by Susan Lewis
Laurie had become very still. Her heartbeat was a thick, dull thud. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. ‘Oh, hi, Rhona,’ she managed. ‘I’m fine. How are you?’
‘OK,’ Stan responded. ‘Now, you need to get out of that car as soon as you possibly can.’
Already fear was rushing at her in a way she couldn’t handle for long so this was not what she wanted to hear. ‘Uh, OK,’ she responded. ‘Um, why would that be?’
‘The woman driving it isn’t Sandra Chettle.’
Even though she’d known he was going to say that, his words were like an explosion inside her head. ‘Oh, I see. Then who?’ she asked sweetly.
‘I don’t know. We’re still tracing the car. But Sandra Chettle drives a Volvo and is, right now, at her desk in the City.’
Absurdly, embarrassingly, she suddenly wanted to cry. ‘That’s nice,’ she responded. ‘So where are you?’
‘Not where you want me to be. Is there any way you can tell me where you are?’
‘Oh no, not really,’ she said chirpily, her words sounding like a single high note breaking through the thunderous rush in her ears.
‘Country? Town?’
‘I’d say the first.’
‘Did you go east or west out of London.’
‘Again the first, then it seemed to go up.’
The woman was throwing her glances now, obviously becoming suspicious. ‘OK, well, thanks for letting me know, Rhona,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Stan told her. ‘Just keep your head, we’ll find you – and first chance you get, bail that car and call me.’
Laurie rang off and stared out at the passing scenery, her hands clasped tight to her mobile. Who the hell was this woman, if she wasn’t Sandra Chettle? What did she want? Where was she taking her? She didn’t look at her, nor did she speak. She was trying to force her mind round what she should do, how she was going to get out of that car. But they were in the middle of nowhere, for God’s sake. How the hell was she supposed to know where to go even if she managed it?
Her chest was hardly letting in air as she looked round, casually, trying to spot the central door-locking button. She had to force herself to remain calm. She couldn’t allow her imagination any freedom at all, or she’d start to panic. The fact that her life was flashing before her eyes had to be ignored. It was an overreaction. She wasn’t really in any danger. The woman was probably some kind of government agent. The thought jarred in her brain, for there was no comfort in it at all – quite the reverse, in fact.
Get a grip, she screamed silently at herself. Just think about the dashboard. Logic told her the lock release should be somewhere in the middle, putting it well within her reach. But the connection between her eyes and her brain seemed not to be working, because though she was registering the buttons, they weren’t meaning anything. And even if she managed to jab the right one, the car was going much too fast for her to jump out. Then there was her seat belt. And what about her bag, and computer? Should she leave them? Oh God, she had to think faster because the car was starting to slow down. She might get the chance to jump. But what if the woman was carrying a gun? And even if she wasn’t, where the bloody hell was she going to run to? There was nothing but country lanes and fields, cart tracks, haystacks, isolated barns …
She noticed a car up ahead was pulled in to the side of the road. Please God, let there be someone in it she could signal to. She had to get the window down so they could hear her. She lowered her right hand to the panel between the seats, fumbling for the controls. The woman’s presence was overwhelming her, making her afraid to move. But no, it was her own fear doing that. The woman was only looking at the road ahead. She looked too, and saw two men getting out of the parked car ahead.
She was about to push hard on the window control when she realized the Mercedes was stopping. She turned towards the woman, then back to the men. They were standing behind their car now. The Mercedes was pulling up alongside them; the two cars were so close that the wing mirrors touched. There was no way Laurie could get her door open.
‘What are you doing? What’s happening?’ she demanded, anger breaking through her fear.
The woman’s eyes were on the rear-view mirror.
One of the back doors opened. Laurie spun round as the two men got in. Something close to terror was hammering her chest. ‘Answer me,’ she cried. ‘I thought we were going to talk.’
‘It’s all right,’ the woman told her, accelerating away from the parked car. ‘No one’s going to harm you.’
Laurie’s eyes were wild. ‘What do you mean? Harm me? What’s going on?’
