Exposure

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “Not really. Other than that we have to find Hassan and persuade him to speak to us. The fact that Kazuma has helped us is in our favour but other than that we can’t guarantee Hassan will tell us anything… well, we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  He followed her into her room. Helene felt irked by his too casual assumption of invitation. She lowered herself carefully to one of the floor cushions and eased her aching hip into a cross-legged position, then opened the laptop. It hadn’t occurred to her to try to hide it – not in a Yakuza-owned guesthouse. Besides there wasn’t anything about their business that Matsumoto didn’t seem to know.

  Charlie stared out of the window, unspeaking, his mind clearly somewhere else.

  Helene tried to ignore his silent presence and instead surfed to the website that Charlie had created.

  ‘You have 1 comment.’

  Her pulse fluttered.

  She opened the comment box with some difficulty, her hand trembling over the laptop mousepad.

  Helene read it quickly: NO-ONE WILL BELIEVE YOU.

  She read it again and then read it out loud as if it could possibly make more sense that way.

  “We’ve had a hit on our website,” she said. “It says: ‘No one will believe you.’ What does that mean? Who won’t believe what? I don’t get it?” She looked at Charlie. “What do you think?”

  “It means,” he said slowly, “That they think we know more than we do. It’s a warning to you not to publish.”

  He slumped down next to her and they sat staring at the screen. He was so near that she could feel the damp heat of his body.

  After a short pause, Helene typed in a reply. Before she pressed the ‘send’ button, she showed it to Charlie. A smile tugged at his mouth.

  “Yeah, that’s good,” he said.

  Helene pressed ‘send’ and the message spiralled away: ‘Someone always believes’.

  “The thing is,” said Helene, closing down the laptop, “maybe we really do know more than we realise – we just haven’t put the pieces together yet. Charlie, can you access facial recognition software from here, from this laptop?”

  He nodded, “Yah, I can do that.”

  “What would happen,” said Helene, “if you put in Kazuma’s sketch of the Mystery Man?”

  Charlie shook his head slowly.

  “I’m not sure: facial recognition software works by comparing digital images. A computer program uses algorithms – a maths program, right? It compares landmark features against a database of faces: the relative size, position and shape of the nose, eyes, cheekbones and jaw. Then the computer searches for matches. I think there are too many variables with a sketch because it’s not an exact rendering.”

  He looked up, registering the disappointment on her face.

  “Could we at least try it?” she said.

  He sighed.

  “Honestly, we’d be wasting our time. We’d need to get the original photo from Hassan. Or at least get the name of the person he thinks it is and find an online photo. Sorry, Helene.”

  “Oh, well. It was worth a punt. I don’t suppose there’s any point in emailing the drawing to Hassan, is there?”

  “I doubt it. I mean, what would you do if you got an email like that? I know what I’d do: I’d run like hell and bury myself so deep no-one would ever find me.”

  “I guess so,” agreed Helene sadly. “Well, unless you’ve got a better idea it looks like we’re going to Dubai.”

  Charlie opened his mouth to speak.

  “Before you ask,” interrupted Helene, “no, I haven’t packed a burkini.”

  Charlie laughed.

  “Pity. But I was going to say we should check that he’s definitely going to be in Dubai. Kazuma said he had offices in Riyadh, too.”

  “Fair point. Although I can’t imagine he’s going to advertise his movements at this precise moment – not now he knows he’s being watched.”

  “I disagree,” said Charlie. “He’s better off staying in plain sight and looking like the poster boy for clean living. That way the Feds, or whoever, have nothing to report.”

  “Oh okay,” said Helene, pleasantly surprised by his optimism. “Let’s assume Hassan has an assistant who manages his diary. If I can find out who his customers are I can probably blag the info by pretending to be a secretary from another company.”

  “Good thinking, Bat Woman,” said Charlie.

  Helene raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” she said crisply. “This is my area of expertise now.”

