The Dead Line

by Holly Watt

‘Rebecca, she’s called.’ Miranda snarled the name. ‘Becky.’

  ‘And what do you want?’ Casey bit a fingernail.

  ‘I don’t know. I think Tom might have finally had enough. And I don’t know that I can blame him.’

  Miranda turned away.

  I’m going to save my marriage, Miranda had said to Casey a few days later, knowing the words were ridiculous. As if her marriage were a drowning damsel, caught in a rip tide.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘No. Let’s talk about something else.’

  Casey looked across the bustling restaurant. Le Diplomate, appropriately enough; Washington’s interpretation of a French bistro. Casey stared at the mosaic-tiled floors disapprovingly, as the noise rose around them. Tiles were the worst for undercover work.

  They were in the heart of America’s capital, just off the thoroughly gentrified Logan Circle. All around them, gossip ebbed and flowed. The lobbyists, the politicians, the journalists: they all came here.

  Hessa was sitting across the table from Casey, awkward in a big wicker chair.

  ‘Relax,’ said Casey. ‘You’ve got to look like you belong here.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Hessa tried to adjust.

  ‘And never apologise.’

  From her red leather banquette, Casey was watching the entrance. Anyone walking in would only see the back of Hessa’s head, anyway. It didn’t matter that she was nervous.

  After landing in Washington, it hadn’t taken Casey long to find out where Bantham would be for lunch today.

  There was a delegation of British MPs in DC, over to discuss trade relations. A jolly, they all knew. Cross-party, very cosy. A Labour MP had happily handed over the delegation’s schedule to the Post’s political editor, hoping he was dropping his Tory colleagues in the soup. It would never occur to an MP that Bantham was the target.

  Lunch, today’s schedule read. DC restaurant tbc.

  It had taken ten minutes to ring round; only a few restaurants fitted the bill.

  A smart English accent and a mumbled title never failed: I’m calling from Lord Gidleigh’s office. Just ringing about the VIP party today. The British parliamentarians, yes. The Foreign Affairs select committee. Just checking you knew two of the guests were gluten-free?

  There was confusion at Cafe Milano. Polite bemusement at Fiola Mare. And a casual, oh sure, I’ll make a note about that, from Le Diplomate.

  ‘You have a good day now.’

  ‘You too.’

  And here they were.

  Casey watched the MPs crowding through the entrance, full of noise and importance. They wouldn’t recognise her face, she knew. She kept away from Parliament for exactly that reason. She identified several MPs, pontificating loudly. In the heart of the throng, she could see Alicia Dalgleish, the bright young thing of British politics, with an interest in surrogacy, smiling and chatting. She was talking to a pretty blonde woman, probably some backbench MP.

  Now Casey waited for the group to settle, in a flurry of menus and water, still or sparkling, and would-you-like-some-bread?

  She had spotted Bantham in his smart suit and green silk tie as he walked through the doors. Light brown hair was smoothed back from a neat parting, above a sharp, pale face. It had been hard to find a photograph of him; diplomats were careful. Casey had trawled his university archive in the end. Oxford, of course. Sepia pose, distant eyes.

  The consummate diplomat, Bantham’s eyes darted around the restaurant, noting all the Washington players. Casey felt his eyes on her for a second, before they flicked on. When the Tory MP sitting next to Bantham dripped a spot of olive oil on her shirt, he whisked out a silk handkerchief.

  Hessa’s nervousness had disappeared, Casey noticed, as soon the MPs arrived in the restaurant. The actress, on her stage. Now Hessa was an elegant young executive, graceful in a navy suit, her shiny dark bob gleaming in the light. Casey smiled at her.

  A few tables beyond Hessa and Casey, an up-and-coming Texan congressman was holding court. Casey knew that Bantham would not be able to resist a quick hello.

  She waited.

  It didn’t take long. Just after the starter, she saw Bantham push back his chair. At once, Casey was on her feet, strolling down the restaurant, smoothing her expensive suit, with its charcoal pencil skirt.

  ‘Gabriel Bantham?’ As they passed, Casey held out her hand with a smile. She watched him fumble for her name. ‘Katie Faraday. We met in London, a few years ago now.’

