how did he know?

‘That was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘My father brought me on visits as a child. He was born here.’

‘You have family in the city?’

She brushed at an imaginary speck of dust on her skirt. ‘I’m not sure.’

Her memories of those childhood trips were flimsy as cobwebs. Her older sister, Amaranta, had been there with her, but for reasons Harry had never understood, their mother had refused to come. Harry fiddled with the strap of her bag. Her personal link with San Sebastián was another reason she’d taken the job, but so far, she’d been too busy for cosy family reunions.

Her stomach dipped with an odd emptiness. The alienation she’d felt in Dublin had left a void like a doughnut hole inside her. She’d found herself re-examining her past, as if that would somehow plug the cavity: her nomadic Dublin childhood, where her father’s gambling had kept their finances on a pendulum swing; the upheavals from house to house, in line with his cashflow; the upmarket mansions, the low-rent bedsits, the ever-changing schools. She realized she had few treasured memories of ‘home’, the kind that others called nostalgia and that tied your heart to a place.

Harry swallowed against a pesky fullness in her throat. The job in San Sebastián had come at the right moment. She’d never fully explored the Spanish side of her identity, and it was probably time that she did.

Vasco tossed her passport into her lap, then strutted back around the desk. She took in his tall, elegant frame; the expensive suit and the slicked-back hair. The first ertzaina she’d talked to had been a uniformed guard, dishevelled from overwork. This guy looked more like a politician than a cop.

He sat down behind the desk, flipping up his coat-tails like a concert pianist taking position. ‘Tell me again why you followed him.’

His English was precise, his accent almost Etonian. The other cops had been relieved to revert to Spanish with Harry, but not Vasco. She pegged it as vanity, but to be fair, his fluency was impressive. Harry sighed.

‘I’ve already explained, I saw him—’

‘I know what you saw. Please answer my question. Why did you follow him? Why not follow the man you say collected the winnings?’

Harry pictured the American with his thatch of greying hair, queuing up at the cage. ‘He’d won a large amount of money. Assuming the casino was following regulations, he’d need to fill out forms with proven ID before cashing in that amount.’

‘So?’

Harry shrugged. ‘So I figured the casino already had a line on him. The other guy was the unknown quantity.’ For an instant, her breeziness deserted her and she was back in the old bullring: wide, staring eyes; butchered gullet. She swallowed. ‘Do you know who he was?’

Vasco stared at her, hawk-like, and didn’t answer. Then he said, ‘What is your connection with Riva Mills?’

‘I told you, she’s my client.’

‘And that’s all?’

Harry frowned. ‘What else would there be?’

‘So she contacts you out of the blue. An American businesswoman based in San Sebastián decides to hire a technology expert from Dublin.’ He leaned forward. ‘Who just happens to be you.’

‘It didn’t happen out of the blue. I was recommended to her by a mutual friend.’

‘What friend?’

‘Her name’s Roslyn Bloomberg.’ Harry watched him write it down. ‘She’s a diamantaire based in New York. My father’s known her for years, and it turns out Riva’s a client of hers.’

Harry had been surprised when she’d heard that Ros had recommended her. They’d parted on bad terms in Cape Town a few months before. For reasons too complex to sort through at the time, Ros had believed that Harry was a thief. Other people’s opinions didn’t usually count with Harry, but Ros had come close to being a substitute mother for a while. It hurt to be rejected by two mothers in a row, whatever way you looked at it.

Vasco slapped an eight-by-ten photograph on the desk. ‘Take a good look. He was a countryman of yours.’

Harry’s skin turned cold. The fat guy’s face shone back at her like a moon. His eyes were pale, his skin doughy and bloated. She couldn’t see his throat, but guessed that when he posed for the shot, he was already dead. Her insides shrivelled.

Vasco tapped the photo with a pen. ‘His name was Stephen McArdle. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘We’ve built quite a profile on him. Thirty-four years old, born in Belfast. Started off doing work for IRA splinter groups, then later for Colombian revolutionaries, the PLO, even our own Basque separatists.’

Harry frowned, picturing the clumsy figure who’d barged ahead of her through the backstreets. ‘He was a terrorist?’

‘He was a hacker, Miss Martinez.’ Vasco’s gaze drilled into hers. ‘Just like you.’

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. She was about to reply when the door swung open. A short, stocky man shambled into the room and dropped a folder onto the desk. He stared at Harry. His unshaven face drooped with middle age, and his head looked too large for his body, though maybe that was down to his mess of dark, woolly curls. He took a seat by the wall, his eyes never leaving her face. Vasco went on, ignoring the interruption.

‘McArdle hired himself out to anyone who paid him well enough.’

Harry hesitated. The newcomer’s stare was unnerving. She cleared her throat.

‘Paid him well enough to do what?’

‘Help them fund their operations.’

‘By hacking?’

Vasco shrugged. ‘Terrorists raise funding in all sorts of ways. Drugs, smuggling, kidnapping, prostitution. Now they add cybercrime to the list.’

He picked up the folder and browsed through it. It looked like another set of photographs. He slotted one out for a closer look, and kept talking.

‘McArdle had quite the hacker’s pedigree. Credit-card company penetration, ATM heists, cyber protection rackets.’ He peered at her over the glossy eight-by-ten, his look predatory. ‘But then, you know more about this kind of thing than me.’

Harry narrowed her eyes. ‘Look, I don’t appreciate—’

Vasco smacked the photo onto the desk. ‘This man, who is he?’

Harry blinked. She recognized the florid face of the American from the casino.

‘He’s the one who collected the winnings. I don’t know his name.’

‘And this one?’

He tossed down another photo, a headshot of a woman. She looked thirty-something, a brunette with good bones, though the layers of make-up masked her features like a veil. Harry shook her head.

‘I’ve never seen her before.’

‘And him?’

Another headshot: a man in his late forties, pale crew cut, eyebrows bleached by the sun. His complexion looked mud-stained with freckles.

Harry shook her head again. ‘No. Is that Franco Chavez?’

Vasco broke eye contact. Over by the wall, his shaggy-haired colleague stirred in his chair. Eventually, Vasco said,

‘We don’t have an ID on Franco Chavez.’

‘I see.’ Harry looked from one to the other, trying to read their discomfort. ‘But these others, they’re all part of the casino-cheating crew?’

‘We believe so.’

‘Why do they need a hacker? Are they really using computers to cheat?’

‘Maybe.’ Vasco tilted his head, as though assessing her. ‘Or maybe they need a hacker for something else.’

Harry squinted. What was he getting at? He leaned forward, his eyes probing hers.

‘We know a lot about you, Miss Martinez.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Such as?’

‘We’ve been in touch with your police force in Dublin. They were very helpful.’ Vasco peered at her like a raptor bird, and Harry tried not to squirm. ‘You started young. I understand you hacked into the Stock Exchange when you were just thirteen.’

Harry’s eyes widened. How the hell did he know about that? No charges were ever filed. A childish misdemeanour, nothing more. Vasco was still talking.

‘Then more recently, there was the question of several million euros that went missing in the Bahamas. And later, some diamonds in Cape Town. Also missing.’

Harry’s brain raced. She’d sailed close to the winds of larceny more than once, but she’d had her reasons, all of them good ones. Trouble was, she couldn’t prove it. Then again, neither could they. She clenched her fists.

‘I’ve never been arrested for anything.’

‘Your father has. He served six years in prison for insider trading, didn’t he?’

Harry gaped. What was he doing, trying to build some kind of case against her? And for what?

‘Geldi!’

Harry snapped her gaze to the stranger by the wall. He’d shot to his feet, his expression stony, and was firing out what sounded like orders in rapid Basque. Vasco made a chopping motion with his hand, cutting him off. Then he turned back to Harry.

‘Have you talked to Riva Mills since McArdle was killed?’

Harry glared at him. ‘No, I haven’t had the chance.’

‘Well, don’t.’

‘What?’

He advanced around the desk towards her. Her heartbeat tripped. Behind him, his colleague was shaking his head.

‘You have an unusual mixture of skills, Miss Martinez.’ Vasco’s eyes bored into hers. ‘Think about it. You’re a professional hacker who knows her way around a casino. You’re part-Irish, part-Spanish. You have a reputation for bluffing and telling lies, not to mention out-manoeuvring the police. You even have a jailbird for a father. This really is a rare opportunity.’

Harry threw him a cagey look and slowly shook her head. Not in denial of his allegations, since most of them were true, but in an effort to ward off what she knew was coming next.

‘I have a proposition for you.’ Vasco loomed over her like an elegant bird of prey. ‘I want you to go undercover, Miss Martinez. I want you to take McArdle’s place.’


Chapter 5

‘That’s crazy.’ Harry stared at Vasco. ‘I don’t know anything about going undercover.’

But even as she said it, she wondered if it was true. If she was honest, a part of her had always been drawn to the notion of becoming someone else. Her whole childhood, after all, had been a kind of double life.

Vasco’s phone rang. He held up a hand, as though halting a line of traffic, then moved behind the desk to take the call. Harry sat back to wait, flicking a glance at his colleague, who’d resumed his seat by the wall. He was scowling across at her, his tangled eyebrows jutting out like twin wire brushes. She shifted her gaze. Vasco was treating the guy as though he was invisible, but there was something about him that Harry found impossible to ignore.

She picked at a fingernail and thought about double lives, flashing on an image of her childhood self: wild hair, fists clenched as if braced for unexpected combat. Outwardly, she’d been the girl she called Harry the Drudge, whose mother made her sit alone in her room after school so they wouldn’t have to talk. The rest of the time, Harry had lived as Pirata, an insomniac who sat at her computer in the dark and prowled the electronic underground. For hours, she’d dialled out over slow modems, sharing ideas and downloading hacker tools. As Pirata, she’d been all-powerful, well respected by her crackerjack comrades. As Harry, she’d led a far more hemmed-in existence.

