Spin Move

by David Lender

  Rudiger said, “What’s up with that?”

  Katie’s eyes were focused now, looking at the phone. She turned to Rudiger and motioned with her finger for him to come over. He leaned his head toward her and she whispered in his ear, “They can track us through our phones’ GPS, and I’m sure they’ve set them up to listen in to what we’re saying. If that’s the case, they know we’re awake now, so we need to react.”

  Rudiger tried to digest it, leaned back in his chair. It didn’t make sense. He said, “You think you can stand up?”

  Katie tried. She sat back down, hard. She took a few breaths and then tried again, balanced herself.

  “Let’s walk over to get some coffee or something,” Rudiger said in a normal voice. He left his phone on the wheelchair, then hooked his arm through hers and they walked.

  Over at the coffee station, Rudiger said to Katie, “Any idea what’s going on? No question that was a snatch-and-grab, like you’d described. But what are we doing here? I’d have thought we’d wake up on a plane back to the States, in handcuffs.”

  “The only thing I can figure is that Holden’s worried about the irregular rendition not holding up in front of a judge. So they dump us here in the UK, the Brits arrest us and then we get extradited the normal way. They know we’re awake now, so we need to get out of here before the police come for us.”

  Rudiger shook his head. It still didn’t make sense. “Why haven’t they pounced on us already?”

  “Maybe they don’t want it to look like an obvious setup. If a U.S. judge sees we were dropped here only to be served up to the Brit police, he might throw out the extradition.”

  “Are you okay to run?”

  Katie said, “Give me a minute.”

  Rudiger knelt and pulled off one of his shoes. He reached in, peeled up the leather on the bottom and removed something, handed it to her. “It’s three $100 bills in a tiny plastic bag. I started keeping them in each shoe when I went on the run 11 years ago.”

  Katie said, “Remind me never to underestimate you. So what’s the plan?”

  “Like you said, first, get the hell out of here.”

  Katie said, “We need to slip our phones into somebody else’s bags or purses, throw Holden off.”

  Rudiger said, “I’m thinking of pulling the fire alarm and running, disappearing into the crowd in the confusion. You able to run now?”

  Katie reached in the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, opened it and drank most of it. “No choice. I’ll have to do the best I can.”

  Rudiger checked each direction. Nobody seemed to be watching them. He said, “You know Fortnum and Mason in London?”

  “On Piccadilly.”

  “Right. If we get separated, I’ll meet you in the 1707 Wine Bar.”

  Katie said, “I’ll find it. And it’s better if we do separate. They’ll be looking for us together. Okay, let’s do it.” They walked back to their wheelchairs, picked up their phones and Katie dropped them into other passengers’ handbags. Then they walked to the reception area of the Admirals Club.

  Rudiger grinned at the lady with the nice smile behind the nameplate that said VERONICA COOPER-MULLEN. When she looked away he pulled the fire alarm. He held on to Katie’s arm until at least a dozen other people ran out the front door, then let go. After she reached the terminal, he yelled, “Bomb!” He waited another few moments until he heard people repeating the word in the terminal, then ran out the door.

  Katie ran through the door of the Admirals Club into the terminal, shielded by a group of four or five others. She felt a jolt at the sight of 15 or 20 policemen rushing toward the sound of the alarm in the club. She and Rudiger may have just barely escaped; that team must have been coming for them. She forced herself not to look back to see if Rudiger was okay, did her best to put one foot in front of the other as fast as she could, still wobbly from the drug.

  A crowd of panicked travelers stampeded onto escalators to the lower floor. The sign said TO BAGGAGE CLAIM AND GROUND TRANSIT.

  Katie ran toward it, her heart pounding and her head throbbing, the drug still affecting her.

