Susie, wrestling with her kidnapper against the bonnet of the Range Rover, saw the driver level his Glock. Leaning into her captor, she kicked the car door closed at the same time as the guy inside opened fire again.
The vehicle shook from the impact as the driver shot up the inside of his own car. Lucy dropped to a crouch and raised the SIG two-handed to take aim at the man wrestling with Susie, but she fudged the shot – too much movement, too great a fear of hitting Susie, too fucking rusty – and the bullet ricocheted off the side of the Range Rover harmlessly. Over to the left the first guy reached the female kidnapper, gun in hand, bringing it to bear on Lucy, just as the second guy finished bundling Susie into the Range Rover and now he turned, too, pistol in his fist, also bringing Lucy into his sights.
Two guns against one. Lucy out of cover. The battle was lost but she was going down swinging and she picked her target: the guy by the Range Rover. Hoping her next shot would be more effective than her first.
All three guns fired at the same time and Lucy saw the bloody hole appear in her upper thigh before she felt a thing. She’d been hit in combat before and she knew what to expect – a few seconds of grace before the pain, and then shock, and possibly unconsciousness. At the Range Rover she saw the shooter clutch his shoulder and stagger back. She felt grimly pleased that she’d managed to hit one of the bad guys at least.
Nearby, the sound of sirens. The Range Rover door slammed shut, Susie inside. The guy Lucy had hit pulled himself to the vehicle, clambered in and left a smear of blood on the paintwork. The woman reached the Range Rover, too. ‘Move!’ she screamed at the final gunman, and dimly, Lucy realised that she, too, had been using a posh accent for her time in the Hampstead spa.
The woman threw a final baleful glare Lucy’s way then climbed inside the car, followed by the last gunman.
Spooked by the sirens, thank God. Not stopping to finish off Lucy.
She raised a trembling gun hand and squeezed off a couple of shots at the tyres, more in desperation than anything else, because of course they were reinforced.
And then it was gone, leaving her kneeling on the concrete, watching her own blood slowly spread on the ground beneath her, already beginning to lose focus. She scrabbled for her mobile to call Shelley, who picked up after only one ring.
‘Babe,’ he said. ‘Have you got her?’
‘No,’ managed Lucy. ‘I haven’t got her. They’ve taken her. I’ve been hit, Shelley. I’m at the Hampstead Health & Beauty spa. I’m … I’m …’
‘Babe!’ he was yelling. ‘Lucy!’
She collapsed to the ground, and then passed out.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 42
‘OH GOD,’ HE said, bursting into the hospital room, past the armed guard and into Lucy’s arms.
She lay looking pale and weak, but not so weak that she couldn’t gather Shelley to her. Her lower half was partly covered by the bed sheet, but he could see where the top of her thigh had been bandaged. The Chechen’s bullet had passed straight through her leg, causing a huge loss of blood. The surgeons had told him that it had been touch and go, and that if the paramedics had arrived five minutes later she might have died.
The blood transfusion had been successful and she was recovering well, but she’d almost died. And that fact alone was enough to make Shelley want to clench his fists and cry out in fury. All those years spent in war zones when her life had been in danger every day – it went with the territory then. But now they’d decided to turn their backs on that life. She wasn’t supposed to nearly bleed out in the car park of a spa in Hampstead.
Claridge arrived a short while later, laptop under his arm. He greeted the armed guard with a formal nod and handshake then approached Shelley, shaking his hand with a politician’s grip. He turned his attention to Lucy, solemn and deferential. ‘You handled them like the old soldier I know you are,’ he said. ‘They can count themselves very lucky indeed that they have all escaped with their lives.’
‘Old soldier, eh?’ said Lucy, consulting the heavens with her eyes. ‘Not quite sure how to take that.’
‘Take it any way you want. Just take it the right way,’ smiled Claridge.
Across Lucy’s bed was a wheeled table on which Claridge placed the laptop. ‘I’d like you to take a look at some pictures,’ he told her. ‘Shelley, you need to look at these as well.’