  Charlie mimed locking his lips and Helene frowned in irritation. Turning her back to him, she opened the laptop again. It didn’t take long to find out that one of Hassan’s key customers was a private security firm operating out of west London.

  “I’ll need to use the phone,” said Helene. “Do you think Matsumoto has a secure line that he’d let us use?”

  “I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” replied Charlie. “You feel okay owing him another favour?”

  “No,” said Helene. “Frankly I think this is going to come back and bite us in the backside, but what other choice do we have?”

  Charlie shrugged and stood up. He slid the door closed behind him and Helene was left alone with her thoughts.

  Twenty minutes later she was starting to feel annoyed when he finally returned.

  “Okay, we can use his office: Mayumi has fixed it for us.”

  Helene forced herself to restrain a comment. Arguing with Charlie about the boss’s steely-eyed daughter would get them precisely nowhere. She hated biting her tongue all the time: it didn’t come naturally and it was starting to give her ulcers.

  Charlie led her back to the boss’s office. Helene tried to force herself to keep her eyes from the floor even though they seemed magnetically drawn to the spot where she had seen Bill’s blood. At least the rug hadn’t been replaced yet.

  Helene gave herself a mental shake and prepared her script for getting the information she wanted.

  She dialled the number she’d found on the security company’s website and listened to the ring tone. The call was answered quickly.

  “Good afternoon, Shippos Security. How may I direct your call?”

  “Oh, good afternoon. This is Julie Fielding calling from the International Herald Tribune. I’d like to speak with Mr Fenner, please.”

  There was a hesitation whilst the receptionist decided how to answer.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Fielding, but Mr Fenner isn’t available. All press enquiries have to go through our publicity department: if you’ll just hold the line, please…”

  “No, I really need to speak to Mr Fenner. I’m going to be in London soon and I’d really like to schedule a meeting. Could you put me through to his assistant, please?”

  The receptionist was clearly an old hand at dealing with the Press.

  “I’m sorry but Miss Williams isn’t available at the moment. I can put you through to publicity straight away.”

  “If you could just give me Sadie Williams’ email, I’ll contact her like that,” said Helene.

  “You mean Paula Williams: I’m sorry, Miss Fielding but it’s company policy not to give out personal email addresses. You can contact our publicity department on…”

  “You know what,” said Helene, “I think I’ll just drop in next time I’m in town but thanks for your time.”

  She replaced the receiver with a grin on her face.

  “Got it,” she said. “Paula Williams.”

  Charlie saluted her, smiling.

  “Oh, Queen of Blaggers, I am in awe!”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” replied Helene acidly. “I do this for a living, you know.”

  “What, lying? Pretending to be someone you’re not? And there was I thinking that was just me.”

  He smiled broadly and Helene resisted the urge to throw something heavy at him. He had a knack of tapping into her more aggressive side.

  She took a deep breat
h and dialled again.

  “Masa alkhair, Cube IT Solutions,” said the disembodied voice.

  “Masa alnur,” replied Helene. “This is Paula Williams from Shippos Security. I have a call from Mr Fenner for Mr Ali: may I put it through.”

  “I apologise Miss Williams, but Mr Ali is in our Riyadh office until the conference and then back on Tuesday. Can I…?”

  “Oh, of course,” said Helene. “I’ll call him there. Thank you very much. Ma’assalama.”

  Charlie looked at her.

  “Why did you cut her off? We don’t know where the conference is.”

  “Because,” said Helene, “if I’d have said anymore she’d have guessed that I wasn’t Paula Williams. Besides, there can’t be that many international IT conferences in the next couple of days that feature Shippos Security and Cube Solutions.”

  Charlie was trying very hard not to look impressed.

  “You speak Arabic,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  Helene shrugged.

  “Sure. I lived in Kuwait for several years. I’d have been a pretty poor journalist if I hadn’t.”

  His look was enigmatic. Helene shrugged. Whatever.

