Stealing People

by Wilson, Robert

  ‘These your real names?’

  They nodded.

  ‘This your house?’

  They nodded again.

  ‘What’s your story?’ asked Boxer. ‘Army?’

  ‘Iraq vets,’ said Rylance.

  ‘How do you know Conrad Jensen?’

  ‘We met when we were on honeymoon in Dubai.’

  ‘What were you then? Freelancers?’

  They nodded.

  ‘What did you do for him in this job?’

  ‘We acted as policemen in the kidnap of Rakesh Sarkar.’

  ‘How much did he pay you?’

  ‘A hundred thousand.’

  ‘Sounds generous.’

  ‘It’s the first time we’ve done anything illegal,’ said Louise. ‘We haven’t been working, needed the money.’

  ‘So how did this part of the operation work?’ asked Boxer. ‘Who asked you to pick up this phone?’

  ‘We got a coded text that meant looking at a website and receiving instructions.’

  ‘What do you do now?’

  ‘We’ve already sent a message saying that we’ve been successful.’

  ‘Are you supposed to destroy the phone?’

  ‘I don’t think they’re taking any chances. Somebody is going to collect. They’ll advise us of the time.’

  ‘Do you know where any of the hostages are?’

  ‘We haven’t seen anyone since the night of the kidnap.’

  ‘Where did you take Rakesh Sarkar that night?’

  ‘We took him to an old warehouse out west. Hayes. The Old Vinyl Factory.’

  ‘Was that where the other hostages were taken?’

  ‘I think so, but I can’t be certain. There was a set-up there. But Rakesh Sarkar was the first kidnap of the night. We delivered him and left.’

  ‘Did you know whether the hostages were going to be moved?’

  ‘We weren’t told anything. We performed our task, that’s all.’

  Boxer sent a text to Mercy about the Old Vinyl Factory and said he’d need to speak to her when she was available.

  ‘And is that it?’ he said. ‘You’re not doing anything else for your hundred grand?’

  ‘We picked up the phone,’ said Louise.

  ‘But that must have been extra. A guy got stabbed and chucked his phone. That wasn’t planned,’ said Boxer. ‘So what else has Jensen asked you to do?’

  ‘There are two other hostages and we’ve been asked to do a twenty-four-hour stint guarding them.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We don’t know. We’re waiting for those instructions.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘That’s what we were told. It might have changed.’

  ‘When will you know?’

  ‘We’re supposed to take over sometime this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you know who you will be taking over from?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Does he know you?’

  ‘No,’ said Rylance. ‘He only knows our names and that there are two of us, a man and a woman.’

  ‘How’s that going to work?’

  ‘They’ll give us a line of code.’

  Forsyth took Mercy up to Emma’s bedroom and asked her to wait outside. She was amazed at Forsyth’s transformation and unnerved by what his openness had revealed. His terminology when talking about Jennifer Cook being ‘interviewed’ had been threatening, and this had been backed up by the ‘interrogators’ he’d referred to later. And putting tracking devices in the truck and money was against the expressed instructions of the kidnappers.

  ‘Don’t be too shocked by her appearance,’ said Forsyth, holding the door closed behind him. ‘It’s the medication.’

  He left Mercy to it. Emma was dressed, but lying on the bed apparently asleep. She certainly wasn’t the same woman. Her hair looked thinner. There were bags under her eyes, her skin had lost its tautness and her face looked slack. Her right hand trembled occasionally.

  Mercy sat on the bed and took Emma’s hand, stroked it and looked out of the window over the rooftops. Emma squeezed Mercy’s hand to get her attention and put her finger to her lips. She got up with surprising agility and put a pillow gently but deliberately down on the dressing table. Mercy frowned at her.

  ‘Don’t think me paranoid,’ said Emma, ‘but they’ve miked the room. I saw them do it. They debugged it when they first came in and now they’ve rebugged it with their own.’

  ‘What’s this about doctor’s supervision?’

