‘Wait,’ Harry stopped him. ‘What was it you wanted?’
‘Me?’
‘You called me earlier.’
‘Not me, bud. I’ve been in back-to-back meetings.’
Harry felt a chill crawl up his back. ‘You didn’t call at two p.m.?’
‘No. Pendry, perhaps?’
‘He was on the base with me.’
Deane was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Jesus. He knows where you are.’
Harry thought about the photo Deane had got from MI5. It would now be on the UN records. ‘And he knows what I look like.’
Deane swore softly. ‘Do you need backup?’
‘No. I’ll be in touch.’ He clicked off and reached for the Ruger.
TWENTY-TWO
‘You sure this is the place?’ The cab driver eyed Rik in the mirror. They were in Phenix City, Alabama, across the Chattahoochee River from its bigger neighbour, Columbus. ‘There are better places to eat, my friend.’ His tone suggested that passengers from England didn’t usually find their way to this part of town.
‘I’m positive, thanks.’ Rik peeled off some notes and passed them over. The man took the money with a nod and gave him a card with a cab company logo and a number in big, black not-drunk-enough-to-miss typeface.
‘Call that number when you’re ready to leave and I’ll tell you if I can make it or not. Things get busy later.’ He peered over his shoulder and added, ‘I’d keep the British accent down a little, you hear? Ain’t that they don’t like you folks, just some of ’em don’t like anyone different. You take care, now.’
As soon as Rik’s feet touched the grit of the car park, the driver was gone, leaving a trace of exhaust fumes in his wake.
Rik stood and looked around. A hundred yards away the late traffic on Phenix City’s 13th Street was a constant buzz, the sound washing over the surrounding buildings, streets and alleys like a gentle flood. This part of town was strictly commercial, with auto repair shops and small engineering units every few yards, and signs offering marine engine servicing, panel work and paint spraying alongside grill restaurants, bars and barbecue joints.
Rik’s contact had been wary of meeting anywhere too open, insisting on a place he called Mooney’s Bar. ‘Any cab will get you there,’ he’d said enigmatically. ‘Tell him Mooney’s off Thirteenth. He’ll know. You’ll know me, too, when you see me.’ He hadn’t explained why.
Mooney’s was a narrow-fronted, brick-built, single-storey building sandwiched between two auto repair yards. It stretched back a hundred feet with parking spaces along the front and down one side. There were several vehicles around and the sound of country music drifted from the open door. Neon signs advertised nachos, chicken wings and several brand names he’d never heard of. Across the road were more industrial units with floodlit yards and shadow-filled spaces lined with silent vehicles and piles of car parts, and further along, a scattering of trees and bushes with more buildings poking aluminium vents into the night sky, one of them lit by floodlights.
Rik walked up the steps to the door and stepped inside. Mooney’s layout was simple; it had a long bar down one side and tables down the other. The music was coming from speakers up on the walls, and he counted twenty customers, mostly couples. A group of four men in plaid shirts and work jeans turned to look but without great interest. A pasty-faced young guy in a black T-shirt and jeans and his hair tied in a ponytail was sitting at one of the tables. He had his nose buried in a computer magazine and was picking at a plate of fries, stabbing them with a fork and feeding them in an abstract manner into his mouth.
Rik wandered over. ‘Ripper?’ he said.
The ponytail nodded and dropped the magazine, gesturing at the chair opposite with the fork. Seconds later the barman arrived with two beers and stood waiting.
‘Give him ten bucks,’ said Ripper.
Rik handed over a note and sat down. He studied the man opposite. Some of his fellow hackers wore suits and lived a conventional life, concealing their passion behind an outer veneer of normality. Others did not. Ripper clearly belonged to the darker side. He was as pale as a Goth and the amount of face piercings on view would never have allowed him through an airport scanner on the first try. He probably had more that Rik didn’t like to think about, and a flurry of tattoos crawling up his neck and throat. He was trying to look cool but looked nervy and sniffed a lot. Rik wondered if he’d made a mistake coming here.
‘So you’re Blackjack?’ It was one of Rik’s tag names. His voice was a surprise; it was soft and melodic, not at all what Rik had expected. ‘I heard some good stuff about you.’ When Rik didn’t respond, he said, ‘Not too talkative, huh? Yeah, I’m cool with that. What do you want from me?’
‘I was told you can get into court records. That if I give you a name, you can get me the details. Is that right?’
Ripper nodded. ‘Damn right. Hazell tell you that?’
‘No. Never heard of Hazell.’
‘Rodeoboy, then.’
Rik nodded and sipped the beer. It was fizzy and thin. Ripper was testing him. It was common practice, dropping sly verbal traps for anyone asking questions who shouldn’t. Rodeoboy was a contact of Rik’s from years ago, before he’d joined MI5. He still didn’t know where the hacker lived — it could have been on the far side of the moon. But Rodeoboy was reliable and knew a lot of useful people. People like Ripper.
‘Rodeo, right.’ Ripper smiled and chewed on a fry. ‘So what’s the name?’
Rik handed him a slip of paper. It carried Don Bikovsky’s name and an address in Venice Beach. ‘He’s not there now, though. It’s where the trail ended.’
Ripper touched the paper but didn’t pick it up, as if drawing on the details through his fingertips. ‘It’s kinda sketchy, man, just a name. Not a lot to go on. Could be several Bikovskys in the system.’
‘Not unless they’re a family of convicted criminals with the same first name. It’s all I’ve got. More importantly,’ he pointed out, ‘I was told it’s all you need.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Ripper sniffed importantly and pushed the plate away, drumming his fingers on the table. It was the first sign of excitement he’d shown. A challenge had been thrown down and he was sniffing at the hook. But there were certain conventions to go through.
‘If you can’t do it,’ Rik said, ‘I’ll get on the first plane to New York.’
‘New York?’ Ripper looked confused. ‘Is that where you live? You’re like, British, though, right?’
‘So? We’ve been known to travel. But the Skeeter, he lives in New York. Manhattan, to be precise.’
Ripper sat up as if he’d been electrocuted. ‘You know the Skeeter? I’ve like, touched base with him, man. He’s dynamic. Done some great stuff.’ He scowled. ‘But he’s not right for this job; he’s a little-’ Ripper flicked a pale hand, the fingers stubby with chewed nails.
‘He’s what?’
‘He’s fast, I grant you, and good. . but heavy-handed. To open the DOJ box of afternoon delights you need the touch of a surgeon.’ Ripper smiled arrogantly, a silver nose ring jiggling in the light.
‘I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.’
Ripper ignored him. ‘But you promised me the Stick Man. That’s what you said on the line: you could get me a link to the Stick. Him and me,’ he rubbed the sides of his two forefingers together, ‘we’ve got similar aims, see — and I know we could make some solid connections. All I need is an in.’
‘Really?’ Rik began to stand up. ‘Who said the Stick Man was a guy?’
‘Wait!’ Ripper put a hand out. ‘I was kidding! Everyone knows Stick’s a skirt.’ He grinned as Rik sat down again. ‘Dude, I was playing with you.’ A strange light glittered deep in the hacker’s eyes and he threw Rik a sly look. ‘Stick’s awesome.’ He reached for his drink and sucked in a mouthful, his skinny throat working like a pump. ‘That’s neat tactics, hiding behind a guy tag. Who’d think, huh?’ He turned his head away but kept his eyes on Rik. ‘You can really give me an intro?’ He was almost begging, but trying to hide it.