No Kiss For The Devil

22

‘You’ve been up to something — I can tell.’ Riley walked into Palmer’s office the following morning and found him at the window, staring into the street. ‘I rang you several times last night. Your mobile was off.’ Her voice was deliberately accusing; he’d left her out of the fun.

‘I needed my beauty sleep. I had an early night.’

‘Palmer.’ Riley stared at him, eyes like flint. ‘You’ve never needed an early night in your life. Where were you?’

He told her about his visit to Helen’s flat, the destruction he’d found and the connection between the card, the photo and the address book.

‘What did you do?’

‘I moved her out of harm’s way. She’s safe for now.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have helped you. I thought we were working together on this.’

‘We are. But it was easier to go to the flat by myself. If we’d walked into a police surveillance unit, you’d have been compromised as well. Alone, I had a halfway believable reason for being there.’

‘Maybe,’ she conceded grudgingly. ‘But next time, let me in on it.’

He nodded and toed the carpet. ‘Okay, boss. Sorry, boss.’

‘Apology accepted.’ Riley smiled, relieved to see he hadn’t lost his sense of humour. Being absorbed in his work was one thing; Palmer without humour was worrying.

‘But we do this my way,’ he insisted, leaving her no room for argument. ‘Our only line of connection is from Helen through the publishers in Sokhumi, through you to Richard Varley. It’s there, but a bit ragged. I want to take a look at him first. And Al-Bashir. If there’s something brewing between them, we need to figure out what it is before we go blundering in.’ He looked sombre. ‘Especially if there’s a connection with the Russian security services.’

‘Is that really likely?’

‘Anything’s possible. If it’s big business, the FSB would take an interest. It could be you’ve walked into a straightforward propaganda exercise and Varley is being used without his knowledge to recruit contributors for that purpose. Helen’s death could have been a mistake, or even be unconnected. We need to find out more.’

‘I can help with that,’ Riley volunteered. ‘Varley fancies his chances. I can ask him for another meeting. I’m sure he’ll agree. I haven’t actually said yes to the assignment yet, so it won’t seem unreasonable to want to talk it over.’

Palmer looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘Can you think of a better one?’

‘No.’

Before he could think up an argument, Riley took out her mobile and dialled the number on Varley’s business card. When he answered, she said, ‘I’m in. But I need to talk over a couple of things. Any chance we can meet?’

‘Of course!’ Varley sounded almost relieved. ‘Great to hear from you. Sure, we can talk. How about lunch today?’ He named a restaurant in Curzon Street.

‘I’ll see you there.’ She hung up and looked triumphantly at Palmer. ‘See? Easy.’

The restaurant was busy when Riley arrived. Richard Varley was sitting at a discreet corner table at the back, sipping from a glass of water. He looked solid, respectable and at ease, the sophisticated businessman enjoying a lunch break. As Riley followed the head waiter between the other tables, she was aware that the man she had come to see was watching her, and was himself the subject of discreet attention from one or two female diners.

He stood as she approached, and held out a hand. His touch was warm, like before, and lingered just long enough without being overly familiar.

‘Riley. Good to see you. May I offer you a drink?’

Riley asked for a gin and tonic and sat down. The head waiter took her order, then waited.

Varley ordered a filet steak and salad and looked innocently across at her. ‘I usually know what I want, so why waste time?’

Riley kept her eyes on the menu, ignoring the coded statement — if that’s what it was. If he was trying to come on to her, he wouldn’t be the first, and he clearly felt confident enough, as he had demonstrated at their first meeting. She chose salmon and handed the menu back to the waiter.

‘I don’t get enough time to relax,’ Varley said regretfully, and sipped his water. He gestured around at the restaurant. ‘This is a rare luxury for me, taking time out like this. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Riley. ‘But why so busy?’

‘Well, our business is all about current events in a changing world. Like yours. Old news is no news. We have a crowded programme of features and specials, and there are lots of eager shareholders to satisfy, as well as a list of high-level subscribers waiting for their next copy.’

‘Shareholders in Georgia?’

Varley didn’t miss a beat. He waved a vague hand. ‘Hardly any, actually. As I told you before, it’s just a base — and it’s cheap. We get the printing done at various facilities across Europe, wherever the price and production quality seems best. It keeps down the overheads and avoids local business taxes. It’s a struggle sometimes, but we manage. Do you work with anyone?’

The question was so smoothly delivered, it almost threw her. She wondered if there was a reason for it other than to divert her away from asking about the company. She was grateful when her drink arrived. ‘Nobody special,’ she replied. ‘If I need help, I recruit it when I need to — like you.’ She took a sip. ‘It keeps down the overheads.’

‘Touche.’ He dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Tell me about yourself. Any family?’

‘No. I’m what’s referred to as a singleton — although I loathe the word. I think it implies a lack of free choice.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘And are you — single, I mean?’

‘At the moment, yes.’

‘By choice?’

