Amaranta sighed into the phone, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. ‘It’s a little late for all that now, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Look, why not just call Mum?’
Harry’s brain jangled at the thought. ‘I don’t get why she’s so uptight. What’s wrong with me being in San Sebastián?’
‘You tell me. It’s just another job, isn’t it?’
Harry closed her eyes briefly. ‘More or less.’
They kicked the topic around for a while, but could shake nothing else from it and so wound things up and said goodbye. Harry stowed the phone away and tried to put the exchange out of her head. Thinking about her mother had never brought her much comfort.
She continued along the promenade for another hundred yards, then turned left on to Calle de la Infanta Cristina. Her stomach muscles tightened. In front of her stood the grey, triangular block that housed the Ertzaintza station. She straightened her shoulders, smoothed down her hair, then marched through the door and asked for Detective Zubiri.
An officer escorted her down a narrow corridor, and she trotted behind him, her shoulder aching from the weight of her satchel, which held her laptop and computer forensics toolkit. She probably wouldn’t need them, but if she was supposed to be a hacker then she may as well look the part.
The officer showed her into a room and clicked the door shut behind her. Harry did a quick survey of her surroundings.
She was alone in the room. The lights were dimmed, the blinds drawn. The only illumination was the glow of a projector and laptop on the conference table. The projector whirred. Dust motes swirled in the slanting cones of light, and Harry moved closer, peering at the image cast up against the wall. It was a headshot of Riva Mills.
Harry stared at the pointed features and taut lips. The blonde hair was fine and silky. It was the only thing soft-looking about her.
‘You’re late.’
Harry turned to find Zubiri watching her by the door. His shaggy hair hung low over his brows, obscuring his eyes a little. She glanced at her watch.
‘Not really.’
He stomped across the room, his large head dipped low like a charging bull. He took a seat in front of the laptop, gesturing for Harry to sit to one side, presumably so she could view the slideshow on the wall.
She pulled up a chair, nodding towards the photo of Riva. ‘We’re starting with her?’
‘We start where I say. Tell me what you know about her.’
Harry settled her satchel by her feet, playing for time while she coached herself to let his rudeness slide. She counted to three, then straightened up.
‘I only know what I could find out from public sources. She’s from Ohio. Ran away from home at the age of fourteen, bought her first casino when she was twenty-one.’ Harry turned to study the striking face projected on the wall. ‘I guess a lot must have happened to her in those intervening years.’
Zubiri grunted. ‘What else?’
‘She owns eleven casinos, three of them here in Spain. She’s lived in San Sebastián for the last ten years, though I’m not exactly sure what her link with the place is.’
She threw Zubiri a questioning look, but he didn’t fill her in. Instead, he jabbed at his keyboard. Riva’s headshot disappeared and another photo flashed into view: Riva shaking hands with some guy on a podium. The man wore a broad smile and a ceremonial chain, but Riva’s expression was sombre.
‘She’s well respected in the community here,’ Zubiri said. His American-flavoured accent seemed more pronounced, as though he’d been practising overnight with CNN. ‘She’s on the board of trustees for two children’s homes. Contributes to local causes. Fundraises for local schools and hospitals. A real philanthropist.’
Harry caught his tone and shot him a sideways look. ‘Are you saying it’s a front?’
‘I’m saying there’s a lotta stuff people don’t know about Riva Mills.’
‘Such as?’
Zubiri flipped ahead to the next slide. A mugshot: the profile and front-view of a young girl. A waif, really. Maybe thirteen or fourteen, with bony shoulders and a pinched, heart-shaped face.
Harry blinked. ‘She has a criminal record?’
‘Juvenile. Back in the United States. Fraud, cheque forgery, theft.’
‘Did she go to prison?’
Zubiri shook his head. ‘They gave her a break on account of her background. They say her mother was abusive. Unstable. Plus there was a younger brother, some problem kid, that Riva mostly took care of.’
Harry stared at the photo, at the razor-sharp cheekbones sloping into dainty features. She had trouble reconciling this undernourished girl with the businesswoman who ran a casino empire. She glanced back at Zubiri.
‘Okay, so my client isn’t all that she seems. God knows, it wouldn’t be the first time. But what’s that got to do with the casino cheaters?’
Zubiri leaned back in his chair and took his time about answering, almost as though he begrudged her the information. Eventually, he said,
‘She may be involved.’
‘In what? Ripping off her own casinos?’
Zubiri laced his hands across his wrinkled shirt. ‘Who told her about the cheaters?’
‘Her Chief of Security, Victor Toledo. He got a tip-off from a source.’
‘What source?’
Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘What about the scam the crew pulled in the casino? Do you know how they did it?’
‘No. But now we know who to watch, we could pull the surveillance tapes. They might tell us something.’
Zubiri shook his head. ‘Pulling the tapes would alert Riva to their identity. I don’t want the cheaters stopped. Not yet. Not if we want them to recruit you.’
Harry stirred in her seat, aware of a shifting in her gut. Now they were getting to the real reason she was here.
‘I haven’t agreed to do it yet.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘But assuming I did, how exactly would they end up recruiting me?’
‘Same way they ended up recruiting McArdle. Through recommendations from Irish paramilitaries.’
Harry’s heart did a quick flip. ‘You’re kidding.’
Zubiri was watching her closely. ‘That’s how McArdle got most of his clients. Word of mouth, vouched for by his oldest employers. And we know Chavez’s crew has links with terrorists. It’s one of the reasons we’re watching them.’
Harry’s palms felt clammy. ‘So Chavez put the word out that he needed a hacker and his contacts in Belfast put him in touch with McArdle?’
‘Exactly.’
Harry shivered, the hairs spiking up along her arms. Terrorists and paramilitaries. The words conjured up an underworld of hatred and fanaticism, generations of rage that had nothing to do with her. She swallowed.
‘And now you think Chavez will put out feelers for a replacement?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how will you know?’
Zubiri sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking jaded. ‘The Irish and the Basques are closer than you think. Your paramilitaries have been buddies with our ETA separatists for almost forty years. Explosives in