on the same side, so we don’t think so.’ Zubiri shoved his chair back, stretching out his stocky legs. ‘There might be others in the crew, but if so, you’d meet them when you went inside. Along with Chavez.’
Harry’s brain suddenly felt swamped, the reality of the situation hitting her like a landslide. If she took this job on, she’d have to mix with these people. Talk with them, work with them, do what they do. She’d have to blend in and fool them into thinking she belonged. Harry’s pulse accelerated. She looked up at Gideon Ray’s smiling face; recalled Ginny Vaughan’s glamour-girl mask, and Clayton’s phoney warmth. A part of her wondered what was behind all the camouflage, but mostly she intended never to find out.
Zubiri fixed her with a stern look. ‘Don’t forget, just because you’re undercover doesn’t mean you try to be something that you’re not. If you don’t drink, then don’t drink. If you don’t take drugs, don’t start now. And never say you’ve been to prison if you haven’t.’
Harry nodded, her head still reeling. Zubiri went on.
‘These people are lifelong criminals, and you’d be part of their world. But remember: you can’t commit a crime when you’re undercover. It’s a strict rule. If you do, the department will not support you. Under any circumstances.’
Harry studied his intense, deep-set eyes, the unruly curls, the rumpled shirt, and couldn’t help comparing his bohemian image with Vasco’s slick efficiency. She cocked her head to one side.
‘Did you follow that rule when you worked undercover?’
He blinked once, but didn’t look away. Eventually, he said, ‘Attack is the best form of defence. Always answer a question with a question, and if you have to lie, look up at the ceiling.’
Harry felt her eyebrows knit together, and for the first time, Zubiri smiled.
‘I learned that one from the RUC in Northern Ireland. If you’re asked a question, you usually picture the answer in your mind’s eye, so you look up for it. When you lie, there’s no picture, so you look down. They used it when interrogating terrorists.’
‘You worked undercover in Northern Ireland?’
‘I worked undercover in a lot of places.’
‘Inside ETA?’
The smile faded. ‘For many years. Some of my superiors worried I was really with ETA, working undercover as a cop.’
‘Was Vasco one of them?’
Zubiri blew a characteristic pfft through his lips. ‘Vasco, he’s just a handshaker. Doesn’t know shit about undercover work. Doesn’t even speak Euskara very well. Me, I’ve spent a lifetime hunting criminals, and I’ve found them, too. Some were even wearing the same uniform as me.’
Harry contemplated his large, slab-like face. He returned her look, as if trying to reassess her. That happened to her a lot these days.
Suddenly, he seemed to make up his mind about something. He snapped the laptop shut, then got to his feet, slipping a phone from his pocket.
‘I have a call to make.’
Harry sat upright in her chair. ‘What, no more slides?’ By her calculations, they still had three more to go.
‘None that concern you.’ He shot her a challenging look. ‘Or so my superiors tell me.’
He held her gaze a shade longer than necessary, then turned and headed for the door. She stared after his blocky, shambling frame as he disappeared into the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar. Harry’s eyes slid back to the laptop.
Three slides left.
None that concern you.
A charge whispered down the back of her neck.
Slowly, she reached across the table and clicked the laptop open.
Chapter 9
Breaking into a laptop was like picking a lock: all you needed was time. Harry shot a glance at the half-open door. Right now, time wasn’t on her side.
She edged around the desk to get a better view. The laptop was locked, password-protected. Her skin prickled as she tuned into Zubiri’s voice outside in the corridor. He was drilling quick-fire Basque at someone on the phone. She eyed the projector, then reached out to switch it off. No sense in magnifying her snooping to wall-sized proportions.
The projector hum died away. The room darkened to a charcoal dusk, somehow intensifying the silence. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Infiltrating a cop’s laptop had to be a crime, whatever way you looked at it. Computer intrusion, property violation, data theft. On the other hand, the police wanted to set her up as a decoy. Surely that gave her dibs on all the facts? Harry shook her head, shelving the debate. Rationalizing her morals was a luxury for later. Right now, she needed information.
She pulled up a chair and thought about Zubiri’s password. She could acquire it any number of ways, but the important thing here was speed. Mentally, she raced through her options.
If she knew more about him, she’d probably hazard a guess. Most people chose easily remembered words, no matter how often you warned them. The dog’s name; maybe the wife’s. Perhaps with a couple of digits appended, as if that would be enough to confound the bad guys. Harry made a face. Zubiri didn’t strike her as the type to care for dogs or wives.
She drummed her fingers on the table. Simple brute force often worked best. Take a crowbar to something and eventually it had to cave in. Her sledgehammer of choice was usually a dictionary attack, a program that stepped through thousands of words hoping to jimmy the lock open with one of them. Trouble was, Zubiri’s password had looked long and complicated. Hitting the right word and number combination could take her several hours. Besides, if there was one thing she’d sensed, it was the man’s fierce national pride. She was willing to bet his password was in Basque, and while her attack program incorporated most foreign dictionaries, his ancient ancestral language wasn’t among them.
Harry stirred in her chair. Zubiri’s voice ramped up outside, his consonants growing harsher. As far as she could tell, he was only a few feet from the door. Her heart cantered for a beat or two. She had one option left, but it was far from ideal. It would leave telltale tracks, unmistakable footprints that would lead directly to her. She darted another glance at the door, then hauled her laptop bag onto the table.
She ripped open the front Velcro pouch, rummaging inside for a USB memory stick, which she jammed into the side of Zubiri’s laptop. Then she stabbed at the power switch and rebooted the machine.
The laptop hummed. She fixed her eyes on the screen, tracking the startup messages. Outside in the corridor, a copier stuttered to life, its mechanical clacking drowning out Zubiri’s voice. Harry kept her gaze on the laptop. Then she hit a key, interrupting its routine, redirecting it to follow orders from her programmed USB stick. The laptop whirred. Sniffed at the stick. Then it swallowed her program like a dog with a biscuit, blithely passing control of its own innards over to Harry.
Her fingers rattled across the keys. She bypassed the rest of the startup grind and instead hooked into the bowels of the hard drive, probing its recesses till she found the list of users permitted to access the machine. There
