I walked quickly up Wapping Lane, past Watts and Chandler Streets on my left, Raine Street on my right. Because of the time, the area was quiet. But had I arrived a couple of hours earlier, Wapping probably would have looked more like Temple Bar than an ancient warehouse district.
A large pirate ship fronted my destination. Directly behind it, the building itself was a grand mix of brown brick and iron. At its highest point, I could just make out a giant wild boar squashed beneath three massive barrels in the darkness. I checked my watch. As far as the instructions were concerned I was early, but not by much.
They’re waiting for the girl, I told myself. That explained why there were no watchmen on the roof, no guards patrolling the surrounding streets.
They were waiting for a young woman roughly five five in height and weighing no more than a hundred pounds. They were waiting for a dispirited junkie who could barely lift her head to look someone in the eyes.
They were in for a surprise.
As I approached a side entrance I debated whether to keep my handgun concealed or to hold it out in the open, ready to fire.
In the end, I opened the zipper of my black biker armor. Reached inside and withdrew my .45.
Chapter 58
So much for the element of surprise. The moment I stepped inside the warehouse known as Tobacco Dock, I was greeted by a semicircle of seven well-dressed men, six of whom were armed with automatic weapons.
Christ.
The seventh man was a Michael Caine look-alike in his early- to mid-fifties. Dressed in a custom-tailored charcoal suit that all but screamed Harrods of London, he stepped forward and folded his arms across his chest.
“Please, put down that weapon, guv, or the boys here are going to be swabbing this floor till dawn.”
For most of a millisecond I dwelled on the biker armor. Then I realized that with six automatic weapons aimed at me, chances were one or more shots would strike me in the head. So I lowered the HK, slowly went to my haunches, and set it on the cement warehouse floor as instructed.
As I rose, I said, “It’s none of my business, but do you and your boys always gather around in a half circle with weapons drawn like you’re posing for a poster for the next Guy Ritchie film? Or did I just arrive at a good time?”
He chuckled. “We watched your arrival, mate. Cameras, you know. London is full of them these days. Government and private enterprise.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure,” he said, placing his hands in his pockets.
My own hands remained at my sides, fingers unclenched.
“The name’s Bateman,” I said in case Terry was within earshot.
The warehouse was, for the most part, empty. But there were doors on three of four walls that appeared to lead to additional rooms.
“Well, Mr. Bateman, do you have a first name? Or would you prefer to keep things formal?”
“Patrick,” I said.
“All right, Patrick—may I call you Patrick?—this warehouse is private property. From the manner of your entrance, I suspect that you believe you have business to conduct here. From the manner of your dress, I assume it is business of a, let’s be polite and say, casual nature.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, “Mr.…”
“Oh, my apologies, Patrick. My name’s John. John Noonan. But you can call me Jack.”
“I’m here to conduct a transaction, Jack.”
“A transaction?”
I couldn’t help but mimic his formality. “To make an exchange,” I said. “A purchase. A payoff, if you prefer.”
He glanced at his watch, a high-end Tag Heuer. Though I didn’t own much in the way of jewelry, I happened to have one just like it back at my studio apartment on Dumbarton in D.C. Given to me two years ago by the French police lieutenant Davignon. Coincidentally, it was a seizure from some Parisian drug baron not unlike Jack Noonan here.
“I see,” he said. “Thing is, I have only one appointment scheduled for this evening. And it’s with a young woman.”
“I’m her surrogate,” I said.
“I’m afraid surrogates aren’t permitted under the terms of our agreement, Patrick. I made that quite clear in my instructions.”
“She sends her apologies, Jack. She’s fallen ill.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Nothing too serious, I hope.”
I said nothing.
“Well then, I presume you have brought my money,” he said.
“I have it, Jack. And may I presume our friend Terry is on the premises?”
“Yes. Terry or Nigel or whatever he’s calling himself these days, he most certainly is.”
I smiled. “Good.”
“Right then, Patrick. Let’s proceed, shall we?”
“I’m game if you are.”
His tone turned dead serious. “Well then, where is my money?”
“Half of it is on me,” I said.
“Half? Patrick, I have to be honest. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s probably just the acoustics,” I offered.
“Well, how about this, then? You give me half of my money, and I’ll give you half of Mr. Davies.”
Suits me, I thought. “The other half’s nearby.”
“And this half?”
“In my jacket.”
“Open it, then. Slowly, please.”
As I did, two of Jack’s boys started toward me.
I lifted my arms as one of the two patted me down. After removing the sizeable envelope, he reached into another pocket and discovered Ostermann’s switchblade.
He switched open the eleven-inch Italian stiletto and held it in the air for his boss to have a look.
“I’m a collector,” I said.
Gentleman Jack shrugged. “Just be sure to keep it tucked away, Patrick. We wouldn’t want one of us to have an accident, now, would we?”
The goon handed the switchblade back to me. I stuffed it into my inside pocket while he bent over and picked my gun up off the floor.
Jack’s two boys then walked back to their semicircle, opened the envelope, and counted its contents.
“Exactly half, boss,” one of them said.
“And the rest?” Jack asked me.
