The Blasphemer Page 7

  Deirdre allowed herself a small smile. ‘This is good work, Maya. Now we understand why he’s so obsessive. He admires his father. Wants to emulate his example. Maybe even exceed it.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Everything he’s told us fits with his psych profile. All of it. But at the same time, I just can’t shake the feeling that he’s holding something back.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure. But his body language was all over the place. He fidgeted with his nose, rubbed his neck, blinked. At one point, he went from being incredibly tense to being incredibly relaxed. Almost as if he was gravitating between two emotional extremes. Debating within himself about how much to share with us and how much to leave out. And, if that wasn’t enough, I noticed his eyes tracking to the left when he came to the end of his story.’

  Deirdre removed her glasses, lowering them. She knew exactly what Maya was getting at. A person shifting his eyes to the right would be accessing the memory centre of his brain. That indicated a truthful recollection. But if he shifted his eyes to the left, he would be accessing his creative centre. That indicated deception.

  But Deirdre found two holes with the theory.

  Number one, people seldom relied exclusively on one centre of the brain. Memory was such a flimsy thing, often dulled and distorted by the passage of years. Most people had no choice but to fall back on creativity to supplement the gaps in their past. So a person glancing to the left could actually be relying on fragments of memories stitched together by imagination. Did this amount to a lie? No, not exactly.

  Number two, emotional trauma was known to disrupt and jumble up the memory and creative centres of the brain. Through no fault of his own, a survivor of a soul-shattering experience could confuse fiction with fact. And why not? The mind had a way of crafting protective layers to preserve its own sanity.

  ‘Mama, you there?’ Maya asked.

  Deirdre fingered the frame on her glasses. ‘I’m still here. Just thinking.’ She shook her head. ‘Listen, you know as well as I do that neuro-linguistics isn’t an exact science. We can’t read too much into it.’

  ‘Even so, Khan’s body language does point towards something.’

  ‘Yes, something. But not necessarily deception. It may well be that he’s just not ready to share everything. At least not yet.’

  ‘You know, it unsettles me that we have so little documentation of his life before he entered university. And all we have to go on is what he tells us.’

  ‘Operationally, does this compromise you in any way?’

  ‘No, but...’

  ‘So we’ll work with what we have for now. It should be enough. We have more or less mapped out his personality.’

  ‘I shouldn’t probe him further?’

  ‘If you have to, do it gently.’

  ‘Define gently.’

  ‘Do it in a way that puts him at ease. Makes him feel as if he isn’t being pushed. Use your judgement.’

  ‘In other words, allow him to emerge from his shell in his own time.’

  ‘Correct. Now, about the book tour. Do you have a fixed itinerary yet?’

  ‘Are you sitting down?’

  Deirdre frowned. ‘I am. Why?’

  ‘Because you’re not going to like this. Khan is bringing the book tour forward. He’s starting tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Deirdre’s jaw tensed, and she felt as if the room has just tilted. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah, a full week ahead of schedule.’

  ‘Good God. Please tell me you’ve tried talking him out of it.’

  ‘He’s stubborn like you wouldn’t believe. I couldn’t sway him.’

  ‘Maya, we are not equipped to see this through. Our original timetable is to protect Khan only until the economic summit is over and done with. Then we hand him over to the DPS. But switching things around like this is barely workable.’

  ‘I’ll make it work.’

  ‘With just four operators?’

  ‘Five if you include Gabrielle.’

  ‘Which you’ll have to keep on a tight leash.’

  ‘Mm-hm. It is what it is.’

  Deirdre hesitated, rubbing her forehead. ‘Very well. I’ll retask a surveillance drone to take up a holding pattern above the hotel. Provide you with some overhead support.’

  ‘Thank you. And how’s our threat assessment looking? Is anything pinging our radar yet?’

  ‘Let’s see...’

  Slipping her glasses back on, Deirdre tapped her computer.

