The Abomination Page 23

  Daniele nodded.

  “The bottom line is, we’ll give you help in whatever form you want it. We’ll invest in Carnivia outright or a chunk of it – minority or majority share, that’s your call. Or we’ll put you on the payroll and pay your legal bills.”

  “That’s very generous,” Daniele said.

  Trent smiled. “I just think us 2.0 guys should stick together. One day you’ll do the same for me.”

  “To be frank,” Daniele added, “I’ve been expecting this.”

  “You have?” Trent shot his VP an amazed look. “We didn’t even discuss this ourselves until last weekend. We were having a hackathon and someone said, ‘What about Carnivia? We need to reach out to those guys.’”

  “I meant,” Daniele explained, “that I’d been expecting someone to make an offer for Carnivia. After all, what’s the use of putting pressure on me personally if it doesn’t net the site itself? So I assumed that at some point before my sentencing, someone would come along and try to buy it, on terms apparently so generous that I’d be a fool not to accept.”

  “Not buy. Invest,” Jim Khalifi murmured. His boss shot him a warning look.

  “And because I knew that those making the offer would somehow be linked to those who engineered the false charges against me, I’ve taken the trouble to investigate your company more thoroughly than perhaps you thought possible,” Daniele added.

  Trent blinked. “Hey. Everyone knows me. I blog, I tweet . . . My life’s an open book, right?”

  “Is it, though?” Daniele said. “For example, everyone knows, or thinks they know, that Rocaville are a bunch of fresh-faced Silicon Valley techies who are currently giving Facebook a run for its money. But how many people know that your three biggest investors are actually defence contractors?”

  Trent looked puzzled. “Our seed capital came from gaming companies. . .”

  “Which, if you follow the ownership trail far enough back, turn out to be controlled by arms manufacturers. The US government is the biggest purchaser of high-end 3D graphics systems in the world. Only they call them Visual and Sensor Simulation Training systems. And the defence industry is currently the single biggest investor in high-tech R&D in the US. That cool, funky software company which took a thirty per cent stake in you at start-up, for example, had itself recently been acquired by General Dynamics, the government’s biggest cyber warfare contractor. You’re a front man for military interests, Trent.”

  Trent’s smile barely slipped. “That’s like saying I’m bankrolled by the Kremlin just because some Russian dude’s got his pension invested in our stock.”

  “Without your three biggest investors, you’d be nothing,” Daniele said calmly. “I’m betting that a few days ago, you got a call from one of them, setting up a meeting. There probably weren’t any last names, just some mumbo-jumbo about national security and how they were giving you a chance to prove that, despite the tattoo and the sandals, you’re a loyal American. Am I right?”

  There was a long silence.

  “If you’re so paranoid,” Jim Khalifi said suddenly, “why did you agree to meet with us?”

  “I want to know who’s behind the attacks on me, and why. I don’t flatter myself it’s for my coding – I may have created the algorithms, but anyone reasonably smart could copy those. I think it’s much more likely your friends want access to Carnivia so they can bypass the encryption – in other words, they want to be able to eavesdrop on someone who currently thinks Carnivia is secure. But who?”

  “If we’re who you say we are, we’d hardly tell you,” Trent Wolfe said.

  “Perhaps. But my bet is, you’re thinking back to your meeting with those guys and wondering if they were really who they said they were. There’s a big difference between being asked to help your country and betraying your principles for a bunch of arms manufacturers, right?”

  There was another long silence.

  “Look at MCI,” Trent Wolfe said suddenly. “That’s all I’m saying. Jesus, Dan, that’s all I’m saying and it’s way too much.”

  “Who are MCI?”

  “Military Capabilities International. Private armies, government contracts – you name it, they provide it.”

  “And who’s paying them?”

  Trent shook his head. “I don’t know, I swear, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. These fuckers don’t fuck around. As far as they’re concerned, this conversation never took place, OK?”

  Forty-three

  KAT MADE HER way unobtrusively to the front desk of the Hotel Europa. She waited until there were no guests around, then flipped her ID under the clerk’s nose. “Remember me?”

  Startled, the young man nodded.

  “I’ve got a warrant to look at one of your rooms,” she lied calmly. “Only I’ve left the paperwork back at the station. I’m going to have to examine the room first, and fax the documents to you later.”

  He frowned. “This would be the room where the murder happened?”

  “No. It’s the room belonging to a guest. Mr Findlater.”

  “I need to check with my—”

  “No, you don’t. I don’t care what your company policy is, and I don’t have time to deal with your head office. I just need ten minutes in his room, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  She could see corporate caution battling with the ingrained desire to say yes to a confident-sounding officer of the Carabinieri. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of key cards. A swipe through the machine, some typing on his computer keyboard, and he handed her a card. “Room 244. He’s not there.”

  As she walked to the lift she checked she had phone signal. Piola would text if she needed to get out quickly, although she was confident that wasn’t likely. Findlater had been asked back to Campo San Zaccaria with the emails between him and Barbara Holton he’d referred to. Piola would keep him busy for at least forty minutes.