Vasco wrapped up the call, then looked at his watch, a calculated reminder that he was a busy man. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

‘This is an important case, Miss Martinez. We’ve been watching these people for months. I intend to find out what they’re up to, and you can help.’

‘You’ve got the wrong person.’

‘It’s a global investigation.’ He straightened his shoulders. If he’d been a bird, his chest would have swelled. ‘We’re talking about intergovernmental cooperation, very high profile. The United States is involved, Hong Kong, most of Europe, even your own Irish authorities.’

Harry squinted at him. ‘For a crew of casino cheaters?’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Cheating the casinos is just a sideline. These people are involved in something else, something bigger. And I want to know what it is.’

‘I’m not trained for this kind of thing. It won’t work.’

Vasco ignored her and sorted through the photographs on the desk. ‘We know they have links with other criminal organizations. That’s how they came to our attention in the first place.’ He found McArdle’s headshot and tapped it with a manicured forefinger. ‘What I want to know is, why did they hire a hacker?’

Harry’s gaze slid to the lifeless eyes in the photograph. Her insides flickered, an odd mixture of fear and curiosity. But she bit down on both. This had nothing to do with her.

Vasco was still talking.

‘It will be a short, sharp infiltration. Nothing protracted or drawn out. We set things up so that you’re taken on as McArdle’s replacement. You talk to them, find out who their target is, what they want you to do and why. Then you can disappear. An in-out job. And of course, you’ll be well paid.’

Harry lifted her chin. ‘I’m sorry, but this is not the kind of thing that I do.’

Vasco paused. ‘Perhaps you should reconsider. You seem to forget the awkwardness of your position.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You were following McArdle, right up to the moment he died. The casino cameras can place you tailing him out of the building. By your own admission, you pursued him through the streets, all the way to the Plaza. Where he was ambushed and murdered.’

For an instant, Harry’s brain shorted out, a synapse misfiring between hearing words and understanding what they meant. She shook her head.

‘You know why I was following him. You can’t believe I was involved in his death.’

‘Oh, I don’t. But naturally, my investigation must be seen to be thorough. My men will need to dig more into your background, check out your family, your father’s history, involve the relevant Irish authorities. A long, messy process. And from what I’ve heard, your relations with the Irish police are already quite fragile.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I could make life very difficult for you, Miss Martinez.’

Harry felt her jaw tighten. ‘If you think—’

‘On the other hand,’ he went on, ‘if you cooperate with my request, it might go a long way to redeeming your reputation.’

Harry gaped, her brain still playing catch-up.

Vasco fixed her with unblinking, lidless-looking eyes. ‘This case is important to me and, one way or another, I intend to get a result. How cleanly you come out of it is up to you.’

He shot a wrist from his cuff; another showy time-check.

‘I have a meeting.’ He got to his feet, gesturing at his colleague by the wall. ‘This is Detective Zubiri, from our Undercover unit. Talk to him, then give me your answer.’

He snatched a briefcase off the desk and marched out of the room. Harry glared after him, blood seething through her veins. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in a murder case, but Vasco had her in a chokehold. She felt her teeth grind. Suspect or undercover decoy: what kind of half-assed choice was that?

She flopped back in her seat, exhaling a long breath. The silence in Vasco’s wake was suspiciously restful, like the calm of a receding rogue wave. She cast a doubtful look at the detective by the wall. His shoulders were stooped, his clothes wrinkled. For the moment, he seemed disinclined to take up where his boss had left off.

Harry glanced around Vasco’s office, absently taking in the ordered shelves and the clutter-free desk. She recalled the Dublin base where Hunter worked: the unwashed mugs, the overloaded in-trays, the Post-its curling up like tongues from the files. She pictured his face, lean and tired, his sandy hair short as a schoolboy’s, and waited for the pang of homesickness to hit her.

It didn’t.

‘You can go.’

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. Zubiri was ambling towards the desk, his untidy hair coiling out of his head like springs. He gathered up the photos.

‘This is no job for someone like you.’ His voice was low, his Spanish accent distorted by transatlantic tones that probably came from watching American TV.

Harry glanced at the door. Zubiri followed her gaze and shrugged.

‘Why should you get involved? Just so he can look good to the Chief?’ He blew out air with a pff through his lips.

Harry picked at her nail, but made no move to go. She watched him slot the photos back into the folder, McArdle’s bloated face now hidden from view. She leaned forward in her chair.

‘Who are these people? Why are you so interested in them?’

Zubiri shook his woolly head. ‘It’s none of your concern.’

‘Inspector Vasco mentioned criminal organizations. What kind of crimes are we talking about here?’

‘Every kind. The worst kind. Drugs, human trafficking, extortion, armed robberies, fraud . . .’ He slapped the folder onto the desk. ‘These people crop up in a lot of unconnected cases.’

‘And they operate out of San Sebastián?’

Zubiri shrugged. ‘Spain has always been important to criminals.’

‘For drug trafficking?’

‘For everything. Spain is a gateway to Europe, especially for the Moroccans and the Colombians. And Latin Americans can exploit the shared language and culture. Even the Italian clans look on it as a home from home.’

‘I thought all the crime bosses holed up in the south. In the Costa del Sol. Not here in the north.’

Zubiri fixed a pair of black eyes on hers, and Harry shifted in her seat. She was stalling and she knew it, caught between a survival instinct to back away and a more ignoble curiosity. Eventually, he answered her.

‘The northwest has a long history of trafficking with the Colombians. But security on the Galician coast has tightened up. Now the criminals turn to the ports of Euskadi. The Basque country. My country.’

Harry blinked. The intensity of his stare was unnerving. She gestured at the folder on the desk.

‘So where do the cheaters fit in?’

‘Who knows? Dealers, mules, middlemen, hitmen . . .’

Hitmen. Jesus. An image of McArdle’s white face floated before her, the life gushing out of it in bloody bursts. Her insides slithered.

‘Who do you think killed him?’ she said.

Zubiri didn’t need to ask who she meant. ‘We don’t know. But why should you care?’ He leaned forward, supporting his weight on the desk with his knuckles. The backs of his hands were dark and hairy. ‘McArdle was nothing to you. Just a fat Irish hacker working for criminals.’

Harry flinched. A shard of guilt twisted in her chest. She knew she’d blanked McArdle out. Hadn’t thought of him as a person. Hadn’t liked him much, if it came right down to it, though they’d never even spoken. She’d dubbed him ‘the fat guy’, and then found him dead.

She looked up at Zubiri. ‘What else do you know about him?’

He shrugged, straightened up. ‘Quite a lot.’

‘Was he good at what he did?’

Another shrug. ‘So they tell me. Started hacking as a kid. Broke into school networks, messed with phone systems, that kind of thing.’

Harry looked at the floor, as if he might catch a glimpse of her own shady past in her eyes. Zubiri went on:

‘It might have ended there if it hadn’t been for his sister. She got into debt with a heroin habit. McArdle cut a deal with her suppliers in Belfast: he’d repay what she owed by working for them.’

‘As a hacker?’

Zubiri nodded. ‘He needn’t have bothered. He found his sister’s body in an old warehouse a few weeks later. Overdose. The needle was still stuck in her arm.’

‘Jesus.’ Harry closed her eyes briefly, trying to blot the image out. ‘But he kept working for them?’

‘Once you’re in, it’s hard to get out. Just knowing these people, knowing what they do, is enough to put you at risk. They own you. Try to leave and you end up dead in a ditch.’

‘How long was he with them?’

Zubiri paused. ‘Eighteen years.’

Harry’s eyes widened as she worked it out. McArdle was thirty-four. Which meant he’d signed over his soul when he was just sixteen. She shook her head, recalling herself at that age: masquerading as Pirata, flexing her hacking muscles. Just like McArdle.

Pirata: Spanish for pirate. Just a curious explorer on the electronic high seas, testing the limits of technology. But it wasn’t all innocent. She’d breached securities, trespassed where others wouldn’t. She’d felt the searing heat of true piracy in her soul, and had struggled not to abuse her power. One wrong choice and things might have turned out differently.

They almost had.

At the age of thirteen, she’d given into temptation and hacked into the Dublin Stock Exchange. Fuelled by an illicit rush of adrenalin, she’d tampered with financial data. The authorities had tracked her down, but she’d been rescued by a mentor who’d schooled her in the ethics of hacking. She’d stuck to the code of honour ever since.

Well, more or less.

Harry slid a glance at the folder of photographs. If things had been different, could she have ended up like McArdle? A hacker for hire to the wrong kind of client?

Zubiri followed her gaze, then picked up the folder and tucked it under his arm. ‘You should leave. Go home. Forget about this.’

‘And let Vasco loose on me?’

Zubiri looked away. Harry didn’t move.

Go home. To what? To Hunter? Her mother? Her rocky relations with the police? She pictured Vasco raking over her past, maybe even grilling her father. Her muscles tensed. She thought about McArdle, about her San Sebastián roots; about a whole mess of things that together stirred up an urge to hide away and become someone else for a while.

Suspect or decoy?

Zubiri leaned his knuckles back against the desk, dipping his large head so that he looked up at her from under his brows.

‘Go home. Pretending to be someone else is tougher than you think.’

Harry shot him a surprised look. He leaned in closer. His five o’clock shadow looked coarse enough to strip paint. He continued in his low, oddly accented voice:

‘Not everyone is cut out to work undercover. You need discipline, control.’ His knuckles tightened into fists against the desk. ‘You can’t forget your cover, not for a day, not for a minute. You must become one of the bad guys, laugh at their jokes, do what they do. And keep your fears to yourself.’ Sequins of sweat broke through the stubble. ‘These people are not like you and me.’

‘Vasco said it would be quick. In and out.’

‘Vasco doesn’t know shit. He has never worked undercover. Things get ugly, plans go wrong. You need to think on your feet.’

