I calmed him down with a promise that when Uche showed I would tear a piece off him myself, then sent him on his way to Pals.
I’d arranged to meet the ‘security consultant’ for coffee at his hotel. As it turned out, the coffee was for one; Mark isn’t allowed any strong stimulants, so he had plain water. He was hyper nonetheless. I could tell that he had news and that he was keen to share it with me.
‘Your pickpocket’s been identified,’ he said, quietly, as soon as I’d been served at our terrace table, beside the hotel pool. ‘He is, or was, Bulgarian, and he hadn’t been seen for over a year, not since the raid on Robert Palmer’s factory. His name was Ilian Genchev, he was an agent of Interpol in the Sofia bureau and he was assumed to have been the leak, given the timing of his disappearance.’
‘That’s quick work,’ I commented. I could tell that he was pleased with his team’s progress, and that praise was in order. . but only so much. ‘I assume that he left his name behind along with his country.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Have your people come up with the identity he assumed, or with a last known address?’
‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but give them a chance.’
‘Fine, but until they establish those things, does knowing who he was take us one step forward?’
‘Not yet, but come on, Primavera, it’s confirmation that he wasn’t just some fucking petty thief. It rules that out completely.’
‘Okay, so we’ve shuffled an inch or two forward, but essentially we’re still stuck on square one.’
‘That’s a pretty negative way of looking at it.’
‘But not incorrect?’
He sighed. ‘No.’
‘What about McGuigan? Have they made any progress with her?’
‘No. It’s still early days there. You have to remember that the game’s changed in the last twenty-four hours, and my task with it, thanks to you. I was brought in to warn you off searching for Robert Palmer, but the information you gave me stood that on its head. Now we need to find him.’
‘If he’s still alive.’
‘I’d bet that he is,’ Mark said. ‘He’ll be hidden away somewhere.’
‘What makes you so confident?’ I asked.
‘He strikes me as the sort of guy who’d follow advice. People like Palmer aren’t simply given a new passport and credit card and told to get on with it. There is a certain amount of training; absorption of every detail of the new persona’s background, education, career history, family names and professions, and so on, but it doesn’t stop there. Subjects may also be told what to do if their cover is blown and they’re out of reach of their handlers.’
‘For example?’
‘As a rule, they’d be advised to have a bolt-hole identified and ready for emergency use; a safe house by another name. Ideally the witness protection people will know where it is, so they can locate the client once he’s gone to ground and get him to safety.’
‘From which I guess that Palmer doesn’t have one, or you’d be heading there right now.’
His face shifted into something that might have been a smile. ‘He doesn’t have one that Metcalfe knows about, but. . everything you’ve told me he’s done, the way he made his escape and what he did once he was clear of the course, it says to me that he did have a plan.’ He looked at me. ‘Primavera, what can you tell me about his movements when he was here?’
I stared back at him. ‘Not a lot,’ I replied. ‘I only met the man the weekend before last, then our Jonny turned up out of the blue and I was swept up in looking after him and in the golf tournament. The only movements I know about were between L’Escala and the course and back again, and to St Martí for dinner a couple of times.’
‘Can you remember anything he might have said on those dinner dates, about places he’d been to or seen around here?’
I thought about his question for as long as it took me to draw a complete blank. ‘Nah, nuffink. Sorry, Mark, can’t help. We need Shirley for that and she ain’t here.’
‘No, but. .’
Whatever it was that he was about to say was cut off short. His eyes moved from me to a point over my right shoulder, and registered annoyance.
I stared to turn, but a voice told me who had distracted him before I got there. ‘Primavera,’ Alex Guinart began. ‘Excuse me, but can I have a word?’ He spoke Catalan.
‘And a coffee if you play your cards right,’ I retorted as he reached us.
‘I don’t have time,’ he said, brusquely. ‘I was on my way to St Martí when by sheer chance I saw your jeep in the car park. Is your mobile battery flat?’
He was using his cop voice with me; I didn’t like that. ‘No, it’s switched off. I know that most people have forgotten you can do that, but I haven’t.’ He looked at Mark, as if he was about to ask him for his passport. ‘This is my friend, Mark Kravitz,’ I told him, in English. ‘I’ve mentioned him to you before. Mark, this is local law enforcement, Alex Guinart. From his expression, either his piles are killing him or there’s something he desperately wants to tell me.’
I had indeed told Alex about Mark, and I’d described his profession in general terms. He softened a little and they shook hands. I nodded towards a vacant chair. He yielded and pulled it across, but even as he sat, I could see that he was still agitated.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Do you know a man called Kalu Wigwe?’ he countered, sticking to English.
‘Yes, I do. I met him on Sunday at the golf tournament. He’s a wealthy Nigerian, an emir of part of that country. He’s also Uche’s dad. He offered to take me for a ride in his great big plane, but I reckoned there would be a fare involved and I didn’t fancy paying it. What’s he done? Propositioned the mayor’s wife?’
‘He hasn’t done anything.’ He looked at Mark. ‘This is in confidence, okay?’ he asked.
‘You may rely on my discretion, sir.’ The reply was impassive; it was also in perfect Castellano.
‘A couple of hours ago,’ Alex continued, relieved to be free to speak his own language, ‘he was kidnapped at gunpoint from his aircraft, in the private section of Girona Airport. His absence wasn’t discovered until forty-five minutes ago, when ground staff went on board to find out why the plane was making no move to meet its booked departure time, and why the crew weren’t responding to radio messages. They found them tied up and gagged. When they were freed, they told us what had happened. They were expecting Mr Wigwe, at eight thirty. Fifteen minutes before that his son arrived, pointed a gun at them, made them lie down and secured them. He bound them hand and foot then dumped them in the galley, which is lockable. The rest they didn’t see but heard well enough. Kalu Wigwe arrived, voices were raised, and then there was silence. Nobody saw them leave but one of the airport workers told our people that there was a car parked on the concourse by the steps; an old battered Seat Ibiza that had once been white. It didn’t occur to him to ask the driver what the hell it was doing there, but he did give us a description of the man who was waiting behind the wheel. A white man, oldish, but still with dark hair, wearing a blazer with gold buttons.’ He frowned at me. ‘Who the hell does that sound like, Primavera?’
I stared at him, absorbing what he had just told me and coming to terms with the implications. ‘Who does it sound like?’ I mimicked. ‘You know bloody well,’ I replied, ‘but forgive me if I deal with the “what” of the situation. My nephew’s pal, his bagman, has turned out to be a gun-toting kidnapper, and I’ve let him mix with my son. I’ve made him welcome in my house, treated him like family. I’ve been betrayed; let me deal with that for a little, Alex.’