‘Yes?’ Opening the door of flat 49B, he barked at the intruder.
‘Sorry to trouble you, sir. But I’m afraid we’ve ’ad a complaint.’ Alfred, the fat building supervisor, hovered obsequiously on the doorstep. ‘Mrs Burton from the flat below.’
‘Well, what about her?’ snapped Antonio.
‘Well, sir, it seems she’s been ’aving problems with ’er dining-room ceiling, sir. Damp patches and that. Looks like it might be a problem with the pipes under your floorboards. We’ve called in a plumber to ’ave a look. If it’s convenient …’ he added, wilting under Antonio Lovato’s disdainful glare.
Antonio opened his mouth to explain forcefully that it wasn’t convenient, nor would it ever be convenient; that there was quite plainly nothing at all wrong with his pipes and that Mrs Burton was an appalling, desiccated old hag with nothing better to do than invent problems and bother her neighbors in a pathetic and disruptive attempt to draw attention to herself; when fat Alfred stepped aside and the ‘plumber’ stepped forward. Hovering shyly on Antonio’s doorstep was a quite breathtaking girl in her twenties, blonde and elfin, wearing a charming pair of tomboyish overalls that Antonio felt an instant and overwhelming urge to remove, and carrying a toolbox (which, if this were the opening scene in the porn movie already playing in Antonio’s mind, ought surely to contain a variety of dildos and sundry other sexually explicit gadgets).
For half of a moment, he felt as if he’d seen her before. But his had been a life so full of young, attractive women, whom in his youth he’d consumed as greedily and prolifically as a whale gulping down plankton, she was as impossible to place as a single star in the sky. The important point was that this was not what plumbers looked like in Italy. Or anywhere else, in Antonio’s experience. His aging reflection forgotten, he felt suddenly cheered. What a marvelous city London could be!
‘I see,’ he demurred. ‘Well, it’s not terribly convenient. But as you’ve already called this young lady out, I suppose she may as well take a look. Follow me.’
With an openly lecherous smile at Ella, he shut the door firmly in fat Albert’s face.
Gabriel sat glumly at a table in the back of Mehmet’s Café in the upmarket Istanbul suburb of Ortaköy. Usually he’d be happy to be in Turkey, a country he’d always loved for its warmth, both literal and metaphorical, its rich, melting pot of a culture, its gorgeous, curvaceous, sensual women and perhaps, above all, its coffee, so strong and sweet you wanted to drink it with a spoon. But today, he had multiple reasons to be depressed.
Number one, according to the balances on his phone’s internet-banking app, his funds were severely depleted. This was mostly down to poor investments, stock-buying decisions that he hadn’t had time to check properly since being on back-to-back missions over the summer. But it didn’t help that Mark Redmayne, in an epic fit of pique, had made good on his threat to stop Gabriel’s regular monthly payments from The Group.
‘You’re paid to work for us, on specific assigned missions. Not for yourself,’ Redmayne had reminded him caustically during their last telephone conversation, the day Ella left the Genoa hospital and, as far as Redmayne was concerned, disappeared.
‘I’m hardly working for myself, sir,’ Gabriel countered. ‘I’ve been tracking Mood Salim, like you asked me to.’
‘Well, now I’m asking you to stop.’
At first, Gabriel had resented being asked to pause the hunt for Athena in order to track down Salim, a Libyan migrant whom The Group had tried to recruit months ago, after his family drowned on one of the Petridis organization’s migrant boats. By all accounts the man was a walking mountain of rage, hell-bent on avenging his wife and daughters. And yet, after some initial, tepid interest in joining The Group, Salim had vanished, with various reports suggesting that he was responsible for a string of subsequent murders connected to Athena’s network.
‘If he’s acting alone, that’s one thing,’ Redmayne told Gabriel. ‘But he seems to have access to some very sophisticated intelligence that suggests otherwise. He’s a loose cannon and I want him watched.’
