Read Online The Searcher by Christopher Morgan Jones - Free Book Online Page A

from a story that had no mention of policemen or mining companies or hacking or prisons. And yet he couldn’t. To come and go and not tell Elsa why he was here was one thing; to be in her house and read to her daughter—to draw comfort from her family even as he prepared to fracture it—that was as repugnant to him as it would be to her.
    Regret filling him, Hammer forced a final smile. Another thing Ben had fucked up.
    â€œI’ll go. He won’t want me here when he gets back. Send her all my love.”
    â€œIf you’re sure.”
    â€œIt was good to see you.”
    â€œYou, too.”
    â€œTomorrow?”
    â€œShould be.”
    â€œHave him call me. First thing.”
    There was regret in her smile, too, he thought, as he turned away to make the short run home.

NINE
    H ammer was expecting to be marched from the cells into the nearest police car and driven directly to the airport, but instead he was taken back to the first room and left to wait. No cuffs, and an open door: a test, perhaps, or a trap. Much later he would wonder whether it had been a show.
    A minute or two passed. He got up, stuck his head out of the door, smiled at the uniformed policeman standing guard. So he wasn’t free to leave.
    â€œYou speak English?”
    The guard turned his head, uncomprehending.
    â€œYou fancy a nice watch?” Hammer pulled his cuff up, showed him the watch. “It’s a Rolex. Real. Worth real money.” He rubbed the fingers of one hand together then began to unbuckle the strap. The guard frowned but leaned in a little. Maybe, if this all worked out, he could come back and buy it back off the bastard.
    Above the shouting and the doors opening and closing and the general hubbub he became aware of voices raised outside—a single voice, in fact, a woman’s, strong and keen. The guard stiffened and gruffly turned Hammer back toward the room he had just left, pushing him inside.
    It was the first time Hammer had heard Georgian spoken by a woman and it took on a different quality, musical but piercing. Someone was getting a dressing-down, and between her controlled, angry questions Hammer heard a man grunting short apologies in reply.
    After a minute or two of this, the policeman who had questioned him earlier appeared in the doorway, pushed forward by a woman in a black suit who was slight and full of fury.
    â€œMr. Hammer,” she said, “please listen.”
    Hammer looked from her rigid face to the policeman, whose head was bowed, all the petty menace gone from his little black eyes.
    â€œSorry,” said the policeman, closing his eyes as the words came out.
    The woman stiffened. “Look up,” she said, emphasis on each word. “Again.”
    â€œSorry,” he said, just meeting Hammer’s eye.
    â€œThat’s OK,” said Hammer, not sure what he was witnessing.
    â€œGo,” said the woman.
    Still stooping, the policeman left.
    The woman came round to the side of the desk and offered Hammer her hand. Hammer rose to shake it.
    â€œMr. Hammer. It is an honor.”
    The anger in her face had slipped into a smile as easily as snow melting in the sun.
    â€œIt is?”
    â€œI am Elene Vekua. I work for the Foreign Ministry. I am sorry for all that has happened here.” She handed him his wallet and his phone. “These are yours, I think.”
    At first sight her face had seemed angled and pointed, as if ruled rather than drawn: a sharp chin and precise cheekbones and an even brow, black hair pulled back from it and tied sleekly behind, thin lips pinched in so that they seemed to disappear. A handsome, unforgiving, symmetrical face, with something regal about it, and something wintry. Watching her force an apology from the policeman, Hammer found it easy to imagine her judging her subjects, and harshly at that.
    With the smile everything changed. Austere became welcoming, warmth seemed to fill her pale gray eyes, and the