  They’d debated the merits of this excursion late into the night. Obviously, any evidence Kat found without a search warrant would be inadmissible. Even if she found something, and somehow managed to get a warrant after the event, it was a high-risk strategy – if it became known she’d already been into the room, it would discredit not only the evidence, but potentially the whole investigation.

  So this was purely a fishing expedition, to see if their hunch was correct; a prelude to announcing to Prosecutor Marcello that they didn’t believe Findlater’s story.

  The maid hadn’t cleaned Room 244 yet – there was a breakfast tray outside, waiting to be collected, and a “Do Not Disturb” card over the door handle. That was curious, Kat thought, since Findlater wasn’t inside. Just in case, she knocked. No answer.

  She pushed the card into the lock and waited for the light to go green. Checking the corridor one last time to make sure no one was watching, she slipped inside.

  The bed was already neatly made. The reflexes of a career in the military, no doubt – that part of his story had undoubtedly been true. Beside the bed, a canvas holdall sat on a trestle. Inside were some casual but expensive clothes: T-shirts, polo shirts and chinos, all neatly folded.

  In the bathroom were a few toiletries. By the bed, a bottle of water. There were no books, she noticed: no personal items of any sort, only an empty laptop sleeve and an ID card from a company called Military Capabilities International in the name of Robert Findlater. Dirty laundry was already stowed neatly in a hotel laundry bag. The room was so bare, it was almost as if it hadn’t been occupied at all.

  Or, she thought, as if it had been carefully tidied in readiness for just such an inspection.

  Under the window was a small desk. Its surface was also bare, except for a sheaf of paper slips weighed down by another water bottle. She moved the bottle and examined them. They were his receipts – simple meals in cafés, a panino at the airport, room service dockets, an ATM slip for five hundred euros. Since landing at Marco Polo two days before, Bob Findlater appeared to have done nothing more
untoward than have the occasional beer.

  Accepting that she’d drawn a blank, she headed for the door. As she reached it, she heard voices in the corridor beyond – a male guest wishing the maid a cheery “Arrivederci” as he departed.

  She drew back, waiting. The man’s footsteps, and the squeak of his luggage wheels, passed down the corridor. She heard a “ping” as the lift arrived.

  That was when she noticed a bent toothpick lying on the carpet, just inside the door.

  She retraced her steps. In the bathroom she found another toothpick, similarly bent, also just inside the door.

  “Shit,” she said under her breath, recalling the “Do Not Disturb” sign. Not knowing exactly where in the door jamb he’d placed the toothpicks, there was no way she could now disguise from Bob Findlater the fact that his room had been searched.

  Back at Campo San Zaccaria, she met up with a gloomy Piola.

  “His emails checked out,” he said. “That is, he appears to have sent about a dozen messages to Barbara Holton, and she appears to have replied with updates on the progress she and Jelena were making in tracking down his darling daughter. How did you get on?”

  She told him about the toothpicks.

  “It’s not illegal to want to know if your room’s been searched,” he pointed out. “After all, it was us who told him to be extra careful. Nothing else?”

  “Actually, there was one thing,” she said slowly.

  “What?”

  “It’s a tiny detail – in fact, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But I found a pile of receipts in his room.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t you think that’s curious? If a man goes looking for his long-lost daughter, why would he keep the receipts – who would he claim the money back from? In fact, Findlater specifically said that he didn’t keep Barbara Holton’s receipt for the three thousand US he gave her. So why’s he keeping a record of his expenses for this trip, unless someone’s paying him?” She looked at him. “Findlater’s not looking for his daughter at all, Aldo. Or if he is, it’s only because someone’s told him to.”

  “Or,” he said gently, “he’s just a man of habit. Was the bedroom very neat?”

  “Extremely,” she admitted.

  “So he makes a tidy pile of his credit card slips, too. I’m not disagreeing with you, Kat. But it’s hardly a smoking gun.”

  “It’s all we’ve got.”

  “It’s all we’ve got,” he agreed. “So. Time to face Marcello.”

  The meeting with the prosecutor was short and to the point. He was not prepared to listen to any more crazy speculation, whether about Americans, Croatians, priests or anyone else. They were to write up their reports and close down the investigation.

  “I don’t get it, Colonnello,” he said sarcastically. “What is it with this case? Murders are committed in this city all the time. Most are wrapped up within a few days, a few weeks at the most. Why do you want to waste so much time on this particular investigation?” He paused, still looking at Piola, and then, quite deliberately, let his gaze travel across to Kat.

  “There must be something about this case that’s affecting your judgement and causing you to prolong the investigation, Colonel,” he continued. “I’m just wondering what it can be.”

  Kat forced herself not to react, not to flinch or blush under the prosecutor’s gaze as he looked from her to Piola and back, one eyebrow raised interrogatively.

  After a few moments he nodded, satisfied he’d teased the two of them enough. “Very well. I’ll expect your final report in the next few days.”

  “He doesn’t know anything,” she said as they left the prosecutor’s offices. “He’s just trying to rile you.”

  “I know,” Piola said. “Don’t worry. I can’t be put off so easily.”

