again.â
Her hazel eyes, clearer now, became as hard as the pebbles at his feet.
âFine,â she said. She opened her purse. Inside he glimpsed a pistol and two identical mobile phones. Nothing else. She handed him one of the phones, then walked away.
Something didnât fit. âWhat arenât you telling me, Lorne? Why me, in particular?â
She didnât turn around, didnât slow down. âThe guy who stole it was a diver. Check your phone.â
He watched her disappear around the corner.
Back in his car, he switched on the mobile sheâd given him. It asked for a code. He typed in 0-0-0-0. No good. Two more tries. He keyed in 1-2-3-4. Nope. One more try. He shook his head, swore, changed to text, and keyed in S-A-R-A. He was in. There was no option to change the password. Always got what she wanted.
He checked for photos. There were four. A helicopter at night, then at a crazy angle just above a bridge, then in the water, then⦠Hard to make out. A man in the water in a pilotâs uniform, with a stab jacket wrapped awkwardly around him, lit up by a powerful beam. Unconscious. Jake looked closer. Someone just beneath the pilot, underwater. The guy who stole the Rose. The photo was grainy. He played his fingers and thumbs over the smartphone to stretch the image until he could just about see the masked face.
Lorne had been right. Jake saw things in the data. Patterns, connections, but also faces. He saw things others didnât. No idea why. But it was clear to him, maybe because he was a diver, and you learned to see behind the neoprene.
The diver was female .
Where to start? Easy. London. Scene of the crime. Get the measure of this diver. But in a sense he already had an idea of her. Sheâd gone to a lot of trouble to save the pilot. And the thought came to him unbidden, that he should find this woman before Lorne did.
He started the engine, and glanced over to the fjord. âLater, Sean,â he said, then tore away, scattering pebbles into the water.
Chapter Four
Nadia nursed her backpack as she tried to forget yesterdayâs killing spree. In front of her the harbour was crowded with expensive sailing yachts and sturdy fishing vessels. The sun beat down on her face. The yacht rigging rattled in the onshore breeze. A distant ambulance siren was barely audible above the cawing of seagulls fighting over rancid morsels in the fishing nets left out to dry on the quay. The image of Janssenâs bloody corpse intruded in her mind. Fish would be eating away at what was left of his face. She opened her eyes, gripped the bag hiding the Rose, held it closer.
Sammy had saved her, but she should have killed Janssen, for Katyaâs, if not for her own sake. Why couldnât she pull the trigger? Sheâd been living in a fantasy world, believing that she could work for Kadinsky for five years and never kill anyone. Okay, there had been the vow to her mother, and she didnât want to become her father, but still. She should at least be able to defend herself, or protect Katya. She had to get her head in the game, especially now Sammy was gone and she was on her own. She went over it again, for the umpteenth time. Why canât I kill?
Of course she had, once. A bear. As a kid sheâd loved animals. Her father taught her to shoot, but when he took her hunting in the woods she would aim to miss, to scare away a deer or a rodent. He never reproached her, just repeated the same phrase: âNext timeâ. Then one day a bear had been terrorising the village, and the men were called out to track it down and kill it. She and her father joined the search, and after several hours, spotted it. He gave her the shot. But even though it had maimed two people already, she aimed high, and it ran off. The other men were furious when they found out, and her father had to send her home with her rifle. As she neared the house she heard Katya screaming in the back garden.
Her hazel eyes, clearer now, became as hard as the pebbles at his feet.
âFine,â she said. She opened her purse. Inside he glimpsed a pistol and two identical mobile phones. Nothing else. She handed him one of the phones, then walked away.
Something didnât fit. âWhat arenât you telling me, Lorne? Why me, in particular?â
She didnât turn around, didnât slow down. âThe guy who stole it was a diver. Check your phone.â
He watched her disappear around the corner.
Back in his car, he switched on the mobile sheâd given him. It asked for a code. He typed in 0-0-0-0. No good. Two more tries. He keyed in 1-2-3-4. Nope. One more try. He shook his head, swore, changed to text, and keyed in S-A-R-A. He was in. There was no option to change the password. Always got what she wanted.
He checked for photos. There were four. A helicopter at night, then at a crazy angle just above a bridge, then in the water, then⦠Hard to make out. A man in the water in a pilotâs uniform, with a stab jacket wrapped awkwardly around him, lit up by a powerful beam. Unconscious. Jake looked closer. Someone just beneath the pilot, underwater. The guy who stole the Rose. The photo was grainy. He played his fingers and thumbs over the smartphone to stretch the image until he could just about see the masked face.
Lorne had been right. Jake saw things in the data. Patterns, connections, but also faces. He saw things others didnât. No idea why. But it was clear to him, maybe because he was a diver, and you learned to see behind the neoprene.
The diver was female .
Where to start? Easy. London. Scene of the crime. Get the measure of this diver. But in a sense he already had an idea of her. Sheâd gone to a lot of trouble to save the pilot. And the thought came to him unbidden, that he should find this woman before Lorne did.
He started the engine, and glanced over to the fjord. âLater, Sean,â he said, then tore away, scattering pebbles into the water.
Chapter Four
Nadia nursed her backpack as she tried to forget yesterdayâs killing spree. In front of her the harbour was crowded with expensive sailing yachts and sturdy fishing vessels. The sun beat down on her face. The yacht rigging rattled in the onshore breeze. A distant ambulance siren was barely audible above the cawing of seagulls fighting over rancid morsels in the fishing nets left out to dry on the quay. The image of Janssenâs bloody corpse intruded in her mind. Fish would be eating away at what was left of his face. She opened her eyes, gripped the bag hiding the Rose, held it closer.
Sammy had saved her, but she should have killed Janssen, for Katyaâs, if not for her own sake. Why couldnât she pull the trigger? Sheâd been living in a fantasy world, believing that she could work for Kadinsky for five years and never kill anyone. Okay, there had been the vow to her mother, and she didnât want to become her father, but still. She should at least be able to defend herself, or protect Katya. She had to get her head in the game, especially now Sammy was gone and she was on her own. She went over it again, for the umpteenth time. Why canât I kill?
Of course she had, once. A bear. As a kid sheâd loved animals. Her father taught her to shoot, but when he took her hunting in the woods she would aim to miss, to scare away a deer or a rodent. He never reproached her, just repeated the same phrase: âNext timeâ. Then one day a bear had been terrorising the village, and the men were called out to track it down and kill it. She and her father joined the search, and after several hours, spotted it. He gave her the shot. But even though it had maimed two people already, she aimed high, and it ran off. The other men were furious when they found out, and her father had to send her home with her rifle. As she neared the house she heard Katya screaming in the back garden.
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