When Harry didn’t respond, he shook his head and went on:

‘You will be alone. Really alone. More alone than you’ve ever been in your life.’ A small muscle pulsed in his eyelid. ‘You can’t leave at the end of the day to relax with family and friends. You’re cut off. Isolated. You have no one to talk to about what you’re going through, except your contact agent.’

Harry gave him a steady look. ‘Would you be my contact agent?’

He held her gaze. ‘Yes. But I will not be your guardian angel.’

She stared at him for a moment. His disapproval was a little hard to take, though she wondered why she cared. Then she pictured McArdle’s pale, dead face, and slowly got to her feet.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘This is none of my concern.’


Chapter 6

Marty patted the three decks of cards in his pocket, then turned up his collar against the wind. One thing was for damn sure, there was nothing continental about northern Spain in March.

He traipsed past the shuttered apartments and shops, heading for the boardwalk by the river. The salty funk of seaweed hung in the air. He squinted across the water towards Alameda del Boulevard, the big-city street that butted up against the old part of town. He fingered the cards in his pocket. Time to scare up some cash, or he’d end up sleeping in a doorway.

His landlady had ambushed him the night before. A fierce-looking Basque with hennaed hair, she’d chewed him out about the rent. He’d tried to flirt, sweet-talk her round, but the beating he’d taken in the casino hadn’t helped. The blood had made him look like a street brawler. In the end, she’d given him a day to come up with the money.

Marty fingered the plump wallet in his inside pocket, the one he’d stuffed with newspaper and a few counterfeit notes before he’d left his room. The counterfeits were cheap, a shoddy job that in a good light wouldn’t fool anyone. But Marty didn’t plan on handing them around for inspection.

He cut left across the Zurriola Bridge where the river surged out into the bay. The tide was high, whipping the estuary into violent swells that boomed off the embankment walls. Marty hunched his shoulders against the driving wind. Water was loud everywhere in this damn city.

He eased along the Boulevard, wincing at the tenderness in his ribs. Last night had been dumb, his own stupid fault. He’d broken the golden rule: never let yourself get back-roomed. He should have kicked, screamed, run, anything. Marty sighed and shook his head. Truth was, he hadn’t wanted to look like a bum in front of the redhead. He rolled his eyes skyward and fingered the crusty gash around his nose. He’d sure paid for that piece of vanity.

Halfway down the Boulevard he turned right, ducking into the alleys of the Old Quarter. It was darker in here. The narrow streets stood huddled together, dodging the evening light. He peered into the open bars, searching for a likely mark.

It was Riva who’d first taught him that the world was divided into two.

‘Suckers and scammers,’ she’d said, her slate-grey eyes fixed on his. ‘That’s all there is in this life. One’s smarter than the other, that’s the only difference between ’em.’

She’d been just fourteen, only three years older than him, though with fancy clothes and make-up, she could look a whole lot more. He’d bitten his lip, a little nervous about contradicting her.

‘But isn’t one more dishonest than the other, too?’ he’d said.

Riva snorted. ‘Honesty don’t come into it. Would a sucker jump at the chance to hold the upper hand, assuming he suddenly got smart enough? You bet he would. He’d turn those tables quicker’n spit.’ She shook the fine blonde hair from her face. ‘It’s a simple choice, Marty. Sucker or scammer. Top dog or victim.’ Suddenly she’d wheeled away, her bony fists clenched. ‘I know which I’d rather be.’

Cutlery clinked from inside the bars. The sweet scent of onions pepped up Marty’s nostrils. He watched the customers help themselves to pintxos, the Basque equivalent of fast finger-food. He dragged his gaze away. Food was for later, when he could pay.

Marty spotted the mark in the next bar: tall, thin; designer croc on the shirt, sharp crease in the jeans. He was mouthing off to a pale young woman hanging on his every word. Marty eased closer to the open door.

The guy spoke with an educated, English voice. A completed Times crossword lay ostentatiously on the bar beside him. He was swirling the wine in his glass, poking his nose over the rim for a sniff every now and then. Marty smiled.

‘Almost everyone is a potential mark,’ Riva had said to him once.

‘Everyone?’ He’d still only been eleven and hadn’t gotten used to the fact that Riva was always right. ‘Aren’t a lot of people too smart to be taken in?’

‘They sure think they are.’ Her thin, heart-shaped face had split into a smile. ‘That makes them the best marks of all.’

Church bells chimed somewhere behind him, and Marty came to a decision. He rumpled his hair, loosened his tie, then lurched full tilt through the door. The babble of Spanish hammered his ears. He bulldozed his way to the counter, collecting gripes along the way, and collided with the English guy.

‘Hey, sorry, buddy.’ Marty belched into the man’s face. ‘Didn’t see ya there.’

The English guy stiffened. Marty made as if to flag the barman down, but managed to knock the guy’s glass over instead.

‘Jeez, look at that.’

A Rioja-tinted stain was seeping over the crossword. The guy’s face grew tight, and Marty winked at the mousy-looking woman beside him.

‘Least it missed his clothes. Them fake designer brands don’t wash too well, do they?’

The woman’s eyes widened. Marty waited a beat. Then he burst into a wheezy laugh and punched the English guy on the arm.

‘Just kiddin’, pal. Whooo!’ Marty patted himself on the chest. ‘Here, lemme buy you another.’

The English guy closed his eyes briefly. ‘No, thank you, we’re just leaving.’

‘Aw, come on.’ Marty spread out his arms. ‘Hey, I know I’ve had a few, but I’m celebrating. Look—’ He glanced over his shoulder, then dug the fat wallet out of his pocket and slapped it onto the counter. A wad of fifty-euro notes curled out over the sides. ‘See that? Casino money. Poker action was sizzling and I cleaned ’em out! Know what else?’ He fumbled in his pocket for a pack of cards. ‘I stole one of their decks as a keepsake!’

Marty wheezed out another laugh, and thumped the English guy on the shoulder. At the same time, he moved in front of him so as to block his exit, and slipped the cards out of the pack.

‘Hey, I’ll play you for that drink, buddy, just one poker hand for fun.’ Marty bungled a shuffle, dropping some cards on the floor. Then he straightened up and dealt two sloppy hands of five. ‘I just can’t lose today.’

The English guy edged away, sending his friend a snippety, drink-up signal. ‘Another time.’

Marty poked him hard in the chest with the cards he’d just dealt him. ‘Whassamatter? You afraid to lose in front of your lady friend?’

The guy narrowed his eyes and glanced down at his chest. Something flickered across his face, and he hesitated. Marty knew what had snagged his attention. The cards were spread in a clumsy fan that allowed the guy a peek at what he’d got.

It was hard to ignore four kings.

Slowly, the English guy took the cards from Marty and set them face down on the counter. His fingers hovered over them. Marty twisted away, as if in search of a drink, and treated the guy to a seemingly accidental flash of the other hand. He knew what he’d see there: three jacks and two odd cards. Marty swivelled back, and the guy flicked a furtive glance at the floor.

‘You still chicken?’ Marty picked up his wallet and peeled a crackling note from his wad. ‘Or maybe you’d like to make it more interesting.’ He leered at the colourless woman beside them. ‘Whaddaya reckon, fifty bucks too rich for your pal here?’

Marty smacked the fifty-euro note on the counter, covering it with his palm. The English guy’s lips disappeared into a thin line, and Marty could almost see the wheels turn. Fact was, the guy’s four kings beat Marty’s three jacks hands down. Even if Marty changed the two odd cards and drew the fourth jack, it still wouldn’t beat four kings.

The guy’s jaw pulsed a little. Maybe he suspected he was being hustled, but at this point, chances were he thought Marty had botched the deal.

The guy reached for his wallet. ‘One hand.’

The disdain had left his face, replaced now by something craftier. He flicked a fifty-euro note next to Marty’s. Immediately Marty picked it up and used it to cover his own. Another of Riva’s rules: bury the funny money. In case anyone got too curious.

Marty examined his cards and chuckled. ‘So how many d’you want, pal?’

‘I’ll stay pat.’

Marty frowned. ‘No cards?’ He double-checked his own. ‘Alrighty. Well, I’ll take two.’

He discarded two of his cards onto the counter and dealt another couple from the pack. He palmed his five cards and squeezed them into a tight fan. He let out another belly laugh.

‘Woo-hoo! What’d I tell ya? I just can’t lose today.’ He rummaged in his wallet, lurching up against the bar. ‘It’s gonna cost you another hundred to see these babies.’

He smacked two more fifties on top of the others, again covering the duds with his palm. The Englishman glanced at his cards, ground his teeth a little. Then he produced two fifties of his own and tossed them onto the counter.

‘I call your hundred.’ A smile slid over the Englishman’s face. ‘But you won’t top these.’

He spread his cards on the counter with a snap. Four big kings, fat and important-looking. Just the way Marty had dealt them. The English guy reached for the cash, but Marty smacked his hand away.

‘Hold on, not so fast.’ He fanned his cards out on the counter. ‘Where I come from, a straight flush whups four kings every time.’

The English guy’s mouth opened and the woman beside him gasped. For a second, they stared at Marty’s hand: seven, eight, nine, ten and Jack, all in a tidy row. And all of them suited hearts.

Marty gave them another second to take it in, then snatched up the cash, whirled around and shouldered his way to the door.

His heartbeat drummed against his ribs. He raced outside, wheeled left then right, criss-crossing the rabbit warren of streets. Adrenalin blasted through him, dulling the pain in his torso and setting his fingertips tingling.

He ran till he’d put a safe distance behind him, then slowed to a walk to cool down. He glanced over his shoulder, panting hard. Jesus, he was too old for this.

He stepped into a doorway to count his haul of notes, separating out the phonies. The English guy would work it out soon enough. He’d realize Marty hadn’t changed his two odd cards, but had thrown two of his jacks down instead. For a second, he’d probably wonder who the hell would do such a thing. But only for a second. The answer, of course, was a conman who’d stacked the deck.