Whatever annoyance Gabriel had felt at the boss’s paranoia evaporated once he heard Ella’s description of the ‘giant’ at Sikinos. It had to be Salim – there weren’t that many six-foot-seven Arabs out there hell-bent on murdering Athena Petridis. But Redmayne was right: there was no way an uneducated Libyan migrant would have found ‘Sister Elena’ on his own. Which meant there was more to Salim’s story than met the eye. So when Gabriel obtained some good intel of his own last week, placing Mood Salim in Istanbul, he had jumped on the first flight. Only, infuriatingly, to find himself being slapped down by none other than Mark Redmayne.
‘You know how crucial it is to act quickly on leads like this, sir,’ he pleaded. ‘I missed him in Italy, and in France, and in Germany. He’s been all over the map since Sikinos. He’s definitely working for someone, although whether that’s—’
‘You’re not listening to me Gabriel,’ Redmayne interrupted. ‘You have been recalled. Forget Salim, forget Athena. I expect you back in the States within forty-eight hours. You and Ella Praeger, I know damn well you know where she is.’
‘I’m sorry. We can’t come home, sir. Not yet,’ Gabriel replied, triggering an explosion from the boss the likes of which even he had never heard before. Apparently it was his use of the word ‘we’ that rankled most. Ella was The Group’s single most valuable asset, not part of some sort of rogue duo with him. Gabriel had ‘zero authority’ to engage her on missions without The Group’s consent – which meant Redmayne’s consent.
‘We’ll find her and bring her back by force if we have to,’ Redmayne threatened, adding ominously. ‘And we’ll cut you off. You’re expendable, Gabriel. She’s not.’
Evidently stage one of ‘Operation Cut-Off’ was to be Gabriel’s money. No one joined the Group to get rich, but at the same time it rankled to be spending grueling days risking one’s life to rid the world of evil, and then told to pay for your own Turkish coffee.
Gabriel’s second reason to be depressed was the fact that, having risked so much to follow him to Istanbul, Mood Salim’s trail had suddenly gone ice cold. All the leads that had seemed so promising last week, the whispered sightings and overheard conversations that had seen Gabriel flit from Genoa to Paris to Munich and finally here, to a former ISIS sleeper cell of disaffected young Muslim youth on the outskirts of the city, had petered out like a dried-up river, leading him nowhere. If nothing came up in the next twenty-four hours, he would fly to London and rejoin Ella, who’d already begun her surveillance of Athena’s former flame, the dreadful Mr Lovato.
If Antonio Lovato was involved enough to have posed as a priest, of all things, to help spirit Athena out of Sikinos, it stood to reason that he knew where she was now. But so far, Ella had been frustratingly unable to gather any new intelligence. And with Redmayne no doubt scouring the globe for her as Gabriel sat here, sipping his coffee, and quite possibly planning some rendition-style kidnap to smuggle Ella back to New York and ‘safety’, their time might well be running out.
Just as he was mulling over this dispiriting thought, his new burner phone rang. Ella was the only person who had the number.
‘Any news?’
‘Yes! Finally.’ The excitement in her voice was palpable, and contagious. ‘I got into the flat while he was there and was able to blink-scan some documents.’
‘While he was there? You mean he saw you?’
Ella sighed. It really was uncanny the way that Gabriel never failed to pick up on the one thing she was hoping he might miss. The man was like a heat-seeking missile of disapproval.
‘Don’t worry, he didn’t suspect anything.’
‘But Ella, he saw you before! At the convent.’
‘Trust me, he barely glanced at me,’ Ella lied. ‘In any case, the point is he’s been corresponding with a private surgery facility on Wimpole Street on behalf of a Mrs Hambrecht.’
Gabriel felt the hairs on
the back of his neck stand on end. Athena had been ‘Mrs Hambrecht’ once, before she met Spyros, before the whole nightmare began.
‘Lovato’s been negotiating the price on a whole bunch of procedures,’ said Ella. ‘I think it must be for Athena.’
‘I agree.’ Tossing down a few coins on the table, Gabriel stood up and walked outside. He couldn’t imagine either of the wizened old Kurdish men playing chess in the corner were tuning into his conversation, but you could never be too careful. ‘Do you have the name of the clinic?’
‘Yes. And the surgeon,’ Ella said triumphantly. ‘I’ll pay him a visit tomorrow. See what I can find out.’
‘Be careful,’ Gabriel said. ‘Doctors aren’t usually in the habit of letting slip information about their patients. And if anyone suspects you, you could be in danger.’