  She was also right about finding the IT conference: it took her less than two minutes. She smiled, pleased with herself.

  “So?” said Charlie, frowning enquiringly.

  “Pack your bucket and spade,” said Helene. “We’re going to the seaside.”

  “Bognor Regis?” he said, raising his eyebrows in theatrical disbelief.

  “Close… Bahrain.”

  “Bugger Bognor!” he said.

  “Quite,” said Helene.

  Chapter 14

  Twenty-four hours later, they landed at Bahrain International Airport, a strip of land in the north-east of the archipelago.

  Helene could feel the heat burning through the thin soles of her shoes and her clothes sticking to her on the short walk to the sleek line of waiting taxis. It felt familiar: she’d missed being in this part of the world.

  She had decided to stick with ‘Julie Fielding’ of the International Herald Tribune. There was no point attempting to get a better alias: if Hassan Ali was any good at his job – and she suspected he was – he’d have her banged to rights within minutes, whatever name she used. She figured it was better to make her alias obvious to him in the hope that it would signal her good intentions. She hoped. Or maybe he’d just think she was dangerously inept…

  Charlie called himself Jason Hector, which seemed to fit in with their ‘Helene of Troy’ theme. As he’d said: what better place to hide than in plain view?

  Thankfully the taxi was air-conditioned, although Helene could see that the external temperature gauge was topping 39oC. Mind you, it could get almost that hot in London in a bad year – but usually without the air-con. Cornwall, beautiful Cornwall, was always cooler.

  A dust storm was brewing and the visibility was reducing rapidly. On the short ride from the airport to Manama, Helene stared through the window, gaining hazy impressions of a yellow landscape with palm trees, a thin strip of blue ocean in the distance, all set against a backdrop of high-rises, as the city sped towards them.

  She was glad she didn’t have to breathe the dusty air outside. The air inside the taxi was cool and smelled of spice.

  “So which hotel did you book us in to?” said Helene, breaking the silence.

  Charlie smiled. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Somewhere low key, I hope,” said Helene, not very hopefully.

  He didn’t reply but he looked very pleased with himself.

  The Manama Ritz exceeded every expectation of an elite number of top-class hotels. It had its own 22-berth marina with private island attached. A clutch of small villas faced the sea and the main hotel was the last word in splendour, but with less opulence and more true elegance than Helene had expected.

  The taxi swept them to the entrance and a uniformed flunkey glided towards the car, opening the door with a practised flourish.

  “Nice choice,” she whispered to Charlie. “Subtle.”

  “Nothing but the best for the Herald Tribune,” he replied.

  “On expenses, is it?” enquired Helene.

  Charlie didn’t reply, merely continuing to smile at her.

  At least they wouldn’t have to travel far to the conference: it was being held on site.

  The reception clerk was equally well trained, summoning a guide to show them to their twin-room villa; Helene assumed their minimal luggage was having its own guided tour as it was expertly whisked away out of their sight. The only thing they carried between them was Helene’s shoulder bag and the laptop case.

  Mr Matsumoto had been most helpful in supplying them with fake passports, visas, credit cards and appropriate clothing. It worried Helene, but Charlie had brushed aside her concerns. And with bigger problems to face, Helene had no choice but to let it go. For now, at least.

  Their villa was exquisite. Each of the twin bedrooms was beautifully furnished with rattan doors opening out onto a shaded terrace overlooking the sea. The living room was more comfortable and less corporate than was usually found in such hotels, although they’d possibly overdone the display of vases and anodyne photos in frames. But at least it was equipped with every possible electronic entertainment device and technology to ease one’s visit.

  A conference programme had been thoughtfully laid out on the coffee table. It said that Hassan Ali from Cube IT was speaking at 10.30am. Very thoughtful of the hotel staff. Useful to know.

