‘You still in touch with Roth?’
Keegan was quiet for a few moments. Ben could hear him thinking. He was waiting for more, but Ben felt no need to offer specifics. Especially not the mention of the name Nazim al-Kassar. Keegan would just think he was nuts.
Keegan said, ‘You’re not the only one who’d like to talk to that fucker.’
‘Why? What did he do?’
‘Fucking went and retired on me, that’s what he did. Just when I had all kinds of plum jobs lined up for the ungrateful sod.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Ben said. ‘I might have had something for him myself.’
‘Anything in it for me?’
‘I guess we’ll never know now, will we?’
Keegan gave a high-pitched wheeze that sounded tubercular. ‘Bastard. Anyway, I thought you were well out of all that, years ago. What’s the sudden interest?’
‘So do you have a number for him, or not?’
‘Come on, mate. Quid pro quo. This ain’t bleeding directory enquiries, is it?’
‘How about as a special favour to an old friend?’
‘How about in return for you taking on a job for me? I’ve got more work coming in than I got guys to delegate it out to. Matter of fact I have one here on my desk that’d suit you down to the ground. Ethiopia. In and out, eight days tops, big money.’
‘Let me think about it,’ Ben lied.
‘Yeah, well, don’t think too long. Client’s breaking my balls something terrible. I need this yesterday.’ Keegan broke into another whistling, hacking cough, like a cat with a hairball in its throat. He went silent for a long moment, and Ben thought maybe he’d slumped dead at his desk. Then Keegan said hoarsely, ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can come up with. Roth’s a right awkward bugger to contact, even at the best of times. Gone all reclusive and paranoid in his old age. Easier to have a conversation with the fuckin’ Duke of Edinburgh.’
‘I appreciate your help, Ken. Really. I don’t care what they say about you.’
‘Who? What?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Fuck you very much too. And don’t keep me waiting on that Ethiopia job, will you? Yes or no. I’m down to the sodding wire on this one, mate.’
What an enchanting character, that Keegan. Ben ended the call, put away his phone and took out the one that had belonged to Romy Juneau. He gazed at it for a moment, getting his thoughts straight.
Somewhere, there had to be some clue as to how and why she’d got herself hooked into the world of the likes of Nazim al-Kassar. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d turned up at her place to murder her, much as he enjoyed killing women. And from her nervous behaviour that morning it had been clear she was afraid of something, or someone. It was just as clear that Nazim hadn’t been working alone, but had at least one accomplice, the getaway driver in the silver Merc.
Had they been following her in the street earlier that morning? Had she been on her way somewhere, maybe to work, when she’d noticed them tailing her, become frightened and doubled back towards home where she felt safer? If so, it hadn’t done her much good. But it also meant that she must have known the identity of the man, or men, following her.
Which suggested she was definitely involved with them somehow. Ben found it hard to believe that someone like Romy Juneau could be knowingly mixed up with terrorists. But then, what did he really know about her? He had barely even met her. For all he knew, she was a top operative for ISIL. Or maybe a CIA field agent they needed to eliminate. Which seemed just as unlikely to Ben, but you never could tell.
Whatever she might have been involved in, he doubted whether her phone would reveal much. But with so little to go on, he had to start somewhere.
Turning the device on he felt none of the self-conscious pangs he’d felt earlier. Now that she was dead, things were different. It would no longer seem like prying into someone’s personal affairs. In any case she was no longer in a position to resent the intrusion.
He stubbed out his cigarette, drank some more coffee and got to work.
Chapter 10
The first time Ben had gone through Romy Juneau’s phone he’d gone no further than her address book, which had told him all he’d needed to know at that point. Now it was time to delve a little deeper.
He began with the call menus, starting with sent calls. There were plenty of them for him to sift through. Some were identifiable as names from her contacts list, like her parents, whom she seemed to call often, her workplace and the person called Michel Ben had noted earlier, whoever he was. She’d called Michel frequently over a period of a few months, though the phone correspondence seemed to have stopped a month or so ago, with the exception of one brief call two days ago and another even briefer one just that morning. The last call had happened just minutes before Ben’s encounter with her in the street.
Ben wondered if the call had had something to do with the fact that she seemed so distraught. Out of curiosity he used his burner phone to call Michel’s number, but got no reply and didn’t leave a message. Then he listed the other numbers she’d called that weren’t stored in her address book, and called each in turn. There was a television repair man, a home insurance company and other assorted useless stuff that he crossed off his list one by one until there was nothing left.
Moving on to received calls he went through the same process. The mysterious Michel had also phoned her often, though not in the last month or so. Her parents phoned her from time to time, less often than she called them. The rest of it was just as inconsequential. This kind of detective work was seldom very exciting.
Next, texts and emails. Which were all work-related and concerned various dull administrative matters that Ben couldn’t make head or tail of. The outgoing mails bore an automatically added text at the foot of the message, which said ‘R. Juneau, Research Development Officer, ICS’, with the Institute’s address in the eighth arrondissement of Paris. A fairly swanky location, even though it was probably knee-deep in riot wreckage these days.
