“I didn't mean for Ali to get hurt—you know that.”
He looks at his fists. “I'm sorry I hit you, Sir.”
“That's OK.”
“Campbell will go ape shit if he knows you're here.”
“So don't tell him. I'll stay out of the way.”
As the last rays of sunlight strike the towers of Canary Wharf, four divers tumble backward from the Zodiacs. Slick as seals, they disappear beneath the surface leaving barely a trace behind.
The officer in charge is short and barrel-chested, clad in a wet suit that makes him look as if he's carved from ebony. He swings an air tank into a boat and wipes both hands before offering one to me. “Sergeant Chris Kirkwood.”
“Ruiz.”
“Yeah, I know who you are.”
“You got a problem talking to me?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I got other problems. Visibility is down to three feet and the current is running at four knots. Someone chained this bastard to a barrel of concrete. We're gonna need cutting gear.” He swings another air tank into the boat.
“How long has he been in the water?”
“Most bodies eventually come up. Takes about five days at this time of year, but this guy was meant to stay down there. Usually a body stays together pretty good in the Thames. None of the marine life can chew through ligaments. I reckon chummy has been down there two, maybe three weeks . . .”
As he describes the process I can picture a body swaying beneath the water, white and waxlike, moving back and forth with the tide. Involuntarily, I shudder and reach for a morphine capsule. There are none left.
The closer of the Zodiacs rocks in the wake of a passing water taxi. I notice bubbles on the surface and a masked face emerges, with an upraised fist. A police-issue handgun is clenched in his gloved fingers.
The water ripples and sways. Something else is coming up. A rope appears in a second diver's hand and is hooked onto a winch. Suddenly, it feels like a cold grasping hand has taken hold of my heart. The air has condensed into water and the current is sucking me down.
Sergeant Kirkwood catches me as I fall. He has his arms under mine, pulling me back from the edge of the wharf. A box is found and I sit down. Joe is beside me, shouting at someone to get me a glass of water. I try to turn away but he holds my face.
My vision clears and I watch the first of the Zodiacs. The divers have hauled something from the water. The outboard engine rumbles and the Zodiac swings toward the wharf. A rope is thrown into willing hands and is looped around a pylon. The Zodiac is pulled closer.
Lying on the wooden base is a bloated, discolored torso hung with fronds of weed and wrack. It is barely recognizable as being human, yet I do recognize him; I recognize his name and his face and boxer's hands. And then I remember . . .
26
Deep inside my head doors and windows suddenly open. Files blow off desks, lights go on, photocopiers hum and phones ring. A closed office has suddenly come to life and the man hunched over his desk looks up from his hands and yells, Eureka!
Single frames and snapshot memories are put in order like a film being spliced together. I can picture scenes and hear dialogue. A phone is ringing. Rachel picks it up. The prerecorded message is a single question. One sentence: “Is my pizza ready?”
The phone goes dead. Rachel stares at me in disbelief.
“Don't worry—they'll call back.”
We're sitting in my kitchen. Rachel is dressed in black jeans and a gray pullover. She has the dazed disbelieving air of a refugee who no more than an hour ago escaped over the border.
For the next three hours she doesn't move. She barely dares to breathe. Her hands are locked in a battle, each finger wrestling the others. I try to make her relax. I want her to conserve her energy.
Aleksei is nearby, waiting and watching with an animal quickness. Sometimes he wanders into my sitting room to make a call on his cell phone then he drifts back, regarding Rachel with a strange mixture of longing and disgust. The diamonds are packed and ready. They were delivered in a velvet-lined briefcase—965 stones, one carat or above, superior quality.
Aleksei is going to follow us—tracking the signals from the transmitter and a GPS beacon in Rachel's car.
“Nobody is going to know we're being followed,” I reassure her. “Aleksei has promised to stay well away unless he gets a signal. I'm going to be with you. Just relax.”
“How can I relax?”
“I know it's hard but it could be a long night.”
Outside on the street, her Renault Estate is fresh from a local garage workshop. The front passenger seat has been removed and the doors reinforced. A hands-free phone will let me hear both sides of any conversation.
“Whatever happens you must try to stay with the car. Don't let them draw you away unless you have absolutely no choice. Don't look down at me. Don't talk to me. They might be watching. If I ask you a question and the answer is yes, I want you to tap the top of the steering wheel once. If the answer is no I want you to tap it twice. Do you understand?”
She nods.
Again, I deliver the most important message. “What are you going to ask?”
“To see Mickey.”
“When are you going to hand over the ransom?”
“When I have Mickey.”
“That's right. They want you to follow blindly but you have to keep insisting on assurances that Mickey is alive. Keep asking for proof—”
“They'll say the hair and bikini prove it.”
“And you'll say they prove nothing. You just want to be sure.”
“What if they want me to drop the ransom somewhere?”
“Don't do it. Demand a straight exchange—Mickey for the diamonds.”
“And if they don't agree?”
“It's no deal.”
At 11:37 p.m. the phone rings again. The caller is male but a voice-changing device has digitally altered his vowels and flattened the pitch. He instructs Rachel to drive to the Hanger Lane Roundabout on the A40. She holds the cell phone in both hands, nodding rather than answering. She doesn't hesitate. She picks up the pizza box and walks to the door.