  Katie was a favourite name. Same first syllable, enough to make Casey’s head turn. But it could be Catherine or Catrina, Katherine or Kathryn. Katja, even, at a push. Katie turned an easy research trawl into a lengthy challenge.

  ‘Of course,’ he said smoothly. ‘How lovely to see you again, Katie.’

  ‘And I see you’re here with Ali Dalgleish,’ Casey glanced across at the table of MPs. ‘I bumped into her at Congress yesterday.’

  Because Alicia Dalgleish, tipped for promotion in the next reshuffle, would have met a hundred people in a couple of hours, and would nod automatically at the mention of a Katie.

  ‘She enjoyed her day there,’ agreed Bantham, a flex of American in his voice.

  ‘And now you’re based at the embassy in DC?’ Casey spoke with a smile, halfway between business and flirtation. He reflected it.

  ‘Yes.’ Bantham was unsuspicious. ‘I’ve been there for a few months now. It’s a fantastic city.’

  ‘You know’ – a careful pause – ‘that could be interesting to my client. He’s having a slight problem with his UK citizenship at the moment.’ A brief smile. ‘We like to get things right for the client.’

  The client. Definite article. One man, anonymous, who could monopolise a whole team. The family office, the private office: those were for the truly astronomical fortunes, and everybody knew it.

  ‘Might you be free for lunch soon?’ Casey went on. ‘It could be so helpful to have a chat.’

  As she spoke, she handed over the business card. Heavy cream card, embossed in gold.

  Bantham handed over his own card, without even thinking about it.

  ‘Great,’ she said: always be the one to break the contact. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  And he watched her strut away across the restaurant.

  The next day, she was waiting in the palatial restaurant of the Four Seasons, poised in one of the big comfortable chairs.

  ‘The Four Seasons?’ Dash had asked. ‘Really? The editor is kicking up about expenses already.’

  ‘It’s what Bantham would expect.’ Casey was firm. ‘And it’s got carpet to blot out noise, and nice big gaps between the tables so no one else can overhear anything. It’s perfect.’

  I’m so sorry to bother you with such a bizarre request about carpets of all the wretched things, she had summoned the same voice from Lord Gidleigh’s office, but I am trying to find a restaurant to take my mother for lunch. She’s very deaf these days, and I was worrying about the sound levels.

  Oh, sure, don’t you worry. Yes, ma’am, it’s all carpeted in our restaurant. We look forward to hosting you. You have a nice day now.

  ‘Well, write a sodding review of it for the paper, at least,’ Dash grumbled. ‘We can publish it after the story runs.’

  If it runs, he didn’t say. Casey knew Dash didn’t quite believe in this story. Not yet.

  Now Casey straightened a fork, twitched a napkin and moved a vase of white irises an inch to the left. She glanced in a mirror to her left, checking the camera, and that all the wires were carefully hidden. In the mirror, she looked like any other glossy businesswoman. Mirrors reflect the soul, she’d read once. And vampires have no soul, and no reflection.

  Sitting to Casey’s right was a polite Indonesian man, in a very expensive suit. He turned to Casey, and adjusted his Rolex.

  ‘I’m good to go,’ Ibrahim said, in a strong New York accent.

  ‘All Bahasa from now,’ she warned, with a grin. ‘Mr Halim.’

 
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘My granny would be proud.’

  Gabriel Bantham didn’t speak Bahasa, Casey knew.

  She knew that because the day before, she had called the embassy, and asked to be put through to Bantham. While the call was transferred, she passed the phone to Ibrahim. When Bantham answered from his office, Ibrahim had spoken in the Bahasa language of millions of Indonesians.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Bantham had apologised, so politely. ‘I don’t speak . . . Do you speak any other languages? I’m so sorry about this.’

  Bantham had tried Mandarin and Japanese and Hindu on Ibrahim, but it was clear that the diplomat didn’t have a word of Bahasa.

  It hadn’t taken long to build the rest of the story. First, Casey had called a stringer pal in Djakarta who laughed and posted a few photographs on her popular blog of Mr Halim, the celebrated philanthropist.

  I’ll send through some photographs of Ibrahim.

  I’ll backdate them. When can I delete them?

  A couple of weeks? I’ll call you. Coy references to billions would be helpful.

  You owe me.

  I do.