The question was reasonable, but Riley wondered if it was genuine. Or did he already know all there was to know about her background? That prompted thoughts about John Mitcheson, and she shook her head. Now wasn’t the time. Instead, she focussed on the present, remembering that corporations could find out about prospective employees at the push of a button. Christ, Palmer, she thought wildly, you’re making me paranoid. The man’s only being pleasant. She wondered where Palmer was and what he was doing. He’d said something about going back to Pantile House for another look round, but Palmer had a habit of not always doing what he’d talked about.

‘Riley?’ Varley bent his head and smiled, catching her unawares.

‘Sorry. There was someone once. We drifted apart.’

‘It happens.’ Richard studied her over the rim of his glass. ‘Where is he now?’

‘In the States somewhere. We lost touch.’

He nodded sympathetically. ‘I was married once, but it didn’t work out. I spent more time away than I did at home. It wasn’t fair on her.’

‘Where is home?’

‘All over. I stopped having papers delivered a long time ago. What’s the Paul Young song? Wherever I Lay my Hat?’

‘I know what that’s like. So where is your wife now?’

‘In Paris somewhere. We lost touch.’ He smiled at returning her own line, then said, ‘I’m pleased you’re going to help us with this assignment, Riley. I hate to talk work on such a pleasant occasion, but it would be nice to get it out of the way.’

Just as it was getting interesting, too, Riley thought. ‘That’s fine. I just wanted to find out a bit more about the line you want to take on Al-Bashir. He’s an interesting man.’

‘But a dangerous one in court. You read the briefing notes?’

‘Yes. How reliable are they? Only, I think you should know, I like to do my own research. It’s a thing I have.’

He appeared unmoved. ‘So you should. Although, as you’ve probably seen, the notes I provided are very comprehensive. I doubt there’s anything in there that your own research won’t also uncover.’

‘Quite possibly. So far. But how personal is this meant to be?’

His smile faded slightly. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘For a business profile, there seems to be a lot of personal stuff about his wife. Is that really necessary?’

Just for a second, Riley could have sworn his genial demeanour wavered a fraction. A hint of a frown touched his brow and he flicked at a crumb of bread on the edge of the tablecloth. ‘Like I said at our first meeting, we don’t dish the dirt, but if there is any… And who says it’s not relevant in this case?’ He sighed and waved a vague hand. ‘I have no brief for Al-Bashir either way, believe me. But if you consider his background, and where he’s taking his bid for the network licence, there’s almost certainly an interest in how his private life may affect his business affairs.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, it’s not that important to many westerners, I guess, but there are some who think that anything unseemly in his background might have an impact on his backers and local sensitivities.’

‘Why should they care? It’s business.’

‘True. But it’s more fragile than that. If he gets far enough along the route and actually wins the licence, then has to back out for any reason — say, someone with the power to pull the plug doesn’t like something about his background — it will leave a massive hole in the project with nobody to fill it. The cost of mounting, presenting, then losing the bid will be considerable. Another bidder might find it impossible to take his place. It could torpedo the whole project for years.’

‘So you’re saying it’s better to get the skeletons out of the cupboard right from the outset?’

Varley shrugged. ‘Why not?’ He leaned forward, suddenly serious. ‘Riley, this entire project has huge implications for the consumer market right across Eastern Europe. It will liberate vast resources for the man in the street, as well as small businesses and governments. You know how the commercial sector has exploded in the Indian sub-continent and in China; this is just an extension of that. What they don’t need is a bid that falls at the last hurdle. Because if that happens, it’ll be dead for a long, long time to come.’

‘But it could fail for all sorts of other reasons,’ she pointed out. ‘A market crash, ill-health, a change of government somewhere.’

He tilted his head from side to side. ‘Not really. The various governments are right behind it; the consumers definitely want it to go ahead. And there’s the technology and science out there to make it happen. If it goes through — either with Al-Bashir at the helm or one of the others — it will be a huge success. But only if nobody rocks the boat after the bid is awarded.’ He lifted his shoulders and smiled, as if suddenly trying to take the heat out of the conversation. ‘Hell, what do I know? We’re only watching the game, not out there playing.’

‘No,’ Riley agreed. ‘We’re not.’ She wondered why the sudden change in tone. Had he realised he was arguing too fiercely?

‘Write what you see, Riley. It’s all we can ask.’

‘Even if it turns out bad?’

‘Bad for who? Al-Bashir, maybe. Or even the other bidders. I think we have to wait and see.’ He looked up as the wine waiter approached. ‘Now, how about another drink?’

Frank Palmer watched from a cafe fifty yards down the street as Riley and her companion stepped out of the restaurant after their lunch. The area was busy, providing ample cover for him to watch without running the risk of being seen.

The publisher was tall, making him easy to follow in the crowd. As they walked towards the kerb, he placed his hand on Riley’s back, steering her towards the kerb. The gesture looked natural without appearing over-familiar. A taxi stopped nearby, and Riley climbed aboard. Varley leaned in briefly, then the vehicle moved off, leaving him standing on the pavement for a moment, before turning and walking in the direction of Piccadilly.

Palmer put down his cup and set off after him.