Cosmin and Nelu finished their discussion about the phone. It had not been switched on. Cosmin placed it on a workbench and began walking around it, staring. Then he took a heavy hammer, raised it high above his head and beat the phone to fragments.
That was when Sean’s tracking signal went blank.
‘What the fuck you want?’ Cosmin demanded roughly, at last turning his attention to Harry.
‘The boy.’
‘Talk.’
‘Can I get out of this?’ Harry asked, holding up his bound wrists.
‘Fuck you.’
‘OK, I’m a friend of the boy’s family. They asked me to come here to do two things. To make sure the boy is still alive. And to make sure he is released safely when the ransom is paid.’
‘How you do that?’
‘The ransom will not be paid until I talk to them over your Skype link. I will make sure the money is paid in the way you want, and also that the boy is released at the same time. Everyone goes home happy.’
Cosmin started nodding thoughtfully. The mention of Skype was some sort of proof that this man had a connection with the family, which meant he might be useful. It also meant he could be seriously dangerous. He wandered across to inspect Harry more carefully, bent over him, examined the wound on his face. Harry’s nose filled with garlic and stale sweat.
Cosmin appeared satisfied. He straightened up. ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Harry Jones.’
Harry didn’t even have time to scream as Cosmin’s boot hit him flush on the chin. His senses were swirling, tumbling over and over in a remorseless current, then they began closing down, drowning. Just before he passed out he realized that these people knew who he was. Then he gave up the struggle to stay afloat and his world went black.
Sean had decided that the tracker solution Harry had insisted on had severe limitations. The first problem was that, for some reason he didn’t understand, it had given up the ghost. The second was that although he had followed the marker until the moment it disappeared from the screen, its accuracy in the dense inner city left a lot to be desired. In fact, many of the smaller streets and alleyways weren’t even marked, and for a moment Sean panicked. He was no longer a young man, even at the best of times he had little faith in his abilities with things technical. Every muscle and joint in his body was screaming at him and he was entirely alone, without even a dog to lick his boots.
Yet the signal had given out somewhere in the Old City, that unmistakable maze of twists and turns, alleyways and side streets that was to be found only in this quarter, so it was here that Sean came. His hobbling was getting worse; his knee had taken a sharp knock when Harry had thrown him out of the path of the delivery van and it was making its misery felt. It was swelling, stiffening, so much so that he was forced to purchase a walking stick, a twisted hardwood cane with a gnarled, heavy head like a shillelagh. It made him more mobile but did nothing to lessen the pain, and he found the pavements of the Old City a challenge. This part of town was built against a hill, on top of which stood an ancient fort and the somewhat less ancient cathedral of San Giusto, and down from which tumbled a chaos of medieval passageways. Hard walking for any elderly man, let alone one with a dodgy knee. Every street tested his strength. He passed up and down, searching for what he wasn’t quite sure, hoping to discover a battered white van tucked away behind every corner even though many of the alleys and passageways were absurdly narrow, barely wide enough for two donkeys to pass, and some even smaller than that. But he could find no sign of Harry.
The restaurants and bars began to close; the craft shops were already dark, most of the other buildings hiding behind their shutters. The Old City was closing its eyes, falling asleep. Sean found himself walking through the central Via del Teatro for the third time when he stumbled on a paving stone and almost tripped. His knee erupted in protest, leaving him bent over his stick, sobbing in pain. He was exhausted, cold, he knew he had to rest. There was nothing more he could do tonight. With an awkward and tender step, he shuffled his way back to his refuge in the car.
‘I have booked your ticket home,’ Simona said as he came into the bedroom. She used her office voice, tinged with sadness, as though this was business. She pushed the covers distractedly away, exposing her naked body.
As he saw her stretched out on the bed D’Amato’s cheeks flushed with anticipation even as some other part of him filled with guilt. ‘You know I must go home for Christmas. But I’ll be back soon.’
