opened the door.
He gave a friendly, ingratiating smile. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’m-’
‘I know who you are, sweetie,’ said the woman in the hallway, in an accent that came direct from the back streets of Brooklyn. ‘I read you all the time online. Why don’t you come right on in?’
Jake Tolland had always wanted to be a foreign correspondent. Reckoning that a significant proportion of all the bad news – and thus good stories – in the world came from a bloodstained smear of revolution, war, disorder and crime that stretched from Russia, through the Balkans and into the Middle East, he had studied Russian at Cambridge University and then learned Arabic at the Language Centre of London University’s School of Oriental and African Studies. Armed with these two qualifications and an inquisitive nature, Tolland soon amassed an impressive portfolio of freelance articles and a couple of well-received books that earned him a contract at The Times.
His work also brought him to the attention of talent scouts at MI6, who have long used Fleet Street journalists as auxiliary spies. For the past three years, Tolland had been carrying out low-risk intelligence jobs, gathering information and acting as a conduit between field agents and London. So he had not been in the least surprised to get a call from Bill Selsey, tipping him off to a juicy little yarn about a mysterious Englishman who had been buying and then freeing trafficked prostitutes in Dubai.
‘Go to a place called the House of Freedom,’ Selsey had told him. ‘It’s a refuge run by an American woman called Sadira Khan. She’s married to a Pakistani, hence the name. We think there’s a girl at the refuge called Lara. She was sent there by an Englishman, who appears to have bought her at some sort of slave auction and then freed her – proper Scarlet Pimpernel stuff. We’re interested in him, so be a good chap, see what you can find out, pass it all on to us, and get yourself an exclusive. All I ask is have a word with me before you file. Let me run an eye over what you’ve written, make sure there’s nothing in there we’d rather keep private.’
Like any refuge, the House of Freedom was filled with vulnerable, traumatized women. It had taken Tolland an hour of patient persuasion on the telephone to arrange an appointment, and still more negotiation, sitting around a dining table in a bare, magnolia-painted room, before Sadira agreed to speak to Lara Dashian on his behalf.
‘But I’m not promising anything,’ she said. ‘If Lara doesn’t want to talk, that’s it, you leave. And even if she does talk, there are no names, no photographs, nothing that could identify her. I don’t know how much you know about the men who traffick young women like Lara, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing they won’t do. Her life is at stake.’
‘I understand,’ said Tolland, cheerfully imagining how well Sadira Khan’s warning would read, suitably framed by his own dramatic prose, right up at the top of the piece. For the next twenty minutes, he waited in the room before Sadira Khan reappeared with a tiny slip of a girl whose dark, almost black hair framed a pretty, fine-boned face. Two huge brown eyes peered out from beneath her fringe. They were lovely eyes. They should have shone with life. But all Tolland could see was a veneer of blank numbness, stretched tight over a limitless depth of pain. In that moment all his professional, cold-hearted objectivity disappeared through the window. He could understand precisely why the man Bill Selsey had described as a Pimpernel had paid so much to free her. Tolland would happily have done the same himself. He wanted to take her under his wing, to be her knight in shining armour. And because he was above all else a reporter, he wanted to tell her story.
Gradually, gently, with infinite care, Tolland led Lara down the road from innocent schoolgirl to brutalized prostitute. He made no attempt to hide his shock at what he was hearing, his anger at the vile obscenities of which his fellow-men were capable, or his compassion for the suffering Lara Dashian had endured. Yet all the while, another part of him was exulting. He knew that she was telling a tale that would make his name. And now they came to the final act.
Lara told him about the nightclub. She described her encounter with an Indian, Tiger Dey, and an Englishman who called himself Pablo. She talked about the moment she knew she had been bought and the walk up to the Englishman’s suite.
‘Did Pablo ever tell you his full name?’ Tolland asked. ‘What was he called?’
Lara chewed at her lips. It was obvious that she had been given a name.
‘You can tell us, it’s all right,’ said Tolland, his voice reassuring yet quietly insistent.
‘He was kind to me. I do not want to get him into trouble with the police.’
‘But I am not a policeman. I will not tell them anything.’
Tolland saw Lara looking at Sadira Khan, silently begging for her guidance. He willed himself to stay silent, not even turning to see the older woman’s response.
‘It’s all right, honey, you can tell him,’ she said.
Lara looked once more at her protector, seeking a last iota of reassurance, then her eyes returned to Tolland. He could tell she was still nervous, not yet quite convinced that it was wise as she murmured, ‘He said his name was Carver.’
20
As soon as he had returned to his car, Jake Tolland got out his BlackBerry and sent a brief summary of the conversation to MI6. Selsey mailed him back with congratulations and one simple instruction: ‘Essential NO mention name Carver in story.’ Minutes later, Selsey was in Jack Grantham’s office.
‘It was Carver,’ he said. ‘I just heard from Tolland. She also said he told her to call him Pablo.’
‘You hadn’t primed him in advance?’ Grantham was groping for straws.
‘No,’ Selsey insisted. ‘I gave him the names of the woman who ran the refuge and the girl. But I didn’t say a dickie-bird about Carver, or Pablo. The only way he could know that name is from the girl.’
‘And the only way she could know…’ Grantham conceded.
‘I’ve managed to get the bank information out of the Swiss,’ Selsey went on, ramming home his advantage. ‘A man answering Carver’s description recently opened a new account. He gave his name as Dirk Vandervart, which is-’
‘Another one of Carver’s known aliases,’ Grantham cut in.
‘Exactly. And four hundred thousand US dollars have been deposited in that account, in two payments. The first, two weeks before the Dey poisoning, the second on the day he died.’
Grantham nodded. ‘OK, you win, Carver’s gone back on the game. I can’t say I’m too bothered about him hitting a piece of work like Tiger Dey. And I don’t foresee a problem with the Dubaians, not in the short-term, anyway. We’ll just tell them we have no criminal records for a James Conway Murray. But I don’t want Carver running around bumping people off whenever the mood takes him. So I’m going to tell you what my mum used to tell my dad when she thought I was up to no good.’
‘What was that, then?’
‘Find out what that boy’s doing. And tell him to stop it.’
21
Sooner or later they had to leave the ranch, and Maddy insisted on making a day of it. She told Carver she’d figured out an itinerary. He couldn’t think of any good reason to say no, other than bone idleness, so he went along for the ride. Maddy drove them up to Lake Cascade, where they swam in cold, fresh water and lay on the shore, side by side, letting the sun dry their bodies. Carver had to admit the itinerary was working well so far. He couldn’t work out why he’d not spent more mornings like that. What had he been doing all his life that was so much better?
Afterwards they headed into Cascade itself, a low-rise cluster of homes, stores and business units either side of the broad, dusty highway. Maddy parked next to a hot-dog stand: a caravan with fabric awning stretched over it, sheltering a bunch of green plastic garden chairs and camping tables. ‘Make mine a chilli dog,’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Carver got out of the Bronco and walked over towards the caravan. There was a counter with a middle-aged