Ben keyed the Segal Cultural Institute into his search engine. It was a private organisation founded in the early nineties and run by a top French archaeologist called Julien Segal. Ben had never heard of him, though there was no reason why he should have. The Institute’s website described its mission as the preservation and protection of ancient art treasures, specialising in the ancient Middle East. They were one of the leaders in the development of new technologies to digitally reconstruct art treasures damaged by war, natural disaster or the ravages of time, and restore them using 3-D printing.
Middle East. War. Ben thought, Hmm.
Then he thought, Middle East. War. Nazim al-Kassar. ISIL.
Hmm again. Tantalising. Not exactly what a detective would consider hard evidence of an actual connection. But enough to make Ben curious to know more.
The website featured a little ‘About Our Founder’ bio of Julien Segal. A small photo showed a man in his early fifties, with a full head of silver hair and a craggily handsome face with striking, penetrative eyes like a hawk’s. He had spent decades travelling the world and been personally responsible for the rescue of countless ancient artifacts that otherwise would have been lost. He supplied museums, private and corporate collections, gave lecture tours and worked closely with international cultural heritage groups such as UNESCO and ECCO, the European Confederation of Conservation Organisations.
Ben dialled the Institute’s number on his burner phone and was put through to a female receptionist. He could tell right away from her tone of voice that the police must already have been in touch. She sounded as if she’d been crying, and might be about to burst into tears again at any moment.
Ben asked to speak to Monsieur Segal. The woman replied, ‘I’m afraid he’s currently out of the country. He travels a great deal. Can I be of any—?’ She’d been about to say ‘assistance’, but before she got that far her emotions got the better of her and she choked up. It took her a few moments to regain her composure. �
��Please forgive me. We’ve just received the most awful news. In fact the Institute is closing early for the day. One of our colleagues was found dead this morning. It’s … it’s just so heartbreaking. Romy was so loved by everyone here. She had only recently returned from a field trip overseas. And now …’ Her voice trailed off with a sigh.
‘That’s shocking. My sincere condolences. I’m so sorry if I called at a bad time.’
She’d sounded at first as though she wanted, or needed, to talk, which Ben was pleased about because the more information he could fish for, the better. But now the woman seemed to compose herself and tighten up, as though suddenly conscious that she was blurting out her heart to a total stranger. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Dubois,’ Ben said. ‘Bernard Dubois. And you must be—?’
‘Jeanne.’
‘Of course, that’s right,’ he said, bluffing like hell. Sometimes you could win them over with a little charm. ‘Jeanne, I wonder if you can tell me when Monsieur Segal is expected back in the country?’
‘Not for several more days at least.’
Ben didn’t know whether she was telling the truth or giving him the brush-off. She sounded as though she wanted to get off the phone, so he pressed a little harder. ‘Is there another number I could reach him on? It’s really rather important.’
‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. It would be better to call back in a few days.’
‘I’ll do that, thanks.’
She sniffed and said, ‘I really must go. Everyone here is very upset.’
‘Just one more question, Jeanne. Was Romy expected at work today?’
She hesitated, obviously finding the question weird. The information would help Ben piece together Romy’s movements that morning, which might come in useful as he learned more. But Jeanne wasn’t taking the bait. ‘I’m sorry, but who exactly are you?’
‘Don’t worry about it. Apologies for having called at this difficult time.’
Ben ended the call before she could say more. So much for winning them over with charm.
He went back to examining Romy’s phone. Address book, call records, texts, emails; he was running out of options and didn’t have much to show for it so far. All that remained for him to check out was the folder containing image files.
Lots of folks went about snapping anything that moved, subscribed heavily to the selfie craze and had thousands of photos crammed into their phones, but Romy wasn’t one of those people. She had only five files stored in the images folder. They were arranged in chronological order. Ben opened the oldest one first, dating back to January.
The image was a self-taken shot of Romy and a young guy about the same age as her, slightly built, who looked like he might be Moroccan or Algerian. Ben wondered if this was Michel, the boyfriend. They were hugging each other and grinning cheesy grins for the camera on a cloudy beach somewhere, maybe the north coast up near Calais. They were dressed for winter, hats and coats and woolly scarves, and the sea breeze was blowing her hair across her face. She looked happy. The young guy, too. It was a sad picture, in retrospect.
The next photo had been taken three months ago, inside what appeared to be a bar. Ben could see tables covered with glassware and bottles, and red vinyl bench seating and other people in the background. Another image taken not long afterwards the same day showed the two of them posing outside the bar, pulling silly faces. Ben could see the faded lettering painted on the bar window that spelled out backwards the words LE GERONIMO.
Ben laid down Romy’s phone for a moment and tried Michel’s number again on his burner. Still no reply.
He returned to her phone. The fourth photo was a blurry shot of an older couple, taken in the dining room in a middle-class family home a couple of months ago. It looked like someone’s birthday, though the older couple didn’t seem to be having a great time. They both bore a faint resemblance to Romy: her parents, he assumed. Her father had the pasty complexion of a chronic cardiac sufferer and her mother looked like an uptight sort. They were centred at the end of a table bearing a cake festooned with candles, the smiling, goofy faces of some other people peering in at the edges of the frame. Romy wasn’t among them, so Ben assumed she’d been behind the camera. Photography hadn’t been her greatest talent in life, that was for sure.
