by Les Cowan
I had known Andrei at school. We’d even gone out for a bit. He wasn’t very good-looking but he was smart, ambitious. We were both outsiders and we shared our dreams. He wanted to go into business, so he studied Apple, General Electric, Hewlett Packard, and others. Bill Gates was his hero. He used to say, “Imagine, a business that started in a college dorm that now rules the world. I’ll do that one day.” I’d like to know if he has, but of course there’s no way I can find that out now. Sometimes I watch TV and hope I might see his face on the news. Anyway, when he contacted me again I was working in an office and still saving. At that rate it was going to take twenty years. He gave me a way to make it happen quicker. So, first of all I worked for him. Then I worked with him. Then we moved in together and worked together. But I always told him I was going to leave. I didn’t want there to be any doubt.
Once I started collecting packages from Brest on the border and taking them on to Orsha, Slutsk, Mogilev, or Minsk, my little egg really started to grow. Andrei was organized, his instructions clear. He made me learn them and not write anything down but I didn’t find it hard. I was a college student going home to my family for a weekend, a granddaughter travelling to grandma’s funeral, a secretary on my way to start a new job, plus a dozen other variations. I was good at it. He had a hacker friend that could usually give us a tip-off from the police computers whenever there was to be a major crackdown; then we’d lie low for a bit. Sometimes it took a bit of “fraternizing” when papers – or packages – were checked. But I was good at that too. I’m not bad-looking – at least I wasn’t then. So Andrei was pleased and always paid the agreed amount and on time. “Well done, Tati,” he would say. “You’re a natural. I know I can trust you.”
Then finally the big day came. I had paid the $5,000 a year before and now I had the ten. All the plans were made. Date, time, pickup point. I told Mum I was going to visit a friend who had just moved to Minsk. She didn’t seem to care much, and Dad was usually drunk when he wasn’t driving lorries full of sheep – sometimes even when he was. Only Andrei knew. They only let you take minimal stuff so I packed my little black backpack and waited by the entrance to the railway station. It was raining, the van was late, and I was wet and cold by the time they arrived. But I didn’t care. This was my new beginning. Andrei came to see me off and waved from under the awning of the shops. I’d like to see him again, but the way things are now that’s not going to happen. I’d like to see Mum and even Dad again. I’d like to see my home town, the school, the church, the park. Anything except these four walls.
Chapter 3
GORGIE DALRY
Diana Krall was singing “’S Wonderful” and David believed it truly was. What they call the Jazz Age is often criticized for being superficial and trivial. All that glitter and glamour for rich parasites like Jay Gatsby, while salt-of-the-earth Steinbeck characters were starving in the dust bowl. That’s true of course at one level, he thought, but on the other hand it did bring out some wonderfully witty composers and wordsmiths. And George and Ira were up there with the best. Maybe they even were the best. David had been humming along to their sophisticated melodies and perfectly crafted lyrics for forty years and they seemed as fresh as ever. He could always find something applicable to the moment. There had been a time when, like Fred Astaire, he had the constant feeling there might be trouble ahead, but now he found himself humming “’S Wonderful”. The song was all about utter astonishment that the girl in question should really, truly care. Well, she apparently did and he was duly as astonished as required.
Sunday afternoon was his favourite time of the week. Drinkmonger just down the hill kept a few Ribera del Dueros (though at eye-watering prices compared with Madrid’s), which seemed to bind his former life in Spain to the present reality. Spanish sunshine bottled. Sunday morning church was great when it worked. Passing on something of value, encouraging the flock, noticing unspectacular but significant signs of growth in damaged lives – all good. But Sunday afternoon was his time for unwinding and allowing himself some satisfaction in it all. He and Gillian had fallen into an unspoken routine alternating between David’s Bruntsfield flat – now finally warm and comfortable – and Gillian’s posher premises in Marchmont. They had also come to alternate between Spanish and Scottish. David did merluza en salsa verde while Gillian did Balmoral chicken. Or she did a perfect paella while he did roast pork with fantastic crackling – very hard to get in Spain. And nobody cared. Southside folk knew their minister had a girlfriend – what a hopelessly inadequate word that was – and that she wasn’t from their sort of background, but they trusted him – and her – and couldn’t deny the difference it had made. It was barely a shell of a man who had come to them a year ago, but now he seemed to be a human being again. Sunday evening services had been abandoned as both unnecessary and in the way of family time and Monday was his day off. So David’s Sunday afternoon was like everyone else’s Friday night. The weekend starts here. ’S awful nice. ’S paradise. ’S what I love to see.
With the post-service formalities and handshaking over, they went back to whichever venue was due and put on some music – Diana Krall, Paul Desmond, or maybe a relaxing bossa nova from The Sound, Stan (the Man) Getz. Then that other magical sound, a cork popping, and an hour or two of unwinding as the Sunday lunch slowly cooked. And the talk just as nourishing as the food. They both felt they had a lifetime of catching up to do; the eight months they had been together had done nothing yet to reduce the flow. Memories, ideas, points of view, even trivia and tonterías – it was all good. The undemanding comfort of trivial things. Then whatever they fancied, depending on the weather: walking in the Braids, high tea at the Old Bakehouse in West Linton, or maybe Mozart at Queen’s Hall. Finally back home at the end of the day.
