The Searcher by Christopher Morgan Jones

atmosphere would have been tense. From the cliff on which the hotel sat they could see the river cutting through the city and by it various signs of last night’s trouble: broken placards, a car turned on its roof. Conversation was sparse.
    As he ate, he flicked through the pages of his notebook and tried to get a purchase on the day. There was so little in there. Elsa hadn’t known Ben’s e-mail password, or his credit card number, both of which would have helped. He had Karlo’s cell phone number, for what it was worth now, and through Facebook a name and place of work for his wife, which some bright spark in the Ikertu research department had managed to convert into a home address and landline number. And he knew where Karlo had worked, of course. That was about it. On the plane he had read through each ofthe reports Karlo had written for Ikertu but none had contained anything relevant.
    Otherwise there was the standard stuff. Call the hospitals, check with the police. If he could trust Vekua there was nothing there, but he had Katerina back in London go through the motions to be sure. She was to try all the hotels in Tbilisi as well, and through her Russian sources to keep an eye on the border, because it would be like the bastard to have crossed into Russia; it drew him. Elsa and Katerina were the only people who knew where Hammer was.
    As for his own job, it was simple, to the point of being slender: try to pick up Ben’s trail, as quickly as he could.
    A man and a woman in neat travelers’ clothes, the kind that don’t crease, sat at the next table to him. Pushing his plate away, Hammer nodded a good morning and made to leave.
    â€œAnything in there about last night?”
    The man nodded at Hammer’s paper lying on his table. If he’d been more observant he’d have noticed that it was still perfectly folded. The voice was American; Northwest, if Hammer had it right.
    â€œTo tell you the truth I haven’t looked. Probably a bit soon for the
Tribune
.”
    â€œI guess.”
    Hammer smiled at the man and pushed his chair back.
    â€œArnold Witt.”
    Witt held out his hand and Hammer took it. The grip was self-consciously strong.
    â€œIke Hammer.”
    â€œThis is Mary.” Mary half smiled. “Looks like you had some trouble of your own.”
    â€œI took a wrong turn on the way from the airport.”
    Pressed up against the little table, Arnold Witt was big, broad across the shoulders, and he had a thick gray mustache that entirely hid his upper lip. His wife—somehow she could only be his wife—smiled tightly in a way that suggested that she had sat through many conversations at breakfast with strangers. Witt shook his head and smoothed the corners of his mustache.
    â€œYou got caught up in it? Heavens!”
    â€œI’ve had smoother welcomes.”
    â€œThey take your stuff? You need to borrow a shirt or something?”
    Hammer imagined himself for a moment with a huge checked shirt hanging off him like a boy in his father’s clothes.
    â€œThat’s good of you. Thank you. But I’m going shopping. I’ll be fine.”
    â€œYou think the shops’ll be open?”
    â€œSomething will. I’ll be fine.”
    â€œAnything you need, you let us know. That’s awful. Really. We nearly didn’t come after the bomb but then we figured no, lightning won’t strike twice. And we’d paid for those tickets. Guess we got that wrong. They hurt you?”
    â€œMore than I hurt them.”
    â€œWell, that’s terrible. Awful. I guess most of it happened a ways upriver but we could see it from our room. You wouldn’t want to be down in that.”
    â€œNo, you wouldn’t.”
    â€œJeez, I’m sorry. Clumsy of me.”
    â€œDon’t worry.” Hammer stood, nodded a good-bye. “I should be going.”
    â€œI guess I’m a little rattled. This your first time here?