‘When?’ she asked, trying to pretend it was a matter totally without significance. He knew she was playing, teasing; it was her way.
‘As soon as I can.’ He began ripping off his clothes. They had agreed to go out to dinner, but he was late, again, and if he had to starve for this woman he knew every stab of hunger would be worth it.
‘You’re always in such a rush, Francesco.’
‘I am sorry, my little bird.’
She stared in accusation. ‘And you haven’t even had time to get presents for your children.’
‘I know.’
‘So I have bought you some. The things they want.’ She waved in the direction of a small pile of packages wrapped in colourful paper that sat on a side table.
His eyes grew wider still. ‘You are truly amazing,’ he gasped in admiration. Did this woman not have everything a man wanted in a lover? ‘But . . . how do you do all this? How do you know what they want?’
‘Simple. Your e-mail. You should never have told me your password.’ And now she laughed.
‘You can run my entire life!’ he exclaimed, dropping his shorts.
‘But, Francesco, I do. Except you must buy your own presents for your wife. I think we must draw a line somewhere, no?’
‘Christmas! Four days. So close. I lose track of it all, there is so little time,’ he complained, throwing himself onto the bed beside her.
‘Which is why I have also bought your present for me.’
As she laughed, he kissed her and he began to stroke her body, watching in timeless awe as he saw it coming to life.
‘So what do you want for Christmas from me, Francesco?’ She was breathing on his body, ruffling the hairs on his chest.
‘You know what I want,’ he gasped, losing all trace of judgement as her lips began to nibble their way slowly down his body.
Terri was staring into the flame of her candle at the window when J.J. arrived home. He threw his jacket onto the back of a chair; it slipped, fell to the floor, he didn’t bother picking it up. That was out of character, he was usually so particular about his clothes.
‘I’ve done it, got everything in place,’ he said, yet it sounded like an expression of defeat. He collapsed into a chair opposite her.
Without being asked she got up and poured him a drink.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, surprised, as he took the glass, grateful. It was the first thing either of them had done for the other in days. He sipped, feeling the whiskey cut through his exhaustion. ‘I had to take the last quarter-million from Sopwith-Dane. Thought you should know. A loan. I told him I could offer no security, he said his instructions were that it didn’t matter.’ He paused while the thought hovered between them. ‘It’s time to decide, Terri. Do we pay the ransom?’
‘How can we say no?’
‘It will cost us everything we have.’
‘And if we don’t, it will cost us even more.’
He stared deep into his glass. She thought she could see a tear fall, splashing into the whiskey. ‘I agree.’ The voice seemed to come from far away.
‘Can’t we rebuild it all, J.J.?’
It seemed to take all of his remaining strength to drag his eyes up from his drink and look at her, his wife of seventeen years. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘I think it may be too late for that.’
When Harry regained consciousness it was still dark. He had been brought to a different room, dragged there judging by the grazing he felt on his back, a room that was high
er up the building, with a mansard ceiling – the attic, he assumed. He could see very little, tasted blood in his mouth from a split lip. He tried to stretch but found himself shackled by his wrists to a steel joist. His thoughts were scrambled, like a scattered herd, and it took him some time to round them up.
They knew who he was. One mention of his name and it had all fallen apart, and there was only one person he could blame for that, from whom the information could have leaked and put these thugs on their guard. Inspector D’Amato.
Harry felt his first nibble of despair. There was no one to help him, no one even looking out for him, apart from an old Irishman with a dodgy leg who couldn’t even cross the bloody road without almost killing himself – which meant Harry was on his own, except, as the first blush of a grey dawn began to squeeze through the windows at either end of the room, he discovered he wasn’t entirely alone. As his eyes and senses adjusted, he saw on the other side of the room the outline of another figure, shackled like him, stretched out on the floor and asleep. He stared into the half-light, and made out the pale but distinctive features of a young man.
It was his first sight of Ruari. His son.