  Helene continued her tour, wandering through the villa. Her bath, almost big enough to do laps in, overlooked a small, private garden. At present, the tub was filled with cold water and scattered with rose petals. She felt for the poor maid who would have to scoop those out on a regular basis. The villa also had its own private infinity pool, just a squeak from the real life ocean; the blues of each body of water not quite matching: a lapse in attention to detail, Helene thought smugly. It was the only imperfection she could find, in truth.

  Perhaps their guide had taken the scenic route because Helene discovered that her case had already been delivered to her bedroom. It had also been emptied, the clothes hung in the wardrobe and her wash bag filleted into the bathroom. It made her feel uncomfortable, but that was what people expected in expensive, high-end hotels. Other people.

  Charlie tapped on her bedroom door, his lanky torso leaning against the frame.

  “Is madam happy with her room?”

  Helene couldn’t help smiling. “Not bad,” she admitted. “Not bad at all.”

  It had been some years since her job had paid for such luxury.

  “One aims to please,” he smirked. “By the way, have you seen the security they’ve got here?”

  Helene nodded thoughtfully. She’d have had to be amazingly unobservant not to spot the armed guards at the entrance and exit points.

  “Do you think they’re here all the time or just for the conference?” she wondered.

  “I’m guessing for the conference: but it could be someone heavy who’s staying here.”

  “Do you know any of the… er… security staff?” said Helene.

  Charlie shook his head.

  “Not so far but I think they’re mostly just regular army – not specialists. I’ll let you know.”

  “Yes, keep me up to date with the sit-rep,” said Helene.

  He looked momentarily surprised, then replied: “Ten-four.”

  “Okay, see you later,” she said.

  He frowned.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You’re on my home turf now,” she said. “Trust me. I’m going to go and find out how to contact Hassan Ali at the conference tomorrow.”

  He watched as she stuffed a thick wad of Dinars into an envelope.

  “If you get into trouble, speed dial 1,” he said, tossing her a sleek, black phone.

  She gave him a withering look, but pocketed the phone all the same.

  Th
ey arranged to meet up in a couple of hours and Charlie phoned to order a light meal to be eaten on their private terrace. Helene intended to have a swim in the pool after and maybe book a massage – as it was on expenses. But first she had to find Hassan Ali – otherwise she was going to look damned stupid.

  She wandered back through the delightful grounds, casually observing the other guests. More conference attendees were arriving, if the array of men in a variety of inelegant leisure wear were anything to go by. Helene took a detour when she heard a pack of British businessmen braying loudly by the bar. She didn’t want to be noticed. There appeared to be far fewer women attending, and those who were seemed to be taking the opportunity to relax under the sunshades, I-pods plugged in and sunglasses discouraging casual solicitation.

  At reception, Helene asked to see the conference organiser.

  “Is there a problem, madam?” said the concierge, sounding alarmed.

  “Nothing that I’m sure can’t be sorted out in a moment,” said Helene.

  She was escorted to a small office and greeted by a young, but suave, man in a business suit with flashing dark eyes, Arabian profile and an American accent.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Fielding. My name is Aamil al-Rahhbi and I’m the conference organiser. I believe you have a small concern?”

  “Thank you, Mr al-Rahhbi. I’m sure it is a very small concern. You see, I am very keen to meet a certain person attending the conference. It would help me enormously if I and my colleague Mr Hector could be seated next to the person at lunch, for example,” said Helene.

  “Ah, I see. My regrets, Miss Fielding, but the luncheon seating has already been arranged,” said the young man.

  “Naturally,” said Helene. “I would expect such perfectionism towards organisation from an establishment of this kind. I realise that my request would incur some difficulties and I would, of course, wish to compensate your team for their additional work.”

  The young man nodded to show that he understood.

  “Well, it might be possible,” he said softly. “And who is the gentleman you wish to meet?”

  “Mr Hassan Ali of Cube IT,” said Helene.

  “Ah, that is a particularly difficult case,” said the young man.

  Which didn’t surprise Helene at all. She was used to the subtle bartering that was required.