Room service interrupted his reading of the biographical sheets and he settled down to eat. Half an hour later, over a second cup of coffee, he had a rough plan of action worked out. He would contact the rest of the CP team — Pendry, Bikovsky and Koslov — in that order. The two Americans because they were closest, the Russian last. With a bit of luck he might not need to go all the way to Moscow, Koslov’s last listed posting. All he could remember of the man was a thin figure, pale of face and colouring, almost delicate compared with the other members of the team. But tough, if he was in the Russian army.
According to Deane’s notes, Carl Pendry was now a ‘black hat’ instructor at the Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Don Bikovsky had left the US Marines and gone back to civilian life. His last recorded address was Venice Beach, California.
He tried Bikovsky first, but got no answer. Next he tried Pendry’s number. The phone was picked up on the second ring by a man with the threat of a drill-sergeant’s eye on his back.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he replied in rapid-fire speech. ‘I’m afraid Sergeant Pendry’s on the range, sir. He should be back late this afternoon. I’m Specialist Cantrell, sir. Can I take a message, sir?’
Harry had to remind himself that most American soldiers spoke as if they were permanently on parade and addressing a senior officer. The energized-sounding individual on the other end was therefore behaving normally.
‘Just a friend calling, that’s all, Cantrell,’ he told the soldier in an effort to slow him down. ‘My name’s Harry Tate. I’m in the Fort Benning area tomorrow and I’d like to call by and stand him a beer. Where does he hang out when he’s not shouting at trainees?’
There was an audible sigh of relaxation and Cantrell laughed. ‘Well, sir, there’s only one place Carl hangs out right now, and that’s the Holiday Inn North near Columbus airport. He’s there most evenings when he’s off free.’ Cantrell seemed to find the idea amusing for some reason.
‘Is there something I should know about the Holiday Inn, Mr Cantrell?’
‘Well, it’s no secret, I guess,’ Cantrell chuckled again. ‘The sergeant’s gone and got hisself a lady, sir. She’s a vice president there, I think. Shall I tell him you called, sir?’
‘Why not?’ It sounded as if Pendry was a popular man, which said something about his character. ‘Tell him I’ll see him at eighteen hundred hours at the Holiday Inn.’
He replaced the phone and tried to picture the huge Ranger alongside any woman and gave up. He just hoped Pendry got the message and didn’t decide to make himself scarce. He wanted to keep their meeting as low key as possible.
He tried Bikovsky’s number again but still with no answer. It looked as though he was going to have to go out to Venice Beach after he’d seen Pendry. For now, it was time to get moving.
He was about to call the front desk for a cab when the phone rang. It was Ken Deane.
‘What you said about how the killer knew where to find Orti and Broms,’ he said without preamble. ‘It looks like we had a bug in the works. You need to be in on this. A car will be with you any minute.’ He rang off without asking if it was convenient.
By the time Harry got downstairs, a suited driver was standing outside with a black Suburban at the kerb. The man ushered him inside and closed the door, then climbed in and took off along the street. They stopped outside a plain, concrete building a stone’s throw from UN Plaza, and the driver told Harry he should go to the fifteenth floor, conference room 1217, where Deane was waiting for him.
‘Harry. Come in.’ Ken Deane greeted him at the door of a small lobby opening into a conference room overlooking the East River. Harry could see two other people already seated at the long table, a large man with receding sandy hair and a woman who looked vaguely familiar.
Before leading Harry through, Deane took his elbow and said softly, ‘You got the ID cards and stuff?’
‘Yes, thanks. I didn’t know you were a fan of The Doors.’
Deane grinned. ‘Long time ago. Listen, for reasons that will become clear, I got you on attachment easily enough — we drag in specialists all the time; but Ferris was later than I’d expected and would have been pushing it. I got him a genuine ID card but he’s not on the books, although the name Morrison is. Just don’t let him get caught in the spotlight. And if he gets shot, you’d better bury him before the press finds out.’ He gave a lift of the eyebrows to show that he was aware of Rik’s very public gunshot injury in central London a few months ago, and gestured towards the conference room. ‘Come on in. Let’s get this started.’
‘You already met each other some years ago,’ Deane said, indicating the woman. ‘Karen Walters, Special Assistant to Anton Kleeman.’
Walters was tall and slim, with the power-dressed appearance of the professional senior administrator. She was in her late forties, Harry judged, and if she remembered him, did not show it.
‘And Vince McKenna, my deputy.’
McKenna smiled and pumped his hand, but didn’t speak.
Deane indicated chairs and said, ‘My apologies for the drama, Harry. We’re meeting in this annexe because going through the security screens at UN Plaza would take up too much time. Vince?’ He waved at McKenna to continue and sat back to listen.
‘Right.’ McKenna cleared his throat. ‘Until yesterday afternoon, a woman named Irina Demescu was employed as an analyst in our IT department. She failed to report in today, which was out of character. Her supervisor tried to contact her at home, but without success. When they checked her workstation, they found her desk had been cleared. That automatically triggered an alert to the departmental security rep, who signalled the central security office.’ He blinked as the words tumbled out, as if surprised. ‘We, uh. . ordered an immediate check of any computers she’d been using. That check is still ongoing, but she appears to have downloaded a quantity of personnel data from our archives.’
Harry felt all eyes on him. ‘What sort of data?’
‘Names, addresses, service history. . mostly from our DPKO records.’ He blinked. ‘Sorry — that’s our Department of Peacekeeping Operations. It was mostly military personnel, but there were a couple of civilian names, too, because they were all connected by circumstance.’ He gave a brief flicker of his eyes at Karen Walters.
Harry did not miss the look. Wariness coupled with antipathy. ‘How many people are we talking about?’
McKenna consulted his notes. ‘About a dozen. Most were lifted a week, ten days ago, with one copied as late as yesterday afternoon just before she left.’ He stopped speaking and glanced at Deane.
Harry wondered if all meetings in the UN were conducted at this pace, and was glad he hadn’t taken up Deane’s offer of a job all those years ago. He’d have probably thrown himself in the East River by now.
Deane leaned forward and said, ‘It seems Demescu volunteered to work late on several occasions over the last few weeks. That wasn’t unusual; she was a conscientious worker, so nobody thought anything of it. It meant she had an office to herself.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘There’s a minimum staff ruling in the IT department of no less than two personnel at all times. It’s been ramped up since nine-eleven. But there’s been a flu virus going round and the department was hit pretty bad. It seems nobody told security and with the shortages there was no regular audit.’
‘Did she have the skills to search all the files she wanted to?’ asked Karen Walters. She was looking strained.
‘Absolutely,’ said Deane. ‘She came from Microdata after graduating from UCLA in computer sciences. Her supervisor says she was one of the best.’
Harry thought it odd that someone had come from Microdata to the UN; he didn’t know the relevant salary levels, but he was willing to bet the UN paid less than a going commercial concern like the electronics giant.
McKenna said helpfully, ‘Although she left an audit trail.’
‘Audit trail?’