Black swans. The totally unexpected factor that could sink a successful negotiation without trace.
“You’ve heard of Occam’s razor, right? The simplest explanation is probably the correct one?”
And that explanation was usually cash, but Max decided to play devil’s advocate. “If they wanted cash—ten million or ten thousand—it would have been easier to shake down a wealthy businessman who probably has K&R insurance, rather than bringing the weight of the US government to bear.”
“Not everyone is smart enough to realize that.”
“The abduction itself was professional as hell.”
“I’m not saying they’ve never done this before. We both know kidnappings are rife throughout South America. But maybe they somehow focused on Kristen Dickerson as a potential victim and saw the dollar signs associated with a high value target rather than the big guns that might come looking for her.”
Max put his feet on the desk. “That reminds me. According to Legat Powell, a Canadian diplomat might have been abducted and ransomed last year. He thinks the guy headed home immediately.”
“That would definitely give them grounds to believe it might work. I’ll dig into it.”
“Thanks. Searching out the least guarded but most valuable target could have led them to the two Dickerson children. The Diplomatic Security Service don’t believe anyone was surveilling the kids but then that could be their own asses they’re protecting. We still need to figure out exactly how the kidnappers tracked Kristen on Christmas Eve. The kidnap was so well planned and executed that they definitely needed eyes on the victim.”
“I agree.”
They chatted some more and then Max said goodbye and glanced at the clock. He planned to go visit Irene’s parents today and question DSS personnel and the drivers associated with the family. And then maybe call on the Canadian embassy in person.
Shit. That was a full day already.
First though, he decided to call the Legat and see if there was an update on forensics from the cell or gun Powell had forced him to hand over.
“Hey, Brian. Hate to bother you so early in the morning,” said Max. “Did you receive the results back from the cell phone or gun yet?”
Brian moaned. Definitely in bed and, from the muffled conversation, not alone.
Was he married? Max didn’t know.
Max squashed resentment that he seemed to be the only agent at work this morning—except the agent manning the Operation Soapbox offices. But everyone had worked through the previous night so maybe he wasn’t being fair.
“I just woke up,” Powell said. “Let me call you back.” The guy hung up on him.
So much for that.
Max wandered over to the window in the main FBI office. It overlooked a walled-off parking area. Phillip Dickerson was getting into the passenger seat of a black SUV, Iain Bartlett got into the driver’s side. The vehicle sped away, and Max wondered where they were going and if there had been any progress with the case.
The phone rang in the Negotiation Center, and he headed back inside. He turned on the recording equipment before answering the call.
“Hello, this is Max.”
“I want to talk to the ambassador.” Electronic disguise again. English. The voice distortion was apparently the sophisticated kind where the modulation was constantly shifting. Completely indecipherable and professional as hell.
“You’re dealing with me. Who am I talking to?”
“Never mind who this is.” The guy sounded pissed that he’d reached Max again, but he’d better get used to reaching him or one of his colleagues. “I want ten million dollars if you want to see the women alive.”
Overnight, Max had saved the parents ten million dollars—but he was a long way from celebrating. That was fantasy money—a fantasy that certain government policies had helped drive.
“I wish I could simply say yes, no problem, let’s meet up right now, and I’ll exchange the cash for Kristen and Irene. Unfortunately, even if the family had that kind of money—which they don’t—how are Catherine and Phillip Dickerson supposed to access it when the banks and stock exchanges are closed, and their money is tied up in foreign banks which take days to transfer those kinds of funds?”
He let the silence ring out and refrained from filling it.
“Someone can lend it to them.” The man sounded less sure now.
“Do you know someone who can lend them that much money?” He kept his tone as someone appealing for help rather than sarcastic.
He received a grunt in reply.
“Do you have a name I can call you?” asked Max.
“Call me el jefe.”
“Okay, el jefe.” The boss. Max rolled his eyes, resisting the juvenile desire to call the guy Jeff. “Kristen’s and Irene’s parents obviously want their children back and are willing to pay what they can.” Max kept emphasizing these hostages were youngsters every chance he got. “But how do I know they’re all right?”
“Maybe you’ll just have to trust me?” The voice sounded menacing. And who wouldn’t trust a guy like that?
“I’d like to, el jefe, of course I would. But the family needs to know you can deliver the girls before they hand over any cash.”
“What do you think, Max? Do you think I have the women?” The voice held an edge of anger which was not what Max was aiming for.
The guy wanted to get into a fight with him, and Max needed to defuse that tension. “I understand that you are angry, el jefe. You think we are doubting your word, and I can see how that would be upsetting for you. But do you think the families should pay the first person who calls and demands money?”
“Of course not.” The tone turned affronted.
“So how do the families know that they are dealing with the person who is looking after their children? What if they pay someone who is taking advantage of the situation and then they have nothing left for you? Then someone has stolen your money, correct?”
Max held his tongue.
Finally, the kidnapper replied, “Perhaps Irene’s parents will be more accommodating. I won’t bother calling you again. I’ll sell the ambassador’s daughter to another group for the amount I want. Of course, they might not treat her so well.”