  Next, Casey put up a brief article on the Post business section about wealth management. The article listed several world-famous family offices. It noted, in passing, that the Halim family’s vast fortune was being invested through a new, but impeccable office in Zug. Casey had found a name for this new family office by stealing an English-Latin dictionary off one of the Post’s more pompous columnists and opening it at random.

  A glossy website for Gradibus Capital AG – it was password-protected naturally, with a generic photograph of Lake Zug as its backdrop – offered Swiss and London phone numbers.

  Tillie answered the London number with a Cheltenham Ladies’ sneer; the Swiss line connected straight to Hessa’s burner mobile: Gradibus, wie kann ich dir helfen? In both cases, Bantham had ended the calls almost immediately, apparently convinced.

  A cheerfully resting actor, Ibrahim lolled back against his seat now, as Bantham hurried towards them.

  Casey watched him approach, picking her character like a book from the shelf. She would reflect his mannerisms now. Terse to terse, flirt to flirt, nudged along so carefully. A blank canvas, a broken mirror, and very bad luck.

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’ Bantham knew he wasn’t.

  ‘May I present you to Mr Halim.’ Casey bowed her head respectfully towards Ibrahim.

  ‘How do you do?’ Bantham half-bowed.

  Ibrahim nodded his head.

  ‘I am afraid Mr Halim does not speak much English,’ said Casey. Turning her head, she spoke the few words of Bahasa Ibrahim had taught her on the way to the restaurant. Ibrahim nodded thoughtfully at Bantham.

  For the first half an hour of lunch, Casey and Bantham made idle conversation. Although Bantham chatted easily to her, Casey knew his attention was on Ibrahim.

  Ibrahim largely ignored them, occasionally making phone calls in rapid-fire Bahasa.

  After three-quarters of an hour, Hessa approached the table.

  ‘I am very sorry to interrupt, Ms Faraday, but you wanted to be reminded about Mr Halim’s phone call with the Prime Minister. At 2.30 p.m.’

  ‘Of course,’ Casey waved her away.

  Hessa sat down a table away, pulled out her laptop and started tapping.

  ‘I always enjoy lunch here,’ said Bantham. ‘You get to see everyone in the end.’

  There was a hush as a woman with long blonde hair strutted in, almost bouncing out of her tight black suit.

  ‘Goldie Robinson,’ said Bantham. ‘She’s claiming to have had an affair with that California senator, and well . . .’

  They both pondered the blonde’s lively film career.

  ‘Do you know how you come up with your porn name?’ Casey grinned. ‘Your first pet, and your mother’s maiden name. I’d be Bunny Beeching. How about you?’

  ‘Beau,’ Bantham screwed up his face, smiling. ‘Kilmartin. Beau was a dog. A little Jack Russell.’

  ‘That’s a good name,’ Casey laughed. ‘Why are the MPs out here, anyway?’

  ‘Cross-border trade discussions.’ Bantham faked a yawn. ‘But quite coincidentally, they’re out here at the same time as a certain African president. There’s been some kerfuffle over an oil well, apparently. Some British company wants to get drilling, but a rival bunch also have a claim.’ He laughed. ‘And if the MPs happened to bump into the president at, say, a function at the Washington Ballet tonight, I am sure there will be a discreet nudge.’

  And the situation would be resolved, Casey thought. She grinned broadly at Bantham. He was almost advertising his skills.

  At a quarter past two, Ibrahim stood up. He nodded his head to Bantham, and struggled for the words: Good – bye.

  They smiled him away.

  When he had gone, the waiter brought out coffee, topped up wineglasses, folded the thick linen napkins. Patiently, Casey waited for him to go.

  ‘Mr Halim has been having some difficulty getting a visa for Britain,’ Casey said, baldly, when he did.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Bantham. ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

  ‘There are,’ Casey spoke in careful transatlantic syllables, ‘misplaced concerns about his businesses back in Indonesia.’

  ‘It can be very tricky,’ nodded Bantham.

  ‘Would you have any advice?’ asked Casey.

  They talked for a while, Bantham giving the advice that any diplomat would dole out.

  Time. Patience. Top immigration lawyers.

  But there was a hesitation, now and again. Almost a suggestion. His words trailing away into a silence.