  ‘That’s why he’s left us alone this time. I’m supposed to be drugged up to the eyeballs. I don’t take them. I just act completely out of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They didn’t like what I said about Ken the last time we spoke,’ said Emma. ‘The next thing I know, Ryder’s arranged a Kinderman doctor to see me, who prescribed some heavy-duty antidepressants.’

  ‘Ryder said you were upset about Sophie’s kidnap and Conrad’s betrayal. You were devastated and—’

  ‘I am, but I don’t need an oral cosh, which is what they’ve tried to give me.’

  ‘Why stay and be a prisoner in your own home?’

  ‘I want to know what’s going on. I’m not going to take myself out of the orbit of the people who are supposed to be saving my daughter.’

  ‘Supposed to be? They are, Emma,’ said Mercy. ‘Conrad got involved with you so that he could kidnap your daughter.’

  ‘I don’t think it was just that,’ said Emma. ‘Ever since I heard about Conrad’s involvement, I’ve been going over all our conversations in my head. It was protracted, over a period of months, but now that I think about it, he was mostly interested in Ken, and not just the reason we’d bust up. I mean, that’s how it started, him wanting to know why and being sympathetic. But then it continued about Ken’s politics, the people he socialised with, his close contacts, his wider network. It was as if he was trying to piece together a picture from a jigsaw of names.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I keep thinking and listening and I’m very careful about what I say or react to in front of people. Especially Ryder. It’s got easier since I’m supposed to be knocked out. I’ve heard names in the last twenty-four hours that have rung bells with me because I remember Conrad wanting me to go over them again in some of our talks. I mean, that’s what Conrad and I did. We just talked. Something that Ken and I hadn’t done for the last five years we were together.’

  ‘What were these names?’

  ‘Ray Sutherland and Clifford Chase.’

  ‘They’re both senior CIA officers,’ said Mercy. ‘Sutherland is running the CIA operation for this series kidnap and Chase is the London chief of the CIA.’

  ‘Both of them, as Conrad pointed out to me, are intimately involved with Ken and Kinderman. And, as he later found out, hold extreme political beliefs.’

  ‘And that wouldn’t be to the left of centre, I take it?’

  25

  10.30, 17 January 2014

  Wilton Place, Belgravia, London

  ‘First of all, I want everybody here to confirm that the preparation of their contribution to the kidnappers’ demand for expenses is in process,’ said DCS Hines. ‘We’ve just heard that we will be given instructions for delivery of the money at 16.00 hours and that it must be in position by 18.00, which corresponds with the height of London rush hour. Ideally we would like each individual contribution ready by lunchtime so that we can bring it all together in one place with time to spare. It’s going to be a high-security operation and we are going to need every minute of those two hours to position the money.’

  ‘Where is the central collection point going to be?’ asked Ken Bass.

  ‘We’ve decided on New Scotland Yard. It’s secure, and centrally located for all the banks and for wherever the kidnappers decide they want it sent,’ said Hines. ‘If anybody is having trouble putting together their twenty-five million, we should know now. Can we have a show of ha
nds from anybody experiencing difficulty?’

  Hines sensed an atmosphere of subterranean belligerence from the billionaires around the table. Uttar Sarkar and Sergei Yermilov had their arms firmly folded and their chins tucked into their chests. Ken Bass, in a white shirt and sports jacket, no tie, was looking around trying to find another person at the table as intelligently frustrated as he was. Pfeiffer, in three-piece suit and tie, was staring into the highly polished dining room table tapping a pen up and down through his finger and thumb, which was annoying the sizeable figure of Anastasia Casey, hair down to her shoulders as wild as a pro wrestler’s, who had the edge of the table gripped in both hands as if she might be about to turn it over. Only Wú Dao-ming, who was sitting very still, hands folded in her lap, looked in any way forlorn.

  ‘I think everybody’s agreed here,’ said Bass, ‘that, having seen the brutality of the kidnappers, we should do everything in our power to comply with their demands.’