‘We just need to ask you some questions,’ the woman explained.
‘About what? Who are they?’ Laurie’s voice was turning shrill.
‘Not much further now,’ the woman assured her.
Laurie sat tightly in her seat, not knowing what else to do. This was about Ashby’s interview, of course, and the code. They hadn’t been able to break it, and now, just as she’d feared, they’d come to find out how much she knew. She could hardly believe how easily she’d walked into the trap. They’d set it up the night before with a phone call. Then this morning they’d just driven into her street, called her over to the car, right in front of Stan, and it hadn’t even occurred to her that the woman was lying when she’d said she was Sandra Chettle. All she’d thought of then was how good she was going to feel when she told Elliot that one of the Bank of England’s senior executives had talked to her. Dear God, what a fool! Just how naïve was she that she hadn’t seen through something so simple? But berating herself now wasn’t going to help. She had to think of a way out of here, and she had to think fast. Sobbing like a baby wasn’t going to help, even though that was what she was very close to doing.
‘If you don’t mind,’ the woman said, ‘there’s a blindfold in the glove compartment.’
Laurie gaped at her. The last thing in the world she wanted was to cover her eyes.
‘Please,’ the woman said politely. ‘It’ll only be for a few minutes.’
‘Why? Where are we going?’ Laurie demanded.
The woman’s smile was thin as she reached over and popped open the glove box.
Laurie drew back. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘I’m not putting on a blindfold.’
The woman brought the car to a stop. Laurie lunged frantically at the dashboard, trying to release the door, but the seat belt held her back. She looked at the woman in dread. Was she going to force the blindfold on her? Oh God, just how bad was this going to get?
‘Please put it on,’ the woman said, taking it out and holding it towards her.
Laurie stared at it, but didn’t take it.
‘I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,’ the woman told her.
Laurie looked at her again, then gasped as one of the men in the back seat clamped her head between his hands and held it still. ‘Let me go!’ she seethed. ‘Let me go! I’ll do it myself.’
Though her hands were shaking as she put the blindfold in place, real anger, for the moment, was staving off the panic. The way Sophie Long’s name had been used as a warning was now ringing in her ears, and that Stan hadn’t been able to trace the car, they just weren’t things she could allow herself to think about. She had to concentrate on how to handle this, try to get away if she could, and if she couldn’t then she’d have to pray to God that they didn’t resort to anything physical in order to extract information, when there was every chance she didn’t know enough to make them stop.
Elliot was in a Greenwich Village bar, drinking Diet Coke through a tall glass of ice when Tom Maykin, a short, wiry man in his mid-forties, arrived.
‘Elliot, it’s good to see you again,’ he said, appearing not in the least perturbed by the way Elliot’s superior height dwarfed him. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Fair. What about you? What’re you having?’
‘Miller Lite,’ Maykin said to the barman, while looking round t
o see who else was in. Since it was a small place, with only a couple of tables over by the pinball, it was a quick scan that told him he and Elliot were the only early lunchtime drinkers. ‘So you’ve got wind of this euro business,’ he said coming straight to the point.
Elliot picked up his drink and gestured for them to go and sit at a table.
‘So how d’you pick up on it?’ Maykin asked.
‘Couple of different ways,’ Elliot answered. ‘One of them was a murder.’
Maykin slanted him a look.
‘Colin Ashby’s girlfriend,’ Elliot expounded.
‘Oh, yeah, right.’ Maykin nodded grimly. ‘Ashby’s girlfriend. Did he do it?’
‘I don’t know. He says not.’
Maykin gave a short laugh, then waited for the barman to put down his beer before picking it up. He took a long sip, then said, ‘This syndicate you mentioned on the phone – I’ve being making some calls. Very discreet, you know, a question here, surmise there … Tell me, how much do you know about it?’
‘Just that it exists, and that its operatives or members seem to reach into virtually every field of government and finance there is.’
Maykin sucked in his lips.
‘What do you know about it?’ Elliot asked.
