Tracers by Adrian Magson

looking up. I thought your only contacts were hairy-arsed coppers with a drink problem.’ He picked up an A–Z of London and flicked through the index. After a few minutes, he sighed and tossed it to one side. ‘There are several places in London that fit the “J. A.”: James Avenue and Jersey Avenue to name two. We need a house number, otherwise we’re chasing smoke.’
    Harry nodded. ‘Long shot. Leave it.’
    Rik opened the folder and tapped the briefing paper where it mentioned Haifa University. There were no other details, such as contact numbers, faculty, or departmental names. ‘Didn’t you say Silverman was a doctor of theology?’
    ‘According to Jennings. Before he went AWOL.’
    Harry chewed on that for a while. Jennings might have picked up the information at an original client briefing, but for some reason hadn’t bothered including it in his notes, such as they were. Still, even if they didn’t have the department, how big could the place be? The Professor must have had friends there at one time; someone might remember him and give them some background information.
    ‘I need a phone number,’ said Harry.
    ‘I’m on it.’ Rik turned to his laptop and began punching keys.

TWELVE
    H arry dialled the number and waited. It rang twelve times before being answered by a gruff male voice. He asked if they had a Professor Samuel Silverman on the staff. There was a sharp reply in what he took to be Hebrew, before the phone clicked and a woman’s voice came on with an American accent. He repeated the question.
    ‘Who are you?’ She sounded instantly suspicious. ‘It’s a holiday today. Why do you want to know?’
    ‘I need to speak to him,’ he said finally, winging it. He had no idea if the university staff were aware that Silverman had gone walkabout, and didn’t want to set alarm bells ringing unnecessarily. ‘He was helping my nephew with some study advice.’
    The woman made a grudging noise, and he heard the sound of paper rustling. In the background someone laughed and a computer beeped. ‘You say Samuel?’ said the woman after a lengthy wait. ‘Samuel Silverman?’
    ‘That’s right. Professor Samuel Silverman.’ He waited. If she wanted the department and the subject, he was sunk.
    ‘What’s he teaching? You don’t know?’ The woman must have extrasensory perception. He wondered what to say. What subject or speciality would an Israeli professor, apparently much valued by his government, teach? It wouldn’t be theology, in spite of what Jennings had said. Defence studies was more likely. Statistics, maybe. But they wouldn’t work – not now he’d mentioned a nephew. He had to risk a bluff. ‘You think my nephew tells me what he’s studying?’ he countered dramatically. ‘He tells me nothing, like he tells his parents. I have to force things out of him. It could be theology, though – he’s into all that stuff.’
    Across the room, Rik shook his head in mock despair.
    ‘Sorry,’ said the woman. ‘Silvermans we have plenty of, but not a Samuel. And believe me, sir, we’ve had the same theology staff here since Golda Meir was in small pants.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Sorry – nobody of that name on the staff here.’ In spite of her abruptness, she sounded sympathetic. ‘And no visiting lecturers, either – I checked the register, in case. We have people coming and going all the time, you see. You should maybe try another campus.’
    He thanked her and rang off. ‘No Professor Samuel Silverman, nor ever was.’
    Rik pulled a face. ‘Maybe he was caught playing naughties with a student and they’ve blanked him from the records.’
    ‘That would take some doing.’
    ‘Not if he was in tight with the government. Scandals they don’t need.’
    ‘OK, so given that he’s cut loose from his life in the Promised Land, what made him decide to come to Britain?’ He stood up and stretched, then stared at the ceiling as if it might contain the answer. He didn’t mind puzzles