Some minutes later I hung up. I looked down and opened the hand clenched tight around my car key. The metal had cut into my flesh. I held the wound to my mouth and tasted the iron in it.
Like I said. Someone was going to pay.
Part Three
Chapter 29
I live in a small apartment in Soho, on the third floor of an old building on Dean Street.
I have a lounge, a bedroom, a small kitchen that I rarely use and a bathroom. I had the front window double-glazed shortly after I moved in and the place is snug. I have a small television and a digital internet radio.
Dean Street is one of my favourite places in the world. Home to The Crown and Two Chairmen, the Groucho Club and the best bar in the western hemisphere – The French House – even if it does sell beer only by the half-pint and you have to steer well clear at lunchtime when it’s packed with media types and tourists.
But at half-six in the morning the pubs are closed tighter than a drum. The little Italian cafe round the corner was open early, though. I bought an espresso to go, which I sipped as I walked across town to the office.
I was short of the recommended eight hours of shut-eye – by about seven hours, I reckoned – and the sharp, bitter jolt of the caffeine was kicking in fine. Normally, before going into work, I’d have gone to the gym I used just off Piccadilly Circus near the Cafe Royal. But Chloe was still unconscious in intensive care, Hannah Shapiro was still missing and we still didn’t have a clue why she had been taken.
Jack Morgan had been straight in touch with Hannah’s father, Harlan Shapiro, who was getting on this evening’s flight to London.
Her abductors had made no contact. We didn’t know if Hannah’s cover had been blown or if a ransom demand was imminent. Given what Kirsty had told me last evening I very much hoped that was the case. If she hadn’t been taken for money… I shook the thought away, dropped my empty espresso cup in a litter bin outside a newsagent’s and picked up my pace. The clock was ticking and we didn’t have a minute to waste.
Ten minutes later I sprinted up the stairs to my office. I never take the elevator if I can help it. I don’t like elevators.
Lucy, my PA, flashed her cut-glass smile as me as I punched in the security code and stepped through to the open-plan reception office. She was blonde, beautiful and had a top-drawer accent to go with the smile.
‘Morning, Lucy. Everyone in yet?’
She shook her head. ‘Dr Lee is on her way in but Sponge won’t be coming in today. The rest are in the conference room.’
‘What do you mean, he won’t be coming in?’ If my tone was a tad sharp I didn’t apologise for it
‘It’s his mother.’
Vladimir Kopchek, or ‘Sponge’ as he was known because of his ability to soak up every bit of information and retain it, was our computer and technical support expert. He defected to the west before glasnost. He’s in his fifties now and has a mind sharper than an ex-wife’s tongue. His mother back in Russia had fallen ill and he was awaiting the results of tests. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘They don’t give her very long. Maybe three months. He’s booked himself on the first flight over.’
I nodded, resigned. I couldn’t blame the guy, but he was going to be hard to replace.
Wendy Lee came through the door, carrying a paper sack. ‘I got you coffee,’ she said.
We walked into the conference room. About twenty foot by eighteen. A long walnut table running to the wall opposite the door. Flush with the end of the table and rising up the wall some ten foot by eight was a state-of-the- art LED television screen. Fractions of an inch thick.
When it was switched to video-conference mode it connected to Private’s other offices around the world. So that the table seemed to carry on beyond the screen into an identical office. Except in that office it would be Jack Morgan’s team sitting around the table in his octagonal war room, or the crew of our outfits in Rome – or Paris or New York.
Today, though, it was just my team who were there for the briefing.
Chapter 30
Around the table were Adrian Tuttle, Wendy Lee, Suzy Malone, Brad Dexter and Sam Riddel.
Sam is my number two at the agency. He was wearing a coal-black three-piece suit and a dark blue tie. He’s a six foot four ex-copper and ex-boxer, and he’s black. He’d never killed a man in the ring, but I wasn’t so sure about out of it. He grew up on one of the worst estates in South London. Two of his brothers were killed before he was ten years old. Killed in the drug-turf wars that were still a feature of everyday life in that part of London. The fact that Sam had survived it, had never turned to the dark side as it were, meant he could pretty much survive anything in my book.
Suzy was in her early thirties. Ex-Metropolitan Police. Five foot six, auburn hair, fifth-degree black-sash Wing Chun kung fu, Third Dan kick-boxing, a marksman, a loyal friend, a deadly enemy, openly bisexual and one of my favourite people in the whole world. The Met Police’s loss was decidedly our gain. Likewise Brad Dexter. Early fifties, built like an American-style fridge, he had taken early retirement from the close-protection unit of the Met. He now headed up our personal-security division.
‘Okay, guys,’ I said as I picked up a small white remote-control unit from the desk. ‘Everything else is off the agenda. What I am going to tell you about now needs our total focus. Jack Morgan would be flying over himself to head this up, but he can’t. He’s subpoenaed to appear in federal court and can’t leave the country.’
‘What’s going on, Dan?’ asked Wendy Lee.
I pointed the remote control at the TV and clicked the on button. I would say it was state-of-the-art Apple and Sony TV technology – but it wasn’t, Apple wouldn’t be bringing their version out for a year or so.
As it was, I wasn’t using the sophisticated conference facility – I was just using it for a slide show.
First up was a recent picture of Hannah Shapiro. I couldn’t believe it was the same nervous girl I had brought over from America less than eighteen months ago. Chloe had told me that Hannah had come out of herself a lot, becoming more confident and outgoing. But the transformation was incredible, even so.
Hannah looked bold, comfortable and gorgeous. Her hair now full and wavy, a tumble of deep brunette curls. Her eyes bright, a killer smile. Her figure was more shapely, filled out – she had become a woman. A very sexy one at that.
I felt guilty thinking it. Remembering the small nervous hand holding mine on that bumpy flight. She was like a completely different person.
‘Hannah Shapiro,’ I said. ‘Registered at Chancellors University under the name “Hannah Durrant”.’
‘Why the name change?’ asked Lucy.
‘Her father is Harlan Shapiro. A very wealthy West Coast industrialist. Electronic systems. Communications.’
‘And…?’ Wendy Lee asked.
I took a sip of my coffee, remembering what Jack had told me the night before. Hannah’s mother hadn’t died of cancer like she had told me on the flight. She had died in circumstances almost too horrific to take in.
‘A good few years ago,’ I replied, ‘on Hannah’s twelfth birthday, she and her mother were kidnapped. A ransom was demanded. A ransom that her father didn’t pay.’
‘What happened?’ Lucy again. Sam wasn’t saying anything – I’d briefed him last night. He knew who Chloe was, too – and what she meant to me.
‘The people who took them, Vincent Cabrello and John Santini, were a couple of low-life hoodlums who had fallen foul of some connected people in New York State. They hightailed it over to the West Coast to lie low, enjoy some sunshine and make what they figured would be some easy pickings.’
‘And they picked on Hannah Shapiro and her mother?’ Suzy asked.
