Adrian Magson - Tracers

He ran downstairs, slowing to a stroll as he hit the street. He stopped at a fruit stall that was still packing up and bought some grapes, then continued along the street, eyeing the windows and pausing occasionally to peer at a display. As he drew level with the delivery van, he turned and faced the nearest shop window and chewed some grapes, studying a rack of audio equipment on special offer. He bent as if taking in the specifications. The angle gave him an ideal background against which he could see the driver in the saloon behind the van.

It was a man. Medium build, jowly, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows over a pasty face. He was staring down the street, eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of him.

It was a look Harry had seen too many times to be mistaken: the driver was watching someone. He turned and followed the line of the man’s focus, but there was too much clutter to be able to pick out any one object. Or person.

He continued his stroll, pausing to catch the car’s reflection in another window, but without drawing any firm conclusion. A local cop, then. A drugs squad officer on a dealer’s tail, perhaps. Or more mundane than that: a market inspector.

He crossed the street and returned to the flat by a roundabout route, wondering if paranoia got worse as you got older.

‘Everyone’s life overlaps in some way, right?’ Rik was still teasing at the lack of paperwork in Silverman’s file, as if Harry hadn’t left. ‘There’s always home stuff in their desks and work stuff at home. Until now.’ He blinked, just noticing a change in the atmosphere. ‘You’ve been out.’

‘Just checking something.’ Harry picked up his coffee. It had gone cold. He exchanged it for the briefing sheet Jennings had given them. He stared again at the description of Silverman, although it produced nothing he hadn’t read several times already.

Subject: Samuel Silverman (Prof. — Haifa Univ.) Age 52 — 5?8? — slim build — 140lbs — hair black/flecked grey — receding — usually cut short — neat beard and moustache. Skin swarthy/Mediterranean — disfigurement (pockmarking) on cheeks — dark area approx. 4? square (believed b’mark) below right eye. Eyes black — described as piercing — even teeth, all white — firm jaw — strong nose. Likes Med/Middle East cooking — mostly veg — non-drinker/non-smoker. No known reading/film/music preferences — no known hobbies but keen walker.

The description fitted thousands of men; like many of those walking past in the street outside. He put it down and picked up the fragment of charred paper. It appeared to have been torn from a spiral notebook, with a line of jagged holes along one edge. The writing was at an angle across the paper, as if it had been scribbled in a hurry. The letters were faded, probably by the heat, but he could clearly make out ‘J.A. London’, followed by a number.

He handed it to Rik, saying, ‘“J. A. London”. A place or a person?’

Rik shrugged. ‘Take your choice. And what’s the six-digit number?’ He fed it into a search engine in a variety of permutations, but came up blank.

‘Mobile phone?’

‘Maybe. Without the first half, though, we’ll never track it down.’ Rik could access some useful databases, but there were limits to the information he could get from them without adequate pointers to help focus his search.

‘It might explain the flight to Heathrow. He decided to come over to somewhere or someone he felt close to.’ Harry fingered the number LH4736 T2 written on the briefing paper. ‘A Lufthansa flight number arriving at Terminal Two. It’s all we’ve got.’

‘Great.’ Rik fed that into his laptop, but shook his head. ‘Can’t access their passenger lists. They’re blocked. Do you know anyone in Immigration?’

Harry nodded. As it happened, he did. As vague as the lead was, it was their best bet. It must have seemed significant to the Israelis, otherwise why provide it? He took out his phone, checked the directory and dialled a number. When it was answered he spoke quickly, giving Silverman’s details and the flight number. He ended the call and nodded. ‘She’ll check it out. Might take a while.’

Rik gave a sly smile. ‘She? Did you say “she”? Christ, things are looking up. I thought your only contacts were hairy-arsed coppers with a drink problem.’ He picked up an A-Z of London and flicked through the index. After a few minutes, he sighed and tossed it to one side. ‘There are several places in London that fit the “J. A.”: James Avenue and Jersey Avenue to name two. We need a house number, otherwise we’re chasing smoke.’

Harry nodded. ‘Long shot. Leave it.’

Rik opened the folder and tapped the briefing paper where it mentioned Haifa University. There were no other details, such as contact numbers, faculty, or departmental names. ‘Didn’t you say Silverman was a doctor of theology?’

‘According to Jennings. Before he went AWOL.’

Harry chewed on that for a while. Jennings might have picked up the information at an original client briefing, but for some reason hadn’t bothered including it in his notes, such as they were. Still, even if they didn’t have the department, how big could the place be? The Professor must have had friends there at one time; someone might remember him and give them some background information.

‘I need a phone number,’ said Harry.

‘I’m on it.’ Rik turned to his laptop and began punching keys.

Harry dialled the number and waited. It rang twelve times before being answered by a gruff male voice. He asked if they had a Professor Samuel Silverman on the staff. There was a sharp reply in what he took to be Hebrew, before the phone clicked and a woman’s voice came on with an American accent. He repeated the question.

‘Who are you?’ She sounded instantly suspicious. ‘It’s a holiday today. Why do you want to know?’

‘I need to speak to him,’ he said finally, winging it. He had no idea if the university staff were aware that Silverman had gone walkabout, and didn’t want to set alarm bells ringing unnecessarily. ‘He was helping my nephew with some study advice.’

The woman made a grudging noise, and he heard the sound of paper rustling. In the background someone laughed and a computer beeped. ‘You say Samuel?’ said the woman after a lengthy wait. ‘Samuel Silverman?’

‘That’s right. Professor Samuel Silverman.’ He waited. If she wanted the department and the subject, he was sunk.

‘What’s he teaching? You don’t know?’ The woman must have extrasensory perception. He wondered what to say. What subject or speciality would an Israeli professor, apparently much valued by his government, teach? It wouldn’t be theology, in spite of what Jennings had said. Defence studies was more likely. Statistics, maybe. But they wouldn’t work — not now he’d mentioned a nephew. He had to risk a bluff. ‘You think my nephew tells me what he’s studying?’ he countered dramatically. ‘He tells me nothing, like he tells his parents. I have to force things out of him. It could be theology, though — he’s into all that stuff.’

Across the room, Rik shook his head in mock despair.

‘Sorry,’ said the woman. ‘Silvermans we have plenty of, but not a Samuel. And believe me, sir, we’ve had the same theology staff here since Golda Meir was in small pants.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry — nobody of that name on the staff here.’ In spite of her abruptness, she sounded sympathetic. ‘And no visiting lecturers, either — I checked the register, in case. We have people coming and going all the time, you see. You should maybe try another campus.’

He thanked her and rang off. ‘No Professor Samuel Silverman, nor ever was.’