‘I’m not as up to speed as you are, but yeah, I can see your assessment has merit,’ Maykin replied. ‘And I get the feeling its upper echelon is going to consist of the kind of folk you don’t go messing with just to get next week’s headline.’
‘Do you know who any of them are?’
‘There are a few I’d find easy to suspect, but I don’t know any for sure. What about you?’
Elliot listed the names he’d got from the businessman, Alan Edwards, and the handful of others that had come up as a result of the searches since. The last name he mentioned was Marcus Gatling.
‘Ah, yes, Gatling,’ Maykin responded. ‘The great British bulldog as they call him here. It would stand to reason he was involved. And no doubt his lady wife too. Did you know they’re here in the States right now?’
‘No. Where?’
‘Santa Barbara. Hal Drummond’s got a place there. You know who he is?’
‘Ohio Drummonds? Third-generation steel.’
‘And big-time donor to the Republican Party. Apparently there’s some kind of billionaire’s convention going on at his Santa Barbara mansion right now, because Abe Kleinstein’s there, the media mogul, Hank Wingate, Texas oil, Yoroshito, the telecom giant from Japan, Hans Brunner, the Hong Kong banker you mentioned, there are a couple of mining and chemicals hotshots in from Mexico, some other media guy from Asia … Hell, there’s a dozen or more there, by all accounts.’
‘How do you know?’
‘A contact on the West Coast told me. No news in it, though; just a bunch of rich guys getting together for a party.’
‘No politicians on the guest list?’
‘Not that we know of. My guess is they get dealt with privately and individually.’
‘Of course,’ Elliot murmured, feeling curious to know what kind of dialogue, promise and coercion was used at those meetings.
‘So what about Ashby – was he a part of it?’ Maykin asked.
‘I haven’t spoken to him personally, but he’s claiming he turned the offer down.’
Maykin looked incredulous. ‘Do you believe that?’
‘Do you?’
Maykin shrugged. ‘As I understand it,’ he said, ‘we’re talking about the kind of money – and incentive, if you get my meaning – that no one turns down.’
Elliot nodded. That was the way he saw it too, and incentive was a good euphemism for the kind of intimidation they’d no doubt use as collateral on silence if anyone showed reluctance – like Ashby? ‘Is anyone here investigating them?’ he asked.
‘I could probably put you in touch with some interested parties. But as for any kind of in-depth research, I don’t know that anyone’s really got into it.’
‘Would you be prepared to?’
Maykin didn’t even hestitate. ‘Are you kidding? I want to live, man.’ Then with a grin, ‘Count me in, and I know a good lawyer if you want to make a will.’
Elliot drained his glass, then said, ‘Have you come up with any thoughts on why Ashby put me on to you?’
Maykin frowned and stared down at his beer. ‘Not really,’ he answered. ‘But I can tell you this, we go back a long way, him and me, and until now I’d have trusted him the same way I trust you. After this murder business –’ he sighed and shook his head – ‘I don’t know any more.’
‘We’re getting a lot of cross-signals from him,’ Elliot said. ‘First he won’t talk, then he tells a tale that’s got more loose ends than story and gives us virtually nothing to tie them up with. The names he’s delivered so far are proving uncontactable, with the exception of yourself, whom I already knew and would have been in touch with anyway. Would he have known that? Have you two ever discussed me?’
‘Not that I recall. Maybe in passing once or twice.’
Elliot thought of Heather Dance, whom the message had come through, then of Beth Ashby. ‘His wife’s in LA,’ he said. ‘Apparently the marriage is over, or that’s what they want us to think. There’s some confusion around one of his mistresses too, that we’re working on. Have you ever met Beth Ashby? Do you know her at all?’
‘Not well. What’s she doing in LA?’
‘I’m told some film company’s turning her book into a feature.’
‘What book?’
‘It’s not out yet, but it’s been the subject of some interesting events during the past month or so. Someone stole a copy of the manuscript from the publisher, and it’s my guess that someone was working for Gatling.’
‘Wanting an advance look at what’s in the book,’ Maykin stated. ‘Do you know what is?’