  Finally, Casey turned towards him.

  ‘Is there a way, Mr Bantham, that we could streamline the process? Mr Ibrahim is such a very busy man. And’ – a pause – ‘a most generous one.’

  Bantham had done this before, she knew at once. The awkwardness gone in the smoothest stream of words.

  It was simple, Bantham’s plan. Easy.

  A junior minister. A pet project. The most generous dollop of sponsorship. And afterwards, he would be helpful, the minister. The quietest of words, that’s all this sort of thing would need.

  ‘It doesn’t take much, I assure you.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy.’ Casey met his eyes.

  ‘It is.’ He was blunt.

  And for Bantham, the consultancy fee, at first. And a success fee later, maybe. It always sounds so proper. A bonus. A signing fee. Nothing so vulgar as a bribe.

  All paid into an offshore account, of course.

  ‘You spend so much time abroad,’ she nearly winked at him. ‘Anyway.’

  She was signing the bill to her room, partly because that meant she didn’t have to pull out a bankcard, emblazoned with her real name.

  They were smiling now. They understood each other.

  Upstairs? The quick suggestion in his eyes.

  Not today. But she added a hint of regret.

  They parted with a handshake, a nod.

  ‘We’ll talk soon.’

  ‘We will, Katie Faraday.’

  ‘A pleasure.’

  ‘All mine.’

  6

  When Casey got back to her room and flopped on the grey velvet ottoman, there was a message waiting for her. Call me.

  ‘One of the women in the camp found me.’ It was Savannah, the words pouring out of her in a rush. ‘I had been asking around, Case. I could hear you really needed to know.’

  ‘Thanks, Savannah. It’s so kind of you.’ Casey imagined the aid worker sitting in her small hotel room in Cox’s Bazar. She was short, Savannah, and fizzing with energy in her charity-branded T-shirt and bright pink jeans. Her long red hair pulled back into a plait, her face plastered in suncream because her skin burned so easily.

  ‘The thing is,’ Savannah went on. ‘I wasn’t really getting anywhere. To be honest with you, I’ve never been convinced the people in the camps know details about trafficking. There are lots of rumou
rs, sure. But if you think about it, by the time someone’s been trafficked, and realised what they’ve got themselves into, they’re miles away from the camp. And they never come back.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Casey. ‘But I suppose they all know enough to be scared.’

  She thought of a group of teenage girls, in their brightly coloured dresses, giggling by one of the wells in the camps. They wore the thick eye make-up that all the Rohingya girls wore, even the small children.

  A man had smiled back at them; just a smile at first.

  But there was a sudden explosion of fury from a mother, as she charged down the slope. Get away! You get away from my daughter. We’ll get you . . . We’ll . . .

  He would be back, though, that man, the next day, and the next. More friendly, and less shocking, every single time.

  ‘Sure,’ said Savannah. ‘The refugees know to be scared all right. But the who, and the how, I don’t think they know that, really. It’s in the interests of the traffickers that no one knows exactly how they operate. Stop it, you bugger.’ A slam. ‘Sorry. Cockroach.’

  But the refugees had guessed some of the routines. Casey had spoken to a mahji, one of the refugees’ leaders, in the Balukhali camp. So casually, he had pulled out his phone, and scrolled through the photographs. This is what we did to a kidnapper, the fixer had translated coolly. Look. See.

  The man – she thought it was a man – was mangled far beyond survival, his face unrecognisable. A pearly gleam of bone showed through, here and there.

  We sorted him. A smile.

  ‘And there’s the shame too, for the families.’ Savannah was still talking. ‘Even if the mothers know what has happened to their daughters, and where they are, it would bring such shame on the whole family to acknowledge that their girls have been taken that they don’t want to talk about it. They hide it, usually.’

  ‘So what have you heard now?’

  Savannah’s voice changed. ‘One of the mothers came to me this afternoon, just as I was walking out of the camp. She was waiting on the path, right away from her section. I’d spoken to a few of the women that I work with regularly about what you wanted to know. Asked them to put out the message.’

  The charities had set up systems to communicate with the camp residents, usually about health advice. Trained refugees went from tent to tent, recommending vaccinations and sharing other bits and pieces of advice. It was a crucial system, in a semi-literate society. Private, too.