“In my car. I’m parked by the river.”
“Well, let’s go retrieve it then, shall we?”
“First, I want proof of life,” I told him.
He let fly a long, theatrical sigh. “This isn’t part of the agreement, Patrick.”
I said, “I’d consider it a professional courtesy.”
He glanced again at his watch and thought about it.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Hand over your phone, Patrick.”
I dug it out of my pocket and tossed it underhand to one of his boys.
Jack said to him, “Now go snap a picture of Mr. Davies and bring it back to us, will you?”
“Right, boss.”
As he ran off, Jack added, “Be sure to get Terry’s good side, Carl. And by that I mean his scrawny white arse.”
In the meantime, the seven of us stood silently, gazing at each other across the bare warehouse floor.
The designated photographer was back a few minutes later.
He showed Jack the photo then walked it over to me.
I looked at the picture. Stared at it for more seconds than I could count as a tumultuous roar rose in my ears, and rational thoughts gave way to savage reverie.
“Satisfied, Patrick?” Jack asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “But I will be.”
Chapter 59
Two of Jack’s boys accompanied me to the Mercedes. I opened the trunk and handed them the rest of the money. Half expecting them to shoot me straightaway. Dump my body in the River Thames. That, I thought, might be as elegant a punctuation mark as any to close out these past twelve years. I’d found Hailey, I’d saved my daughter. Ashdown would see that she was taken care of, wouldn’t he? Or maybe
Zoey. Hell, maybe even my father, though I wouldn’t wish him on anyone, not even my worst enemy, let alone my only child.
She could return to Liverpool, to Lennox Sterling, I thought. She was happy there, as far as I could tell. And Sterling, despite his less-than-desirable occupation, seemed to genuinely love her. Only she’d still have her habit, which could kill her at any time. And then, there was Terrance Davies; he’d still be alive.
Instead of killing me and dumping my body into the water, Jack’s boys counted out the cash and we all walked back to the warehouse in silence.
On the way, I wondered why the hell I’d felt so content to take a bullet to the back of the head. Was it simply because I’d found Hailey? Because I’d completed my life’s work?
No, it was something far more selfish than that. I didn’t care if they killed me because I was scared to face whatever came next. My work was far from finished. Sure, I’d found Hailey. But I sure as hell hadn’t saved her. She remained a captive to the heroin. She was still chained to whatever psychological damage her abduction had caused her over the past twelve years. Not only was I far from finished, I hadn’t even reached the hard part yet.
Once we were back in the warehouse and the entire sum was in Jack’s possession, he said, “Well, Patrick, I must say it was a pleasure doing business with you.”
“And Mr. Davies?”
“All yours.” He turned to his boys. “Run along and get Patrick his prize goose.”
* * *
Five minutes later, with one of Jack’s boys on either side of him, Terrance Davies came walking out under the power of his own two feet. He hadn’t been worked over, as Lizzy had heard. Hell, he looked fitter than he had the last time I saw him in the States. A little older. But he wore it well. Better than my father did, at least.
He was dressed in a black suit, similar to the one he wore to Tasha’s funeral. As he walked, he kept his head down, dusting off his arms and shoulders and torso. Then he slowed to dust off his knees.
Finally he lifted his head, a satisfied grin on his face.
He came to a full halt when he saw me. And the grin instantly melted into a dire frown.
“What’s this, Jack?” Terry said, his voice somewhat hoarse.
Jack looked at me. “Your girl’s … surrogate, I believe.”
I nodded.
“This wasn’t the deal, Jack.”
“Whatever do you mean, guv? I have my money. You’re completely free to go.”
“The hell I am,” he said, pointing in my general direction. “This man’s here to kill me.”
Jack chuckled, bewildered. “I highly doubt that, Terry. He just paid a very substantial sum for you.”
“Yeah, Terry,” I said. “Why in the world would I want to kill you?”
I watched his Adam’s apple travel up and down his throat.
Terry said, “Kill him, Jack. Kill him now.”
That got Jack’s attention. He stepped into the empty space between us.
“What in bloody hell is going on here?”
I said, “Tell him, Terry.”
I made a decision right then that if Jack Noonan sided with Terrance Davies, I’d immediately make a move. I’d snatch Ostermann’s switchblade from my pocket and charge at my old mentor and friend. I’d get to Terry. They could put a dozen bullets in me and I’d still keep going. I’d get to him.
Slice his goddamn throat.
Even if it cost me my life.
Because Hailey wasn’t safe as long as that bastard was alive.
“His name’s Simon Fisk,” Terry said, gathering his courage. “We had a falling out, years ago, in the States.”
“A falling out,” I said. “Is that what you’d call it?”
Jack turned to me. “Are you here to kill this man?”
I said nothing.
“Tell me now,” he pressed. “Or my boys here are going to be swabbing the floor until dawn after all.”
“Whatever he tells you will be lies,” Terry shouted.
Jack looked at him calmly. “I’ll be the judge of that, now, won’t I?” Then he turned to me. “This is important, Mr. Fisk. I had a deal with this man’s daughter, Shauna. She gives me the money and I return her father to her in one piece. This was a ransom, not a bloody auction where the best offer wins.”