Ella’s gifts were incredible and her instincts often good. But when her blood was up, she had scant concern for her personal safety. Worse, Gabriel was starting to pick up on a certain thrill-seeking streak in Ella that seemed to have grown exponentially since she left Mykonos. The fact that it mirrored his own didn’t make it any less worrisome. Ella was her mother’s daughter in more ways than one, and it wasn’t just Mark Redmayne who had trouble getting through to her. Treating these missions like a role-playing adventure game was not a helpful trait when you had Makis Alexiadis’s trained killers out hunting for you, not to mention Redmayne determined to implement a ‘rescue’ at any cost.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Ella, with worrying nonchalance. ‘I’ll let you know what I find out.’
Before Gabriel could say another word, she’d hung up.
Dr Mungo Hansen-Gerard gazed admiringly at the young woman sitting opposite him. She was American, rich (at least if the diamonds sparkling on her fingers and ears were anything to go by) and far too beautiful to be in need of his services. With her pretty, elfin features and slim athletic body, her skin still bearing the smooth tautness of youth, she was an ‘after’ picture, not a ‘before’. But Dr Mungo Hansen-Gerard hadn’t got to where he was today by looking gift horses in the mouth, however attractive or delusional they may be.
‘What is it I can help you with, Miss Yorke?’ He leaned forward, flashing his most avuncular smile.
‘Oh, I don’t know. A few things, I guess,’ Ella sighed. ‘This.’ She tapped the bridge of her nose. ‘And these.’ She ran a long finger down from the side of her nose to the outer edges of her lips, feigning displeasure with the faint line that ran between the two. ‘And, you know. My breasts could be bigger.’
Looking round the room, she scanned everything she could visually, while simultaneously trying to tune in to the phone and email data whirling around her, both from Dr Hansen-Gerard’s personal devices, and from his PA’s workstation on the other side of the door. Holding a conversation with the surgeon at the same time wasn’t easy, but Samantha Yorke was the ditzy, easily distracted type. Ella imagined Dr Hansen-Gerard must be used to those.
‘Well, breast size is of course a very personal matter,’ he was saying suavely, while Ella mentally searched for his schedule for the next two weeks online. Helpfully, his efficient PA sent him nightly reminders of the following day’s work, but so far the magical word Hambrecht had not come up. ‘If you do opt for an augmentation, there are a number of factors to consider. Did you know if you wanted a silicone or a saline implant, for example? And had you thought about shape? Round or teardrop? Textured or smooth? Nowadays a number of my patients opt for what we call “gummy bear” augmentations …’
Hambrecht! Mrs A. There it was! She was scheduled for preliminary blood work next Monday and surgery the following Tuesday, the eighteenth. Dr Mungo Hansen-Gerard had the entire day’s surgery reserved for her that day – nine hours in theater.
‘I guess I maybe haven’t done enough research,’ Ella said, getting up and reaching for her purse, eager to go now she had the information she needed. ‘I’m wasting your time, doctor.’
‘Not at all, Miss Yorke, not at all! And please, call me Mungo.’ Sensing he was in danger of losing her, he was at his most ingratiating. ‘Most of my patients are uncertain on their first visit. Part of my job is to guide you through the various options. I’ve done the research so you don’t have to.’ He gestured for Ella to sit. ‘You mentioned you were also considering rhinoplasty?’
‘Mmm hmm,’ said Ella, sitting back down reluctantly. At this point, it didn’t make sense to draw attention to herself by bolting out of there, much as she wanted to race into the street and call Gabriel. She’d come here as a prospective patient, and she must behave like one. Besides which, it wouldn’t hurt to see more of the facility, become familiar with Athena’s likely movements on the day. ‘If I went ahead with that, would the actual surgery be done here? And could you do it on the same day?’
‘Yes. And yes, it could, although I probably wouldn’t advise that,’ Dr Hansen-Gerard replied, delighted to have brought his prospective patient back into the fold. ‘I advise most patients to wait at least a week between procedures.’
Not Athena Petridis, though, thought Ella. She’s in a rush for a whole new look.