  ‘You should know,’ said Hines, ‘that the way the kidnappers have asked for such a quantity of money to be delivered is very unusual. We’ve consulted around the world on this matter and none of the current experts have been able to work out what’s going on here. The kidnappers will necessarily have to expose themselves, and that will give us an opportunity, which we are well prepared to take.’

  ‘But not at any risk to our loved ones,’ said Bass. ‘I think I’m speaking for everybody here when I say that we are very happy with the way Ryder Forsyth has been handling the kidnappers, but what we need to know is how the Metropolitan Police are doing making progress with finding our children.’

  ‘We were hoping for a free flow of information between ourselves and the CIA,’ said Hines. ‘As it happens, that has been one-way traffic. We have given all the information we’ve gathered, which, I might add, has been quite considerable. Colonel Forsyth’s working relationship with our special investigator DI Mercy Danquah has been excellent by all accounts. We have captured one kidnapper and another is presently wounded and under armed guard in the ICU of the Royal London Hospital. I also understand that a British army intelligence officer, who DI Danquah identified as being involved in some way, is currently being interviewed after an incident in Afghanistan. Despite our extremely assiduous investigations and all-round effective communication, we have had precious little – in fact nothing – in return from the CIA. So perhaps your fellow American, Ray Sutherland of the CIA, would like to take the floor and explain that to us.’

  DCS Hines sat down feeling righteous, expecting to see the CIA crash and burn in front of Ken Bass. Sutherland, though, was looking surprisingly cocky, which was at odds with how he’d been feeling on the inside since the name Conrad Jensen had been associated with this series kidnap. Had he been given the floor half an hour ago, it would have been a pitiful sight. As it was, earlier this morning he had been furnished with a photograph of the injured man being held in the Royal London and they had been able to identify him. It didn’t make him feel any easier, but at least he wasn’t going to look foolish.

  ‘We have been conducting extensive research into the personnel used by US PMSCs and in that process we have been able to narrow down the number of operatives who could possibly have had associations with Conrad Jensen to fifty men and women. When we received the photo ID of the wounded man, we were able to immediately identify him as Chuck Powell.

  ‘Chuck Powell and Conrad Jensen worked together in an interrogation team in a black site just outside Rabat in Morocco from 2003 to 2006. Obviously that was not continuous employment and there were changes of personnel in that team over those years. What we do know is that Jensen and Powell always worked together and we deduce from this that they were close friends as well as associates. We think Powell would be part of the inner core of this kidnap gang and we would urgently like to interview him.’

  ‘He’s still unconscious,’ said Hines. ‘He had a massive internal bleed from a knife wound. The doctors won’t commit as to when we’ll be able to talk to him.’

  ‘As a result of focusing our attention on ex-colleagues of Conrad Jensen and looking at dates given to us by the UK Border Agency, we have now been able to identify three other possible suspects who were in the UK at the time of the kidnappings.’

  While Sutherland handed out a sheet with mug shots of the three suspects, Hines glanced down at his mobile phone. A text from Mercy told him she was on her way with a team from the kidnap unit and Special Firearm Command to the Old Vinyl Factory in Hayes, believed to be where the hostages were held, but from which they had probably now been moved. Hines took great pleasure in announcing this to the gathering. The buzz amongst the police and intelligence officers left the victims’ families bemused.

  ‘Can somebody tell us the significance of this announcement?’ asked Uttar Sarkar.

  ‘Moving hostages is a very difficult thing to do,’ said Hines. ‘The gang is opening themselves up to maximum exposure. It enormously increases our chances of finding where they’re keeping them. We’re also hoping that their exit from this hiding place was as a result of our outside pressure and that they will have left evidence and therefore clues in their rush to vacate the premises.’

  Ray Sutherland sat back, glad to feel the spotlight retrained elsewhere.

  Mercy and Papadopoulos were on their way to the Old Vinyl Factory in Hayes. She called Boxer, who filled her in on how he’d come by the information.

