I, Spy? Page 20

  There was a silence. I’d dug myself into a hole here.

  “The lady has a point,” Luke said eventually. “Right. I’m going to see what I can get from Ace on this.”

  “You’re just going to call them up?”

  “No. I’m going to hack into their communications. I’m going to e-mail you all the reservations we have for James Harvard. Every one has a different phone number. See if any of them are live. The password to get online is Sunnydale. Oh, and I’ll see if I can get a manifest for the 128. See if anything looks suspicious.”

  With that cheerful request he signed off, and I was left with a bewildered and frightened locksmith, a new door with a mortise lock, and a lot of calls to make.

  I paid the locksmith double, really hoping I’d get some nice cash from SO17 for this and knowing I probably wouldn’t, and booted up the computer.

  James Harvard had travelled all over the world with Wright. Every reservation gave a different address and phone number.

  I hate making phone calls. The Internet was a revolution for me because I could keep in touch with relatives I didn’t like and school friends I hardly talked to, I could order things and learn about things without having to talk to people. But this time I knew I was stuck.

  “Hello,” I said when the first number picked up. “Can I speak to Harvey, please? You don’t know anybody called Harvey? I’m sorry, I must have dialled wrong. Thank you. Bye.”

  I then repeated this about a million times. Probably half the numbers I dialled weren’t the numbers on the computer. I hardly cared. Harvey wasn’t at the end of any of them.

  I mean, really. Luke was talking crap. How could sweet, clever, clean-cut Harvey be involved in killing a hundred and forty-three people?

  The computer bleeped to tell me I had new mail. I looked at the sender—Luke (LS17@aol.com, how original)—and the subject: Now who’s innocent?

  Dreading the message, I opened it up. It was the passenger manifest for the doomed AC128 to Glasgow. James Harvard had booked a ticket online, but he hadn’t checked in.

  Oh God.

  I sat back in my chair, trying to put it together in my head. Harvey was in this horrible plot with Wright. Together they were sabotaging Ace Airlines so share prices would come down and they could buy it cheaply. It all seemed so overblown. If Wright wanted the airline that much then why didn’t he pay full price for it?

  I opened up Google and typed in David Wright. I got a million matches, half of which were irrelevant. I tried again with David+Wright+Wrightbank. This narrowed it down but mostly to press releases and financial advice sites.

  I thought for a bit, then searched within the results for Ace Airlines.

  Bingo.

  There was a five-month-old interview from a dull business mag where Wright said he was interested in branching out into the aviation industry. “I think this is the most important part of the travel industry,” he said. “Even more important than cars. People are flying where they would have driven or taken a train. Domestic flights all over the world have taken off—no pun intended. And since September eleventh, fares have plummeted. Passenger numbers have hardly diminished, but fares have gone down drastically. The low-cost sector of the market is incredibly interesting.”

  Not as incredibly interesting as you, I thought. This article had been published at about the time things started going wrong at Ace. I’d hardly noticed the change—there were always delays and tech problems, and over the summer things had been as frantic as ever. Around September, things started to quiet down. End of summer. I hoped.

  But if I thought about it, then there had been increasing numbers of problems. Ace rarely cancelled flights but it had happened a few times. There were ATC strikes and delays. Little things, like an increase in the number of credit card payments that hadn’t gone through. The wrong flight booked by mistake. Passenger numbers gradually easing off. Last week’s Titan plane for Edinburgh, because ours was off tech.

  And it had all been happening since last November.

  I downloaded the interview and went back to Google. This time I searched for James Harvard. I got nothing—or rather, I got a lot of irrelevance. I tried James+Harvard+David+Wright. Still nothing.

  I stared moodily at the computer screen, but that didn’t help, either.

  I was halfway through looking up next week’s Buffy when my mobile rang. Not my Nokia, but my little old Siemens. I didn’t recognise the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Sophie?”

  The voice was familiar. “Yes?” I said doubtfully, trying to place it.

  “It’s Sven. From Ace?”

  Oh, yes, and there’s me thinking you’re the other Sven I know.

  “Sven! How—how did you get this number?”

  “From Angel. She said you’ve been ill.”

  “Erm, yes. Flu, or something.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Still the same grave tone of voice. “I’m better. Still not quite right,” I added hastily, in case I was expected to go back to work, “but getting better.”

  “I was thinking if you’re well enough maybe I could come and see you?”

  Jesus.

  It never rains but it pours.

  Sven? Sexy Sven? You know, with everything that had been going on I’d hardly even thought of him. And I used to, all the time, my idle brain bringing up an image of his Caribbean blue eyes or his white-toothed smile.

  My eyes travelled around the living room. There were videos all over the floor, plates and glasses piled up in the sink, the hole in the floorboards…

  “I tell you what,” I said, staring at the monitor which was starting to blur, “I think it’d do me good to get out for a while. Why don’t I meet you somewhere?”

  We arranged for Funky Joe’s in town in half an hour. I could get the train in and not worry about drinking and driving.

  Oh, though. What about my one a day? What about emergencies? What about my painkillers? I might pass out.

