I dropped the ‘enforcer’, as it was known, to one side. It landed with a heavy thud on the polished wooden floor, taking large chips out of it. I didn’t feel guilty.
Luckily, no alarm bells had gone off. Score one for the good guys.
Expensive rugs were positioned around the room. A small TV in the corner. Matching burgundy leather sofas with tartan fabric trimming, and assorted throw cushions. The kitchen beyond was neat, pristine. Polished chrome and pale white wood.
An open door to the side led upstairs, and another ground-floor door was closed. I was about to open it when Del Rio shook his head and raised his pistol once more.
He kicked the door open. A downstairs bathroom. Empty.
Upstairs, Annabelle Weston had converted one of the two bedrooms into a small office. The venetian blind covering the window and the plain wall looked all too familiar. She had filmed Hannah’s pieces to camera for us there.
Thirty minutes later and we had finished searching. Nothing. Hannah couldn’t tell us where the professor had gone, either. She didn’t know.
I’m not a psychiatrist but I could see how easily Hannah could have been manipulated. She must have had a very poor view of men.
A father whom she had considered had abandoned her and who then took advantage of her in the most abusive of ways. She had watched men rape and kill her mother. She had been robbed of her mother’s love and had grown up in a house where she had come to hate her father. Not hard for a vibrant, charismatic and beautiful woman like Annabelle Weston to channel those feelings in other directions.
Not hard for her to turn the young woman’s need for love into something more physical.
Annabelle Weston had left behind a laptop in her office. She must have been so sure that Hannah wouldn’t betray her, and that we wouldn’t be smart enough to put two and two together. Maybe she figured we were onto her before we were. She knew we’d found a witness and had gone to ground.
Del Rio and I hadn’t been able to break the security on the laptop and access her secure files, so Adrian Tuttle had had his second evening of the weekend spoiled. Fifteen minutes after I called him from the professor’s flat he turned up with his dinner date. Five minutes later he told us he couldn’t crack it either.
His dinner date, a painfully shy Australian woman in her mid-twenties, told him to stand aside. In less than sixty seconds she had cracked wide open the security systems that were in place on the professor’s computer.
A blush brightened her cheeks. I could see what Adrian Tuttle saw in her. She had a nice smile, too. Adrian himself was watching her like the cat who’s got the cream.
‘Told you she was good,’ he said.
‘And you were right.’ I smiled at her as she moved aside. ‘Adrian tells me you’ve just finished a doctorate in this kind of stuff.’
‘Yeah,’ she said blushing again.
‘How would you feel about working for the private sector? So happens we have a vacancy in our computer-forensics division.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘Very fair dinkum.’
‘I’ll have a think about that, then.’
I nodded. ‘Good.’
Fifteen minutes later, after trawling through all manner of coded files, I hit the mother-lode.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I said out loud.
Chapter 97
HALF AN HOUR later we were sitting in the conference room.
Up on the screen Professor Annabelle Weston was in her office in mid-counselling session.
Her student and patient sat in the reclining chair. Hannah Shapiro. Her head lolled back, her mouth slightly open, her eyes closed, but a sluggish movement behind them, as the eyes move when searching for a memory. And the professor’s voice: honeyed, silken, soporific. Planting seeds as carefully and deliberately as an Iraqi insurgent building a bomb.
I picked up the remote and paused the tape. I figured Hannah had seen enough.
Hannah shook her head, dragging the back of her right hand across her eyes. Tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘Why would anybody do something like that?’ she asked.
I didn’t reply. I knew exactly why Annabelle Weston had done it. She had taken an already vulnerable young woman and made her even more emotionally wrecked. So she could build her up again and make a tool out of her.
It’s what cults did, it was what oppressive regimes did. Break down a person’s personality, their individuality and mould them into becoming part of a machine.
‘So he never did any of those things?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You were in a heightened state of suggestion. She led you down a series of thoughts that weren’t your own to a conclusion that was entirely hers.’
‘It was so long ago, I was thirteen. I couldn’t remember exactly, because …’ She trailed off.
‘It’s what she was counting on. You had all those bad feelings because of what had happened to your mother, parts of what had happened on that day you recall. She let you think that the abuse had occurred but you had driven them out of your memory because you couldn’t face them.’
‘It’s called False Memory Syndrome, Hannah,’ said Sam. ‘It’s a form of brainwashing.’
‘She used me.’
The sadness in Hannah’s voice was heartbreaking – or it would have been had I not thought of Chloe.
‘You had deep-seated issues with your father, which she exploited. Abandonment issues, betrayal issues. You had a lot of anger. In your eyes he was responsible for what happened to your mother, after all, and at thirteen years old things can seem very black and white in moral terms.’
‘He was to blame! He refused to pay the ransom. It was peanuts and he did nothing!’
‘He thought he was doing the right thing, Hannah. He hired Jack Morgan,’ I reminded her.
‘Who got there too late!’
‘He saved you.’
‘Maybe I’d have been better off dead.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. Jack Morgan didn’t have the resources back then that we do now. He was on his own.’