After fifteen more minutes talking about the various noses, lips and injectable fillers available to today’s affluent, insecure narcissist, ‘Mungo’ offered Ella a brief tour of the clinic. Set behind a classical Georgian façade on Wimpole Street, just a stone’s throw from the more famous Harley Street, the London Aesthetic Clinic was in fact three former townhouses knocked together and extended backwards into what had once been gardens and then a mews to create two separate surgical suites, a recovery and a pre-operative room, six private patient bedrooms, a nurses’ station, and a large ‘consultation wing’, consisting of Mungo’s private office and those of his junior partner, a front office for the PAs and a light and airy waiting room, hidden from the prying eyes of the street by antique Belgian lace curtains.
Mungo talked ‘Samantha’ through the protocols for each operation and explained exactly what happened to each patient from their arrival for a procedure until their ultimate discharge. By the time they were done, Ella had a clear idea of exactly where Athena ought to be and when on the eighteenth. Armed with this information, she hoped that she and Gabriel together would be able to come up with a detailed plan.
‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Yorke.’ The surgeon shook his prospective patient’s hand at the door to his consulting room, ushering her back towards the front office. ‘Make a follow-up appointment with the girls and in the meantime I’ll send you links to some of the options we discussed.’
Itching to escape, Ella nonetheless did as she was asked and headed to the office. While she was standing at the desk, filling out the PA’s follow-up form, she saw a man in dark green overalls tinkering with what looked like a fuse box at the back of the room. She couldn’t put her finger on it exactly, but something about him seemed familiar. He had his back to her, so that ‘something’ must have been connected to his movements, his body language … Ella couldn’t place it, yet she felt herself shudder as if a spider had just scuttled up her arm.
‘Are you all right, Miss Yorke?’ the receptionist asked. She must have sensed something too.
‘Fine,’ said Ella, signing her name quickly at the bottom of the paper and, in the same instant, instinctively pulling up the silk Hermès scarf she wore around her neck, covering the entire lower part of her face.
When she spoke, the overalled man spun around, as suddenly as a snake pouncing on its prey.
He couldn’t see my face, Ella reassured herself as she bolted out of the building and straight into one of a string of black cabs streaming down Wimpole Street. He didn’t know it was me.
Even so, she heard herself telling the driver to drop her at Oxford Circus, which was nowhere near her guesthouse, because she suddenly felt the need to lose herself in a crowd.
She could only pray that the overalled electrician hadn’t recognized her. But Ella had certainly recognize
d him, with his pale, see-through skin, like a maggot’s, his wispy red hair, and his ice-blue, watery, emotionless eyes.
She waited until she was deep in a throng of noisily giggling Japanese tourists before she dared to pull out her phone.
This time, when Gabriel heard Ella’s voice, he knew that the undertone wasn’t excitement.
It was fear.
‘She’s going in on the eighteenth,’ she panted. ‘Mrs Hambrecht. I got a tour … I think I know where we can … how we can …’
‘Ella.’ His voice was low and calm, like a father’s hand on a hysterical daughter’s shoulder. ‘What’s the matter? What happened in there?’
Reaching out, Ella steadied herself against a wooden bench. She felt dizzy all of a sudden.
‘I saw …’ She inhaled deeply, almost gasping for breath. ‘I saw …’
People around her began to give her funny looks.
Am I having a panic attack? Ella wondered. She’d never had one before, but there was a first time for everything.
‘What did you see?’ Gabriel asked patiently.
‘Not what,’ she wheezed. ‘Who. Cameron McKinley. He was right there, at the clinic! Not six feet in front of me.’
Then she said something Gabriel had never heard her say before.
‘I’m scared.’
His own heart raced. You should be.
‘Don’t be.’
‘What if Mak knows I’m here? What if Cameron followed me to London? To the clinic? Mak wants me dead.’
‘More likely he followed Athena,’ Gabriel said, projecting a confidence he didn’t feel. ‘But we need to take extra precautions, either way. I’ll be in London by tomorrow morning. But for now, don’t go back to Pimlico. Check into another hotel, somewhere small and nondescript. And wait for me to call.’
For once, Ella was compliant, agreeing to follow his instructions without a word of protest.
The Phoenix Page 28