Up came mug shots. ‘These are our friends from the London arm of the Chechen Mafia,’ said Claridge. ‘Tell me when you’d like me to stop. We’re looking for any of the men who attacked you and took Susie Drake.’ He began scrolling through the pictures.
‘That’s one of them.’ Lucy pulled herself up in bed with the excitement of seeing one of her attackers. ‘I’m pretty sure I winged that guy.’
‘Okay,’ said Claridge. He clicked to place a marker on the guy. ‘This is one of the soldiers, the kind of low-ranker that I’d expect to be mixed up in something like this. What about this guy?’
‘Yes. I recognise him,’ confirmed Lucy.
‘And this guy?’
‘That was the driver. Mr Glock 18.’
‘Makes sense. As far as we can tell, they operate as a kind of unit. Now, I’m particularly interested to know whether you recognise this gentleman.’
A new face came up. Youngish. Handsome. Unfamiliar to either Lucy or Shelley. She shook her head.
‘And this guy?’ said Claridge. The next picture was of a slightly older but muscled man, wearing spectacles. Again Lucy shook her head.
‘That last guy was Sergei Vinitsky. High up in the organisation. This guy is Dmitry Kraviz. As far as we know he is the head of the London branch.’
He navigated back to the shot of Sergei Vinitsky. ‘As you know, the Chechens are based in Moscow and Grozny. Now, in Moscow this chap’s brother, Ivan Vinitsky, may or may not have attempted to organise some kind of takeover. Intelligence is patchy but a short time after, he disappeared for good, never to be seen or heard of again.’
‘Well, I don’t think he was part of the kidnapping,’ said Lucy. ‘Neither of those guys. There were just the gunmen, a driver and the woman.’ Lucy’s eyes shifted. ‘Do you have any details on the woman?’
‘Right, yes,’ said Claridge, ‘I’ll come to that …’
Just then, Shelley’s phone rang in his pocket.
CHAPTER 43
SHELLEY STOOD. ‘CALL of nature,’ he said, and although Claridge barely turned a hair, Lucy shot him a searching look, knowing him too well, as he stepped out of the room and into the corridor.
He pulled the phone from his pocket. ‘Hello,’ he said as he hurried away from Lucy’s room, casting a look up and down the corridor. It was deserted.
‘Is that Captain David Shelley of the Special Air Service?’ said the voice. It was Dmitry Kraviz; he recognised the voice from Drake’s phone earlier. The weirdness of it struck Shelley. Seconds ago he’d been looking at a picture of Kraviz. Now he was talking to him.
Shelley moved quickly down the hall, thinking that you’re not supposed to use your mobile in a hospital. It’s forbidden; phones interfere with the machines. Or at least that’s what they used to say.
‘It’s tough to speak right now. How about you ring back in five minutes?’
Dmitry Kraviz chortled. ‘Negative, my friend,’ he said, ‘we need to speak now.’
Here. A toilet. Shelley ducked inside, relieved to find it empty. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘you win. Proceed.’
‘Well, I ask again: is this Captain Shelley?’
‘You got my name and number from Johnson, did you?’
‘He’s been a very valuable source of information,’ said Dmitry. ‘But that woman at the spa today … who was she?’
‘He didn’t tell you about her, then?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘One of our operators,’ said Shelley. Need to keep Lucy out of this, he thought. At all costs. ‘And when she’s recovered from her injuries she’ll be an ex-operator.’<
br />
‘Oh, is that so? I was told she fought like a lion.’
Shelley felt himself glow with pride, hating himself for what he said next: ‘She’s a silly bitch who had one job, to provide close protection for Susie Drake.’
‘An “operator”, you said. Isn’t that what you call your troops in the SAS, Captain Shelley?’
‘It’s a figure of speech. Now listen, what are you doing calling me, and not Drake or Bennett?’
‘Because you are a level head,’ said Dmitry. ‘Because I know that you are experienced in kidnap situations, and for that reason you will know better than to involve the police.’
‘I think it’s a bit too late for that.’
