“Too bad we didn’t grab her when she was with that blonde sheila,” Davo said, almost talking to himself. “Least we’d have the blonde to amuse ourselves with while we waited.” His caw of laughter filled the room as he shot a glance at his companion, known…only half in jest…as Jack the Ripper.
“Too right,” Jack growled. “But I suppose we could make do with what we’ve already got. What did Coolidge say to you about that, Rossiter? Still a case of don’t mess with the merchandise?”
Tom Rossiter’s reply was explosive, considering he neither moved, nor seemed to stiffen, nor raised his voice. The explosion was mental, almost psychic, and intense. “Your call, friend,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Guess it depends on whether you want salt on your sausage when I feed it to you. Of course I only offer you that choice because you seem to be in charge. Your sidekick here would have to take his without seasoning.” Then he turned to look at the lesser of the Sydney duo, and his eyes were death personified.
“Easy, mate.” Jack spoke to both men, but his eyes never left those of Rossiter, who had turned again to concentrate on him. The tension in the air, enough to warm the beer, faded at the sound of an approaching vehicle. “That’ll be Coolidge. So let’s just settle, okay? There’s a lot of money riding on this.”
Coolidge entered the modest farmhouse and glanced around with a sneer on his lips that suggested he might have to lower his fastidious standards. Behind him, bent almost double under a load of electronic gear, stood Coolidge's favorite bootlicker and computer expert. Rossiter thought Rambo looked as if he was desperately searching for a way to pick at the scars on his face and carry his equipment at the same time.
Brushing away the proffered beer, Coolidge sat himself in the cleanest of the easy chairs, then ran an appraising eye over the assembled crew. “It obviously went all right. Is it safe to talk here? The girl is...”
“Still out cold, and locked in that old laundry out back,” Jack said. “She can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, and will be there whenever we want her.”
“Good. So how about you and your mate take a little stroll in the fresh country air? Because I need some private words with Mr. Rossiter here.”
Coolidge waited until both men could be seen from the open window, walking cautiously through the farm yard. Then he turned to Rossiter. “All right, Tom, let’s go back to the beginning of all this. Rambo can get his gear set up while we talk, but I want to know everything there is to know about your mission here before we make a move toward contacting Barrett.”
Rossiter patiently ran through his discussions with Cornwall, his search for Elizabeth in Colorado, and his subsequent trip to Australia with instructions to return her to New York and her father’s control.
“Okay, but what’s the Englishman got to do with it?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Gerry. Like I told you before, it sounds as if the old man is trying to sell her into some sort of corporate marriage or something. Makes no sense to me.”
“Me, either. Elizabeth would never agree to that, and even with all his pull, Cornwall can't make her attend a marriage ceremony. I mean, she can't very well accept a wedding band and say ‘I do’ if her arms are bound and her mouth is taped. What the hell does he have to bargain with?”
“How should I know, Gerry? The old man doesn’t go around explaining his decisions to me. Or to you either, I imagine. But I’ll say this. He’s getting nuttier every day.”
“I suppose you don’t know anything much about this business with Barrett, either?”
“Only what you do. Barrett has the controlling interest in Tascalypt Enterprises Limited, whatever the hell that is. Something to do with essential oils of some kind. Anyway, the old man has been trying to pry it loose from Barrett for nearly three years now, and he’s getting damned sick of waiting.”
“Damn it, Tom, even I know that much. But why does the old man want it? That’s what I can’t figure. I’ve had all Barrett's business interests checked out six ways from Sunday, and this essential oils outfit doesn’t make any money, never has made any money, and from what I've found, never will make any money. So why is Cornwall hell bent on obtaining the company?”
Rossiter slumped lower in his chair and sipped at the beer can buried in one huge hand. “I don’t think you’ll like the answer, Gerry,” he finally said. “And I won’t swear it to be true, either. But my take on this is that the old man just can’t stand not having his own way. Simple as that. There was some very minor discovery by Barrett’s outfit a few years ago, and that's when this all started. But as you say, there's no commercial, logical reason now. Except the old man thinks he's Howard Hughes, wants the damn company, and he’s out to destroy anything or anybody that dares to challenge him.”
“Figures. Don’t get me wrong, Tom, I’m planning to crush Barrett. I just wish it made more sense. I thought maybe you knew something I didn't.”
“What makes ‘more sense’ is to get this over with, collect our reward from the old man, and start hunting up a new job. Anyway, that’s the way I see it.”
“Will you take his daughter back to him, first?”
“Yup. Only thing is, I’m going to make it easy on her. I’ll beg her, if that’s what it takes, but none of this dragging her back by the hair. If that’s what the old man wants, he can come do the job himself.”
Coolidge stayed silent for a long moment, then glanced over at Rambo, who nodded that yes, he was ready to go.
“Okay, Tom,” said Coolidge. “Here’s how we do this. Rambo will send Barrett an email through a blind shunt. Barrett won’t be able to trace it back. We’re going to tell him that we have his American visitor, and if he wants her back safe he has twenty-four hours to put all his shares of his oil company on the market. No ransom money, as such. No negotiations.”