“El jefe, we appreciate you treating the girls well while we figure out how to raise the money.” Max needed to talk to the negotiator Irene’s parents were working with ASAP. He couldn’t risk them being at odds or worse, bidding against one another for their daughter’s lives.
Max checked his board. Empathy. “I understand you are in a difficult position, el jefe.” You fucking asshole. “I know this can’t be easy for you any more than it is for the parents who are worried about their kids. It must be incredibly stressful looking after those girls, keeping them safe from harm. Tell me what I can do to help resolve this situation as quickly and safely as possible, so no one gets hurt.”
“Get me my money.” Laughter crackled ominously down the line.
Max decided it was time to set another realistic anchor. “The Dickersons can raise $27,500 by the end of today. I can deliver it tonight and this nightmare is over for everyone.”
The voice scoffed. “That is not enough.”
“I’m sorry. We are trying to raise a sum of money that is acceptable to you. We are not sure how to raise more—”
“Perhaps if I send her daughter’s fingers back to her one at a time the ambassador will find a way to come up with the rest of the cash.”
The overt threat of violence was an escalation. This guy was playing hardball.
“I hope you will treat the girls with the same respect you would want your own children to be treated.” The kidnapper was still on the line so, for all his threats, he wanted to make a deal. “We want to reimburse you for your time and effort. But how can we raise more money when all the banks are closed and the Dickersons’ main asset is rented out on a year’s lease and could take months to sell?” This was the truth which helped if the facts were
researched by some erstwhile investigative reporter who then published it all over the damn news.
The key to asking “how” questions was to keep his tone calm and unaccusatory. “How” and to a lesser extent “what” questions made the kidnapper actively work with the negotiator to try and solve the problems of how to raise money. It made kidnappers consider the practical roadblocks in place to having their dreams of riches come true. It brought them back from fantasy land to the realms of reality.
“Tell them to sell off their diamonds and cars.”
“They will sell any items of value that they possess. The cars here however belong to the State Department and not the Dickersons personally.”
“Perhaps they should have bought kidnap insurance.”
And perhaps guys like this should keep their damn hands off other people’s kids.
“El jefe” hung up.
Max put down the phone and restrained from swearing until he’d turned off all the recording equipment.
He spent the next hour talking to the technicians unsuccessfully trying to unravel the real voice behind the distortion.
At least they seemed to be serious about the cash. The sooner they could get the ransom together the better. Assuming the State Department approved of the payment. That was above Max’s pay grade.
Hanging up on the call, he checked his watch and called Quinn and asked the guy to come back in to monitor the phones. Max was about to call Powell again and demand he get his ass in here when the Legat finally called him back.
“The ambassador wants an update. I’ll meet you upstairs in five.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lucy hadn’t needed to add false shadows under her eyes today. The bags were large enough to contain enough luggage for a two-week ski vacation.
Back to her usual anonymous self, she passed coffee around the room. Someone knocked on the door, and she went over to answer it.
Max Hawthorne stood there.
Her heart gave a little flutter.
“Good morning, Ms. Aston.”
She stared idiotically because he looked even better this morning than he had in the bar last night. She gave him a smile in return, careful that the others didn’t see it, and opened the door wide.
Max was a complication she didn’t need but damn if she didn’t like the guy. Even the fact he called her “Ms. Aston” rather than Lucy sent a happy thrill through her. It allowed them to maintain a more professional distance in front of the others.
Lucy fetched Max a coffee while the ambassador introduced him to Comisario General Benito Fuentes of the federal police and Oficial Inspector Hector Cabral, his chief of detectives.
Max paused for an extra-long handshake with Cabral. Raised his brows. “You’re the police officer who thwarted the series of kidnappings by the Brazilian street gang a couple of years ago?”
Cabral looked impressed by Max’s knowledge and puffed out his chest.
Hector Cabral reminded Lucy of a cocky rooster. He was thick set and good-looking. Dark hair, olive complexion. His eyes didn’t miss a trick. Lucy suspected that’s what made him so good at his job. He was also sexist and an arrogant prick.
“The gang terrorized Argentina for six months. I was lucky enough that someone reached out to me via private means and we were able to create a small, covert, highly focused task-force that was airtight.”
“Are leaks a common problem within the police service here, Inspector Cabral?” The lack of judgment in Max’s tone allowed both Cabral and Fuentes to relax into the question. Lucy was impressed. These men were incredibly macho and didn’t like their organization or their abilities questioned.
“No more than anywhere else,” Fuentes shrugged and answered. “We’ve had our problems in the past, but we are weeding out corruption from the police force.”
Which seemed to be the war cry of every political party that ran for election in this country. Lucy wasn’t convinced they were any closer now than they had been twenty years ago. Then again, Argentina wasn’t alone with problems of misfeasance.
“What updates do you have, Benito?” The ambassador’s jaw was clenched but, aside from that, she looked coolly professional. The woman wore a green pant suit and enough makeup to hide any trace of her anguish.