Aleksei follows, looking suddenly concerned. I don't know whether he wants to wish her luck or take her place. Maybe he's just worried about his diamonds. Farther down the street he opens a car door and I see the Russian behind the wheel.
Lying on the floor of Rachel's car, my shoulders are braced against the dashboard panel and my legs concertinaed toward the backseat. I can only see one side of her face. She looks straight ahead, with both hands on the wheel, as though retaking her driving test.
The caller has hung up.
“Just relax. We could put on some music.”
She taps the steering wheel once.
I flip open the vinyl case of her CD collection. “I'm fairly easy to please—anything except Neil Diamond or Barry Manilow. I have a theory that ninety percent of deaths in nursing homes are caused by Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow.”
She smiles.
I have a walkie-talkie clipped to my top pocket and a Glock 17 self-loading pistol in a holster under my left arm. The radio receiver tucked into my right ear is tuned to the same frequency as a handset in Aleksei's car.
I also have a dark blanket I can drag over myself at traffic lights or when vehicles pull alongside us.
“Remember not to look at me. If you have to park somewhere, try to avoid streetlights. Choose somewhere darker.”
She taps the steering wheel once.
The cell phone rings again. She reaches down and presses the speaker button.
In the background a girl is crying. The male voice, still heavily distorted, screams at her to be quiet. Rachel flinches.
“You called the police, Mrs. Carlyle.”
“No.”
“Don't lie to me. Never lie to me. A detective visited you at work five days ago.”
“Yes but I didn't invite him. I told him to leave.”
“What el
se did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't insult my intelligence.”
“I'm telling the truth. I swear. I have the ransom.” Rachel's voice is shaking but she doesn't waver.
If this were a police operation we would be tracing the call, narrowing down the signal to the nearest transmitting tower. Then again, he's probably moving and he won't stay on the line for more than a few minutes at a time.
“I just need some assurance. I want to see Mickey,” says Rachel. “I need to know she's OK, otherwise I don't think I can get through this—”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP! Don't try to bargain, Mrs. Carlyle.”
“I'm not trying to be unreasonable. I just need to know she's—”
“Alive? Can't you hear her?”
“Yes, but . . . how do I know . . . ?”
“Well, let me see, I could cut out one of her big brown eyes and post it to you. Then again, maybe I should just run a knife across her pale pretty throat and send her head in a box. Then you can put it on the mantelpiece as a reminder of what a STUPID COW YOU ARE!”
Everything reels. I can see Rachel's chest heaving. For a long while she can't speak.
“Mrs. Carlyle?”
“I'm here.”
“Are we clear?”
“Yes. Just don't hurt her.”
“Listen very carefully. You get one chance at this. Disobey my instructions and I hang up. Argue with me and I hang up. You mess up and you won't hear from me again. You know what that means?”
“Yes.”
“OK, let's do this one more time.”
What does he mean by “one more time”? Has he done this before? Everything about his vocal tone and pace of his speech suggests he's not a first-timer. A cold draft of fear settles over me. Mickey's not coming home tonight. She's never coming home. And these people won't balk at killing Rachel. What was I thinking? It's too dangerous!
“Where are you now?”
“Ah, um, I'm getting close to the roundabout. It's just ahead of me.”
“Circle the roundabout three times and then go back the way you came.”
“Where to?”
“Prince Albert Road Roundabout near Regent's Park.”
Roundabouts are open and hard to police. They're making her circle so they can check that she's not being followed. Hopefully, Aleksei will realize and hang back.
We're returning toward the West End now. From my hiding place, below the level of the windshield, I can only see the upper floors of buildings and the globes of streetlights. Ahead of us, above the Post Office Tower a blinking red light moves across the sky; a helicopter perhaps or a plane.
The phone line is still open. I raise my hand and make a talking motion. Rachel taps once on the steering wheel.
“Is Mickey OK?” she asks tentatively.
“For now.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“No.”
“Why did you wait so long?”
He doesn't answer. Then, “Where are you now?”
“Just passing the London Mosque.”
“Turn right onto Prince Albert Road. Follow it around Regent's Park.”
There is something about the voice. Even with the distortion I detect a slight accent, possibly South London or farther east. Beads of perspiration shine on Rachel's top lip. She licks them away and keeps her eyes fixed on the road.
“Get to Chalk Farm Road. Follow it north.”
Through the windows I see the faintest wisps of clouds, engraved against the night sky by a half-moon. We must be climbing Haverstock Hill toward Hampstead Heath.
The caller begins naming crossroads and counting them down. “Belsize Avenue . . . Ornan Road . . . Wedderburn Road . . .” And then suddenly, “Turn left now. Now!”
My knees bang against the gear stick. Fifty yards farther, he yells, “STOP! Get out of the car. Bring the pizza.”
“But where—?” pleads Rachel.
“Walk along the street and find the car that isn't locked. The keys are in the ignition. Leave the phone. There's another waiting for you.”
“No. I can't—”
“DO AS YOU'RE TOLD OR SHE DIES!”