  Individual feeds from her analysts’ workstations appeared on her screen. Flicking her finger, Deirdre cycled through each window individually and observed the analysts trawling through all kinds of electronic traffic—phone, text, fax, email, instant chat, weblogs, internet forums.

  Section One had a direct link to the servers at the Government Communications Security Bureau. And the Bureau, in turn, was linked to Echelon, the global signals-intelligence network operated by the United States, Britain, Canada, Australia and New Zealand.

  It was the ultimate Big Brother system; a massive digital sponge soaking up everything and anything. During the Cold War, it had eavesdropped on the Soviet Union and stolen its secrets. But post-9/11, its function had shifted to predicting and averting attacks by al-Qaeda and other terror groups.

  So far, Echelon’s track record in its new role was spotty.

  The tidal wave of data constantly rolling in meant that analysts were reduced to sifting through mountains of rubbish. Trying to pinpoint microscopic nuggets. Stringing them together to create workable intelligence.

  The maddening part about the process was figuring out what was relevant and what wasn’t. Yes, Echelon had been programmed to zero in on keywords like ‘bomb’ or ‘assassination’ or ‘nuke’. But mostly, they led to dead-ends. Just people talking crap for the sake of talking crap.

  After a while, everything became a kaleidoscopic blur. Leaving analysts no choice but to take hourly breaks. To preserve their minds from sputtering and choking and seizing up.

  Today happened to be one of those tedious days.

  Deirdre sighed. ‘It’s information overload. Terabytes upon terabytes of chatter about Abraham Khan. Nothing substantial. You know how it is.’

  ‘He’s the flavour of the moment,’ Maya said. ‘There’s going to be more junk floating about than usual.’

  ‘The analysts are trying to get an automated algorithm up and running that will sort through the references better. Trouble is, it’s not moving quick enough.’

  ‘It never is. Well, give me a buzz if anything pops up.’

  ‘Oh, I will. None of us will be going home for a while.’

  ‘No rest for the weary. Goodbye, Mama.’

  ‘Bye, Maya.’

  Deirdre hit the button on her Bluetooth earpiece to disconnect. She pushed her chair back and stretched her legs. Yes, that went well. Surprisingly well. At least she still had a first-rate working relationship with her daughter. That had to count for something.

  Deirdre curled her toes.

  Nathan.

  Yes, Maya reminded her so much of him.

  CHAPTER 21

  Paranoia came easily to Devlin. Since leaving the airport, he had been checking, checking and rechecking. Were there cars shadowing his taxi? Or cars trying to look as if they weren’t shadowing his taxi?

  The Saturday traffic on the South-Western Motorway was moderate, and so far, he hadn’t picked up on anything suspicious. No one was accelerating to keep pace with his taxi, and no one was decelerating to maintain a fixed distance.

  He was safe.

  Or was he?

  Devlin couldn’t allow himself to get smug. If he was dealing with covert operators, they wouldn’t give themselves away. Not that easily.

  So he weighed up his options. He could allow the taxi driver to carry on driving. Business as usual. No fuss. Or, for the heck of it, he could take a chance a
nd shake things up a little. But frankly, would tipping his hand this early on be the smart move? Devlin worked out a cost/benefit analysis. Mulled over the pros and the cons.

  ‘Tell me, my friend,’ the taxi driver spoke, dashing Devlin’s thoughts. ‘Do you have Muslim problems in your country?’ The taxi driver was a Sikh, and he wore a turban. He peered at Devlin through his rear-view mirror.

  Devlin blinked and looked back at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Muslims—do you have problems with them in your country?’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow...’

  ‘Do you have people like this Abraham Khan?’

  Devlin smiled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.’

  ‘Serious? You have never heard of Abraham Khan?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I have. Who is he?’

  The taxi driver half-sighed, half-sniggered. ‘A Muslim troublemaker, that’s who he is. He came here as a refugee, you see. Then he starts making fun of Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, Lord Krishna. Now his own people want to kill him.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  ‘That’s what happened last night. A terrorist broke into his home and tried to shoot him. But the police arrived in time, and they stopped it. Hah. What a waste. Now taxpayers like me will have to fork out money to protect that man. Round-the-clock protection, you understand?’