Phillip had left earlier with Iain Bartlett. Another DS agent stood against the wall watching the police officers carefully. DSS weren’t taking any chances with the ambassador’s security. Neither police officer had been allowed to carry a weapon inside the embassy. Lucy bet that would piss off both men equally.
Benito Fuentes shifted, his starched uniform looking distinctly uncomfortable this morning. Or maybe it was the way he perched on the edge of the seat, sipping his coffee.
As Lucy handed Max his drink, their fingers accidentally brushed. His tightened on the cup to prevent the coffee going everywhere and their gazes collided.
“Sorry,” she said quickly.
His gaze fell to her lips and, for a fraction of a second, Lucy felt that old shot of attraction burst through her like the flare of a match. She squashed it down.
She moved away once he had the espresso cup safely in hand.
The guy was gorgeous. Of course, she was attracted to him. She was allowed to give herself a moment to admire physical beauty if she wanted to. It would seem more weird if this current version of Lucy wasn’t slightly discombobulated by the presence of such a charismatic, handsome man in her orbit.
“The lab worked all night on the cell phone left behind by the kidnappers in La Boca.” No mention that Max Hawthorne had been the person to find it, Lucy noticed. “They are running tests for DNA and anything in the cell’s memory, but it was a brand-new phone, likely bought for this purpose.” Fuentes told Catherine Dickerson.
“What about my daughter’s cell phone. You brought it as I requested?” The ambassador held out her palm.
It hadn’t been a request. It had been a diplomatic order.
Fuentes hesitated, then dug into his side pocket. Pulled out a phone in a glittery silver case encased in a clear, plastic evidence bag. “Normally this would not be allowed, you understand.”
“Normally my daughter would be home for Christmas and not at the mercy of a gang who kidnapped her in broad daylight in the heart of Buenos Aires. That phone belongs to the US Ambassador and diplomatic protocol demands you return it. I am assuming you checked it for prints and DNA?”
Fuentes nodded. “It had already been processed by the time we received your request. Tests are being run. We have the DNA and fingerprint samples that you provided for your daughter that we can eliminate.”
The ambassador took the phone and closed her eyes for a moment before she handed it off to the DS agent who would check it for bugs and do a detailed examination of the content before returning it to her.
“Did you access the information on the phone?” Catherine asked.
Fuentes shook his head. “We hadn’t got that far. We will be talking to the carrier for copies of her texts and messages.”
“No.” The ambassador’s chin dipped. “That is not permissible. The FBI will go through the texts and messenger apps and share anything that might be pertinent. I will not have my family’s private details up for public viewing.”
A flush started to fill the Comisario’s round cheeks. He didn’t like being told what he could and couldn’t do. He especially didn’t like being told by a woman.
“You can access the phone number records but not any text or voice mail.”
All the numbers for the family and embassy staff were being changed anyway.
Fuentes looked as if he was about to protest.
Max Hawthorne stepped in. “Did you have any luck tracking or backtracking the kidnappers’ vehicles through the city?”
Fuentes looked at Cabral who shook his head. “Nothing yet. It is painstaking work that takes a lot of time and manpower.” He shrugged. “And the kidnappers seem to have been incredibly sophisticated about this part of the plan
. There were no cameras in the alley where they dumped the van, and there were an unusually high number of car thefts the previous day.”
“You think they purposefully wanted to muddy the waters?”
“Yes.” Cabral shrugged as if this were normal.
Max waited a beat. “Can you check to see if any older model orange or red VW Passats were reported stolen or found dumped yesterday?”
Deep furrows etched Cabral’s brow. “Why?”
“I did pass that tip on to one of your people yesterday,” Powell spoke up. “SSA Hawthorne found an eyewitness who says they saw the kidnappers get into a VW Passat after they dumped the van in La Boca.”
“No one informed me of this development.” The muscles in Cabral’s jaw bunched. “I was not told of this.” He fished in his pocket and handed out his cards to each of the men present. “That has my direct cell number on it. Call me in future. I don’t want to miss a major lead. Who was this eyewitness?”
Max smiled. “They didn’t give their name.”
“They are probably lying.” Cabral waved dismissively.
“They also gave us the cell that the kidnappers used to contact us.”
Cabral tilted his head to one side as if Max had suddenly become more interesting. He said slowly, “And yet you didn’t get a name.”
“We didn’t have time. They ran in the other direction when a group of thugs started to chase us through the streets.” Max sounded convincing.
Lucy dropped her gaze to the floor. She didn’t want anyone asking her questions and discovering she had a backbone when she refused to answer.
“I will check into any reports made on any VW Passats.” Cabral’s eyes glittered. He didn’t like admitting there was something he didn’t know regarding the investigation. “Have the kidnappers made contact again?”
“Earlier this morning.” Max sipped his coffee, appearing relaxed even though all eyes were fixed on him. “It was probably the same kidnapper who called me yesterday, although they used an electronic voice disguiser again. He wanted to be addressed as ‘el jefe.’”
Cold Cruel Kiss: A heart-stopping and addictive romantic thriller Page 14