The phone goes dead. Rachel seems to be frozen in place, both hands still locked on the wheel.
“You OK?”
She taps the steering wheel once.
“You see anyone?”
She taps it twice.
“What about behind us?”
Two taps.
I ease myself upward, fighting the cramp in my legs. We're on a tree-lined street, with major intersections at each end. Branches shield the parked cars from above.
Rachel reaches for the door handle.
“Wait!”
“I have to go. You heard him.”
He knew the crossroads. He was rattling off the distances. Either he's nearby or everything has been planned in advance. Can I take the risk of going with her?
“OK, I want you to take the ransom and walk along the street. When you find the car unlock the trunk.”
She reaches into the backseat and retrieves the pizza box. The door opens. The interior light has been disconnected. Using a handheld periscope with a zoom lens, I watch her walk away from me, at the same time scanning the street for any movement. I punch the button on the two-way.
“Oscar Sierra this is Ruiz. Rachel is on foot. The target vehicle is changing. Be vigilant.”
Rachel tries each car door and then moves on. She's getting farther and farther away from me. Far off I see the interior of a car light up. Rachel slips inside and picks up another cell phone. The door closes and the brake lights flare. It's now or never.
I'm out of the car. Running. My legs are stiff and wracked with cramps, making it hard to stay on my feet. Meanwhile the pavement is uneven and broken by tree roots.
A Vauxhall Vectra is pulling out ahead of me. Rachel spies me at the last minute in her rear mirror and slows down. I open the trunk and tumble heavily inside, pulling the lid closed until it jams hard on my fingers but doesn't lock shut.
We're moving again. I'm curled up in a ball, with my cheek pressed against the nylon floor mat and my heart pounding. The wheel arches amplify the sound of the tires on the road and I can hear nothing else.
I feel for the earpiece. It's fallen out and is dangling down on my chest. Putting it back into my ear, I hear Aleksei yelling in Russian. They don't know which car to follow. There are two vehicles leaving the street—a BMW turning south down Fitzjohn's Avenue and the Vectra turning north.
They're trying to contact me. The walkie-talkie is digging into my chest. I lever myself upward and pull it free. There's no response when I depress the talk button. I must have broken the two-way when I rolled into the car.
Aleksei won't know which vehicle to follow until the cars are far enough apart for the transmitter to identify which one is carrying the ransom. By then he risks losing us completely.
I can't help. Instead I concentrate on creating a mental map of north London in my head, trying to calculate which turns we make and the direction we're heading. The minutes and miles tick by.
The weight of the trunk is keeping it closed until we hit a pothole, when it tries to jump open. I raise my head and try to peer through the narrow gap. The only thing visible is the light gray tarmac and occasional flashes of headlights.
Through the earpiece I can monitor Aleksei and the Russian. The BMW has been discounted. Now they're heading toward Kilburn, relying solely on the signal from the diamonds.
Rolling onto my back, I keep one hand on the lid of the trunk and feel along the inside walls until I locate the internal light. The bulb feels smooth in my fingertips and I twist it free from the socket.
Several times the car stops and does a U-turn. Either Rachel is lost or they're still making her jump through hoops. She's driving faster now. The streets are emptier.
The car crosses a speed hump and suddenly stops. Is this it? I slide my gun from its holster and cradle
it on my chest.
“Hey, Lady, you want to slow down. I almost took you for a joyrider.” It is a man's voice. He might be a security guard with too much time on his hands. “Are you lost?”
“No. I'm looking for a . . . for a friend's house.”
“I wouldn't recommend you hang around here, Lady. Best you head back the way you came.”
“You don't understand. I have to keep going.”
I can almost hear him chewing this over as if he wants to phone a friend before making a decision. “Maybe I didn't make myself clear,” he drawls.
“But I have to—”
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” he says. He's walking around the car, kicking at the tires.
“Please, let me go.”
“And what's the big hurry? You in some sort of trouble?”
A wind has come up. Corrugated iron flaps on the ground and I can hear a dog barking. When the man reaches the rear of the car he notices the trunk is popped off its latch. His fingers hook under the lid.
As it opens, I slide my gun through the opening and press it into his groin. His jaw drops open and helps him take a deep breath.
“You are jeopardizing a police undercover operation,” I hiss. “Back away from the car and let the lady go.”
He blinks several times and nods, before slowly lowering the trunk. As the car pulls away I see his hand raised as if holding a salute.
Moving quickly again, we appear to be circling an industrial estate. Rachel is looking for something. She pulls off the road onto rough ground and stops, killing the engine.
In the sudden silence I can hear her voice but only one side of the conversation. “I can't see any traffic cone,” she says. “No, I can't see it.” She's growing desperate. “It's just a vacant lot . . . Wait! I see it now.”
The door opens. I feel the car gently rock. I don't want her leaving. She has to stay close to me. There is no time to weigh my options. Hopefully, Aleksei and the Russian will have caught up with us and are holding their position.
Easing open the trunk, I roll over the lip and land heavily on the ground, using the momentum to spin away from the light. Then I lie dead still with my face pressed against loose gravel and mud.
Lost Page 24