  ‘So… you don’t like him.’

  The taxi driver raised his hand, slicing the air. ‘Of course I don’t like him. The government should send him back to where he came from.’

  Devlin couldn’t help but observe the irony—here was one immigrant insisting that another should be deported. And for what? Exercising his human right to free speech? It was oh-so-tragic how easily people were willing to toss away civil liberties at the first trace of discomfort.

  Devlin shook his head. ‘Surely he doesn’t deserve to die.’

  The taxi driver clucked his tongue. ‘He brought it upon himself. Why should we pay for his stupidity?’

  A deflection, Devlin noted. It’s not my fault if Abraham Khan gets murdered. It’s his fault. Let him die. He deserves to die.

  ‘Which part of India are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Devlin asked.

  ‘I’m not from India. I’m from Punjab. The Pakistani part of Punjab.’ The taxi driver spat out the word Pakistani as if it was poison. ‘Over there, we Sikhs are a tiny minority, and the Muslims lord over us as if we are no better than dirt. I came to New Zealand to escape those bastards, you understand?’

  Devlin nodded, his mind already tuning out as the taxi driver continued to rant. That was only so much bitter vitriol Devlin could take. Turning, he studied the traffic behind him. Were there cars shadowing his taxi? Or cars trying to look as if they weren’t shadowing his taxi?

  To hell with tipping his hand too early. He needed to be sure. He needed to be safe.

  So Devlin took a breath, held it, then allowed himself to crumble into a panicky fit. ‘Oh my God!’ he blurted out, fumbling at the travel pouch he wore around his waist, unzipping its compartments, digging furiously.

  The taxi driver froze in mid-rant. ‘What is it, my friend? What is it?’

  Devlin gasped and wheezed, his face pale, his lips shivering. ‘My passport. My passport! I must have left it back at the airport!’

  The taxi driver bunched up his shoulders, tilted his head from side to side, but was otherwise unperturbed. ‘No problem. We can go back.’

  ‘Will you? I’ll pay extra!’

  ‘There’s no need for extra.’ The taxi driver pointed at his meter, tapping on the red digital display. ‘We’ll go by this.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. Just, please, hurry.’

  The taxi driver steered sharply, peeling away from the motorway and speeding up an on-ramp. It was the

  Queenstown Road

  exit, Devlin saw. Cutting through two roundabouts, the taxi driver descended an off-ramp, and presto, they were back on the motorway once more, this time heading in the opposite direction.

  The U-turn was exactly what Devlin needed. A simple but effective counter-surveillance trick designed to flush out his pursuers. Anyone tailing the taxi would immediately be thrown into disarray and would have no choice but to break out of their usual pattern in order to keep up.

  Devlin felt the warm kick of adrenalin in his gut. He checked the cars behind him. Were any of them moving haphazardly? Accelerating? Decelerating? Braking? Veering?

  No.

  Nothing.

  Devlin shrugged. Time for Plan B. Reaching into his pouch, he yanked his passport out. Voila. He waved it and laughed. ‘Oh. Oh! There it is! I’ve found it! It was in here the whole time! How silly of me!’

  The taxi driver bounced up his shoulders, tilted his head from side to side and grinned. ‘Good, good. Now we don’t have to go all the way back.’

  ‘I am so very sorry. The jetlag must be getting to me...’

  ‘No problem.’ The taxi driver pointed at his meter, tapping on the display. ‘We’ll go by this.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  Once more, the taxi driver peeled away from the motorway and doubled back. And once more, Devlin checked behind him.

  Nothing.

  Still nothing.

  He exhaled, his heart slowing, the adrenalin waning. The theatrics had served its purpose. He was clean. At least for now.

  CHAPTER 22

  By the time the taxi dropped Devlin off at the Pukeko Lodge, it was well past noon. The motel suited him. Not too cheap. Not too expensive. Just right for a businessman from Eastern Europe who wanted to stay somewhere decent, but was suffering the pinch of the exchange rate.