  By the time she neared it a crowd of hundreds of travelers had jammed the top of the escalators to the point where no one was moving. Katie ran to the windows and looked down to see the roadway to orient herself, turned right and ran toward the opposite end of the terminal. She knew American Airlines was Terminal 3. Terminal 1 was about a half mile away. She figured all the shuttle buses would either be clogged with people or not running because of the alarm. She’d find a way downstairs and run to Terminal 1. When she got to the end of the terminal, she found a stairwell, ran down into the baggage claim area, then outside. Once outside, she started running on the roadway toward Terminal 1. The air was cool and it stung her lungs, but it felt great because it was clearing her mind, helping her body respond.

  Now she was running smoothly, feeling natural in her Nikes, her stride steady, her heart pumping like it did in the first lap of a half-mile race when she was in high school.

  Just then Katie could swear she heard footsteps behind her. She figured it was someone else running from the chaos at Terminal 3. She glanced back, felt a stab of shock. An English cop in stride with her, even catching up. She turned around and picked up her pace.

  Oh, man, I don’t believe this.

  “Caitlin Dolan,” the cop said, sounding like he wasn’t even breathing hard. “I am placing you under arrest.”

  You’ve gotta catch me first. In the neighborhood she would’ve yelled it back over her shoulder.

  Give him 20.

  Katie sprinted for about 20 yards, remembering her training under Coach Cain. Now she didn’t dare turn around to look because she knew she was in a race. She was just barely into the run, maybe four tenths of a mile to go to Terminal 1. She glided, listening behind her.

  Still there. The man had guts, and he wasn’t some 40ish doughnut-eating New York cop. She wasn’t in top shape herself, but she was still in kick-ass condition for somebody her age, and he was keeping up.

  Break him.

  She gave him another 20, then extended it to 30 yards, then glided again.

  She listened behind her. The cop had caught up, maybe ten feet behind her. Her lungs were on fire already, and still at least a quarter of a mile to go. But her legs were holding up. Thank God for those off-road bike rides she did out in the rocky hills of Cape Verde, and for her runs on the beach.

  She gave him another 20, then glided again, recovering.

  Thirty seconds later he caught back up, maybe 15 feet behind her.

  She started to feel desperate, like maybe she didn’t have it in her anymore. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him; maybe he was some young buck in his 20s who could still run forever.

  Get it out of your head. You’re a Dolan.

  She straightened up her form, got her arms moving in a line, gave him another 20. Again he was there behind her. She listened for his breathing, his stride. Smooth, no strain in his breath. She judged he had a lot left.

  She could see the terminal in front of her now, up close. Maybe only a 220 away, an eighth of a mile, half of the last lap, coming down the straightaway heading into the final turn. She tasted sweat in her mouth, heard her breathing labored in her ears. She couldn’t let him catch her with his kick at the finish. She had to break him now.

  Now, Katie, she said to herself. She waited. Now. Still she waited. Now! she screamed to herself. She sharpened her form again, took off, gave it everything she had, knowing she’d finish with almost nothing.

  After a hundred yards she could feel the burn in her legs, afraid she would cramp up, so she eased off, listening behind her.

  Oh my God, he’s still there. The man must be a machine.

  She was coming up on the terminal now, only 100 yards away, her legs stiffening, her pace slowing and he was behi
nd her 20 feet, maybe closer. Her brain flashed with panic.

  She decided.

  She stopped, turned around and saw the look of surprise on his face as he pulled up, trying to stop, and Katie slammed her hands into his shoulders as she kneed him square in the balls. He collapsed without even a groan. He lay curled up in a fetal position with both hands between his legs. She waited to hear him inhale and then gasp. “Sorry,” she said and then ran for the terminal.

  She entered the first door she encountered, stood looking behind her, doubled over, panting, sweating. The cop was still down, not moving. She forced herself erect and walked down the aisle along the baggage claim conveyors, looking for a currency exchange. She saw one, decided to pass it and look for another farther down the terminal. She found one and stepped to the window, pulled the three $100 bills from her pocket, unfolded them from the plastic and stuck them into the cup under the glass. She affected a French accent and said, “English pounds, please.” She was holding on to the counter, aware she was soaked with perspiration, afraid she might collapse.