“And you’ve got it all organized to have those shares bought up in a series of blinds and double-blinds, so that when Cornwall finally gets them there won't be any way to tie him into this. Or us, either.”
“Right. When we get our money, the old man gets his company. Are you happy with that?”
“Far as it goes. How can you be sure Barrett will check his email today, or even this week? He starts getting worried about the girl not coming home for dinner and he mightn’t check for days.”
“He’ll check, because once the message is sent we’re going to phone him and tell him to check.”
Rising to his feet, Coolidge walked over to where Bess’s purse had been dumped on the kitchen bench. He casually rifled the contents, grimaced at a cell phone which he quickly pocketed, then grunted approval at whatever else he’d found.
“Perfect,” he said. “Here’s a list chock full of research data. My guess is that she visited the library. So we tell Barrett we lifted her from the library. If he still doesn't believe us, we read the list. That ought to be enough to kick-start him into doing what he’s told.” Once again, Coolidge looked around the room, his features expressing acute distaste. “Are you sure you've told me everything you know, Tom?”
“About what?” Rossiter's eyes narrowed. “Were you planning to keep Barrett's company all to yourself? Did you think it might be worth more than the old man's gratitude? Speaking of which, how do I collect my share of the money?”
“As soon as I get it, you get it, minus a cut for our Sydney friends. And I do apologize for keeping them on the job, Tom. I totally agree they're sewage, but I couldn't find any others who'd travel here on such short notice. In any case, I wouldn't cheat you out of your money because I want to live long enough to enjoy mine. So, is it okay to proceed with my plan?”
Rossiter sipped again at his beer, eyes on the floor. When he finally spoke, there was no uncertainty in his voice. “Okay. And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, she stays where she is. We keep her well fed and watered. The Sydney crew can take care of that. And once this part of the job’s done, you can take her straight to New York if you like
. There’s no sense delaying it, and no logic in returning her to Barrett just so we can go through all this trouble again. Does that work for you, Tom?”
“As long as I’m here to keep an eye on things. I wouldn’t trust those Sydney thugs within ten feet of her, nor this little scumbag either.” Rossiter nodded toward where Rambo stood with a set of headphones covering his ears.
“Oh, you’ll be here,” Coolidge said. “You can be sure of that!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Geoff stood staring at the telephone receiver, holding it at arm’s length and eyeing it as if it was a seven-foot tiger snake ready to strike. In the sudden silence following the brief message he’d just received, he could hear his own heart thumping like a frenzied jungle drum, and he had to fight for breath, fight even harder to maintain control.
“Go check your emails,” the voice over the phone had said. “Then do what you’re told and do it right, because your little American redhead is depending on you.”
The subsequent closing of the connection had not been…as some vestigial element of Geoff's shocked brain kept insisting it should have been…a thunderclap. It had been worse, far worse. A subtle, hardly audible click that underscored in his mind the seriousness of what he’d just heard.
Go check your emails. It took him three tries just to get the proper icons on the screen, something he could normally do with his eyes closed. And when he picked out the message: SNATCH, Geoff almost wished he could keep his eyes closed. He didn’t want to read it, couldn’t not read it, and when he had, could only read it over and over and over again, the words pounding in his head as if being thumped in from the outside with a piece of 4 x 4 timber.
Geoffrey Barrett,
Your American house-guest is not, as you might surmise, at
the library doing research. She is now aiding us in our attempt
to persuade you to co-operate in a certain business matter.
You will immediately call your broker and put on the market every
single share you hold or control in Tascalypt Enterprises Limited.
Failure to do so will result in significant risk to your redhead’s
health and physical well-being. She is in good hands, but capable
hands. Get the picture?
There is no need to reply to this message and no sense in attempting
to trace it. So just do what you’re told and your house-guest will
thank you for it.
The rest of the email included the library list Geoff had given Bess this morning.
With shaking fingers, he grabbed up the phone and punched in Ida’s number.
Her advice was simple and to the point. “Just do it, Geoffrey darling. Do it now. Without explaining one damned thing to your broker. That might be very important later. And then stay there, because I'm on my way. Do you hear me, darling? Stay there! Is that clear? Do you promise?”
He promised, then began making the required telephone calls after having formulated the most likely excuse he could conjure up for his sudden decision. It griped him to ask close friends and business associates to follow his lead. They couldn’t lose, really, but the principle irked.
It took him less than twenty minutes, all up, and another fifteen before Ida swept into the house, where he had been pacing like a caged animal.
“So it was you all along,” she said without preamble or greeting. “Damn, I should have known, or at least guessed.”
“I don’t give a damn who it was. I just want...” Whatever he'd meant to say next was cut off by the wave of one manicured fingernail before his eyes.
“What you want is miracles,” Ida snapped. “Now, give it all to me again, right from the beginning, as close to word-for-word as you can remember.”
He managed to struggle through that exercise, aided by the fact that his computer still had the words on the screen. Ida stood rock-still, and read the message as he spoke.
“Accent,” she said brusquely.
“What? Oh, the phone. Australian. Not Queensland, not Adelaide, probably not Melbourne, definitely not Tasmanian. Rough voice, male, mature, and totally confident, which is what worries me the most.”