When he tried to open the fifth and most recent picture file, just three days old, he discovered two things about it. First, that it wasn’t a picture file at all but a much larger video clip. Second, that it was encrypted.
A window popped up requesting a PIN number. Beneath that was a prompt asking him ‘Forget your passcode?’ When he tapped it, the phone asked him for a security question. Which could be anything in the world, and after a couple of failed attempts the whole phone might lock itself up. He didn’t even bother trying.
Now why would Romy have encrypted the video file when she hadn’t made any attempt to protect the rest of her phone data? That fact alone singled it out as an item of particular interest, and Ben’s curiosity was piqued. It could be all kinds of things. Something private, obviously. Possibly something very personal that Romy didn’t want anyone to see.
Which left open the possibility that the clip could be something more pertinent to the questions Ben was trying to answer. He needed to get into that video file.
He was no expert on how to access inaccessible digital data. But he knew someone who was.
Chapter 11
Thierry Chevrolet wasn’t named after a famous American automobile marque. His surname was derived from an old French word meaning a goat farmer. But goat farming wasn’t how Thierry made his living, either.
Back when Ben had operated as a freelance kidnap and hostage rescue specialist, his work had taken him to many different countries and necessitated a number of false identities. Passports, driving licences, ID cards and other official papers all had to be perfect to avoid unnecessary entanglements with the authorities and allow him to slip about under the radar. He’d gone to a couple of dodgy characters in the forgery trade, one in London, one in Amsterdam, before he’d found the then twenty-nine-year-old Thierry working out of a tiny apartment in Paris. He was a nervous, skinny guy with a bush of Afro hair and a reedy moustache, and talked in a whispery voice owing to the fact that he only had one lung. Hardly the archetype of the master criminal. But after seeing a sample of his work Ben had hired him on the spot to produce a variety of false papers. He’d been more than pleased with the results.
Now and then things would get hot and one of Ben’s fake identities would have to be ditched and replaced, so he had been able to offer Thierry a steady stream of work. The pair had got to know each other well. Ben had discovered that in addition to being an excellent forger, Thierry was also a wizard with anything techno-orientated. On a few occasions he’d employed him to hack emails, raid computer files and unlock phones ‘confiscated’ from associates of kidnappers. If Thierry couldn’t hack and crack his way into it, you might as well toss it in the bin.
And now Ben had a new assignment for him.
Last time they’d had dealings was years ago, before Ben had retired from freelance work, moved to France full-time and joined up with Jeff Dekker to set up the tactical training centre at Le Val. He had no idea whether the guy was still active.
Ben levered up the loose floorboard in the safehouse’s bedroom, dug around in the cavity below and pulled out a padded envelope sealed with tape. Inside were a couple of examples of Thierry’s artistry, a British passport in the name Paul Harris, and a French one for the fictitious Vincent Fournier. Each had served him well on a few occasions.
Wrapped up with the fake passports was a dog-eared old notebook in which Ben had kept lists of contacts in those days. Thierry’s number was marked just by the letter T. He dialled it, but there was no answer. Maybe it was a long shot. Thierry could have changed his phone, or emigrated, or gone straight and got a job, or died, or been caught and sent to jail. Any of which possibilities w
ould leave Ben in a tricky situation. The issue wasn’t finding someone else who could unlock the encrypted video file. It was finding someone who wouldn’t ask questions about what Ben was doing with a phone belonging to the victim of an unsolved murder. Petty crooks often greased the wheels of their good fortune by acting as police informants on the side. Thierry, by contrast, was far too honourable a criminal to ever rat on a client.
Ben ruminated on his problem by brewing up another pot of Lavazza. In his experience, solutions often presented themselves just by virtue of drinking more coffee. There was no such thing as too much.
And experience proved right when, halfway through his second cup, the phone buzzed with Thierry’s number on the screen.
Ben answered, expecting to hear the forger’s familiar raspy, whispery tones. But it wasn’t Thierry calling. It was a woman, and she sounded pissed off. Even more so when she heard Ben’s voice.
She said, ‘Shit. I thought it was him.’
‘Thierry?’
‘You a friend of his? Because if you are, tell him Abby wants his fucking junk out of her fucking place, or she’s gonna torch the lot of it. Okay?’
Ben presumed he was talking to Abby. It sounded like Thierry’s life had gone through some changes since Ben had last been in touch. No girlfriend had ever been mentioned before.
Ben said, ‘You don’t know where he is?’
‘No, I fucking don’t know where he is. Who’re you, anyway?’
‘My name’s Ben. I need to find him.’
‘I get the picture. You’re one of them. Well, if you’re gonna fuck him over, just make sure he clears his junk out of my place first, okay? It’s so jam packed in here you can hardly fart.’
Abby was evidently a classy sort of gal. Ben asked, ‘Is Thierry in trouble?’
She paused. ‘Would you be asking me that if you were one of them?’
‘I’m not. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘Thierry is trouble,’ she sighed. ‘Story of my life.’
House of War Page 6