  So I’d not have much to drink. Just one unit. I’d tell Sven the truth. I’m on painkillers.

  Well, it’s part of the truth.

  I started to get dressed in something pretty, but then I remembered about my bruises and scratches and realised with a sinking heart that I’d have to cover up. I found a flimsy little cardigan in the back of my wardrobe and teamed it up with jeans and a strappy top. At least my hair was clean and being reasonably well behaved. And I could wear lipstick, if not eye make-up, because the bruise on my temple had broken to a cut and it hurt to touch that side of my face too much.

  I locked up with my new keys, set bits of tape on the door, and drove into town.

  Funky Joe’s was an American bar and pretty much the only decent place to drink in town. Mostly it was full of airport workers who went in at odd hours and paid no attention to weekday protocols. I spied a few people I knew on my way in. It was surprisingly full.

  And then I heard a burst of sound, and realised why. Sunday was Live Band Nite. And this Sunday, Chalker’s band was playing.

  I stood for a while, trying to remember if my parents were supposed to be coming to the gig. I didn’t think so, but then you never knew. I saw more and more people I knew, school friends, people who lived in the village, other mates of the band. The same people I saw at every gig. Plus airport people. The place was packed with people who knew me.

  And I had a massive bruise on my face. And one handcuffed wrist.

  Marvellous.

  I saw Sven by the bar, getting chatted up by the waitress, and stood for a while, taking in the beauty of the scene. This handsome man, glowing and gleaming like a golden god (can I alliterate, or what?) was waiting for me. Had asked me out.

  He saw me and waved. “Sophie!” he cried over the sound of the music. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  He touched my face and I shied away, wincing. “What happened?”

  “Oh, I, er, I walked into a door. The flu. I
t made me dizzy.”

  He nodded sympathetically and handed me a pint of lager. I hate lager, but since the last time we all came out for a drink and I switched from halves of cider to pints, because it took so long to get served, I’ve been known as the Girl Who Drinks Pints. And I guess cider does look like lager from a distance.

  We found a table by a banquette, empty because the band was invisible from there, and smiled at each other for a few minutes.

  “Do you like the band?” Sven asked after a while, seeing me mumbling along with the words.

  “My brother’s the bassist.” He looked confused. “The bass guitar? With four strings? He plays that.”

  Sven looked impressed. “Oh, cool. So you know them all?”

  “Went to school with them. They’re pretty cool.”

  This is my practised speech for when the band gets famous and I get interviewed as the gorgeous younger sister of the cool bassist. “Yeah, they’re all really cool. Always in and out of the house, coming to see Chalker or just chill. We get on really well. We’re like family.”

  Convincing? Cool? I think so.

  The set ended and the band disappeared from the stage, reappearing in seconds at the bar. I saw Tom, waiting for a pint that was bigger than him, and flicked a beer mat at him.

  He turned, saw me and bounded over.

  “Soph! Thought you were ill.”

  I blinked. “Who told you that?” I hadn’t spoken to my family in days.

  “Chalker. Ran into that fit mate of yours, erm, Angel, in town. She said you’d got flu.” He scrutinised me. “You don’t look like you’ve got flu.”

  “I’m a genius with make-up.”

  “What happened to your face? Get in a fight?”

  “Yeah. You should see the other guy.”

  We smiled at each other. Tom’s like the little brother I never wanted.

  “And who’s this?” He looked Sven over and didn’t seem impressed.

  “Sven. We work together. Sven, this is Tom. He’s the singer in the band,” I added, realising a bit late that it was rather unnecessary.

  “I like your music,” Sven said politely. “What are your influences?”

  Tom looked blank. “Pretty much whatever I’m listening to,” he said.

  “You sound like this Norwegian band I know, called Eek! They’re a rock band…”

  I tuned out. Eek! didn’t sound like anything I wanted to hear about. And from Tom’s expression, he felt the same way.

  I let my gaze roam over the room. Kids I did my A levels with. Kids who borrowed my GCSE notes. Kids who I played hopscotch with at primary school. Kids who peed their pants at playschool. It felt like I knew everyone in the bar. Including…

  Oh, Jesus. Oh, bloody hell.

  “Can you excuse me a minute?” I said, and Tom gave me a murderous look. I ignored him and slipped away across the room, to where a man with green eyes was propping up the bar and glaring at me.

  “I got your note,” he said. “Very funny.”

  I bit my lip. I’d torn out a page from my diary and scrawled, “Shame I wasn’t in The Great Escape,” and added a winker.

  I said winker. Like an emoticon? Don’t be filthy.

  “Oh, come on, Luke.” I nudged him. “It was a little bit funny.”

  “I thought you’d been kidnapped. Again.”

  I put my head on one side. “How long were you in the flat before you saw the note?”

  He scowled and didn’t answer. I grinned.

  “You were worried about me.”

  “You’re a liability. I should fire you.”

  “For escaping from a securely locked flat? You should promote me.”

  Luke stared moodily at the empty stage.

  “Anyway,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

  “Following you.”

  “Why?”

  “Thought I’d get into the mindset. Trouble follows you all the time.”