“Kill him,” Terry said again.
“Shut up, Terry.” Jack took a step toward me. “You’re here under false pretenses, Mr. Fisk. If you are at all familiar with my reputation, you know that I’m a fair man. But I don’t like to be misled. And I sure as hell don’t abide men lying to my face. Which is precisely what you did tonight.” He motioned for two of his boys to come forward. “Well? What have you to say for yourself, Fisk? You’re in my bloody manor now, aren’t you? Plead your case.”
I drew several quick breaths, knowing damn well any one of them could be my last.
“The girl who was supposed to bring you the money,” I said, never taking my eyes off Terry, “she’s not Mr. Davies’s daughter. She’s mine.”
“A goddamn lie!” Terry shouted. “Shauna is me daughter, you know that, Jack. You’ve met her, for Christ’s sake.”
“Her name’s not Shauna,” I said calmly. “Her name is Hailey Fisk. And Terrance Davies stole her from my home twelve years ago. Snatched her out of my backyard when she was six years old.”
Jack Noonan looked from Terry to me and back. “This is a pretty serious allegation, isn’t it?” He placed his hands behind his back and began pacing between us. “No time for a DNA test, I’m afraid.” He turned to me. “Let us assume for a moment that you are telling the truth, Mr. Fisk. That your daughter was indeed abducted twelve years ago. We could verify that on the Internet easily enough, can’t we? But that Shauna Adair is actually your daughter—Hailey?—that’s something else entirely. So, how do you intend on proving that to me?”
I thought on it, resisted the urge to tell Jack this was none of his business. That this was between me and Terry. Because Jack had made it his business. As he’d made clear just a few moments ago, this was his manor. And he had all the firepower. All I had was an eleven-inch blade and a headful of fury.
How could I prove Shauna was Hailey?
I had the e-mail images from Kati Sheffield. But if they weren’t enough to convince me, they sure as hell wouldn’t be sufficient to persuade Jack Noonan.
Jack held out his palm and one of his boys brought him a large handgun. He glanced at his Tag Heuer again. “I hate to be a stickler for time, but I don’t have all night, you understand.” He leveled the gun at my head. “So get talking or get dying, Fisk. Either way, I’m out of this bloody warehouse within five minutes.”
Now or never.
“Mind if I make a call?” I said.
It was a shot in the dark, but it was the only shot I had.
Jack lifted a shoulder, said, “If you believe it will help. Be my guest.”
I dug out my BlackBerry, turned on the speakerphone, and dialed Rendell. Hoping that he’d followed my instructions, that he’d found what I expected him to find, and most important, that he’d cooperate in this, well, unconventional paternity hearing.
“This is Special Agent John Rendell.” His voice, tinny through the phone’s speaker, echoed throughout the empty warehouse.
“It’s Simon Fisk,” I said. “You’re on speakerphone, John. I’m going ask you a few questions for the benefit of a third party. I’d like you to answer as though you were on a witness stand. The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. Understand?”
After a brief hesitation, he said, “All right. Shoot.”
I watched Jack’s boys instinctively place their index fingers on their respective triggers.
“Might want to refrain from using that word for the duration of this conversation,” I said. “John, would you kindly define our relationship as succinctly as you can?”
“Twelve years ago, my partner Candace West and I were the Bureau agents assigned to lead the inve
stigation into the apparent abduction of your six-year-old daughter, Hailey.”
“Were you successful?”
“No, Hailey was never found.”
“Where are you now?”
“Inside a bar in the District of Columbia, a few miles from where Hailey was abducted.”
“The name of the establishment?”
“Terry’s Pub.”
“Owner?”
“Presently, the liquor license is in the name of Nigel Cummings.”
“Previously?”
“Previously, it was owned by its founder, Terrance Davies.”
“Have you searched the place just now?”
“With the consent of the full-time bartender, Casey O’Connell, I have.”
“Why not the owner?”
“Mr. O’Connell advises that the owner lives abroad. In London. Before I identified myself as an FBI agent, Mr. O’Connell very enthusiastically assured me that he had full authority in all matters relating to the bar and the property.”
“Find anything noteworthy during your search, John?”
He hesitated then said softly, “I ultimately found a secret room beneath the pub.”
“And in the room?”
“In the room I discovered large amounts of illicit drugs, including ecstasy, cocaine, and heroin.”
“Anything else?”
“The room is fully soundproofed and furnished with a worn love seat, a plastic table and chairs, and a mattress and box spring. Buried deep inside the mattress, I discovered a number of photographs, as well as several pieces of construction paper of various sizes and colors. All of which contain messages in what appears to be a child’s handwriting.”
I swallowed hard. “What do these messages say?”
Rendell hesitated again. “Are you sure, Simon?”
“I’m sure, John.”
“They’re messages asking for help. The author says she was stolen by a man she calls ‘Uncle Terry.’ She’s signed each message, ‘Hailey Fisk.’”
“And the photos?”
“They’re of Hailey, Simon. They appear to have been taken over the course of about two or three years—all in the hidden room below the bar.”
Gone Cold Page 22
