Deception

EIGHTEEN

The KLM flight from London City dropped Harry into Rotterdam airport under a leaden grey sky. He was thankful that none of the other passengers — mostly businessmen, bleary-eyed after early starts — had attempted any conversation. It had allowed him to close his eyes for a short while and catch up on some sleep, a trick he had worked hard on perfecting over the years. He made his way through the terminal and enquired at the information desk about travelling to Scheveningen. The woman rolled her eyes and wagged a finger, saying quietly, ‘Sir, you must not take a car to this place. It is impossible to park and very expensive. Taxis are cheaper and quicker.’ She handed him a basic map of The Hague and its surrounding districts, and directed him towards the taxi rank.

Scheveningen was a neat, modern and busy resort, and virtually a suburb of The Hague. It boasted sweeping sands, an impressive pier and an abundance of smart hotels and restaurants for the clean-living burghers of Den Haag, or the conference delegates too intent on business to have any interest in the various fleshpots of Rotterdam. In the background were a number of modern high-rise buildings which seemed to blend in perfectly with the holiday setting.

Harry asked the cab driver to drop him off and walked along the front, getting a feel for the place. He shivered slightly at a stiff breeze sweeping along the promenade, stinging his face with a light touch of fine sand. He was trying to see the place from Pike’s point of view, and what might have attracted him here. Was it purely for a meeting with the Protectory, to barter over what he could bring them and how much he was worth? Or had he come here in the final stages of deciding to return home?

He walked past the magnificent structure of the Kurhaus Hotel which, according to a brochure the cab driver had thrust at him, had been central in location and social standing to the resort since 1885. It boasted a fine restaurant and facilities, including a famous concert hall — the Kurzaal — and for that reason Harry decided Pike wouldn’t have gone anywhere near it. A deserter on the run would find such places too open, too threatening. He’d also spotted at least two cameras along the front, and Pike would have avoided them, too.

He turned inland and found his way into a collection of back streets. Elegant and orderly, but much less open, this was more likely a setting for a fugitive wishing to stay out of the limelight. Casual clothing was the norm and Pike would have blended in well here, just another man prowling the streets with time to kill.

He checked the address of the ATM machine Pike had used, and found it in a branch of ING Bank. It was just along the street from a ticket agency offering holidays to the Maldives and cruises down the Nile. The same agency where Pike had bought his Eurostar ticket.

He did a slow tour of the neighbourhood, ostensibly window-shopping while noting the various bars and cafes, a sex shop and a nightclub. The rest were small shops and businesses, and neat, red-brick houses topped by bright-red roof tiles. The sex shop aside, the area could not have been more anonymous, more normal. It was almost small-town compared to the vibrant modernity of the beach front area, and offered no clue as to what Pike could have been doing here other than blending in. Keeping his head down. Yet he’d used the machine twice. It suggested he’d stayed somewhere nearby. Anyone keeping a low profile wouldn’t risk walking far in broad daylight to use an ATM or to buy a train ticket — there was too much danger involved. Duck out, do what was necessary, duck back in, all with the minimum of exposure, would be the norm. The excursions to a bar-cafe were different; that would have been at night when it was easier to stay in the shadows.

Harry wondered at what point Pike had made up his mind about going home, in spite of having allegedly taken the Protectory’s money, if that was where it had come from. Even those intending to sell secrets they had promised to keep might suffer the equivalent to a seven-day cooling-off period, a crisis of conscience highlighted rather than salved by an influx of illicit cash.

He entered the tour agency and showed the man behind the desk the photo of Pike. ‘I’m looking for my brother-in-law,’ he explained. ‘He stayed in the area and bought a Eurostar ticket to London, but never arrived home. His name’s Fraser.’ He had written the ticket stub number on the back of the photo.

The manager hesitated for a moment, then shrugged as if answering questions from relatives whose brothers-in-law had not arrived home was not an uncommon occurrence. He entered the number in his computer, waited for a second, then said, ‘Mr Fraser gave his address as the Monro Hostel. It is very popular with people on a budget. Go down Keizerstraat for two hundred metres, then take a left. It is not far.’

‘He paid cash?’

‘Yes.’