Harry must have fallen asleep, for he woke some time later to find someone hissing at him. It was Ruari, from across the room.
‘Hey! Hey!’ he was calling softly. ‘My name’s Ruari Breslin.’
‘I know.’
It was still early, not yet full daylight. Harry struggled to see his son, even from a distance of no more than ten feet, but that might have had something to do with the maelstrom that was gathering in his eyes. The boy was older than his photographs, of course, with a bandaged hand, a bent nose, a grime-smeared face and almost a month’s worth of youthful hair on his cheeks. Harry’s chin, too, the same stubborn set of the jaw. And his mother’s eyes.
‘Who are you?’ Ruari whispered.
Who was he? What sort of damned-fool question was that? I’m your father, you little idiot! Your bloody father! But there was no way Ruari could know, or should discover that, not right now, not here. It would be something for later.
‘Did my dad send you?’ Ruari asked, eagerly, and Harry twisted inside. How many battles was it possible to fight all at once?
‘I’m a friend of your family. I’ve come to get you out of here.’
‘Great start.’
‘I’ve found you, haven’t I?’ Harry replied, feeling pained by the teenage sarcasm, but hurt far more by knowing it was entirely justified. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ would have been so much better. But at least the boy’s reaction showed that he wasn’t cowed, that even after everything he’d gone through he still had a sharp edge.
Any further discussion was cut short as a figure loomed in the doorway and switched on the light. It was Sandu, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip. ‘Hey, bastarzi! Shut up,’ he snarled, ‘or you get nothing to eat but piss and wind for breakfast.’ He glared at them, checking their bonds, then cast them into semi-darkness once more before disappearing back into the adjoining room.
Harry nodded in the guard’s direction. ‘How many?’ he mouthed at Ruari.
Ruari held up five fingers.
Not bad odds, as these things went. Pity he was so tightly shackled, and the armed guard just feet away. Harry had been in worse spots, of course. Problem was, just at the moment, he couldn’t remember when.
Sean woke with the dawn, and groaned. He’d fallen into a deep sleep, in need of every minute of it, but during the night his immobile knee had swollen all the more and was now so stiff it would not bend. At this rate he’d have trouble simply falling out of the car, let alone chasing kidnappers. He tried swinging his leg round and cried out in pain. He sat still for a moment, panting, focusing, cursing, feeling every one of his near-seventy years and a dozen more besides, knowing he had to try again. By the time he’d succeeded in twisting and levering his body out of the car, his cheeks were moist with shame for his uselessness. He placed his injured leg on the ground, put a little weight on it, gasped in agony, even though he had his stick. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it felt like he’d been feckin’ knee-capped. Knee-capped, him! Suddenly he had an image in his mind of Harry, and the bastard was laughing at him.
He straightened himself up to his full height of five foot ten – or was it less than that now, at his age? It had been so long since it mattered, so long since anything much mattered, except this. ‘To hell with you, Mr Harry Bloody Jones,’ he muttered, and with clenched teeth began to hobble down the uneven paving into the Old City.
It was to be a day of reckoning, a day that must inevitably result in someone’s death, yet for Sean it got off to an inauspicious start as he tapped his uncertain way through the streets of the Old City, hoping to see by daylight something he had missed the previous night, and gratified that as he moved his knee seemed to ease a little. But still he found no clue. They were here, somewhere, buried inside this maze, but he had no idea where.
It was the troubadour in the Via San Sebastiano who gave him his first gleam of inspiration. The man was dressed in a simple dark suit of many stains and had bells on his hat, drumsticks strapped to his feet, cymbals on his elbows, a horn at his lips and a stringed instrument in his hands. The level of noise he made was extraordinary as every sound bounced off the nearby walls before running off into the surrounding streets. Sean sipped coffee as he watched the man’s pointed beard twitching and marking time to every beat. After he had finished his repertoire he moved on to a different pitch, and soon Sean could hear the clash of the cymbals and beat of the drum once more snaking through the town.