  ‘We need to talk to them,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Boxer, and told her about the Rylances’ additional task later this evening.

  Mercy glanced over at Papadopoulos, who was driving, following the convoy at high speed through west London.

  ‘OK, how’s that going to play out?’

  ‘I’m going to handle it,’ said Boxer. ‘I’m going to deal with the situation as you asked me to do.’

  ‘Do you think that’s strictly necessary?’

  ‘You’ll never work again if I don’t.’

  Mercy closed her eyes at the thought of what she was sanctioning.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Sitting on the floor of their living room,’ said Boxer, gun in one hand, glancing into the room from the corridor.

  ‘Does anybody else know about this?’

  ‘I only know about it because I listened to the news this morning and I knew things from what I witnessed last night,’ said Boxer. ‘When I saw them searching the site for the phone I thought I was going to hit a dead end, then I got lucky.’

  ‘The injured man has been named by the CIA as a PMSC operative called Chuck Powell.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me, but the Rylances might know something.’

  ‘I’ll let you know what we find in the Old Vinyl Factory.’

  Mercy hung up as they arrived at the factory site.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Papadopoulos.

  ‘One of my informers.’

  ‘I realised that.’

  ‘This one’s deep cover. Nobody knows about him. And it’s going to stay like that.’

  The local police were pointing them away from the part of the factory earmarked for redevelopment, down to the other end of the eighteen-acre site. Police presence was even stronger there, and ID had to be shown. They parked up. The Special Firearm Command Unit were looking at a map of the site and deciding how they were going to go in: two through the main entrance and two via the old loading bay.

  The men went in. Mercy and Papadopoulos sat on the car bonnet, watching, along with thirty or more silent policemen. A cold wind was blowing, buffeting the huddled figures with fierce gusts. Mercy sank into the collar of her coat, rammed her gloved hands into the pockets. Everybody flinched and ducked as they heard two distinct but muffled explosions. Mercy and Papadopoulos stood up from the car and ran towards the building

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ shouted Mercy.

  As they reached the entrance, they met the men coming out. They were all rel
axed, brushing themselves off, shaking their heads and laughing nervously.

  ‘Take a look,’ they said.

  They went into the high-roofed warehouse with its rusted triangular steel beams. It was like being on the inside of a snow globe. The air was full of white feathers. In the middle of the floor were two boxes with their lids blown off.

  ‘What the fuck?’ said Papadopoulos.

  ‘Very seasonal,’ said one of the officers.

  ‘They’re taking the piss now,’ said Mercy. ‘Not sure we’re going to get anything out of this.’

  She walked through the space to the line of offices at the far end, stripped off her leather gloves, put on latex and opened a door. There was a smell of bleach. Sitting in a chair was a rag doll frog, legs crossed, looking pleased with itself. Sophie’s Zach, thought Mercy. There was a note pinned to his chest: Proof of life?

  In the other offices were personal items from each of the hostages: a piece of jewellery, a neck chain, a bracelet, an engraved watch, a personalised mobile phone. Mercy told Papadopoulos to collect them up and have them delivered to Wilton Place, where the meeting was still going on.

  ‘We’ve got our work cut out trying to find anything under this lot,’ he said.

  ‘It wasn’t just a joke,’ said Mercy, tearing off her gloves. ‘You know what to do.’

  ‘You’re leaving me with all this shit?’ said Papadopoulos.

  ‘That’s what happens. I get the nice jobs, you get the … not so nice jobs,’ said Mercy. ‘You could start by finding out the type of feathers and who could supply that sort of quantity.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’

  ‘Pursue other lines of inquiry.’

  ‘With that informer?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Why all the secrecy?’ asked Papadopoulos. ‘We’ve hardly done any work together on this one. What’s going on?’

  Mercy went up to him, looked him hard in the eye, piercing right the way through to the back.

  ‘Mercy?’ he said, frowning.