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

creases of a frown across her brow were smoothed away. Hammer felt himself not judged but studied, as an ornithologist might appraise a rare bird.
    â€œOur police are not so bad, but they are not international people. They have no idea who you are.”
    â€œI’d be amazed if they did.”
    â€œIf they ever looked beyond Georgia they would. Your work is important. Come.”
    She stood back and ushered him toward the door.
    â€œWe’re done?”
    â€œI will take you to your hotel.”
    â€œHow do you know who I am?” said Hammer.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    W hoever Elene Vekua was, she warranted a driver, and a Mercedes—not flash, but a Mercedes nevertheless. She sat down in the back with Hammer, turned slightly to him with her back straight, smoothed her skirt, and held her hands clasped in her lap. No jewelry, he noticed, no polish on her nails, no makeup at all, so that in every detail she suggested sufficiency, a great confidence in what she had. The cut of her suit was elegant, her posture correct, her whole manner that of someone who didn’t need to embellish to be understood, to speak loud to be heard.
    Hammer was a careful watcher of people’s devices and tics. From the hard long stares, he had the policeman pinned as ambitious but incompetent; Ben, always circumspect with those he didn’t know, had a habit of absently buttoning and unbuttoning his cuffs. Hammer’s own custom was to place a hand on a person’s upper arm as he went to shake their hand, because it gave the impression that he really was pleased to see them. Most of the time he was.
    Vekua was an engager. She held Hammer’s eye as if everything he said was wise and new, smiled just the right amount, asked questions that didn’t flatter him but required answers that did. After his hours in the cell—for which she apologized many times—he felt himself beginning to revive.
    It was past one now, and the city was largely quiet, but further along the river they saw groups of police running after the last stubborn protesters, and fires still burned by the grand buildings on the opposite bank. Every so often the driver swerved to avoid pieces of wood and bits of destroyed bus stop and car bumper in the road.
    â€œIt always like this?” said Hammer.
    â€œIt can seem that way.”
    â€œLooks like my friend picked a good time to come.”
    â€œWe are accustomed to it. You are not, I think.”
    Hammer had underestimated the tension. Probably Ben had, too. Strange, how hard it was to see a situation until you were in it. He felt his nose, which moved uncertainly under his touch, and shrugged.
    â€œI used to be.”
    â€œThe riots are not dangerous. What lies behind is dangerous.”
    Hammer waited for her to explain.
    â€œFor ten years Georgia has been drunk on her freedom, like a wife who runs from her husband. Russia watches her dance and waits for her to come close enough to snatch back. This is that time. Quietly, through an election. The modern way. And the president knows this.”
    â€œAnd the other guy? His opponent?”
    â€œHe is a friend of Russia. His money comes from men who owe their fortunes to Russia.”
    â€œOK. I get it. So when the bomb goes off, everyone thinks it’s the Russians, because who else would do such a thing, and the president says how terrible, don’t vote for the other guy, he’s a Russian in disguise.”
    â€œExcept it went wrong. So now the president is finished.”
    â€œYou’re kidding me. That’s how things work around here? Really?”
    â€œLogic gets twisted in Georgia. In the pursuit of survival.” She shook her head with a sort of thoughtful regret. “You more than anyone know that it is difficult to find the truth. In Georgia it is impossible. To be an investigator here you must be happy with half an answer. Or two answers. You must be happy with