Marty stowed the genuine notes into his pocket and slipped the duds back into his wallet. Truth was, the guy had been suckered because he thought he’d sneaked a preview of the cards. He’d been happy to fleece an obnoxious drunk, once he thought he had leverage. Marty was with W.C. Fields on this one: you can’t cheat an honest man.

Marty did a few neck rolls to loosen his muscles and felt his spine crunch. Pain lanced across his ribs. Jesus. He’d taken quite a beating to cover up for that bastard Franco. The question was, would it be worth it?

He slumped against a wall, waiting for the spasm to pass. One way or another, he planned on using Franco to generate some cash. He’d work with him or against him, he didn’t care which. Marty sighed. Well, not really.

He patted the remaining decks of cards in his pocket, letting his gaze roll over the drinkers across the alleyway.

Another bar, another sucker.

His limbs felt heavy. He stayed where he was and closed his eyes. An image of Franco’s crew drifted into his head, and for an instant he felt the rush of the glory days when he’d been a part of it all. His pulse thudded. He remembered the exhilaration of pulling a con; the electric highs, the close calls, the camaraderie on the road.

He wondered about the crew Franco worked with now, and whether they were as good as him and Riva. He smiled and shook his head, his eyes still closed. Franco, him and Riva: together, they’d been on fire. No one could touch them without burning.

Marty opened his eyes, readjusted to his surroundings, and felt his shoulders slump. Now he was back where he started: a chip thief and a hustler.

He shrugged himself away from the wall, then trudged across to the bar. A dark-haired girl eyed him from inside the doorway. She was petite and striking, like a lot of these Spanish types, and reminded him of the girl who’d been watching the crew at the casino.

Marty hesitated. Something about that girl had bothered him. She’d seen Fat-boy’s eye-rub, but she’d stood apart, hadn’t blended in like one of the crew. Hadn’t looked much like a real punter, either. The other women had been all gussied up, but she’d been wearing a suit.

Was she working for the casino?

Marty’s skin prickled, and he fingered the paltry fifty-euro notes in his pocket. Maybe Franco would like to hear about her.

Maybe someone should tell him.


Chapter 7

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Hunter said.

Harry bristled at his tone. She switched the phone to her other ear and yanked the satchel higher on her shoulder.

‘Haven’t you been listening?’ She crossed the street and turned left along the beach promenade. ‘I told them I wouldn’t do it.’

‘Then why are you still talking with them?’

‘They want to give me more details, no strings attached. Look, I’m curious, I admit it. But it doesn’t mean I’ll go along with it.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Would it really be so bad if I did? It’s just an in-and-out job. I find out why they want a hacker, then I leave.’

Harry knew she was being contrary; an instinctive buck against his assumption that he had some kind of say.

‘Who’s in charge over there?’ he said.

‘I’m mostly dealing with a Detective Zubiri, but his boss is a guy called Vasco.’

‘That prick. What the hell does he know about undercover operations?’

Harry blinked. ‘Vasco? You know him?’

‘He phoned a couple of days ago, asked a lot of questions. Sounded like a puffed-up desk-jockey to me.’

Harry recalled Vasco’s slick self-importance, and privately she had to agree. She peeked at her watch, then quickened her pace, her shoes scratching against the grit of sand on the pavement. To her left, the grand façades of apartments and hotels lined the shell-shaped coast. To her right, the waves thwacked in a fizz of foam against the sand.

‘Look, it’s a paying job.’ Harry clutched the lapels of her jacket to stop them flapping in the wind. ‘A consultancy gig with the police. You’re always saying I should work more on the side of the angels.’

She heard him exhale a controlled breath, and pictured him massaging tired, hazel eyes. She chewed her bottom lip, regretting her contrariness. Just once, it’d be nice to have a conversation where they didn’t butt heads.

They’d met a few months earlier when one of Harry’s clients had framed her as a suspect in a murder. Hunter had been the lead detective on the case, and right from the get-go, he’d pegged her as a liar, though eventually she’d cleared her name. Well, more or less.

Afterwards, Hunter had seemed to reassess her. He’d vouched for her with the Garda Tech Bureau in Dublin, who’d since hired her twice as a computer forensics consultant. She’d worked alongside Hunter on one occasion, but in spite of the plug he’d given her, she could tell some of his wariness lingered. They’d met for lunch a couple of times, had even gone to dinner when they’d both been working late. But so far, one thing hadn’t led to another, and Harry had to admit she was probably to blame. Then again, he had complications of his own to sort through.

‘So who are these casino cheaters?’ Hunter’s voice was taut, spiked with the kind of crankiness that comes from lack of sleep.

Harry shrugged. ‘I only know a couple of names. Franco Chavez, he seems to be the ringleader. The hacker was from Belfast with paramilitary connections, a guy called Stephen McArdle.’

‘I’ll check them out, see what I can dig up.’

Harry paused, her pace slackening. ‘There’s no need. Really, I can handle it.’

Silence thickened the airspace between them. She closed her eyes briefly.

Dammit.

The line between interference and support was a fine one, and she’d be the first to admit she had trouble telling the difference. In her defence, she’d learned the hard way to rely on no one but herself. That was the natural fallout when your father was absent and your mother was indifferent all your life. On the upside, it saved on disappointments, but she’d noticed other people found her independence hard to take. She’d yet to decide if that was their problem or hers.

She cleared her throat. ‘Look—’

‘I get it. You don’t need anything. Just let me know how it works out.’

The line went dead. Harry glared at the phone and, for a moment, considered calling him back. Then she sighed and slipped the handset into her pocket. The conversation had already stalled and crashed. Salvaging the wreckage didn’t seem too appealing right now.

She tugged her jacket tighter across her chest. The air was damp and salty, the water a leaden-grey. She’d heard that the Basque country got as much rain as the west of Ireland. Next time, she’d take her cue from the locals and carry an umbrella.

Her phone buzzed against her hip. She whipped it out to check the caller ID: her sister, Amaranta. Mentally, Harry poked a tongue out at herself for hoping it might be Hunter, then debated whether to take the call. Amaranta specialized in big-sister guilt trips, and Harry wasn’t in the mood for one right now. She cursed and put the phone to her ear.

‘Amaranta?’

‘At last. I was about to hang up.’

Harry rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. She pictured her sister: ash-blonde and elegant, just like their mother. Harry was the one who’d inherited the dark Martinez looks, but it was Amaranta who’d got the exotic Spanish name. By the time Harry was born, her mother had tired of all things Spanish and had christened her Henrietta, after her own mother. It was her father who’d rescued her and shortened the name to Harry.

Amaranta huffed into the silence, then quickly got to the point. ‘You know that Mum’s in a complete state because you’re in San Sebastián?’

Harry squinted into the phone. ‘Why would she care where I am? And how does she even know? We haven’t spoken in over a month.’

‘Exactly. Don’t you think you should call her?’

‘No.’

Harry let that one sit. She knew it sounded truculent, but had no intention of being drawn into explanations. Her relationship with her mother was like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Their exchanges usually ended on a sour note, and Harry often broke contact for weeks at a time to give them both a chance to recover. Eventually Harry would go back, peeling off whatever scab had managed to form and exposing herself to another injury. Never once had her mother initiated a reconciliation. Harry suspected she was secretly relieved by her daughter’s occasional absences.

‘You’re being childish,’ Amaranta said eventually.

‘Not really. We both know she doesn’t like me, so why pretend?’

‘That’s putting it way too strongly, and you know it.’

‘Just because she’s different with you doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’

‘You were Dad’s favourite and I never objected.’

‘Well, maybe you should have.’

Harry bit her lip, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Waves crashed like thunder-claps into the silence, and even Amaranta didn’t rush to fill it this time.

Their family had always been split into two teams: Amaranta and their mother versus Harry and their father. It was something she and Amaranta had accepted many years before, and it had brokered a sort of truce between them. Sure, they still bickered, but sibling rivalry was never the cause. The truth was, the family pairings had suited them. For Harry’s part, she’d stopped craving her mother’s affection so badly. Her father had become her safe haven and proved that her mother might be wrong; that Harry might be lovable after all. She guessed it must have been the same for Amaranta.

Harry kicked a pebble along the promenade. At the time, the arrangement had seemed well balanced, but as an adult the after-effects were starting to feel a little unstable.

Amaranta sighed into the phone, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. ‘It’s a little late for all that now, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Look, why not just call Mum?’

Harry’s brain jangled at the thought. ‘I don’t get why she’s so uptight. What’s wrong with me being in San Sebastián?’

‘You tell me. It’s just another job, isn’t it?’

Harry closed her eyes briefly. ‘More or less.’

They kicked the topic around for a while, but could shake nothing else from it and so wound things up and said goodbye. Harry stowed the phone away and tried to put the exchange out of her head. Thinking about her mother had never brought her much comfort.

She continued along the promenade for another hundred yards, then turned left on to Calle de la Infanta Cristina. Her stomach muscles tightened. In front of her stood the grey, triangular block that housed the Ertzaintza station. She straightened her shoulders, smoothed down her hair, then marched through the door and asked for Detective Zubiri.

An officer escorted her down a narrow corridor, and she trotted behind him, her shoulder aching from the weight of her satchel, which held her laptop and computer forensics toolkit. She probably wouldn’t need them, but if she was supposed to be a hacker then she may as well look the part.

The officer showed her into a room and clicked the door shut behind her. Harry did a quick survey of her surroundings.

She was alone in the room. The lights were dimmed, the blinds drawn. The only illumination was the glow of a projector and laptop on the conference table. The projector whirred. Dust motes swirled in the slanting cones of light, and Harry moved closer, peering at the image cast up against the wall. It was a headshot of Riva Mills.

Harry stared at the pointed features and taut lips. The blonde hair was fine and silky. It was the only thing soft-looking about her.

‘You’re late.’

Harry turned to find Zubiri watching her by the door. His shaggy hair hung low over his brows, obscuring his eyes a little. She glanced at her watch.

‘Not really.’