Elliot shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘And now she’s in LA?’
‘With a whole new look.’
‘What’s your theory on it?’
‘I don’t have one, or not one that I can make fit. I’ve got a feeling she should be watched, though. She either knows something, or is up to something that could prove … let’s say useful. Do you have anyone out there who can check on her?’
‘Sure. No problem. I just need the name of the company making the film, we’ll track her down that way.’
‘I can do better. Ashby’s lawyer will have her address. I’ll get it from him.’
Maykin said, ‘So who’s spoken to Ashby if you haven’t?’
‘Laurie Forbes. She’s a staff writer on one of the broadsheets, but she’s kind of on the team too.’
Maykin grimaced. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘She’s new.’
Maykin shrugged. If someone new was OK with Elliot, they were OK with him. ‘So which angle are you pursuing first?’ he said, moving on. ‘Financial or political?’
As an answer Elliot explained about the trends in exchange and interest rates that were seeing a gradual weakening of the euro and corresponding strengthening of the pound and dollar. ‘There’s also a lot of resistance from the British Government to joining the ERM that just doesn’t add up,’ he said. ‘We’ve got industry giants such as Nissan, Mitsubishi, you name it, threatening to pull out of the UK if it doesn’t happen soon, which is going to be disastrous for the economy if they do, and the right sort of questions aren’t being asked in the House. Or if they are, the askers are being fobbed off with inconsequential, and even insupportable reasons for the delay. Or they’re told the people don’t want it, which appears to be true, though polls are easily rigged. My guess is the Opposition is being manipulated too. They have to be, or there would be all hell to pay over the deliberate fudging of crucial issues; and the effects of rising interest rates make for some lethal ammunition for any opposing party. So why aren’t they using it?’
‘Some are,’ Maykin told him.
‘Of course, but they’re in a minority and it’s
turning into a lot of hot air.’
‘Do you think this minority is aware of what’s happening?’
‘They’re sure to have suspicions, but frankly, all we’ve got is suspicions. There’s no real evidence to say we’re right about the way it’s going to go.’
Maykin gazed thoughtfully down at his beer. Then, finishing it, he signalled to the barman for another round. ‘OK,’ he said, when their glasses had been cleared, ‘the guy you need to talk to here is Wheeler Nash. He knows everything there is to know about foreign exchange. He was with Merrill Lynch for years, ran everything from currencies to commodities. He’s at Jarret-Loring now, you know, the wet-dream hedge fund, heading up the whole shebang. If anyone can tell you where this is going, he can – unless he’s a part of it, of course. But we’re always going to be up against that, and as soon as any of them get wind of these enquiries … well, who knows, we might get invited to the party?’
‘Anyone else?’ Elliot said, jotting down the name of Nash’s company.
Maykin shook his head. ‘Not right now. Most of my regulars have been struck with a mysterious speech disorder since we first discussed this on the phone.’
‘Speech disorder?’
‘They don’t talk any more. Not about this, not about anything. Frankly, with some of them, it’s as if they stopped knowing me. Now, doesn’t that tell you something?’
Elliot’s eyebrows rose. ‘So how do I get hold of Wheeler Nash?’ he said.
Maykin took the notebook and scribbled down a couple of numbers and an address. ‘That’s his home,’ he said, tapping the pencil against the address. ‘I’ll speak to him when I leave here, tell him to expect your call. In the meantime, I say we keep watching the dollar. Look at who gains when it rises, look at who gains when it falls – then try to find who never loses.’
Elliot regarded him closely. They already had a pretty good idea of who never lost; it was just a question of how to prove it. ‘I get a feeling a lot of this is going to turn out to be just this side of legal,’ he said.
‘Sure, they’ll know how to use the law. But there’ll be some discrepancies in there somewhere, and if we can get a handle on it, believe you me, legal or not, the whole thing’ll go sky high. Shit, how can it not? Some greedy-bastard oligarchy playing twenty-first-century Monopoly with entire nations and their economies …’ He threw out his hands to rest his case.