  They walked back to Campo San Zaccaria. It was almost as quick as waiting for a vaporetto, so long as one made a detour north of Piazza San Marco, crowded with tourists even at this time of year

  “When I went to see Daniele Barbo,” she said hesitantly, “he suggested he might be able to get the data off Barbara Holton’s laptop. He’s done something similar before, apparently.”

  “Yes?”

  “I said no, of course. But he said the offer would remain open. It strikes me that we’ve actually got something concrete for him to look for now – we could ask him to establish whether Barbara Holton really sent those emails, or if Findlater was fabricating them.”

  “Yes, except that giving her machine to a convicted hacker who’s awaiting sentencing for breaking internet privacy laws would be an insane thing to do.”

  “Granted. But it might help. . .”

  “We need evidence we can use, Kat. Evidence that will convince people like Marcello. Nothing else is going to get him off our back.”

  The two of them were the only ones based in the operations room now. It had the feel, Kat admitted to herself, of a case that had long since come to an end.

  Her mobile rang. “Pronto?”

  “Kat, it’s Francesco. There’s a case Allocation need to assign quickly – a big one. A politician who’s strangled a rent boy, says it was an accident but there’s evidence the feno was blackmailing him. Your name’s been suggested.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “You, if you want it. Your own investigation. The prosecutor asked for you personally.”

  “Which prosecutor?” she said, although she’d already guessed the answer.

  “Avvocato Marcello.”

  Through the glass wall of Piola’s office she watched him pick up a brown envelope that was lying on his desk. He pulled out the contents and looked at them. For a moment he froze. Then his eyes turned towards her.

  She knew she would never forget the expression in those eyes – something far worse than horror or despair. “I’ve got to go,” she said into the phone.

  “Allocation need an answer—”

  “Tell them I’m too busy.” She hung up. “What is it?” she called across to Piola.

  He didn’t reply. She hurried into his office and took the photograph from his hand. The print was grainy – it had been taken at night, with a long lens – but the subject was clear enough.

  Piola. And Kat. Entering her apartment, his arm around her. His head was turned towards her. She was laughing.

  Just in case there was any doubt, there was a second photo as well. It showed the window of her apartment. She was lowering the blinds. Aldo was also in the shot, behind her, his hand reaching out for her. She was wearing a bathrobe.

  There was a note, a sheet of A4 printer paper on which someone had typed the words:

  These have been sent to your wife.

  Forty-four

  “THEY MAY NOT have gone through with it,” she said. “Perhaps it’s just a threat.”

  He shook his head. “I have to go home. She’ll have opened it by now.” Carefully he gathered his coat and hung it over his arm.

  “What are you going to say to her?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded dazed.

  “Aldo, we have to talk.”

  “Yes. Later. First I need to go home and talk to my wife.”

  He left the room like a sleepwalker. “Will you phone me?” she called after him.

  He didn’t reply.

  She looked at the top photo again. It had obviously been taken some time ago, since it showed Piola before he’d been beaten up. So whoever employed the photographer had known about the two of them almost from their first night together – had probably used the knowledge, in fact, to plan Piola’s beating and the mock execution.

  Her blood ran cold.

  And now . . . she tried to imagine the conversation Piola would be having when he got home. But she couldn’t. It was completely outside her experience, never having been in that kind of relationship herself.

  She felt like a schoolgirl caught doing something terrible, something so bad that you were simply left alone while the grown-ups went to
talk about it amongst themselves.

  The wife will blame me, she thought. Of course she will. Because, after all, I am to blame.

  Without even meaning to, she found herself logging onto Carnivia. Under her name it said “fourteen entries”.

  She clicked on the most recent.

  SO IT’S TRUE! THE ICE CAPTAIN AND THE TERRIBLY SERIOUS COLONEL HAVE BEEN INVESTIGATING EACH OTHER! CAN’T IMAGINE WHAT THEY TALK ABOUT IN BED!

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, disgusted. She logged out. Then, to take her mind off what Piola and his wife might be saying to each other, she started on some paperwork.

  The desk phone rang, the caller’s number not one she recognised. She grabbed it, thinking it must be him.

  “Is that Colonel Piola?” a man’s voice said, clearly distressed.

  “He’s not here. Who is this?”

  “I came to see you. I’m Lucio the fisherman – the one from Chioggia, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. How can I help you?”

  “It’s Ricci’s widow, Mareta. She’s in hospital. She was beaten up last night. The doctors say she nearly died.”

  “Who did it?”

  “She’s not saying – she can’t, she’s got a broken jaw. They say she may never talk properly again.” The young man sounded hysterical. “You couldn’t keep it to yourself, could you? You had to let it leak.”

  “I’ll come over.”

  “No! Stay away from her! Stay away from all of us! Why should we bother with you lot? We might as well just shoot ourselves, and save them the bother.”

  It was three hours before Piola came back. He couldn’t meet her eye. She followed him into his office.

  “Is she OK?” she asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “What about you?”

  “That’s not really the point, is it?”

  “What did you say to each other?”

  “That’s . . . private,” he said quietly, and she flinched. “Kat, look . . . Obviously I’ve promised her that it’s all over between you and me.”

  Foolishly, in her hurt she tried to make a joke of it. “Well, I’ve been dumped many times, and that probably wins the prize for the most direct.”