He stomped across the room, his large head dipped low like a charging bull. He took a seat in front of the laptop, gesturing for Harry to sit to one side, presumably so she could view the slideshow on the wall.

She pulled up a chair, nodding towards the photo of Riva. ‘We’re starting with her?’

‘We start where I say. Tell me what you know about her.’

Harry settled her satchel by her feet, playing for time while she coached herself to let his rudeness slide. She counted to three, then straightened up.

‘I only know what I could find out from public sources. She’s from Ohio. Ran away from home at the age of fourteen, bought her first casino when she was twenty-one.’ Harry turned to study the striking face projected on the wall. ‘I guess a lot must have happened to her in those intervening years.’

Zubiri grunted. ‘What else?’

‘She owns eleven casinos, three of them here in Spain. She’s lived in San Sebastián for the last ten years, though I’m not exactly sure what her link with the place is.’

She threw Zubiri a questioning look, but he didn’t fill her in. Instead, he jabbed at his keyboard. Riva’s headshot disappeared and another photo flashed into view: Riva shaking hands with some guy on a podium. The man wore a broad smile and a ceremonial chain, but Riva’s expression was sombre.

‘She’s well respected in the community here,’ Zubiri said. His American-flavoured accent seemed more pronounced, as though he’d been practising overnight with CNN. ‘She’s on the board of trustees for two children’s homes. Contributes to local causes. Fundraises for local schools and hospitals. A real philanthropist.’

Harry caught his tone and shot him a sideways look. ‘Are you saying it’s a front?’

‘I’m saying there’s a lotta stuff people don’t know about Riva Mills.’

‘Such as?’

Zubiri flipped ahead to the next slide. A mugshot: the profile and front-view of a young girl. A waif, really. Maybe thirteen or fourteen, with bony shoulders and a pinched, heart-shaped face.

Harry blinked. ‘She has a criminal record?’

‘Juvenile. Back in the United States. Fraud, cheque forgery, theft.’

‘Did she go to prison?’

Zubiri shook his head. ‘They gave her a break on account of her background. They say her mother was abusive. Unstable. Plus there was a younger brother, some problem kid, that Riva mostly took care of.’

Harry stared at the photo, at the razor-sharp cheekbones sloping into dainty features. She had trouble reconciling this undernourished girl with the businesswoman who ran a casino empire. She glanced back at Zubiri.

‘Okay, so my client isn’t all that she seems. God knows, it wouldn’t be the first time. But what’s that got to do with the casino cheaters?’

Zubiri leaned back in his chair and took his time about answering, almost as though he begrudged her the information. Eventually, he said,

‘She may be involved.’

‘In what? Ripping off her own casinos?’

Zubiri laced his hands across his wrinkled shirt. ‘Who told her about the cheaters?’

‘Her Chief of Security, Victor Toledo. He got a tip-off from a source.’

‘What source?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’

‘What about the scam the crew pulled in the casino? Do you know how they did it?’

‘No. But now we know who to watch, we could pull the surveillance tapes. They might tell us something.’

Zubiri shook his head. ‘Pulling the tapes would alert Riva to their identity. I don’t want the cheaters stopped. Not yet. Not if we want them to recruit you.’

Harry stirred in her seat, aware of a shifting in her gut. Now they were getting to the real reason she was here.

‘I haven’t agreed to do it yet.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘But assuming I did, how exactly would they end up recruiting me?’

‘Same way they ended up recruiting McArdle. Through recommendations from Irish paramilitaries.’

Harry’s heart did a quick flip. ‘You’re kidding.’

Zubiri was watching her closely. ‘That’s how McArdle got most of his clients. Word of mouth, vouched for by his oldest employers. And we know Chavez’s crew has links with terrorists. It’s one of the reasons we’re watching them.’

Harry’s palms felt clammy. ‘So Chavez put the word out that he needed a hacker and his contacts in Belfast put him in touch with McArdle?’

‘Exactly.’

Harry shivered, the hairs spiking up along her arms. Terrorists and paramilitaries. The words conjured up an underworld of hatred and fanaticism, generations of rage that had nothing to do with her. She swallowed.

‘And now you think Chavez will put out feelers for a replacement?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how will you know?’

Zubiri sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking jaded. ‘The Irish and the Basques are closer than you think. Your paramilitaries have been buddies with our ETA separatists for almost forty years. Explosives in exchange for training. Handguns for solidarity. Our police force has had undercover agents in your country for decades.’ He leaned forward, every line in his face etched deep. ‘There are no guarantees Chavez will approach Belfast again. But if he does, our operatives will know about it.’

‘And do what?’

‘Intercept the enquiry. Redirect it to us and let Chavez know a replacement is on the way.’

Harry’s mouth felt dry. Zubiri fixed his eyes on hers and nodded.

‘And then you go in.’


Chapter 8

‘Would I wear a wire?’

Harry was surprised at how normal her voice sounded. Zubiri shook his head.

‘Waste of time.’

‘But don’t you need evidence?’

‘All we need is information. Wear some piece-of-shit recorder, and you just spend time changing the batteries.’

Harry peered at him through the artificial twilight of the room. The projector beam had excavated lines like dugouts in his face.

‘I thought devices were more hi-tech these days,’ she said.

Zubiri snorted. ‘The Ertzaintza budget doesn’t stretch to hi-tech equipment. They keep that stuff for National Intelligence. Even if we could afford it, they wouldn’t let us use it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we gotta explain our technology in court. Show how we acquire our evidence. If we use the smart stuff, the gadgets get exposed and so does National Intelligence. They prefer to keep their box of tricks a secret.’

‘I see.’ Harry’s mouth felt dry. ‘So no wire?’

Zubiri leaned forward in his chair and started itemizing things on his fingers. ‘Look, this crew is professional. They’re going to frisk you, they’re going to confiscate your phone, your laptop, your jewellery, anything that looks like it could be a recorder, a transmitter or a GPS device.’ His sombre eyes locked onto hers. ‘These guys catch you wired and you’re dead.’

Harry swallowed, and a bead of sweat began a lazy trickle down her back. Zubiri’s eyes raked her face, as though hunting for signs of weakness. She lifted her chin.

‘Okay, so no recorders or transmitters. How would you know where I was?’

‘You’d have backup.’

‘Where?’

He shook his head. ‘Basic rule of undercover: you never get told where the backup’s gonna be.’ He tipped his chair back, linking his hands behind his head. ‘Think about it. You rendezvous with a target and you know we got a sniper on the roof? You can’t help yourself, you’ll look up to check he’s there.’ He shook his head again. ‘You won’t ever know where we are. It’s for your own protection.’

Harry suppressed an involuntary shudder. She’d have to be crazy to get involved in a stunt like this. Then she caught the challenge in Zubiri’s gaze, and could tell he didn’t expect her to take the job either.

She shifted in her chair. The projector light flickered as Zubiri’s laptop dozed into standby mode, obliterating Riva’s image from the wall. The room sank into shadow. Zubiri rocked on his tilted-back chair, and Harry glanced at his large, craggy face and thought about his boss, Vasco.

He’d threatened to embroil her in a murder case, to blacken her already tarnished name. She clamped her teeth shut. Her credentials with the Irish police had taken a beating the previous year and, in truth, she was tired of being the bad guy. She’d worked hard the last few months to redeem her reputation, and bit by bit, she’d sensed a growing respect, at least from the Tech Bureau guys. The last thing she wanted was to jeopardize all that now.

The hairs along her arms twitched. It was an in-and-out job. All she had to do was pretend to be a hacker. How hard could it be?

She eyed Zubiri’s face, kept her gaze steady. ‘Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that I’m going to do this. I presume I’d need an alias?’

He missed a beat, as though adjusting for an unexpected turn of events. Then he let his chair drop with a snap back to the floor.

‘We’d prepare some background paperwork. False name, credit card, driver’s licence.’ He cocked a tangled eyebrow in her direction. ‘Unless you have those already?’

Harry felt the colour rise in her cheeks and wondered how much he knew about her occasional identity switches. If he knew about her trespassing caper on the Stock Exchange, then he probably knew about Pirata. Chances were, though, he didn’t know about Catalina.

Catalina Diego had started out as an imaginary friend when Harry was five years old. She took most of the blame for Harry’s misdeeds; she was blonde and beautiful, and her mother loved her. As Harry got older she’d abandoned Catalina in favour of Pirata, but later reinvented her when she began her hacking scams. By the time Harry was fourteen, Catalina had her own email account, driving licence and even a credit card. Harry still used her whenever the need arose.

She shrugged. ‘We could use Catalina Diego. It’s a persona I’ve built up in my professional capacity.’

‘Oh?’

Harry returned his unblinking gaze. ‘I use it occasionally on authorized security tests. She’s got established credentials, a credible paper trail. Plus, I’m used to the name. I won’t blank if someone calls me that.’

Zubiri’s eyes probed hers, then he nodded. ‘Okay. We’d set up a couple of hello phones, get some people to backstop you in Belfast.’ He must have seen her expression, for he went on to explain. ‘Just numbers and contacts who’ll confirm Catalina’s background if anyone asks. We’d use McArdle, too. You could say you knew him, you were in the same line of business.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a dead guy, that’s why. Dead guys can’t deny knowing you.’

Harry blinked. Zubiri went on.

‘You said you had family in San Sebastián.’

‘I said I might have.’

‘You’d need to stay away from places they might be. In case they blow your cover.’

Harry shook her head. ‘No one knows me. I haven’t been here since I was a child.’

Zubiri nodded, satisfied. ‘Stick to the truth as much as possible. The fewer lies you tell, the fewer you need to remember.’

‘What happens if they just don’t believe me?’

For the first time, Zubiri’s gaze faltered. ‘They will.’

‘But if they don’t?’

He jabbed at the keyboard, kick-starting his laptop. Then he trained his eyes on hers. ‘No matter what happens, never, ever break cover.’