‘Then my father should have gone to the police.’
‘Do you know what the statistics of surviving a kidnapping are, even if the ransom is paid?’
Hannah shook her head.
‘They’re not good, Hannah. Your father took the national line: you don’t deal with terrorists.’
‘They weren’t terrorists.’
‘They held a gun to yours and your mother’s heads and threatened to kill you if he didn’t pay the ransom. You got a better word for what they did?’
She looked down at the floor again. Taking it all in. Annabelle Weston had been like a second mother to her. Except that she had been betrayed all over again. She looked up, her face wet with tears once more.
‘I believed her.’
‘I know, Hannah. And she’s going to pay for it, I promise you.’
‘And you always keep your promises!’
‘I try.’
‘You promised to look after me.’
‘And it’s what I’m doing. You have the truth, Hannah. You have that, at least. What you do with it is up to you now.’
Hannah nodded, straightened herself and looked at me with something like determination in her eyes.
‘Okay,’ she said.
Chapter 98
‘THE FIRST TAPE you made you were play-acting, the second time you weren’t. What happened?’
‘Annabelle …’ Hannah caught herself, the name seemingly tasting like ash in her mouth. ‘She kept me at her flat. She came back excited with the news that my father was flying over.’
I nodded. It was pretty much as I had deduced.
‘She made some calls. Soon after that some people came.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. A woman in a burka and two men with her. But they were deferential to the burka woman. They were like bodyguards.’
‘And what did they say?’
&nb
sp; ‘I don’t know. They all spoke in Arabic. At least, the women did. The men said nothing. Then they tied me up, properly this time, and left me in Annabelle’s study. She didn’t talk to me again.’
‘And there was nothing else you can remember?’
‘When they arrived the women hugged. It was a long hug, not as though they had just met. It seemed more than just a greeting.’
‘Like lovers, you mean?’
Hannah shrugged, pink spots of colour brightening her cheeks. ‘Maybe,’ she said quietly.
‘And did she say a name?’
‘They both said the same thing.’
‘Which was?’
‘It sounded like “cut min holby”.’
‘Holby? Like the TV show?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Kht Mn Qlby?’ said Del Rio, speaking for the first time in a long while.
Chapter 99
HANNAH LOOKED OVER at Del Rio. ‘Say it again.’
‘Kht Mn Qlby,’ he repeated and Hannah nodded.
‘That’s it. That’s what they both said.’
‘What does it mean?’ I asked Del Rio.
He shrugged. ‘“Sister of My Heart”. Something like that.’
‘Sounds like lovers to me,’ said Sam.
Del Rio grunted. I looked at Hannah. She was clearly conflicted: she had been in love with Annabelle Weston and now she was finding out that she had been betrayed in the worst possible way.
‘She said we’d be together when all this was over. She said she had to tie me up because things had changed. But she also said that she loved me, that she’d come for me.’
‘Believing someone loves you is not the worst crime in the world, Hannah,’ I said.
If Hannah heard me, then she didn’t register it. ‘And all the time there was someone else.’
‘Maybe not.’
I moved to the telephone console and requested a video conference with Sci. After a few moments of blank screen, the dull grey disappeared in a flurry of pixelation to be replaced with the image of Doctor Science sitting in his office.
‘What can I do for you, Dan?’ he asked.
‘Annabelle Weston had a relationship with Jesus Ferdinand …’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Can you check your records and see if he has any surviving relatives?’
‘Sure.’
His hands flashed over his computer keyboards with expert speed.
After a few moments the Doctor turned back to us. ‘His father died some years back and …’ He turned his monitor so we could see it and pressed some keys. A woman’s face filled the screen.
She was in her thirties and had almond-shaped eyes made enormous with kohl in a heart-shaped face. Her skin was the colour of caramel. She wore a scarf that draped loosely around her neck and framed her face.
She was beautiful.
‘His sister – Mary Angela Al-Massri.’
The Doctor clicked on some more keys and the picture was replaced with biographical data. ‘She’s living in England and she’s married to a member of the Palestinian General Delegation to the UK.’
Chapter 100
SCI’S HANDS FLEW over his keyboard once more. ‘I just mailed you the data.’
‘Thanks, Sci.’
‘De nada. We’re here twenty-four seven till we get the scientist home.’
A monkey scampered into view and jumped onto his lap. He patted its head affectionately.
He clicked on the keyboard and the screen went blank again. That’s another thing about the Americans that I like. They just hang up on you. No need for goodbyes. There’s a job to be done. Get on with it.
I pulled up the data he had sent. Mary Angela certainly was a striking woman.
‘“Sister of her heart”, Mary Angela said. Her brother was Annabelle’s heart. It was him she loved.’
I scrolled through the data on the screen. ‘The delegation’s based in Hampstead.’
‘Is it an embassy?’ asked Sam.
I shook my head. ‘Kind of. But Palestine isn’t an independent state. So it has the same kind of functions but without any real clout. It basically represents the interests of the PLO and the PNA.’
‘No diplomatic immunity,’ said Del Rio, getting to the heart of the matter.
