‘They still want for you to handle the … exchange of contracts,’ he said, ‘but it’s been arranged for tomorrow morning. I have explained to them you may not be available at that notice—’
‘No, I’ll do it.’
Another sigh, a long pause, anguish. ‘They don’t deserve such loyalty, Charlie. Like you just said, all they want is a scapegoat.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I agreed. ‘But I’m not doing it for them.’
As I snapped the phone shut, I checked my watch. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. Torquil had been at his kidnappers’ tender mercies for twenty-nine hours.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
By 6.00 a.m. the following morning, after a restless and largely sleepless night, I was beginning to question the wisdom of my decision.
Parker and I were sitting in the large office suite in the basement of Brandon Eisenberg’s gothic mansion just outside Southampton, up towards the eastern end of Long Island, drinking coffee with Gleason, who turned out not simply to be Eisenberg’s bodyguard, but also his head of security.
Gleason’s attitude did not seem to have softened towards me since the night of the charity auction. I don’t think she’d forgiven her boss for offering me a job, or Parker for failing to extend the same courtesy towards her. But, she was professional and polite, dressed in a mannish dark-blue suit with wide lapels. To me, the outfit screamed authority and insecurity in equal measure.
Now, Gleason ran us through the detailed instructions the kidnappers had left, including playing the recording made of their last telephone conversation with Eisenberg.
She played the whole thing in full, including the part where they brought Torquil to the phone and persuaded him to speak. As I listened to the boy’s gargled screams, I felt Gleason’s cool gaze soaking up my reaction. I was careful to show her nothing more than a frown of concentration. It took effort to hold it in place. Parker’s expression, I noticed, was a mirror of my own.
‘We’ll call again at six-thirty tomorrow morning,’ said the mechanised voice. ‘Have the girl ready to answer. She’ll be given precise instructions on where to go first. She comes alone and I hope she’s in shape, because if she misses one single rendezvous by more than half a minute, the kid’s dead.’ Then, with a click of finality, the line followed suit.
Gleason sat back in her executive swivel chair, rocking slightly, and regarded me over the steam rising from her insulated coffee mug. ‘So, Charlie, you in good shape?’
‘I manage,’ I returned equably. ‘And besides, there’s the Buell.’
The only bit of personal information the security chief had shared with us was that she was from East Troy, Wisconsin, where Erik Buell had his motorcycle factory and, in Gleason’s voiced opinion, it was a damned shame they didn’t make them anymore.
At that moment my Buell Firebolt sat in one of the garages that lined the motor court to one side of the house, rubbing shoulders with two Lamborghinis, three Aston Martins, a Ferrari, a classic Morgan, and a Bugatti Veyron. I could see the lowly little Buell among them on one of the many monitors Gleason’s people were watching down here.
Parker wasn’t happy about me using the bike, but there were a lot of arguments in favour, not least of which was the time restriction the kidnappers had stressed. Logically, it was the only way to guarantee cutting through traffic to make what promised to be the first of many rendezvous points. Keeping me constantly on the defensive and operating at full stretch was standard procedure for these people.
The Buell’s engine was warmed through and it had a full tank of fuel. Sean’s Glock 21 was taped securely behind the front fairing, just as a backup.
I’d hesitated, when I’d gone to the gun safe in the apartment, about taking Sean’s gun. Apart from cleaning it, unloading it, and putting it away, the last time I’d handled it in anger was three months ago, when I’d taken it from his hand and come within a hair’s breadth of using it to kill the man who’d shot him. When I’d lifted the Glock out of its case yesterday evening, an echo of that time and place had shivered through me.
Forsaking my usual line of sober suits when coming into contact with clients, this morning I’d put on my leather bike jacket and Kevlar-reinforced jeans, which would be easier to move in than full leathers if I had to run. Under the jacket, in place of its winter lining, I wore the latest covert body armour, complete with thin polycarbonate sheets for an extra layer of protection. For the sake of mobility and stealth, I had rejected the optional ceramic trauma plates front and back. If we were up against weaponry of a calibre heavy enough to warrant them, I was probably fucked anyway.
For weaponry of my own, I had my usual SIG 9 mm in the small of my back, and a KA-BAR combat utility knife taped, hilt downwards, to the outside of my boot. The kidnappers had not specified that I should go unarmed, and I intended to make full use of that oversight.
Gleason had already explained to me how their comms system worked, but I’d taken in no more than I needed to in order to operate it on the fly. The dual in-ear earpieces fitted neatly underneath my helmet, small and comfortable, and she produced a tactical throat mic to go with them. This had the advantage that I could use it hands-free on the bike, and it would stay with me if I was forced to go walkabout.
The throat mics I’d used in the past had all sat high and tight under my jaw, but we checked this one would pick up acceptably when it was placed down nearer my collarbone instead. At first glance it would be hidden there by the tube scarf I usually wore on the bike to prevent both wind and wildlife from disappearing down the neck of my jacket.
It was high-grade ’ware and they reckoned the range was plenty good enough to reach back to the situation room here, unless the kidnappers were planning on taking me practically out of state. Gleason had assigned four mobile teams. This would allow them to track me while hanging back far enough not to make themselves too obvious.
Gleason fitted my gear herself, under Parker’s watchful eye. I saw the security chief’s eyes flick over the last remnants of the scar around the base of my throat as she was adjusting the mic, but if she recognised the old knife wound for what it was, she wisely passed no comment.
‘OK, you’re all set,’ she said when she was done.
I checked the clock again. ‘So, where’s the glitter?’
‘Here.’
I turned, found Brandon Eisenberg standing in the doorway. The billionaire looked a lot less urbane than he had done on the night of the charity auction, but I couldn’t hold that against him under the circumstances. He did seem genuinely scared for the boy who bore his name, if nothing else. Gripped tightly in his fist was an expensive- looking rucksack, as though he couldn’t bear even to deliver a ransom in some cheap tourist luggage.
‘It’s in there,’ he said, his voice an unhappy mix of defiance and strain.
From the way Gleason stared at her boss, I assumed there had been words between them about the wisdom of paying what they asked for, and that she hadn’t approved this tactic. I suppose that Eisenberg had succeeded for so long by throwing money at a problem until it went away, that he now couldn’t conceive of any other course of action.
For a moment, I thought he was going to say something profound to all of us, but in the end he just handed over the rucksack, turned on his heel, and departed.
Gleason unzipped the bag and checked inside. The Eisenberg Rainbow was in a flat padded box, lined with black velvet that separated the individual strands and set off the stones to their most alluring sparkle. It still looked like paste to me. It seemed a very small box to be worth so much money.
The sudden buzz of the designated phone on the nearest desk made me start, even though we’d been expecting it. I waited a couple of rings, took a deep breath, and picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘You the English bitch?’
The laugh sounded like two rough metal plates grinding together. I winced. He mentioned somewhere called Turtle Cove at Montauk Point. ‘Just south of the lighthouse. You know how to get there?’