Harry thanked him for his help and followed the directions to the Monro Hostel, a red-brick building set back from the street with a large awning over the front. He went inside and stepped over a pile of backpacks to the small desk, and rang the bell. A large woman with bright-red hair came out through a beaded curtain and nodded. ‘Goedemorgen.’

Harry explained about his wayward brother-in-law, and how his sister was worried about her husband. The woman listened without comment, then checked a register.

‘Nee,’ she said eventually. ‘Mijnheer Fraser was here two days, but no more.’ She pointed back towards Keizerstraat. ‘Try the Continentale Cafe. I see him there two times, at night, with friends. I hope he is OK, your brother.’ Then she turned and disappeared through the curtain.

With friends. That could mean anything or nothing. Drinking buddies for the evening. . or something more focussed and deliberate.

The Continentale was sleek, modern and furnished with polished wooden bench seats and tables, and a scattering of ethnic cushions under subdued lighting. A small dais at the end was overlooked by a row of coloured spotlights and held two large amplifiers and a microphone. The barman was a spit for a young Bruce Springsteen, right down to the blue jeans and waistcoat, and nodded as Harry approached the bar. There were no other customers, in spite of it being close to lunchtime, and he guessed the place probably came alive at night.

He ordered a coffee and slid Pike’s photo across the bar. ‘Have you seen this man recently? His name’s Fraser.’ He didn’t bother with the brother-in-law; any pro barmen would automatically clam up when faced with a story like that.

The man put down the glass he was polishing and studied the picture, his expression blank. ‘Sorry, pal.’ His accent was pure American, the voice a growl nurtured on late nights and too many cigarettes. ‘Don’t remember him.’ He dropped the photo and turned to pour a cup of coffee from a percolator on the back counter. He placed the cup in front of Harry and added cream and sugar alongside. ‘Come night-time, this place rocks, y’know? People come and go all the time. Just faces, most of ’em. It’s like Grand Central. What’s he done?’

Harry wasn’t in the habit of making snap judgements. He usually had to know people a while before judging their character. . unless they were brandishing a weapon or wearing a body belt of explosives strapped to their chests, then he felt able to make all the judgements in the world. But this man was different. Whether it was his tone, body language or accent, or the knowledge that Pike had been here more than once with ‘friends’, he knew without a shadow of doubt that the barman was what he’d been looking for. He was crossing the trail of the Protectory.

It felt like stepping over a snake.

‘You never saw him.’

‘Not what I said. I said I don’t remember seeing him. Different thing altogether.’ He gave a tough-guy smile, as if pleased with his response, and picked up the glass and resumed his polishing.

‘You’re right,’ said Harry. ‘It is different.’ He sipped the coffee. It was stewed and bitter on the palate. He decided to push harder. ‘Why, if you don’t remember him, have you just polished that glass three times since I came in?’

The barman stared at him and flushed. He’ll remember this, thought Harry, watching the anger rise in the man’s face. He’ll remember and pass the word.

‘I think you’d better leave.’ The barman put down the glass again and lifted his chest. ‘Right now. The coffee’s on the house.’

The barman waited for five minutes after the Englishman had gone. Then he went over to a payphone at the rear of the premises. He dialled a number from memory, and when it was answered, identified himself.

‘Wait there,’ said a woman’s voice on the other end. ‘Keep the line free. He’ll call back.’

He placed an ‘Out of Order’ sign on the phone and went back to the bar, where he continued polishing glasses. When the phone rang, he picked it up.

‘What have you got?’ The voice was male, the accent British.

‘It’s Daniels. I just had a guy in here asking questions.’

‘About what?’

‘You know. The guy on the run. . Fraser. This fella showed me a photo. It was definitely him.’

‘What was his name? What did he look like?’

‘He didn’t say his name. I didn’t ask. Just a guy, y’know? British, forty-something, good build, not a business type, though. Smelled like a cop. Hard-nosed.’ He had his own reasons for avoiding cops; especially those from countries with extradition treaties. He recalled the way the man had looked at him, and how he’d felt a sudden chill in his stomach. Drunks sometimes had the same look. But they were rarely dangerous. Drunks he could deal with. But this one had been stone cold sober. He considered the answer he’d given the visitor, and decided on a small lie. ‘I told him I’d never seen the guy before.’

There was a short silence, then, ‘That was a mistake. Not remembering is a better answer.’