‘Well, yes, your incompetent operator saw to that. But there are ways and ways, are there not? Ways that police involvement can be minimised – circumvented.’
He was right, of course. Shelley knew full well the dangers of getting the authorities involved in a kidnap situation. He was familiar with cases in South America where the intervention of the cops meant things had gone badly wrong, ending in a bloodbath. Body parts. Broken-hearted parents. Nobody wanted that.
‘Now you tell me something. Is Susie Drake unharmed?’
‘Not only unharmed but well cared for. My darling wife is seeing to that. Now, listen carefully, Captain. I’m going to ring this number later today, and I expect to speak to Mr Drake at that point. I think that if you really are experienced in kidnap situations then you will know better than to involve the police in this.’
‘I agree with you, but first I need proof of life as well as certain assurances from you.’
Dmitry sighed. ‘So impatient. Wait until later, and if all is well then you shall have your proof of life. That shall be your assurance, Captain. And if you involve the police then I’ll supply proof of death, one piece at a time.’
‘You’d do that, would you? You’d kill his wife as well as his daughter?’ Shelley was fishing, wondering how Dmitry would react, still trying to answer those questions.
In response Dmitry sounded affronted. ‘Daughter? I had nothing to do with his daughter’s death. I didn’t give his daughter the drugs. I didn’t put a gun in her mouth. I didn’t even recruit the girl to work in my studio. All of these are Emma Drake’s own actions, with a little help from her friends and her drug dealers and maybe, yes, with a little help from her parents. Because we need to ask ourselves, do we not, Captain Shelley, why such a nice girl was mixed up in such a terrible business.’
‘That’s true, is it?’ said Shelley. ‘You give me your word, do you? Emma Drake killed herself.’
‘How else do you think she died?’ Dmitry sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘Perhaps you were hoping that she was murdered, is that it? Is that the most desirable outcome for her friends and family?
‘No, I had nothing to do with Emma Drake’s death. You know what is funny? I would never have known that she was this millionaire’s daughter were it not for the fact that he employed men – men like you, Captain Shelley – to try to do harm to my business. Why am I saying “try to”? You have significantly harmed my business. And you have insulted me, which is perhaps the worst offence of all, something that I’m afraid cannot be tolerated.
‘Now, for that insult I make a charge and to ensure that charge is paid I have Susie Drake in a safe place, ready to be exchanged for the money. Now, please, you must excuse me, Captain. This business is really little more than a diversion, and there are plenty of other things I have to attend to.’
‘The godfather’s work is never done, eh?’
Dmitry gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Something like that, yes. Just make sure that Mr Drake takes the call later, and we can get all of this over and done with as soon as possible.’
‘Oh yes, that’s her,’ Lucy was saying as Shelley re-entered the room. This, presumably, was the woman in sunglasses from the spa.
Lucy glanced at Shelley as he stepped towards the bed. They knew better than to try to pull the wool over Claridge’s eyes. He’d spot any meaningful looks. Instead Shelley turned his attention to the laptop screen, where Claridge scrolled through a series of pictures, each showing the same woman: dark-haired and slightly hard-faced, though not unattractive, usually clad in black.
‘Who is she?’ he asked, the question drawn out and thoughtful. As with the photographs of Sergei Vinitsky, Dmitry Kraviz and Co., these had been taken with a long-range lens or were screen grabs from CCTV footage, but there was something about this particular woman …
‘Her name is Karen,’ said Claridge. The pictures showed her getting in and out of a BMW. Going about her business, a handbag in the crook of her arm. ‘As far as we know she is married to Dmitry Kraviz.’
‘Another Russian?’ asked Shelley.
‘No,’ said Claridge slowly, aware of Shelley’s interest, ‘she’s British.’
‘Shelley?’ asked Lucy. ‘Something you need to share with the group?’
‘Just that she seems familiar,’ said Shelley.
‘Could you have been briefed about her on a previous operation?’ asked Claridge.
‘Possibly,’ said Shelley. ‘Wait, can you loop the pictures? Can I just see them again?’
Claridge did as he was asked, the pictures going round and round, a carousel.