Harry experienced a sudden, dizzy rush, like the falling sensation that jerks you out of sleep. Her heart pounded. She eased back in her chair, covering her jitters with slow movements. Zubiri turned to his keyboard, pecking out the password to unlock his snoozing laptop.

Harry’s gaze slid to his fingers. Instinctively, she found herself trying to shoulder-surf his code, and had to refrain from craning her neck. But she couldn’t make it out. He was hunched over, shielding his hands, as though trying to stop her cheating on a test. All she could tell was that the password was long and, from the way his hands moved, contained numbers and symbols as well as letters.

She awarded him a mental thumbs-up. A hacker would work up quite a sweat trying to power-drill his way through that one.

Light bounced against the wall. Riva’s mugshot flickered back into focus, and Harry noted from the information bar that they’d reached slide four in a total of fourteen. She snuck a glance at her watch. Zubiri hadn’t struck her as the show-’n’-tell type. Just how many mugshots did he have?

He hit a key and Riva vanished, replaced by McArdle’s post-mortem shot.

‘We’ve managed to identify four members of Chavez’s crew. McArdle you already know.’ Zubiri flipped ahead to the next photo. ‘And this guy too, though maybe not his name. Washed-up actor called Clayton James. Also known as James Clay and Jimmy Clayton.’

Harry stared up at the sweaty, florid face and the greying thatch of hair. It was the American who’d collected the crew’s winnings at the casino.

‘We’ve run him through our databases, the FBI did the same.’ Zubiri switched in another shot, this one showing Clayton drinking in a bar. ‘Compulsive gambler, dumped by his wife and kids, left the movie business thirty years ago and turned to forgery, theft, embezzlement and serious fraud.’

Harry took in the man’s breezy smile, and the eyes that didn’t quite share in the joke. Zubiri moved on to the next shot, one that Vasco had already shown her: the thirty-something brunette with the stage-make-up look.

‘Virginia Vaughan, known as Ginny.’ Zubiri cued up another slide, showing the brunette standing on the steps of the Gran Casino. ‘She travels on an Irish passport and doesn’t have a record. We think she’s close to Chavez, but we don’t know for sure.’

Harry studied the woman’s striking face. Despite the showgirl pancake, there was something chic about the exotic planes and angles of her face.

Zubiri moved on. Another photo. Vasco had shown her this one, too: a man in his late forties, red-gold hair cut like a Marine’s; straight, bleached brows.

‘Name’s Gideon Ray.’ Zubiri switched to a shot of the man crossing a sunlit plaza. He looked tall and lean, his freckled face creased in laugh lines at some kids kicking footballs through the archways. Belatedly, Harry realized he was in the Plaza de la Constitución. She glanced at Zubiri.

‘Is he another conman?’

Zubiri gave her a level look. ‘All we know about Gideon Ray is that he kills people.’

Harry’s breath caught in her throat. Slowly, her eyes crept back to the smiling man in the photo. ‘Who does he kill?’

‘Drug traffickers, terrorists, an occasional arms dealer.’

‘Why?’

‘We don’t know.’

Harry hesitated. ‘Did he kill McArdle?’

‘They work on the same side, so we don’t think so.’ Zubiri shoved his chair back, stretching out his stocky legs. ‘There might be others in the crew, but if so, you’d meet them when you went inside. Along with Chavez.’

Harry’s brain suddenly felt swamped, the reality of the situation hitting her like a landslide. If she took this job on, she’d have to mix with these people. Talk with them, work with them, do what they do. She’d have to blend in and fool them into thinking she belonged. Harry’s pulse accelerated. She looked up at Gideon Ray’s smiling face; recalled Ginny Vaughan’s glamour-girl mask, and Clayton’s phoney warmth. A part of her wondered what was behind all the camouflage, but mostly she intended never to find out.

Zubiri fixed her with a stern look. ‘Don’t forget, just because you’re undercover doesn’t mean you try to be something that you’re not. If you don’t drink, then don’t drink. If you don’t take drugs, don’t start now. And never say you’ve been to prison if you haven’t.’

Harry nodded, her head still reeling. Zubiri went on.

‘These people are lifelong criminals, and you’d be part of their world. But remember: you can’t commit a crime when you’re undercover. It’s a strict rule. If you do, the department will not support you. Under any circumstances.’

Harry studied his intense, deep-set eyes, the unruly curls, the rumpled shirt, and couldn’t help comparing his bohemian image with Vasco’s slick efficiency. She cocked her head to one side.

‘Did you follow that rule when you worked undercover?’

He blinked once, but didn’t look away. Eventually, he said, ‘Attack is the best form of defence. Always answer a question with a question, and if you have to lie, look up at the ceiling.’

Harry felt her eyebrows knit together, and for the first time, Zubiri smiled.

‘I learned that one from the RUC in Northern Ireland. If you’re asked a question, you usually picture the answer in your mind’s eye, so you look up for it. When you lie, there’s no picture, so you look down. They used it when interrogating terrorists.’

‘You worked undercover in Northern Ireland?’

‘I worked undercover in a lot of places.’

‘Inside ETA?’

The smile faded. ‘For many years. Some of my superiors worried I was really with ETA, working undercover as a cop.’

‘Was Vasco one of them?’

Zubiri blew a characteristic pfft through his lips. ‘Vasco, he’s just a handshaker. Doesn’t know shit about undercover work. Doesn’t even speak Euskara very well. Me, I’ve spent a lifetime hunting criminals, and I’ve found them, too. Some were even wearing the same uniform as me.’

Harry contemplated his large, slab-like face. He returned her look, as if trying to reassess her. That happened to her a lot these days.

Suddenly, he seemed to make up his mind about something. He snapped the laptop shut, then got to his feet, slipping a phone from his pocket.

‘I have a call to make.’

Harry sat upright in her chair. ‘What, no more slides?’ By her calculations, they still had three more to go.

‘None that concern you.’ He shot her a challenging look. ‘Or so my superiors tell me.’

He held her gaze a shade longer than necessary, then turned and headed for the door. She stared after his blocky, shambling frame as he disappeared into the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar. Harry’s eyes slid back to the laptop.

Three slides left.

None that concern you.

A charge whispered down the back of her neck.

Slowly, she reached across the table and clicked the laptop open.


Chapter 9

Breaking into a laptop was like picking a lock: all you needed was time. Harry shot a glance at the half-open door. Right now, time wasn’t on her side.

She edged around the desk to get a better view. The laptop was locked, password-protected. Her skin prickled as she tuned into Zubiri’s voice outside in the corridor. He was drilling quick-fire Basque at someone on the phone. She eyed the projector, then reached out to switch it off. No sense in magnifying her snooping to wall-sized proportions.

The projector hum died away. The room darkened to a charcoal dusk, somehow intensifying the silence. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Infiltrating a cop’s laptop had to be a crime, whatever way you looked at it. Computer intrusion, property violation, data theft. On the other hand, the police wanted to set her up as a decoy. Surely that gave her dibs on all the facts? Harry shook her head, shelving the debate. Rationalizing her morals was a luxury for later. Right now, she needed information.

She pulled up a chair and thought about Zubiri’s password. She could acquire it any number of ways, but the important thing here was speed. Mentally, she raced through her options.

If she knew more about him, she’d probably hazard a guess. Most people chose easily remembered words, no matter how often you warned them. The dog’s name; maybe the wife’s. Perhaps with a couple of digits appended, as if that would be enough to confound the bad guys. Harry made a face. Zubiri didn’t strike her as the type to care for dogs or wives.

She drummed her fingers on the table. Simple brute force often worked best. Take a crowbar to something and eventually it had to cave in. Her sledgehammer of choice was usually a dictionary attack, a program that stepped through thousands of words hoping to jimmy the lock open with one of them. Trouble was, Zubiri’s password had looked long and complicated. Hitting the right word and number combination could take her several hours. Besides, if there was one thing she’d sensed, it was the man’s fierce national pride. She was willing to bet his password was in Basque, and while her attack program incorporated most foreign dictionaries, his ancient ancestral language wasn’t among them.

Harry stirred in her chair. Zubiri’s voice ramped up outside, his consonants growing harsher. As far as she could tell, he was only a few feet from the door. Her heart cantered for a beat or two. She had one option left, but it was far from ideal. It would leave telltale tracks, unmistakable footprints that would lead directly to her. She darted another glance at the door, then hauled her laptop bag onto the table.

She ripped open the front Velcro pouch, rummaging inside for a USB memory stick, which she jammed into the side of Zubiri’s laptop. Then she stabbed at the power switch and rebooted the machine.

The laptop hummed. She fixed her eyes on the screen, tracking the startup messages. Outside in the corridor, a copier stuttered to life, its mechanical clacking drowning out Zubiri’s voice. Harry kept her gaze on the laptop. Then she hit a key, interrupting its routine, redirecting it to follow orders from her programmed USB stick. The laptop whirred. Sniffed at the stick. Then it swallowed her program like a dog with a biscuit, blithely passing control of its own innards over to Harry.

Her fingers rattled across the keys. She bypassed the rest of the startup grind and instead hooked into the bowels of the hard drive, probing its recesses till she found the list of users permitted to access the machine. There were two: Zubiri and the familiar Admin account, the built-in user that administered the computer. Both had passwords. Both were encrypted. No time to unscramble either one of them now.

But then again, she didn’t need to. Why go to the trouble of decrypting cyphertext when she could erase the password altogether? Remove the lock, and you were left with an open door.

With a few deft strokes, Harry blanked the Admin password, leaving Zubiri’s intact. Then she whipped out the USB stick and rebooted the laptop one more time.

Her spine buzzed. Leave no trace. That was the cardinal rule for delinquent snooping, but in this case she’d had no choice. The next time an Admin user tried to access the laptop, they’d know its security had been breached. And it wouldn’t take them long to trace things back to Harry.

She closed her eyes briefly, then refocused on the screen. This time, she let the bootup drill run its course, until finally the logon prompt appeared. Username: Admin. Password: Who needed it? The laptop sprang to life and she was in.