‘So what do we do?’ asked Suzy.
I scrolled through the data. ‘Mary Angela’s husband – Youssef Saad Al-Massri – he’s a translator working for the delegation.’
‘Translator?’
‘Officially, anyway. Who knows? Could be Hamas.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Del Rio.
‘Go on,’ I prompted him.
‘The way this whole thing has been conducted. Opportunistic. Reactive. Shifting goalposts as the situation changed.’
‘Yes?’
‘If Hamas are behind this or Palestine Islamic Jihad, or the Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade or any of those other groups – then do you really think Hannah would still be sitting here?’ said Del Rio.
I looked across at Hannah, still shell-shocked, closed in on herself, her arms wrapped around her body, and realised that Del Rio had a point. She’d never have been found. Certainly not alive.
‘So we’re not dealing with one of the mainstream outfits?’
Del Rio shook his head.
‘Which is good, right?’ asked Lucy, speaking for the first time.
I looked at her and forced a half-smile, remembering what had happened when freelancers operating out of their area of expertise had kidnapped the girl and her mother before, and lied.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s good.’
Maybe it was. Maybe there was still time.
I turned back to the monitor and scrolled through the data. ‘Mary Angela’s husband lives out of the city.’
‘Where?’
‘Moor Park. West of London – a small estate between Northwood and Rickmansworth. One of the richest concentrations of real estate in the country.’ The translation game clearly paid more than I would have guessed. ‘They don’t know we’re onto them yet. But they must be figuring it’s a matter of time so I suggest we take the house in Moor Park.’
‘What about the delegation building?’ asked Sam.
‘I don’t see it. Like Del Rio says, this is most likely a freelance op. I’ll call Brad Dexter, though, get a team of boys to stake it out. Check anyone leaving.’
I snatched up the keys up from the table. ‘If he’s not in Moor Park we’ll come back and go in. They don’t have immunity, remember. Not from the law and definitely not from us.’
‘Hang on, sir,’ said Lucy.
‘What?’
‘It’s been on the news. Westway is closed and the North Circular is jammed solid because of it. Traffic heading west is at a standstill out there.’
‘That’s okay, Lucy,’ said Sam. ‘We weren’t going to drive anyway. We’re in a bit of a hurry.’
His face was as impassive as those on the big stone statues you see on Easter Island, but I could hear the amusement in his voice.
Bastard.
Chapter 101
I SAID BEFORE that London is a beautiful city.
And it is. But it’s designed to be viewed from the ground, looking up at the gloriously eclectic mix of Georgian architecture and futuristic high-rise buildings. As it was now, though, it was looking more like a scene from Blade Runner as the helicopter banked and headed west.
Private has its own helicopter pad on the roof of its building. Civilians weren’t supposed to have them in the metropolis. Al-Fayed had notoriously tried for years to get one on the roof of Harrods and had failed. But we were under contract to the police and the military and had special dispensation.
Sam Riddel held a full pilot’s licence, enabling him to fly a number of aircraft including the one we were in. He looked across at me and grinned.
I was assuming that he wouldn’t be able to read my expression. I had blacked my face, as had Suzy and Del Rio behind me. Like
them, I was also wearing black military fatigues. It was dark now and the cloud cover ahead thankfully blocked the light of a full moon.
I had decided that a small team was the best option. Stealth rather than a show of force. Get it wrong and we could pay the price. Or Harlan Shapiro would pay the price. And that was not an option. Lucy had come with us to retrieve the rope and Hannah had been left behind at the offices. A couple of security guards with her in case she decided to switch sides again.
I ignored Sam’s taunting grin and kept my gaze fixed ahead. Below me the traffic was as snarled as Lucy had said it would be. Above us the chopper’s rotor blade thwopped and spun, but the ride was incredibly smooth. Thankfully there was very little wind.
In very little time we had made the twenty-six mile journey and were flying over Moor Park.
Normally a helicopter flying over a residential area might have caused some interest. But a huge military base, much of it underground, was half a mile away. HMS Warrior where Western Allied Fleet Command was based. The command centre for the Falklands War and also home to the USAF which had a base there. Helicopters in the air thereabouts were a very common occurrence.
As we flew over the target house I pointed the thermal-image device I was holding at it and put the lens to my eyes. The house went the familiar murky green you get through night-vision goggles, but little dots of colour appeared. Glowing red and indicating the heat signatures of human beings. Live ones, anyway. I counted six. Four moving downstairs and two static ones upstairs. I figured those to be Harlan Shapiro and whoever was guarding him. I hoped that was the case, anyway – it meant he was alive, at least.
The helicopter banked again. I hated when it did that and was sure that Sam did it deliberately. The Palestinian translator’s house was set apart from the others in a small private road that led to Moor Park Golf Course. Famous for hosting the Bob Hope Classic for a number of years, but most notable for the current clubhouse having once been the residence, along with Hampton Court Palace, of one Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, ill-fated adviser to Henry the Eighth and the man who had given his name to the university where Harlan Shapiro had sent his daughter to be safe.
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