‘I know her,’ said Shelley. He was wracking his brains.
And then it hit him. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I think I know who she is.’
CHAPTER 44
SUSIE DRAKE HAD often wondered what it would be like to be a prisoner. Now she knew.
Driving away from the spa, a state of shock had descended over the Range Rover’s occupants. One of the men had been hit and was bleeding, his breathing shallow. The car interior reeked of sweat and blood and what she took to be either gunpowder or cordite, and everywhere she looked was bullet damage.
As for her kidnappers, their sullen attitude was testament to the fact that the operation hadn’t been a total success. On the other hand, she was their prisoner, so nor had it been a failure. All that dissonance they handled in the time-honoured manner of staying silent and sulking – apart from the injured man, who sat by her side with his eyes half closed, breathing hard through his nose, grunting occasionally and gripping his shoulder.
Outside, through smoked glass, the streets of London sped by. Inside was sealed off, silent and hermetic. She gathered herself, needing to speak, praying her voice wouldn’t shake. She didn’t want them to know she was afraid.
‘It is you, then?’ she said.
The woman in the front had been massaging her jaw, having flipped down the vanity mirror to inspect the damage done by Lucy Shelley, but when Susie spoke she glanced at the driver and then in her mirror at the two heavies on either side of Susie. The injured guy lay slumped against the door, pale but conserving his energy; the other one returned her gaze impassively, perhaps knowing better than to show undue interest. There was no doubt in Susie’s mind who the boss was.
The woman turned in her seat. The side of her face was red and swollen where Lucy had hit her. ‘Who are you talking to?’ she said, in what Susie realised was her real voice, brassy and peevish-sounding, like a permanently indignant woman in a soap opera. Quite different from the measured, polite tones she’d been affecting in the spa.
‘I’m talking to you,’ said Susie.
‘Well, address me then,’ the woman hit back.
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Karen,’ said the woman, twisting around in her seat to face front once more, turning her attention to her phone, adding over her shoulder, ‘And if you want to talk to me, you say, “Excuse me, Karen.”’
Silence descended. Susie let the build-up of tension subside before she spoke again. ‘Excuse me, Karen?’ she began.
A pause.
‘Yes,’ said Karen.
‘Is it you?’
‘Don’t know what you’re on about. Next question.’
Susie was about to say, You know exactly wha
t I’m talking about, but bit her tongue, saying instead, ‘All right, then. Are you going to kill me?’
Karen sighed. ‘If we were going to kill you we would have done it just now, back there. Fuck’s sake. Is that it? Is that all you want to know?’
‘Then what are you going to do with me?’
Karen gave a short snorting laugh, like a horse sneezing. ‘Your husband’s one of the richest men in the country, what the bloody hell do you think we’re going to do with you?’ She turned to regard Susie. ‘He’d better love you. Does he love you? Would you say you’ve got a strong marriage, you and the microchip man?’
There was an edge of bitterness to Karen’s voice that made Susie wonder if she had issues of her own in that department. Still, this wasn’t the time or place for a girlish heart-to-heart. Instead Susie simply said, ‘We do.’
Karen faced front again. ‘Good. In that case, he’ll want to pay up, and you get to go home alive and … well, maybe not with every single one of your fingers and toes, because people usually need a little bit of convincing, however much they love you.’
‘Why me?’ asked Susie, even though, of course, the answer was glaringly obvious. From up front was silence. ‘It’s because of Emma, isn’t it?’ said Susie.
‘It ain’t because of Emma. Well, not directly. It’s more to do with your husband and his mates taking a sledgehammer to our business. You think he could just walk away from that? Not in our world. Your husband can count himself lucky that he’s so minted or he’d find himself having an appointment with the Skinsman. Who knows, when all this is done, maybe he still will. He’s pissed a lot of people off has your old man.’
‘The Skinsman? Who’s that?’
Once more Karen twisted around in her seat. When she smiled, Susie saw that one of her top teeth was crooked, giving her a predatory look. ‘A bloke in your operation called Johnson, you know him?’
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