Ava McCarthy - Hide Me

He missed a beat, as though adjusting for an unexpected turn of events. Then he let his chair drop with a snap back to the floor.

‘We’d prepare some background paperwork. False name, credit card, driver’s licence.’ He cocked a tangled eyebrow in her direction. ‘Unless you have those already?’

Harry felt the colour rise in her cheeks and wondered how much he knew about her occasional identity switches. If he knew about her trespassing caper on the Stock Exchange, then he probably knew about Pirata. Chances were, though, he didn’t know about Catalina.

Catalina Diego had started out as an imaginary friend when Harry was five years old. She took most of the blame for Harry’s misdeeds; she was blonde and beautiful, and her mother loved her. As Harry got older she’d abandoned Catalina in favour of Pirata, but later reinvented her when she began her hacking scams. By the time Harry was fourteen, Catalina had her own email account, driving licence and even a credit card. Harry still used her whenever the need arose.

She shrugged. ‘We could use Catalina Diego. It’s a persona I’ve built up in my professional capacity.’

‘Oh?’

Harry returned his unblinking gaze. ‘I use it occasionally on authorized security tests. She’s got established credentials, a credible paper trail. Plus, I’m used to the name. I won’t blank if someone calls me that.’

Zubiri’s eyes probed hers, then he nodded. ‘Okay. We’d set up a couple of hello phones, get some people to backstop you in Belfast.’ He must have seen her expression, for he went on to explain. ‘Just numbers and contacts who’ll confirm Catalina’s background if anyone asks. We’d use McArdle, too. You could say you knew him, you were in the same line of business.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a dead guy, that’s why. Dead guys can’t deny knowing you.’

Harry blinked. Zubiri went on.

‘You said you had family in San Sebastián.’

‘I said I might have.’

‘You’d need to stay away from places they might be. In case they blow your cover.’

Harry shook her head. ‘No one knows me. I haven’t been here since I was a child.’

Zubiri nodded, satisfied. ‘Stick to the truth as much as possible. The fewer lies you tell, the fewer you need to remember.’

‘What happens if they just don’t believe me?’

For the first time, Zubiri’s gaze faltered. ‘They will.’

‘But if they don’t?’

He jabbed at the keyboard, kick-starting his laptop. Then he trained his eyes on hers. ‘No matter what happens, never, ever break cover.’

Harry experienced a sudden, dizzy rush, like the falling sensation that jerks you out of sleep. Her heart pounded. She eased back in her chair, covering her jitters with slow movements. Zubiri turned to his keyboard, pecking out the password to unlock his snoozing laptop.

Harry’s gaze slid to his fingers. Instinctively, she found herself trying to shoulder-surf his code, and had to refrain from craning her neck. But she couldn’t make it out. He was hunched over, shielding his hands, as though trying to stop her cheating on a test. All she could tell was that the password was long and, from the way his hands moved, contained numbers and symbols as well as letters.

She awarded him a mental thumbs-up. A hacker would work up quite a sweat trying to power-drill his way through that one.

Light bounced against the wall. Riva’s mugshot flickered back into focus, and Harry noted from the information bar that they’d reached slide four in a total of fourteen. She snuck a glance at her watch. Zubiri hadn’t struck her as the show-’n’-tell type. Just how many mugshots did he have?

He hit a key and Riva vanished, replaced by McArdle’s post-mortem shot.

‘We’ve managed to identify four members of Chavez’s crew. McArdle you already know.’ Zubiri flipped ahead to the next photo. ‘And this guy too, though maybe not his name. Washed-up actor called Clayton James. Also known as James Clay and Jimmy Clayton.’

Harry stared up at the sweaty, florid face and the greying thatch of hair. It was the American who’d collected the crew’s winnings at the casino.

‘We’ve run him through our databases, the FBI did the same.’ Zubiri switched in another shot, this one showing Clayton drinking in a bar. ‘Compulsive gambler, dumped by his wife and kids, left the movie business thirty years ago and turned to forgery, theft, embezzlement and serious fraud.’

Harry took in the man’s breezy smile, and the eyes that didn’t quite share in the joke. Zubiri moved on to the next shot, one that Vasco had already shown her: the thirty-something brunette with the stage-make-up look.

‘Virginia Vaughan, known as Ginny.’ Zubiri cued up another slide, showing the brunette standing on the steps of the Gran Casino. ‘She travels on an Irish passport and doesn’t have a record. We think she’s close to Chavez, but we don’t know for sure.’

Harry studied the woman’s striking face. Despite the showgirl pancake, there was something chic about the exotic planes and angles of her face.

Zubiri moved on. Another photo. Vasco had shown her this one, too: a man in his late forties, red-gold hair cut like a Marine’s; straight, bleached brows.

‘Name’s Gideon Ray.’ Zubiri switched to a shot of the man crossing a sunlit plaza. He looked tall and lean, his freckled face creased in laugh lines at some kids kicking footballs through the archways. Belatedly, Harry realized he was in the Plaza de la Constitución. She glanced at Zubiri.

‘Is he another conman?’

Zubiri gave her a level look. ‘All we know about Gideon Ray is that he kills people.’

Harry’s breath caught in her throat. Slowly, her eyes crept back to the smiling man in the photo. ‘Who does he kill?’

‘Drug traffickers, terrorists, an occasional arms dealer.’

‘Why?’

‘We don’t know.’

Harry hesitated. ‘Did he kill McArdle?’

‘They work on the same side, so we don’t think so.’ Zubiri shoved his chair back, stretching out his stocky legs. ‘There might be others in the crew, but if so, you’d meet them when you went inside. Along with Chavez.’

Harry’s brain suddenly felt swamped, the reality of the situation hitting her like a landslide. If she took this job on, she’d have to mix with these people. Talk with them, work with them, do what they do. She’d have to blend in and fool them into thinking she belonged. Harry’s pulse accelerated. She looked up at Gideon Ray’s smiling face; recalled Ginny Vaughan’s glamour-girl mask, and Clayton’s phoney warmth. A part of her wondered what was behind all the camouflage, but mostly she intended never to find out.

Zubiri fixed her with a stern look. ‘Don’t forget, just because you’re undercover doesn’t mean you try to be something that you’re not. If you don’t drink, then don’t drink. If you don’t take drugs, don’t start now. And never say you’ve been to prison if you haven’t.’

Harry nodded, her head still reeling. Zubiri went on.

‘These people are lifelong criminals, and you’d be part of their world. But remember: you can’t commit a crime when you’re undercover. It’s a strict rule. If you do, the department will not support you. Under any circumstances.’

Harry studied his intense, deep-set eyes, the unruly curls, the rumpled shirt, and couldn’t help comparing his bohemian image with Vasco’s slick efficiency. She cocked her head to one side.

‘Did you follow that rule when you worked undercover?’

He blinked once, but didn’t look away. Eventually, he said, ‘Attack is the best form of defence. Always answer a question with a question, and if you have to lie, look up at the ceiling.’