But once the captive was received, and safely ensconced in the “dungeon”, then the auction began. Falconer could name his price. Net profit per product was usually never less than ten million dollars. And the clamour for new flesh never lessened.
They came and went. Rarely was the merchandise kept longer than four weeks. Business was brisk. New arrivals were received every month, usually as many as eight or nine. They came from different backgrounds. Secreted away from orphanages, street kids bundled into the backs of cars, sometimes sold by addict mothers, abducted from leafy suburbs, stolen from the beds of the affluent and rich, whisked away from a busy beach. Falconer didn’t care, even if there was press coverage, which there often was. In such cases, Falconer didn’t baulk. In fact, the greater the media storm, the greater the profit. In such cases, he could name his price. This was the other paradox – if there was a media storm over a missing child, then the bidding became more frenzied, and the prices sky-rocketed.
But on a rare occasion, an item of merchandise, no matter the profit, had to be sacrificed. For the greater good. But never wasted.
Nothing was wasted in Falconer’s world.
A vehicle arrived, cutting its way through the terrain by a road no more than a dirt track. Falconer watched its approach, stirring up plumes of sand. A silver-grey Range Rover, darkened windows, driven by his people.
The electric gates opened, the car swept through, along a wide stamped concrete driveway, to park at the courtyard at the main entrance to the ranch. Doors opened. The driver, a man in the passenger seat, and a man sitting in the back seat, all got out. The one in the back seat was carrying something. At first glance, it could have been a roll of white blanket.
Falconer oversaw the delivery personally. Hovering at his side, as ever, stood Norman Sands.
“Take it downstairs,” said Falconer. There were no stairs. There was only an elevator to the basement. But the man understood.
Falconer turned to Sands. “I’ll be down shortly.”
Sands and the man carrying the package, headed through a main hallway, to the back premises. Another room, with doors on either side. At one door was a keypad. Sands pressed the four-digit code. The door unlocked. Another smaller room, like an ante-chamber. In this room was a man sitting at a desk. On one wall were screens of each room in the house, plus views of the outside. Sands nodded at the man. He was wearing a shirt and slacks. Strapped across his shoulder, in plain sight, was a holster. In the holster was a semi-automatic pistol. They entered, and faced a further door. Another keypad. In their particular industry, security was high on the agenda.
Sands pressed another code. The doors opened automatically. The elevator. The only way in and out to the sub-level.
They got in. The doors closed. Machinery hummed. A brief sensation of movement. Three seconds later, they stopped, the doors opened. Another small room, another man stationed by a desk, holstered.
Opposite, a door. Sands again nodded at the guard, who nodded back. Sands opened the door, the man with the package following silently.
They were in the dungeon. The globe lights above sparkled, the walls bright with teddy bears and rainbows. At the far end of the corridor, at the doorway to his room, stood the skeletal figure of Stanley Lampton, dressed in his blue hospital overalls. Perhaps it was the reflection of the globes, but it seemed to Sands his eyes gleamed.
“Which room?”
Lampton beckoned to a door on his right. “Room seven is vacant.”
Lampton unlocked the door. The three men entered. Inside, was a child’s single bed, pink wallpaper, deep pink carpet, golden stars on a white ceiling. A rocking horse in one corner. A doll’s house in another. A play table and chair. A shelf of books, cuddly toys, games. A toilet and bath in an adjacent room.
The man carrying the package, placed it gently on the bed.
“You can go,” said Sands. The man left.
Lampton spoke. “May I?”
Sands nodded.
The package was covered in white sheeting, kept in place by belts tied in the middle and at one end. Carefully, with long, thin fingers, Lampton undid the belts, removed them, and opened out the sheeting.
A child of perhaps six lay before them. Pale and still, in a drugged state. Lampton sucked in his breath.
“Mr Falconer will be here directly,” said Sands.
They waited, not speaking.
Two minutes later, Falconer entered the room. He gave the child a cursory glance, then turned his attention to Lampton.
“No. 4. How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine,” replied Lampton.
“Fucking right she’s fine. She’d better be, Lampton.”
Suddenly his mood changed.
“You like it?”
Lampton stared at the child.
“Perfect,” he breathed.
“A gift. For you. Make sure No. 4 is in pristine condition for our Japanese friends when they arrive, and no fucking measles shit. If there’s no hiccups, then, and only then, this one’s yours, to do as you wish. She’s all the way from the United Kingdom. She’s been moved about for months, from safe house to safe house. Always under the radar. And now she’s here. With you.”
“Thank you.”
Falconer stepped close.
“But if you fuck up, then I swear to Christ you’ll wish you’d never been born, and I will personally nail your fucking liver to one of those damn globes. No. 4 has to be perfect. You understand me?”
Lampton looked as if he was only half listening. “I understand.”
“You’d better.”
This was the only way to incentivise people like Lampton, and Falconer knew it. They lived for something more than the dollar. Sometimes, for the greater good, merchandise had to be sacrificed. Sometimes, Falconer had to lose money to make money.
Nothing was wasted in Falconer’s world.
Everything had a use.
33
The Excelsior. Some would say an iconic structure. A hundred and eighty rooms. The most expensive