  “You think of that all by yourself?”

  He said nothing.

  “How did you know I was here? I didn’t see you following.” I’d been careful to check my rear-view all the time. I was like driving school fresh.

  “No, well, you wouldn’t, because I was three cars behind all the time. Your car is like a sore thumb in fit finger land.”

  It was my turn to scowl. “Ted’s a great car.”

  “And I still can’t believe you named it.”

  “So I have an emotional attachment to my car.”

  “Is that wise?” Luke sipped at his pint. Proper dark beer, not lager.

  Show off.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “what are you doing out here with Sven the Stuffy?”

  “He’s not stuffy.”

  “He’s really boring. He has no conversation.”

  “Not with you. And he is speaking a second language.”

  “I can sparkle in several languages—”

  “One of which is obviously not English.” I glanced at Luke. Green had been an appropriate choice of eyewear. “If you must know, he asked me out.”

  “You’re on a date?” Luke asked incredulously.

  “It’s not illegal, is it?” It probably was. Section 12, paragraph 16: Government Agents shall not date cute Norwegians. That would pretty much be my luck.

  “You do have work to do.”

  “I have been Googling all afternoon. I found something on Wright but it wasn’t very interesting. Just that he said in November he wanted to buy up an airline. I ’mailed it to you.”

  “Did you find anything on Harvard?”

  “You mean Harvey?” I teased. “I still don’t think it’s him. I mean, I don’t think Harvey is Harvard.”

  “I think he is. You’ve seen how he tends to turn up a lot. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  I made a face. “I tried all those numbers. They’ve never heard of him.”

  “Then isn’t that suspicious?”

  “Maybe he just wants to protect his privacy.”

  “Yeah. Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”

  I sighed and looked around. Sven was alone, apparently having failed to convince Tom on the merits of Eek!

  “I should get back,” I said.

  “Try to sound happier about it.”

  What did he expect? “My head hurts. You keep trashing my

  friends—”

  “Harvard is not your friend.”

  “I got another finger.”

  Luke sighed. “What’d you do with it?”

  “Freezer. And by the way, who gave you permission to break in and have my locks changed?”

  I may have said that a little loudly. People were giving Luke looks of disgust.

  “I was trying to keep you out.”

  “You failed.” I gave him a brittle smile. “Are you going to follow me home?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  As I walked away, Luke called out, “Did he notice your hair?”

  I ignored him and walked back over to Sven, whose face lit up. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Old friend. Mate of the band.” How could he not see that Luke was Luca? It was blindingly obvious.

  “He didn’t look happy to see you.”

  “Hmm. Yeah. We used to go out.”

  “But you finished with him?”

  “Er, yeah.”

  “Then he must be sad. I would be.” Sven gave me a puppy-dog look, and I smiled. He was really sweet.

  The band started up again, and I turned to listen. Tom was singing “Don’t Listen To Him”, which is an old one of theirs and one of my favourites. He kept looking over at me.

  How sweet! He knows I love this song. Everyone was being very sweet to me today.

  Apart from Luke, that is. He was watching me and scowling. I raised my glass in salute and tried not to grimace at the lager.

  Sven put his arm around my shoulders and I snuggled up to him, giving Luke a smug look. But Luke wasn’t listenin
g. He was talking on his phone.

  Hmph.

  They finished the song, and Tom looked around the room.

  “How is everybody?”

  There was a babble of noise as people yelled stuff back.

  “Yeah, the same to you. Good to see so many old faces…and so many new ones…” He looked over at me again. I’d brought a new face. I beamed back at him. “Don’t nobody go nowhere.”

  The next song started, and Sven stood up. “Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.”

  So polite. Most of the Ace boys would be like, “I’m going for a slash. Back in five.” Not Sven. He’s so polite.

  Even if he is a little boring.

  But politeness is important. We can’t all be entertainers.

  Luke loped over. “Got rid of him?”

  “He’s gone to the bathroom.”

  “Let’s hope he locks himself in, eh?” He waved his phone. “Just got a call from Lexy. James Harvard checked into the airport Hilton half an hour ago.”

  Alexa had access to hotel records? Put paid to any ideas of a dirty weekend.

  Although, if it was with Sven, it’d be worth it to piss Luke off.

  “So what does that mean?” I asked. “Is Wright there too?”

  “No.” Luke frowned. “But that means we can check out his room easier.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. We. I need you to get in there.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know, you did it before. Play your cards right, you might even get to sleep with him this time.”

  I slapped him for that, and it felt good.

  Luke put his hand up to his face, and slowly brought it back down again, his eyes on mine. I was partly horrified to see a handprint appearing there. And partly proud.

  “So now we match,” he said, touching my cheek, and I flinched.

  “You’re such an arsehole.”

  “Says she, going out with someone who doesn’t even ask her what she wants to drink.”

  I opened my mouth, but Luke got there first.

  “You’ve hardly touched it. I saw your face when you drank some. You hate lager.”

  I said nothing, but my face felt tight and my nostrils flared.

  “Come on, Sophie, we have to go.”

  “Right now?”