Immediately, she keyed in a search for slideshow files. Then she leaned back to wait, straining for sounds of Zubiri over the clatter of the copier outside. For all she knew, he could have finished his call and was on his way back to the room. Her armpits felt damp. Maybe she was wasting her time. After all, what did she expect to find?

The search threw up a single slideshow file. She flipped it open and stared at the words on the opening slide:

TCO NETWORK

TCO. What the hell was that? The slide was dated 5th March, and was accredited to one Chief Inspector Eli Vasco. Harry had been right. Zubiri had borrowed the slides from his boss. She noted the English words and wondered about the intended audience.

She jumped to the next slide, the first photo of Riva Mills, then flashed through the procession of now-familiar faces: the adolescent Riva; Stephen McArdle; Clayton James; Ginny Vaughan; the smiling Gideon Ray. Finally, she reached the last three unseen slides.

The first was a list entitled ‘Criminal Sectors’. Harry’s eyes widened as she scanned down through it: drug trafficking, armed robbery, sex trade, extortion, corruption, human trafficking, smuggling, tax fraud, arts fraud, cybercrime, forgery, gunrunning, commodities fraud.

Harry’s brain reeled. She raced ahead to the next slide. Two lists, the first headed ‘Transnational Criminal Organizations’.

Harry blinked. TCO.

She flashed down the first column, her skin turning clammy: Colombian cartels, Chinese Triads, Japanese Yakuza, Russian Organizatsiya, Italian Mafia. Her vision blurred. The list went on. Jamaican Yardies, Bulgarian Mafiya, Albanian Fares, Mexican Federation, Nigerian organizations.

Jesus. Her eyes darted to the second column: ‘Terrorist Organizations’. Another long list. Japan’s Red Army, Peru’s Shining Path, Colombia’s FARC, IRA splinter groups, Islamic Jihad movements.

Something cold slid into Harry’s stomach. The list read like a roll call for murder and mayhem.

The copier outside juddered to a halt. She jerked her head up. Zubiri had gone quiet. Her gaze shot to the door, but she couldn’t get a fix on him. A torrent of adrenalin drenched through her veins. She flew ahead to the last slide, caught her breath as she took in the single line of text. Then she powered the laptop off, snapped the lid shut and two-stepped back to her seat.

Blood pounded in her ears. Behind her, she sensed Zubiri entering the room. She wiped her palms along her thighs, the last slide still scorched on her retinas like afterimage burn-in:

Criminal Proceeds for last six months: $900 million.


Chapter 10

‘So you still told them no?’

‘Of course I told them no.’ Harry’s initial flash of pleasure at receiving Hunter’s call was definitely starting to wane. ‘Why would I do otherwise?’

‘Exactly. One dead hacker’s enough. No sense in offering up two, right?’

Harry swung her legs off the bed, biting back an unreasonable urge to bait him by saying she might still change her mind. She pictured him at his desk, the phone wedged into his shoulder, his sandy hair spiked up from shoving his hands through it. She flung aside the map she’d been studying when he’d called, then closed her eyes, relenting slightly. Hunter was only concerned for her safety, after all, and if she was honest, her frustrations had nothing to do with him.

It had been a couple of days since she’d talked to Zubiri. She’d left his office, thanking him for his time and firmly declining his proposition. Then she’d walked away, expecting to feel relieved, but instead she’d felt oddly empty.

Her gaze roamed her bland hotel room, sliding over its neutral tones of greys and creams. She felt aimless. Directionless. Soon she’d terminate her arrangement with Riva, and after that, she’d have nothing. No client, no assignment. No reason to stay on in San Sebastián. She fingered the map on the bed beside her, tracing the route she’d marked out in thick red pen. No professional reason, anyway.

‘Harry?’

‘Sorry, you’re right. It’s too risky, I’d be a fool to do it. But I can’t help feeling involved.’

‘Because you found McArdle’s body?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I’d just like to know what happened to him, that’s all.’

‘Your pal Zubiri doesn’t know?’

‘If he does, he hasn’t told me.’

She flashed on Zubiri’s slides: drug trafficking, armed robbery, Colombians, terrorists. Proceeds of $900 million. The scale of it was staggering, but in her humdrum hotel room, the whole thing seemed frankly unreal. She was tempted to relay everything she’d learned to Hunter, but she’d given Zubiri her word that their discussions would remain confidential. Though right now, she wasn’t sure she owed him anything.

Hunter cleared his throat. ‘Look, I know you told me not to go digging, but to hell with that. I went out on a limb and did it anyway. Hold on a second . . .’

She heard the quick snap of pages being turned, and imagined him frowning, his tie probably loosened and his collar undone in the manner of a man who couldn’t abide restrictions.

‘Got it,’ he said. ‘Okay, Stephen McArdle. You know his background: hacker from Belfast, paramilitary connections. Did you know he wanted out?’

‘After eighteen years?’

‘Word is, he was spooked. Turning paranoid. He knew too much about the organizations he worked for. Maybe someone back in Belfast thought so, too.’

Harry recalled what Zubiri had said: Try to leave and you end up dead in a ditch.

‘So you’re saying he was killed by paramilitaries? Which ones?’

‘Take your pick. He seemed to work for them all at one time or another.’

‘Where’d you hear this?’

‘I poked around. Stepped on a few toes, exceeded my jurisdiction.’

‘I thought you were meant to be keeping your nose clean.’

‘I am. But somehow, you keep getting in my way.’

Harry bit her lip. Hunter’s career had almost imploded the previous year after he’d had an affair with a suspect in a fraud case. He’d worked hard to toe the line ever since, but playing by the rules didn’t suit him any more than it did Harry. They’d knocked heads on the case that had taken Harry to Capetown, but he’d seemed inclined to trust her in spite of the lies she’d spun. That hadn’t played out well with his superiors.

He never spoke about the fraud case or the woman he’d slept with, and Harry often found herself wondering what she was like. Someone once said Hunter had a weakness for women who told lies. When she’d put it to him, the look he’d turned on her had been speculative and intense.

Pages crackled on the other end of the phone. He was probably rummaging through a jumble of files, his shirtsleeves rolled up on lightly tanned forearms. She’d told him more than once he should never have been a cop. A demolition expert, maybe, or a war correspondent. Something that required helmets and nerve and a healthy dose of rage. He hadn’t disagreed.

She smiled into the phone. ‘Thanks for digging, Hunter. I mean that. But don’t get your ass in a sling on my account.’

Hunter grunted, barely listening. His first name was Jack, but for some reason Harry never used it. That alone should have told her something about their arms-length relationship. If a relationship was even what they had. Sometimes she wondered if the electricity between them was mostly being generated by her.

‘I lucked out on Chavez,’ he said at last. ‘Couldn’t find anything on him. But I did get hold of some background on your client, Riva Mills. Seems she has a juvie record.’

‘So I’m told.’

Hunter clicked his tongue. ‘You have a real talent for picking crooked clients, you know that, Harry?’

‘Hey, don’t get too sanctimonious. Your track record for sound judgement’s no better than mine, remember?’

He let that one slide. ‘Her home life was no picnic. Mother moved around a lot, ended up in a place known as The Bottoms, some hard-knock neighbourhood along the Ohio River. Riva slept rough half the time, whenever the mother was on the rampage. Got picked up on a couple of minor charges.’ He paused to digest a little more. ‘Jesus. Mother sounds like one crazy bitch. Arrested for assaulting Riva with a meat mallet. Christ.’

Harry’s eyes widened. Could a mother really hate her daughter that much? At least with Miriam, it wasn’t hate. Indifference was more her style.

She recalled suddenly how she used to sit next to her mother as a child, watching her sister claim Miriam’s lap. Somehow, it was never Harry’s turn to be cuddled. But Amaranta was different. Mothered and motherly. She used to complain that Harry was no good at playing dolls, but the fact was, Harry didn’t know how. How could she mother a doll when she’d had no role model to copy?

She listened to Hunter whipping through his report, and wondered why she always pulled away from him. Her lessons about love had come from her mother, and she’d grown up confused about how it was meant to feel. As a child, love had seemed like something angry and cold. Something painful. The psychobabble would have you believe she preferred men who echoed her mother’s low opinion of her. Harry rolled her eyes. Not everything could be her bloody mother’s fault.

Hunter’s voice cut back in. ‘That’s as far as I’d got on Riva. But you don’t need this now anyway, do you?’

Harry picked at a fraying thread on her duvet. ‘I suppose not. But I’ve got a few more names. If you had the time, it might be interesting to find out about them.’

‘What for? You said you weren’t going to do it.’

‘And I’m not. You were right, one dead hacker’s enough. But it doesn’t stop me being curious.’

Hunter was silent. The line crackled with unspoken suspicion, and Harry rushed on, giving him the names of Chavez’s crew.

‘Zubiri doesn’t seem to know too much about them. I shouldn’t really tell you any more, but if you can find anything out, I’d be interested.’

The silence stretched on, like a taut rubber band straining to snap. Eventually, Hunter said,

‘How long will you be out there?’

Harry wound the fraying thread tightly around her thumb, choking off the circulation till her fingertip turned white.

‘Only a few more days.’ She glanced at the map on the bed beside her, eyeing the red-inked route. ‘There’s just something I need to do before I leave.’


Chapter 11

‘I just cannot understand what you’re doing over there. It’s totally bizarre.’

Harry, resisted the urge to make faces into the phone. Her mother had uncharacteristically initiated the call, and so far had used the word ‘bizarre’ three times.

‘I mean, San Sebastián, Harry. Why on earth?’

‘I’ve already explained.’ Harry rounded a bend in the path, her calf muscles knotting against the steep climb. ‘I’ve taken a job here.’

‘In your father’s hometown?’