“The Sydney crims who followed Bess and me.”
Her statement was rhetorical, yet Geoff fought to make his memory cooperate, to over-ride the panic he felt growing up out of his guts. The man by the river had spoken only briefly, but hadn't his voice sounded similar?
“Yeah., Ida, likely,” Geoff replied. “More than likely. Didn't Bess say she thought she recognized one of the crims?”
“Yes. Okay. Now to the tricky stuff. You want the coppers?”
“I want Bess back here safe and sound and unharmed; that’s what I want.” He was almost shouting, could feel his voice rising as his control began to slip. “If it takes cops, get cops. If it takes every bad bastard either of us knows or can find, get them. We have to something, Ida, and I don’t even know where to start.”
“With a cuppa,” she said, sadly shaking her blonde hair and staring at the floor as if unable or unwilling to meet his eyes.
Which frightened Geoff even worse than the phone call. Anything that could disrupt Ida’s rock-hard veneer was terrifying, had to be terrifying.
“Please, Geoffrey,” she continued, “just go and boil the jug, would you? I have to make some calls and you'll only distract me.”
“Use your cell phone, then. I don’t want this one here tied up.
Ida waved him away, toward the kitchen. Yammering into her cell phone, she hovering while he boiled the jug, threw in the tea bags, and somehow managed to get some cups down from the cabinet without dropping one.
She made one call, five, a dozen. Geoff lost count, couldn’t keep track, and was hardly surprised. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the guts by a very big boot.
“Okay,” she finally said, pointing to the kitchen table like some old-fashioned school marm insisting a recalcitrant pupil sit. “First off, the plan is simple but complicated. You put the shares on the market, and they go round and round until nobody can find them anymore, and then they pop up where, I assume, you didn’t want them to be in the first place. No way of tracing that, not really. And no way to stick the eventual holder with any of this if you do find him. Right so far?”
“I don’t have to find the bastard. I know who’s behind this, even if, as you say, it may never be provable. But I know, Ida, and once we get Bess back I’ll go to New York and have it out of his hide!”
“Never mind that right now. Bess is the only issue, and that’s when the bad news comes up. No ransom note, no indication of when you get her back, or how, and no real guarantee, darling, which is what worries me the most. Also, there's probably no sense in trying to track down the source of that email. It could be anywhere—”
“Mouse!”
Geoff roared the name so loudly that Ida almost dropped her cup, and before she could put it down on the table he was up and rushing for the office.
“We aren’t going to get any more phone calls from them,” he said, his voice strangely calm. It wasn’t a question, really, yet he looked to Ida for confirmation. Once again, she somberly shook her head.
“Right then.” And he was in his chair, fingers moving like lightening across the keyboard, no clumsiness now. He punched on the appropriate keys, found Mouse’s email address where Bess had – thank God! – stored it, and quickly typed in his own message above the one from the kidnappers.
“Bess lifted from library, see below. Business blackmail. Price paid. Can you trace the following? Now, damn it! Spare no expense, Mouse, but drop everything…EVERYTHING!... because she may be in danger and we are totally buggered.”
Geoff hit the send command, then cursed and called back the message long enough to add in his telephone number and Ida’s cell phone number. Then it was off into the ether and the hands of the gods, because by Bess’s description of Mouse and his working habits, only the gods knew when he might get the message.
>
In the end, it took less than five minutes. But it seemed like five days to Geoff, as he sat and waited for the ringing of his phone.
“What the hell are you doing down there, you sonuvabitch?” Mouse, like Ida, didn’t believe in idle chatter.
Geoff did his best to explain, but it was like trying to talk to someone who spoke a foreign language. He couldn’t even understand half the profanities, and there were plenty of those because Mouse, clearly, was mad as hell. Ida, in the end, grabbed the phone away from Geoff and began all over from the beginning.
But not before doing a bit of screaming herself...
“Just shut up and listen, you little turd,” she raged. “This is Bess we’re talking about here. So take your temper out on someone else or I’ll reach through this damn phone and fix you so you won’t be able to spawn baby mice, and I mean ever! Have you read Stuart Little? Well, I'm telling you now that I'm a bad-assed Templeton. Capiche?”
Whereupon, things seemed to settle down. Geoff, ears still ringing, grabbed in vain for the receiver as she abruptly terminated the call.
“No sense in you talking to him, darling,” she said. “I don’t know how you got on his wick so thoroughly, but trust me on this. You do not want to talk to Mouse. Clear? It bloody well better be, darling, because if we need him before this is over, I want him on our side, not all bound up in angst because he hates your guts. He now calls me Templeton and he calls you—”
“Lucifer. Yes, Bess told me.” Geoff took a few moments to let the sense of it all seep into his fevered brain. He felt totally exhausted, wanted only to lie down and go to sleep, then wake up to find it had only been a dream in the first place.
“You can talk to him by email, I guess, if you promise to read any message you write at least three times before you send it. Promise?”
“Of course I promise. Damn it, Ida, I didn’t come down in the last shower, you know.”
Finding Bess Page 17