  Devlin lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, watching the children as they played in the park close by. Whizzing down the slides. Soaring on the swings. Clambering on the carousel. Their shrieks and laughter made his heart swell with longing. Oh, to be young and innocent again.

  Truth be told, he could barely picture himself as a child. That felt like so many lifetimes ago. Before the enlistment. Before the wars. Before the killing.

  An old Russian proverb crystallised in his mind and teased him: With lies, you may go forward in the world, but you may never go back.

  Breathing deeply, blinking hard, Devlin turned away. He looked at the sign hanging at the motel’s entrance, sculpted in the likeness of a native bird. He recognised it as the same bird he had seen on his way here, scurrying and foraging alongside the motorways and roads.

  Pukeko.

  Cute.

  Pulling his wheeled suitcase behind him, he approached the motel’s reception building. As he did, he examined the cars in the parking lot, checking to see if any of them had tinted glass. Covert operators tended to prefer tinted glass—the darker, the better. It made mobile surveillance easier.

  But Devlin saw nothing of the sort. No, the Pukeko Lodge wasn’t the address he had been instructed to go to. Anyone who thought so would be seriously mistaken. The real address was, in fact, five blocks away. Far enough to throw off any tails, but close enough so that he could zero in on it quickly.

  Still, he wasn’t about to get ahead of himself. He would take things slow. Remain cautious. Remain watchful. Even so, he couldn’t prepare for everything. For all he knew, a recon satellite could be tracking him right this very minute, zooming in all the way from space. Or, if not a satellite, perhaps something closer. Perhaps a UAV drone gliding silently overhead, decked out with active camouflage. He had heard rumours that they blended in with the sky so well, they became damn near invisible.

  Spooky.

  However, in the grand scheme of things, Devlin found that kind of heavyweight surveillance to be very very unlikely. So far as he knew, he was a ghost. He had never strayed into the sights of any law enforcement or intelligence agency, and he had gone to great pains to keep it that way. No, all he had to worry were other ghosts.

  Devlin pushed the reception’s door open, a bell jingling above him.

  A balding man w
ith owlish glasses grinned at him from behind the counter. ‘Oh, gidday. I’m Tim. Can I help you?’

  Devlin smiled. ‘Hello. I’m looking for a room. I’m afraid I don’t have a booking.’

  ‘No worries. We have a few vacancies.’ Tim turned to his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. ‘You can choose between the studio unit and the one-bedroom unit. They both come with queen-sized beds, fully-equipped kitchens and wireless internet. The studio is smaller and goes for a hundred and eighteen a night. The one-bedroom is bigger and goes for a hundred and thirty-five a night.’

  ‘I’ll go with the studio, thank you.’

  ‘Righto. I’ll just need your personal details and your credit card and—’

  ‘Can I pay cash up front? For three nights?’

  ‘Well, yes. You sure can.’

  ‘Good. You wouldn’t happen to have a room on the second floor, would you? As far away from the street as possible?’

  ‘Um, we do. It’s the farthest one from the street.’

  ‘I’ll take that. I’m from a small town in Moldova. I don’t like noise.’

  ‘Moldova. That’s in...?’

  ‘Eastern Europe. Close to Russia.’

  ‘Oh. You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’m here for the Fieldays. Just touring Auckland before I travel down to Hamilton. I hear that your country makes the best farming products in the world. I’m so excited to be seeing them for myself.’

  Tim chuckled. ‘We Kiwis aim to please.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ Devlin unzipped his pouch, getting out his passport and the money. He made a show of counting the bills and coins one by one before sliding them across the countertop. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Tim studied the passport, typing all the details into his computer. Devlin watched him closely. Trying to catch any hint of anxiety or abruptness. Anything that might tip him off that Tim had grown suspicious of something in the passport and wasn’t buying into his legend.

  Mercifully, Devlin didn’t pick up on anything. Which was just as well. He abhorred the idea of liquidating someone he had just met.