  The woman behind the glass looked at her, then at the bills for a moment as if she didn’t know what to do.

  “It’s U.S. currency.”

  “I’m aware of that,” the woman said. She picked them up, placed them on the counter beside her and pulled a marker from a drawer in front of her. She swiped the marker across the bills, waited a moment for the ink to dry and then examined them. She pursed her lips.

  Come on.

  The woman picked up the phone and made a call. Katie looked around behind her. No sign of the cop from the roadway, or any other police, not even any commotion and seemingly no awareness of the alarm in Terminal 3. She turned back around. The woman was now hunched over, speaking into the phone, Katie unable to hear what she was saying. Now she was looking at the bills, and Katie could see her reading the serial numbers off to someone. Katie started gritting her teeth, her muscles tensing.

  Come on, come on.

  Katie felt her legs cramping. She wanted to sit down, take the weight off her legs, but she held herself up by the counter.

  After maybe a minute the woman finally hung up the phone, looked at Katie, flicked the microphone back on and said, “Sorry about that. Just a precaution with bills this old. After commission that will be 173 pounds, 90 pence. How would you like your currency?”

  “One hundred in 20-pound notes, the rest broken into 10-pound notes, please.”

  The woman counted out her currency, slid it into the cup under the glass, stuck the receipt with it and smiled.

  Katie picked up the money, shoved it in her back pocket and headed to the door for taxis and got on line. It took her five minutes, every so often glancing back behind her, before she reached a cab. “Fortnum and Mason, on Piccadilly,” she said into the driver’s window, then slumped into the backseat.

  It wasn’t until they were on Piccadilly, the cab bogged down in traffic, that Katie saw an electronics store.

  “I’ll get out here,” she said, paid the driver and hurried inside. She bought three prepaid cell phones and a half dozen time cards. After she paid she asked the cashier, “Any chance I can log on a computer to activate these?”

  The salesgirl directed her to a display of computers and said, “They’re all on our wireless network, please help yourself.”

  Katie sat down and logged into the site for TracFone. She activated all three phones and put 180 minutes on each. On the remaining cards she had a total of 540 more minutes.

  Her hands were trembling as she dialed Daddy’s cell phone. It rang ten times, her nerves twisting. It went to voicemail.

  “Daddy, it’s me. I’m okay, Rudiger’s okay. I’m so worried about you. And Styles. When you get this please call me back on this number as soon as you can. I love you. I hope you’re safe.” She hung up and clenched her jaw, tried not to cry, but she couldn’t stop the tears.

  It took her a few minutes to collect herself, and then she got up and left the store and hailed another cab. The cab had just dropped her outside Fortnum & Mason when the cell phone rang. She felt a blast of adrenaline.

  “Daddy?”

  “Katie. You’re okay?”

  “Yes, yes. And you?”

  “A worse hangover than I’ve ever had from Jameson’s, but I’m fine. Styles is okay, too. It was him that woke me up, tugging on my shirtsleeve. I don’t know whether he knew it or not, but the battery on my iGo had run out—I didn’t have it plugged in—and if he hadn’t woken me up when he did, I might not have gotten up at all. Where are you?”

  “In London. Rudiger and I woke up at Heathrow. I’m going to meet him now. We split up to get away. We’re both fine.”

  “Who the hell were those guys?”

  “Some team Charlie Holden sicced on us. Trying to bring us back to the U.S. to prosecute us. I’ll explain it all later. You and Styles get out of there, but don’t go back to the house. Call me on this number and let me know where you are. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, Katie.”

  She hung up and walked into Fortnum & Mason.

  Ducasse sat in the comfort of his office, his enclave. Being surrounded by the enveloping closeness of his books, mementos, photographs, paintings of family patriarchs and the cushioned leather chairs had a calming effect on him. Right now he needed it. He sat back in his chair, his elbows on the arms, his hands steepled in front of his mouth, listening to Stillman, his lawyer.