When he was young Sean had possessed an exceptionally fine voice. Even while the Christian Brothers had been beating him for using his left hand, and four-fold when they found him using it beneath the covers, they’d allowed him to sing solos in the school chapel. ‘And you just remember, while you’re being at it, lad, that Jesus sits at God’s right hand, not his left,’ Father Benedict had told him as he had whipped him yet again. Sean’s voice had been a beautiful, soaring treble that deepened to a bar-filling tenor with age. Now, as the coffee warmed his throat, he was well aware that he hadn’t used it for a while, like so much else, he reflected ruefully, but it was never too late. ‘Time to dust it down and give it a bit of an airing, Sean, me boy,’ he muttered to himself. So he took up the pitch in the doorway of the abandoned building, recently vacated by the troubadour, and began. He looked every bit the street singer. His trousers had been through several adventures, his shoes had lost their shine, the eyes were raw, he had two days of grey stubble on his chin and he was leaning on his stick. But when he dropped his jacket to the pavement in front of him and started to sing, his voice reached into every corner of this narrow square. He began with ‘Danny Boy’, following it with ‘The Wearing o’ the Green’, a rebel ballad, with its searing expressions of hatred for the English, and soon he was back home, many years younger, and far away from this strange and dangerous place.
By the time he finished he had collected several euro coins. He sang another song, then moved his pitch, and did the same several times over in the ensuing hours. He couldn’t linger in any one place, didn’t have time, not if he were to have any chance of covering the troubled streets in this part of town. No one had time, not today.
Harry still clung to a distant hope that he might be able to bluff his way out. When Cosmin appeared, rubbing his finger around his gums and sipping from a mug of coffee, Harry confronted him. ‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded, waving his manacled wrists. ‘You don’t understand.’
He got nothing in reply but the toe of Cosmin’s boot aimed expertly between his ribs.
‘I came here to help you,’ Harry gasped, doubling up with pain as the other man passed nonchalantly by.
Cosmin continued picking his teeth until suddenly he seemed to have found something that surprised him. He stopped, stared suspiciously at his finger, then turned. ‘You want to help? OK, you help. Nelu!’ he cried, summoning the computer
operator, who came tumbling out from the next room. ‘We talk. With Little Shit’s mummy and daddy.’
In Notting Hill, Hiley had moved into a spare room of the Breslin home. With the deadline approaching and the money at last in place, they would need his expertise to nail down the final details, and it was he who answered the summons of Skype. J.J. and Terri hovered close at hand. They were surprised to see that the kidnappers had activated the video link, and their surprise turned to alarm when they saw Harry’s bruised face, with his mouth gagged, emerging from the screen. The picture was very tight, offering no background except a meaningless wall.
‘Have you got my fucking money?’ Cosmin began. No preamble. Just aggression.
‘We must have proof of life, that was the deal,’ Hiley replied, struggling as he watched Harry, knowing what he saw implied disaster.
‘Proof of life? I give you proof of life,’ Cosmin snarled.
They could not see, could only hear, a boot being buried in Harry’s ribs. His face contorted in agony.
‘See! Alive,’ Cosmin mocked.
‘The boy. What about the boy?’
‘He’s here,’ Cosmin replied. ‘Isn’t he?’ He jerked up Harry’s head by the hair until he was staring directly into the camera.
Harry, with his mouth bound, could do no more than wince and nod.
‘We still need to see him,’ Hiley insisted.
‘When I see my money.’
Hiley turned to J.J. and Terri. Whatever hope there had been of Harry releasing Ruari was now gone. They had no option. Slowly J.J. nodded.
‘We have your money. Five million euros,’ Hiley said.
‘Good. But that five million is for the boy. We now have your friend, too. Another million. The price is now six million.’ And he laughed. Sure, this Harry Jones could help all right, by getting them more money. Now they had Simona on board they had to find an extra share, and six million split so neatly between them all.
Old Enemies Page 28