‘Right, ma’am — it’s an electronic footprint showing who’s been in the files. It tells us where she looked, dates, times. . all that.’
‘She didn’t erase it?’ Deane looked surprised.
‘Not over the last two days. Early on it probably wouldn’t have mattered. She could have come up with half a dozen reasons for being in there. Latterly, well, she probably knew her time was up, so why bother? I think she collated the information as she went, taking it out of the building piecemeal or on a memory stick.’ He explained, ‘The terminal she was using was blind, with no access to the outside.’
Deane gave McKenna a pointed look as if reminded how susceptible they were to data theft. He said, ‘OK, let’s move on. Where are we right now?’
McKenna shook his head. ‘We don’t have a lead on her. We’ve checked her apartment, but there’s no response. We’re waiting on a court order to go inside. A neighbour thinks she saw Demescu getting into a cab with a couple of bags late last night. She has family in eastern Europe and spoke in the past of not being able to do enough to help them.’
Walters puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well, it looks like she’s made up for it now.’
‘What exactly did she take?’ Harry asked, before the game descended into an interdepartmental wrangle.
‘Her supervisor ran a duplicate programme.’ McKenna opened a folder on the table before him. He took out a number of sheets of closely printed paper. Each one bore a colour-print photo followed by several lines of information. ‘Most of this was downloaded days ago. The supervisor says that anything lifted more recently was just updates of any changes to the files.’
Walters craned her head to see. ‘What are they?’
‘What he said,’ Deane muttered. ‘Personnel files on a bunch of people.’ He reached across and shuffled the sheets apart, reading out the names. ‘Bikovsky, Broms, Orti, Koslov, Pendry, Carvalho. . and two civilians, Kleeman and you.’ He looked at Walters in apology. ‘There were a couple of other names, one of them deceased through natural causes.’
Harry recognized the sheets. He’d been given the same information but in a slightly different format. The photos staring up at them were the faces of the CP team, with one exception.
‘Who is Carvalho?’
Deane looked at the sheet. ‘That’s a mistake. He’s a US Marine, one of the convoy guards. I don’t think he figures in this.’
‘Why not?’
‘As far as we can figure out, he went to Pristina with the convoy and the other depot guard, a guy named Oakes, from your RAF regiment. The deceased man was a Brit from the Royal Military Police. He stayed on at the compound. With both Orti and Broms murdered, I think we can say that this is categorically part of the threat. A terrorist threat,’ he added heavily. ‘I don’t know Demescu’s, uh. . affiliations, but I gather she’s a Muslim with family in Albania.’
‘That’s outrageous.’ Walters looked shocked. Twin red spots had appeared on her cheeks. ‘You’re saying it’s a religious attack because she’s a Muslim?’
‘You’re damn right it’s outrageous.’ Deane came back at her without heat. ‘It’s also outrageous that an employee of this organization has conspired to provide a killer with personal data for the purposes of murder. And before you get all feminist on my ass, we still haven’t discounted your name being on his list. You were there, too, don’t forget.’
Nobody spoke for several seconds, then Harry said to McKenna, ‘You said the woman downloaded some information before she left.’
McKenna nodded. ‘That’s correct. Her supervisor believes she was accessing and updating recent additions to the files.’
‘About what?’
‘About you. She knew you were coming.’ He pursed his lips. ‘And now, so does the killer.’
FIFTEEN
Standing in a rubbish-strewn doorway on the Lower East Side, beneath a latticework of scaffolding up the front of the building, Kassim was watching a first-floor apartment across the street. At ground level was a general store, with the owner, an old Vietnamese man, cleaning the front window. A steady stream of customers had been coming and going, with enough movement to cover Kassim’s presence. So far he had seen no sign of occupation, although the page in the binder had given this as his next target’s temporary address.
He checked his watch and wished he had brought something to drink. He was thirsty and tired and beginning to feel the cold. The drop in temperature had been acute after the clammy heat he’d been used to in the mountains, but it was damp here, too, which he was finding debilitating. Maybe he needed to get a coat; one of those padded jackets he had seen people wearing. It might also serve as another layer of camouflage, to help him blend in.
Earlier, Kassim had dug out the address of a contact he had been given on New York’s East Side, and found it belonged to a man running a small travel agency. The name he was using was Agim Remzi, allegedly a Kosovar who had been in America for over twenty years.
Kassim was reluctant to put his trust in people he had never met, no matter what their stated origins. But the situation demanded it. Remzi, as part of the extended network he was relying on, had agreed to provide Kassim with money and assistance; he could have little interest in betraying him, since it would lead to his own downfall.
He had walked past the front of the agency twice, noting the layout. It was in a busy district with other businesses nearby. After a truck dropping off banded stacks of catalogues had departed in a cloud of exhaust fumes, Kassim had walked through the front door. A woman was tapping at a computer keyboard beneath garish posters of sun, sand and snow, and the place smelled of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke.
The woman had looked at him with dark eyes, her chin raised in mute query.
‘Agim Remzi,’ Kassim had said simply.
The woman disappeared through a door at the back and returned moments later followed by a thin, ascetic individual with startlingly blue eyes and grey hair. Remzi beckoned him through, telling the woman to lock the door. Inside his office he offered tea, clearing his desk by pushing papers into his top drawer.
‘It is an awkward time,’ breathed Remzi, gesturing at his desk. ‘Busy as hell. .’ The Americanism sounded false and Kassim wondered to what extent this man had become part of the culture around him. Enough to betray him if he felt threatened?
‘It is the will of God,’ he muttered darkly, a terse reminder.
Remzi leaned forward and lifted his chin. ‘Of course. What do you need of me?’
Kassim had checked his money reserve, which was dwindling fast. He would need more if he had to travel far over the next few days. But with Remzi running a travel agency, that should be the least of his problems.
‘First, money,’ he replied. ‘Also tickets. You know the places I have to go.’
‘Yes. Where to next?’ Remzi picked up a pencil and pad.
Kassim reached across and took the pencil from his hand. ‘You do not need to know that yet. Only that I will call you when I need them — but they must be ready with any paperwork.’
‘As you wish. It has all been arranged.’ Remzi opened his desk drawer and took out a bulky envelope. It was creased and banded many times with elastic.
‘Used notes, all small, all checked. You should have no problems.’ When Kassim looked blank, Remzi explained, ‘All notes have numbers. There are many fakes in circulation. Give someone one of those, and you will have Treasury agents sitting behind you closer than a child to its mother.’ He grinned humourlessly. ‘The best thing about this godless country is that nobody likes being cheated. What else do you need?’
Kassim stuffed the envelope in his jacket and took out the binder. He had already removed the pages bearing the details of Orti and Broms. ‘You know about this?’
Remzi nodded cautiously. ‘Of course. I know the person who provided the details inside.’
‘Good. This information. . what if it is not correct?’