  Stillman, always a level head, but never reacting with the degree of urgency or passion that Ducasse did. Too careful, too methodical. Ducasse was growing impatient, but he let Stillman finish before saying, “So, Rupert, what do you think we should do?”

  Stillman said, “Give them another day. Don’t act irrationally. These things happen in deals.”

  Ducasse leaned forward, propped his elbows on the desk, said, “It’s completely mystifying to me that Rudiger hasn’t been in touch. We were to have started negotiating the final documents to the deal this afternoon, and no word on scheduling—”

  “Yes, but Philippe, as I said—”

  “—all this despite my leaving multiple voicemails for Rudiger, Angela and their Moroccan lawyers. Still nothing after 24 hours.”

  Stillman opened his mouth as if to speak, but Ducasse raised his palm to stop him.

  Ducasse continued. “I’m extremely suspicious, even smelling something foul.” He now leaned back in his chair and regarded the ceiling molding. “What has Rudiger been saying from the outset, and what did Angela reinforce in our recent meeting with them in Morocco?”

  Stillman didn’t respond, either assuming the question was rhetorical or that Ducasse would answer himself.

  “That he was visiting with multiple parties to find an investor, and then subsequently, that they were negotiating with multiple parties on a first-come-first-served basis.” Ducasse lowered his gaze to look Stillman in the eye. “So what does this delay sound like to you?”

  “It could be anything, and I understand that it could be—”

  “Well, it sounds to me like he’s negotiating the deal with another investor as we speak, and he’s squeezing us out. I’m not going to stand for it. I’m going to say in my next voicemail to Rudiger that if I don’t hear back from him within hours, that we’re going to walk from the deal ourselves.”

  “Philippe, you said yourself this is a very attractive transaction, modeled on one with heroic rates of return. I implore you not to do anything rash.”

  “I don’t enjoy being taken for granted, manipulated or trifled with.”

  Stillman extended both arms and motioned with his palms toward the floor, as if to tell him to calm down. Stillman said, “Here’s my suggestion. Send one of your young associates back to Morocco to visit their lawyers’ offices to find out what’s going on firsthand. If he leaves now, he can be there this evening, and on
-site at their lawyers’ offices first thing in the morning.”

  Ducasse regarded the ceiling again, letting it sink in. Stillman did have a point. He wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his participation in the deal. And having clear knowledge of where he stood first thing in the morning would probably suffice. Still, he almost choked on the words as he said, “Thank you, Rupert. Wise counsel.”

  Rudiger was halfway through an order of Scottish salmon with toast, accompanied by capers, chopped onion and a touch of Dijon mustard, complemented by a glass of white burgundy, when he felt a hand on his back.

  He turned to see Katie, looking drawn, her face damp with perspiration. She managed to smile and sat down next to him at the wine bar.

  “What’d you do, run all the way here?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.” She leaned over and whispered, “We’re scrambling for our lives and you’re drinking wine?”

  “That’s why they call it a wine bar.”

  Rudiger kissed her, then turned and motioned with his head to the bartender. “This is Horatio. What would you like?”

  “First, a glass of water. Then some food.” Horatio pushed a menu in front of her and turned to get her a glass of water.

  Katie whispered, “Can we talk here?”

  “Wait.” Horatio placed Katie’s water in front of her, then walked down to the other end of the bar. Rudiger said, “I’ve been thinking about it. We’ll need money and documents to get out of the UK. It’ll take a few days to arrange new passports through my documents guy in New York. I can get money wired by the end of the day through my bankers in the Cayman Islands. We’ll need phones, too.”

  Katie pulled one of the prepaid cell phones out of her pocket, placed it on the bar.

  “I’ve got three of them, all activated.”

  Rudiger said, “Great work. It’s a start. You call your dad?”

  “He’s okay. Turns out they did dart him. Styles woke up first, then woke up Daddy. I told him to get out of the hotel, go someplace safe but not back to the house.”