‘Is there a problem with that?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Harry heard the testy snick-snick of a lighter as her mother fired up a cigarette. She pictured her mouth puckered like a drawstring purse around it, the sunken cheeks accentuating her dramatic bone structure. Her mother was one of the few people who could still smoke with an air of vintage Hollywood.

Harry tugged her map out of her jeans. She’d been walking uphill for the past half-hour, and by her calculations she had to be almost there. She glanced over her shoulder. The road wound away from her in serpentine loops, the traffic now a distant sigh. She continued along the climbing path, the morning sun toasting her bare arms.

Her mother exhaled a hard, impatient puff. ‘It’s quite a coincidence, though, wouldn’t you say? Ending up there, of all places?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What kind of answer is that? Is it a coincidence or isn’t it?’

Harry winced, and considered dodging the question, but what would be the point? Like a bullet from a machine gun, there’d be plenty more where that one came from.

‘The job’s just one of the reasons I came here,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

Harry closed her eyes briefly. The urge to duck the conversation was overwhelming. She tightened her grip on the phone.

‘It’s really not a big deal, Miriam.’

She’d been calling her mother by her Christian name since the day she’d turned eighteen. Her mother had never objected. In fact, she’d seemed relieved, as if she’d never really liked being called Mum. Not by Harry, anyway.

‘If it’s not a big deal,’ Miriam said, ‘then why all the secrecy?’

‘There’s no secrecy. Look, I just thought I’d take the opportunity to do a little digging, that’s all.’

Miriam sucked hard on her cigarette, the line almost crackling with the hiss of flaring embers.

The Martinez lineage never had much airtime when Harry was growing up. Her mother had always managed to sideline the topic, and oozed disapproval whenever Harry and her father spoke Spanish around the house. Not that it happened often. Her father’s long absences and his stint in prison had turned Harry against him for a while, and until recently she’d been more focused on shutting him out than on embracing his family tree. But now all that had changed.

Miriam exhaled.

‘If, by digging, you mean looking up your father’s family, then I think you’re a little late.’ She expelled the last of the smoke with a short laugh. ‘They’re all dead, as far as I know.’

‘Not all of them.’ Harry leaned into the climb, head down. ‘What about Olive?’

Her mother paused. Harry rounded another bend, then stopped. The shadow of a crucifix pooled across the road in front of her like an inkspill. She looked up to see a yellow sandstone church, its gothic spires piercing the sunlight. Crazy-paving brickwork jigsawed across its façade. Next to it was an archway and a sign that read Cementerio de Polloe.

‘That woman’s not family,’ Miriam said eventually.

‘She had a child with Dad’s brother, didn’t she?’

‘And that’s all she did. She never married Cristos, had very little to do with any of us after he and Tobias were killed.’

Harry crossed the small courtyard and tried to recall Olive’s face. She hadn’t seen her since she was four or five, and the memory was hazy: black hair, white skin; sullen mouth too large for her plain face. To a child, she’d looked ugly.

Harry stepped under the archway and into the cemetery. A ribbon of tarmac unravelled into the distance, lined by gloomy, monolithic tombs. The birds seemed noisier this side of the archway, but maybe it was just that all the other sounds had died away.

‘Harry? Are you still there?’

‘I’m here.’

‘You can’t want to talk to that woman.’

‘Why not?’

‘She was nothing to do with us. That’s probably why she left. She didn’t belong, and she knew it.’

Harry experienced an odd pang on Olive’s behalf. Someone else who didn’t belong in her mother’s world.

She shook the feeling off and strolled along the tarmac, eyeing the ornate crypts on either side. Some were bigger than garden sheds, and designed like mini-churches with their own spires and stained-glass windows. Harry noted the elaborate coats of arms on the doors and raised her eyebrows. This was how the wealthy got interred.

Miriam’s throaty voice cut back in. ‘Anyway, who knows where Olive is by now? She could be anywhere.’

‘She’s still here in San Sebastián.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Dad told me a couple of weeks ago.’

‘And how on earth would he know, after all this time? Keeping in touch is hardly one of Salvador’s specialities.’

Harry recalled her father’s chronic domestic truancy and had to admit, her mother had a point.

Harry made her way further along the avenue. The cemetery was laid out in a vast grid that must have stretched for almost half a mile. Daubs of colour stippled the view: reds and yellows; lilacs and pinks. The sea of flowers spoke of a recent church ceremony, and their sweet scent drenched the air.

‘You know how they died, I presume?’ Miriam’s voice sounded thick with smoke. It had deepened over the years to a near-masculine pitch from all the tar. ‘Cristos and Tobias, I mean?’

‘Dad always said it was a car accident.’

‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. Sal never did like to face unpleasant facts.’ She paused to inhale on her cigarette, then said, ‘They were killed twenty-odd years ago in an ETA car-bomb attack.’

Harry stopped in her tracks. ‘Jesus. I didn’t know that. Poor Olive.’

Miriam made a vexed sound, as though sorry she’d inadvertently evoked sympathy for an old enemy. Harry pictured her peeved expression, probably heightened by the knot of silver-blonde hair that yanked her brows into a haughty arch. She looked a good decade younger than her sixty years, though Harry often wondered what would happen if she loosened her hair. Would her face collapse like a punctured sack of flour? She couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother without her merciless topknot. Maybe it was just another way she had of staying in control.

Harry continued along the wide path, inhaling the dense perfume of flowers. By now, the grandiose crypts had given way to traditional headstones, though these were still large and imposing. Most were engraved in Spanish, but some bore inscriptions in Euskara, the impenetrable language of the Basques. Language seemed to define this unique people. Ancient, complex and once-forbidden, it seemed to be the crux of who they were, along with their fervent independence. Everyone knew the Basques were fiercely proud of their identity. Harry envied them that.

‘Look, for heaven’s sake, Harry, just what is all this about?’

Harry took her time about answering, the only way she had of imposing any control. She strolled past the headstones, browsing through the names: Familia Alvarez; Familia Hernando. Eventually, she said,

‘Everybody needs to know where they come from, don’t they?’

Familia Constancio; Familia Corrales.

Miriam snorted. ‘Is that what this is about? Discovering your roots? Believe me, you can know too much about those.’ She took a quick pull on her cigarette. ‘And once you know a thing, you can’t shake it off again, either.’

Harry turned off the main path into a narrower walkway. The graves were smaller here. Many bore photographs that had been glazed on to black ceramic plaques. Harry stopped in front of one, a portrait of a silver-haired lady with a shy smile. She read the inscription:

Tu hija no te olvida. Your daughter will never forget you.

Harry blinked, aware of her throat constricting. She swallowed and moved on.

‘All I want is a sense of where Dad grew up. Where his home was, what his family was like.’ She managed a smile. ‘Who knows, I might even settle down here.’

Her mother gave a shriek of laughter. ‘Oh, God, don’t be naive, Harry. You never settle anywhere, do you?’

Harry’s cheeks burned. Miriam went on.

‘Let’s face it, fitting in just isn’t your thing, is it? You don’t have the knack. Even at home, you were always the odd one out.’ Her mother paused, and when she spoke again her tone was faintly mocking. ‘You don’t really belong anywhere, do you?’

Something shifted in Harry’s chest, something hard that ached. Suddenly she was seven years old again, lying on the floor for hours outside her mother’s room, her face pressed to the crack under the door, wondering when her mother would come outside again and talk to her.

Harry clamped her mouth shut. Jesus, she’d thought she was over all that crap. She picked up her pace, her eyes still flicking across the headstones, and aimed for an offhand tone.

‘Well, it doesn’t much matter.’ Familia Cortez; Familia Barillas. ‘For all I know, this job won’t even come off.’

‘I see. And if it doesn’t, you’ll leave San Sebastián?’

‘Maybe.’

Miriam paused, then abruptly wound up the call, as though suddenly she’d lost all interest. Harry sighed and shoved the phone back in her pocket. Stupid to have shared anything personal with her. The woman pounced on vulnerability like a hawk on a fieldmouse, and it wasn’t like Harry to let her guard down. The damn graveyard must have made her sentimental.

She continued browsing through the headstones. Familia Soliz; Familia Verano. Then her step faltered, and she felt her extremities tingle.

Familia Martinez.

Harry held her breath and moved in closer, a light buzz travelling along her arms. She scanned the most recent inscriptions, just to make sure:

Cristos Martinez, 1 Martxoa 1947 – 3 Apirila 1987

Tobias Martinez, 8 Maiatza 1971 – 3 Apirila 1987

Harry stared at the dates. Her cousin, Tobias, had died a month before his sixteenth birthday. She’d been barely seven at the time. She shook her head, fingers pressed to her lips, and scanned the older generations of her family that lay here; all long gone, and none of whom she’d ever met. The notion triggered a squeezing sensation in her chest.

Her father’s knowledge of his own ancestors was infuriatingly sketchy. He’d only lived in San Sebastián until he was ten, at which point his mother, Clara, a robust and cheerful Dubliner, had insisted on moving home in order to give her sons an Irish education.

‘At least, that’s the excuse she gave,’ Harry’s father had said, when they’d talked in Dublin a few weeks earlier. ‘If you ask me, she just wanted to escape her Basque mother-in-law.’ He’d winked at her, smiling. ‘My grandmother was a formidable woman. Aginaga, her name was. Cristos and I used to call her Dragonaga. She tried to prevent us from leaving San Sebastián, but my mother got her way in the end.’

Harry found their names on the headstone: Clara Martinez and her husband, Ramiro. Both had died before Harry was born. Far below them, she found Aginaga, who’d died at the age of ninety-four. Harry blinked. If she was reading the names and dates right, the old lady had outlived all five of her offspring. Harry felt an ache of compassion for her formidable great-grandmother. What use was longevity if it meant you saw your children die?

The only other ancestor her father remembered was his own great-grandmother, Irune. ‘She was Dragonaga’s mother-in-law. I was six when she died, and all I remember is feeling very relieved. She was terrifying. Even Dragonaga was afraid of her.’




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