David was feeling particularly content. He had just finished a series on “The I ams of John”. Today had been “I am the Good Shepherd” from John 10:11. Even preaching in English he still couldn’t help thinking in Spanish. Yo soy el buen pastor. El buen pastor da su vida por las ovejas. It was such a perfect passage for talking about relationship contrasted with religion. What could be less like a religion than sheep and a shepherd? Try getting sheep to even walk through a gate together, far less draw up statements of faith, creeds and councils, doctrines and dogmas, or a sheepy sort of hierarchy. All they know is the voice of the shepherd and follow accordingly. Despite where the analogy broke down, David remained convinced this was the heart of the matter – the irreducible core – that needed to be constantly reinforced. And it was so beautifully simple: sheep, a shepherd, wolves, and walls. Neat. And this morning he felt he had maybe finally got it right. So he was a bit surprised when, a forkful of Andalusian lamb halfway to his mouth, Gillian had said, “Not sure I was 100 percent with you this morning, caballero.”
“Mmm. Why’s that?”
“Well, I entirely get the relationship/religion thing.” Gillian paused, sipping her glass of Ribera. “I remember Mariano saying exactly the same when we were at Warehouse 66 in Madrid. No problems with that.”
David also took another sip to help the lamb on its way.
“What then?”
“The bit about the sheep following because they know his voice and not going after strangers who would do them harm.”
“And…”
“Well, just that it’s entirely untrue. If you look at the history of the Christian religion, I mean. People are constantly deceived and damaged. Heretic leaders, rival Popes, tele-evangelists, all that stuff. It’s just not as simple as sheep hearing the shepherd. Or have I got the wrong end of the stick?”
David munched for a moment, both for thinking time and so as not to be spraying the table with fragments of lamb and garlic.
“Yes, that’s a slightly different angle from what I was taking, but I see your point.”
“I suppose it’s all inevitable – humans being who they are – both the deceivers and the deceived. And I’m not arguing against the relationship thing
; that makes perfect sense. The problem is, how on earth are you supposed to tell one from the other?”
“The good guys and the bad?”
“Maybe not so clear as that but it’s pretty murky waters, isn’t it? Like which varieties are going to turn out to be following the shepherd – more or less – and which are more about fleecing the sheep. Before we met I would never have even considered church. If I had I wouldn’t have had any idea where to go – St Giles or some backstreet bunch with a website and a TV channel? D’you see what I mean?”
David took another mouthful, topped up their glasses again, then got up and changed the CD.
“I suppose I was taking it from a more personal point of view, outside of the structures. But you’ve absolutely got a point. What I can’t stand is tele-evangelists on stage repenting of their Ashley Madison account and being embraced and forgiven by their wives – all because it just got hacked and posted online. And the whole thing live on cable.”
“Exactly. So, speaking basically as an outsider, how are we supposed to know who to trust? Who’s not going to have a scandal next week? Who’s worth putting your faith in?”
“Nobody, I suppose, including me. I suppose we would say you can only trust the shepherd.”
“But the reality is that human beings are the way in. Front-of-house staff, if you like. That’s how people hear and learn – from another human being. Do you just have to pay your money and hope for the best?”
“Maybe I’ve never had a really bad experience so I don’t see the problem so clearly. But, as you say, someone who has no way of knowing could easily be led up the garden path. Maybe we just have to accept there will always be rogues and encourage due diligence, like you would with your car insurance or the bank.”
“Speaking of which…”
David gathered up the plates and took them over to the sink, then peered into the fridge and found two chilled plates of arroz con leche.
“Yes, I know. I haven’t forgotten.”
“What’d you reckon then?”
“To be honest I’ve got that sinking feeling but I’m trying not to think of it. In fact, I’ve got an idea for this afternoon that might take our minds off it.”
“Pray tell.”
“That bloke that took the bullet meant for me – they’ve finally given me his address. I thought I ought to go around there and apologize.”
Gillian’s silver MX5 snaked around the maze of one ways approaching Haymarket, then swung up Dalry Road past Hay Sushi and the Passion Hut, tattoo parlours and cafés, then downhill heading west.
“I think this is it,” David said, Edinburgh A-Z on his knee and a scribbled address in his hand. “In between the Saltyard Café and Dalry Primary. Cathcart Place.”
Gorgie Dalry wasn’t an area he was too familiar with, but it didn’t feel that different from Villa de Vallecas in Madrid: low rent, cheap shops, old housing, and few of the more obvious signs of prosperity. The Villa had been an important place for him, where he’d begun to see things differently. Gillian swung around the right turn, then they were onto backstreet cobbles.
“This is it – Duff Street. Hmm… Looks better than it sounds.”
Many of the old Victorian tenements had been knocked down and replaced by modern four-storey housing association flats. They looked smart, well cared-for, and in good condition.
“So not so Duff after all?” Gillian paused at the junction. “What number?”
They drew in at the one remaining old-style tenement, a narrow fringe of scrappy shrubs behind railings along the front and a To Let sign jammed above the common front door.
“Top floor. Naturally. Flat A. Once more, dear friends…”
“… into the breach.”
Together they squeezed past bikes, buggies, undelivered post, and what looked like the remains of chicken chop suey and trudged up three floors. More bikes shackled to the banister at the top. The door of flat A had a World of Warcraft poster on it and was slightly ajar.
“Seems to be this one,” Gillian whispered, as if in the hope it might turn out not to be after all.
“Here we go. I did call him to say we were coming…”
David knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Waited. Then pushed the door open a few inches and shouted. Still nothing. Then a scuffley sound from within and finally a bellow like a battle cry.
“Yessss! You are mince!!!” A short guy like a baby gorilla, about as wide as tall, emerged from the darkness with a grin on a face that was too unshaven to be designer but not quite enough to be hipster. He had on torn black jeans and a black T-shirt featuring a Star Wars stormtrooper with his head in his hands, with the caption “These really were the Droids you were looking for”.
“Sorry about that. Just plastered the Death Star. It blows up in such cool way!” Then, as if suddenly back in the twenty-first century, he wiped a paw and stuck it out. “Hi, I’m Spade. You David Hidalgo? You really should be dead y’know.”
David and Gillian edged into a dark hall littered with unopened post, several still shrink-wrapped copies of the yellow pages, and fliers for double glazing and takeaways.
“Nice of you to come round. I’ve got the bullet in a jar if you want to see it? Sorry about the mess. Not too many visitors. Let’s try the living room.”
They followed as far as Spade opening the door and peeking in then changing his mind.
“Maybe not. Kitchen then.”
This time they actually got inside before everyone could see the problem. A huge TV dominated one wall, with a maze of trailing cables to hand controllers dumped on a red corduroy sofa littered with dirty dinner plates, takeaway tubs, and notebooks. The one free sitting space was deeply indented, no doubt to fit the behind that was just ahead of them. Where the sink should be stood a teetering tower of dirty plates and cups seeming to defy gravity.
“So… maybe not in here either… I guess it’ll have to be the office.”
Backing out again, they followed their host through yet another door, this time into almost total darkness.
“Sorry about this. Just a sec.” Spade hunkered down a shade too quickly for Gillian to look in another direction. “There we go. Let there be light.” And there was. It was weird. Having realized this wasn’t the Ideal Home show flat, the state of the “office” was more surprising than anything they had seen so far. It was meticulously tidy and set up like a control room. The window was completely blacked out and the walls were all painted matt black. In front of them was a full-width work surface with three widescreen monitors and matching keyboards. Above were racks of electronics with rows of winking lights. One side wall held another rack of shelves with neatly labelled ring binders showing month and year. Trays of CDs occupied the lower shelves. The remaining wall was almost entirely taken up by a whiteboard with columns of dates and numbers and random strings of characters that looked like they might be passwords.
“Sorry the rest of the place is a bit of a mess. Like I said, not too many visitors. Have a seat.”
Spade pulled out a massive black leather CEO swivel armchair, spun it around, and dropped his entire weight into it. The chair gave a soft hiss. Looking around, David and Gillian found two orange plastic stacking chairs with nothing on them. They were the only furniture that wasn’t jet black.
“Sorry… can I just ask,” Gillian began. “Spade? We’re looking for Danny McGuire.”
“And you’ve found him. More or less. I’m only Danny to my mum now.”
“Why Spade then?”
“’Cause I dig for stuff. Not obvious?”
“What for?”
“Anything that’s buried that somebody wants to find – information, that is, not spuds. I thought about calling the business Spade-you-like – you know, like the baked potato chain – but I didn’t think they’d get the joke in Hong Kong. That’s where a lot of the work comes from nowadays. So, to answer your question, I dig for anything somebody wants to know that’s on a computer somewhere that they’re willing to p
ay for.” Spade nodded towards a safe under the desk. “And there seems to be a lot of stuff some people want hidden that other people want to find. Which is a good job for me. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
David cleared his throat.
“Well. My name’s David Hidalgo – you know that already. I think I owe you an apology. About that bullet.”
“Aw, no worries. Shoulder’s almost back to normal. Not your fault. Mind you, I did drop off the leader boards for a bit. Knackers your game play having only one working arm an’ that. Anyway, it’s dead right again now. They never did tell me what that was all about though.”
David explained about drugs, abduction, the hunt for a missing girl, and a SWAT assault team in southern Spain. Finally the guess that someone associated with Raúl Álvarez, the big boss behind it all, had leaned out of a car window and taken a shot at a crowd of pedestrians on South Clerk Street. They’d shot the wrong man. Spade nodded in a vague sort of way through most of the story. The only bit he made David go back over and repeat until he understood it perfectly was the code that had helped reveal where Jen MacInnes, the missing girl, was being held.