Harlan Coben - Home

“Yes.”

“If he had that kind of freedom-”

“Why didn’t he call home?” Win finished for him. “You know the answer. Stockholm syndrome, fear, he could have been watched, or perhaps he doesn’t remember his old life. He was six when he was taken.”

Myron nodded. “What else?”

“I have people casing the arcade.”

“For?”

Win didn’t answer. “One of my people will follow Fat Gandhi when he leaves. The money will be arriving in approximately ten minutes. Our rooms are adjoining. When he calls you, we move. Other than that…”

“We wait.”

The call came in at four A.M.

Myron scrambled out of sleep and reached for the phone. Win appeared in the doorway, still dressed. He nodded for Myron to answer and held his duplicate phone to his ear.

“Good morning, Mr. Bolitar.”

It was Fat Gandhi. He had done this on purpose, the four A.M. call. Myron understood. He was trying to catch Myron off guard, in the middle of a sleep cycle. He hoped to find Myron disoriented and just slightly off his game. Classic move.

“Hey,” Myron said.

“Do you have the money?”

“I do.”

“Lovely. Please go to the NatWest Bank on Fulham Palace Road.”

“Now?”

“As soon as possible, yes.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“I am aware. There is an employee named Denise Nussbaum, who will be standing by the door. Go to her. She will help you open an account and make the proper deposit.”

“I’m not following.”

“You will, if you listen. Go where I tell you. Denise Nussbaum will give you wiring instructions.”

“You expect me to wire the money to you before I get the boys?”

“No. I expect you to do what I say. The boys will show up once the account is open. When you see them, you will complete the wire transfer to our cybercurrency account. Then you get the boys.”

Myron looked over at Win. Win nodded at him.

“Okay,” Myron said.

“What, Mr. Bolitar, you prefer the old-fashioned way? Did you think I would make you use various red telephone boxes and jump on the Underground and perhaps drop the ransom off in a hollow tree?” Fat Gandhi chuckled. “You watch too much television, my friend.”

Oh boy. “Are we done?”

“Not so fast, Mr. Bolitar. I have a few more, shall we say, requests.”

Myron waited.

“Bring no weaponry of any kind.”

“Okay.”

“You come alone. You will be followed and watched. We realize that you have some sort of backup in this country. Other people working with you. If we see any of them within smelling distance of this transaction, there will be consequences.”

“Now who’s the one watching too much television?”

Fat Gandhi liked that one. “You don’t want to cross me, mate.”

“I won’t,” Myron said.

“Good.”

“But one thing.”

“Yes?”

“I know you’re scary and all,” Myron said. “But so are we.”

Myron waited for a reply, but the phone went dead. Myron and Win exchanged a glance.

“Did he hang up?” Win asked.

“Yes.”

“Rude.”

They sat in the back of the stretch Bentley. Win had put the money in a rather elegant leather suitcase. Myron read the label.

“A Swaine Adeney Brigg bag for a ransom drop?”

“I had nothing cheaper on hand.”

“Do you know Fulham Palace Road?” Myron asked.

“Not well.”

“So where should we drop me off so we won’t be seen?”

“Behind Claridge’s Hotel.”

“That’s near this bank?”

“No. It’s approximately a twenty- to twenty-five-minute ride.”

“I’m not following.”

“I switched out your phone last night.”

“Right, I know.”

“When your rotund friend from the arcade temporarily confiscated said phone, he put a tracking chip into it.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“So he’s been keeping tabs on my location.”

“Well, not yours, of course. I had one of my men bring the phone to Claridge’s. He checked into the hotel under the alias of Myron Bolitar.”

“Did my alias stay in the Davies Suite?”

“No.”

“My alias is used to luxury.”

“Finished?”

“Just about. So Fat Gandhi thinks I’m at Claridge’s?”

“Yes. You’ll go in through the side employee entrance. My man will give you back your phone. He will also place two listening devices on your person.”

“Two?”

“Depending on where you go, they may search you again. They probably won’t find both.”

Myron understood. When Win put tracking devices on cars, he always put one under the bumper-where it could easily be found-and one in a more difficult space to find.

“Use the same safe word,” Win said.

“Articulate.”

“Yes, very nice that you remember.” Win turned and looked at Myron full on. “Use it even if you do not believe it will do any good.”

“Huh?”

“We’ve spent the evening with eyes on the arcade,” Win said. “Your chum Fat Gandhi has not left. No one matching either Patrick’s or Rhys’s description has entered.”

“Theories?”

“He may be holding them in the arcade. We’ve seen signs of”-Win paused, tapped his lip with his finger-“signs of life coming from the basement.”

“Like there’s someone down there?”

“Like there’s more than one someone down there.”

“You using a thermal scanner?”

“We are, but the basement walls are thick. Still…”

“What?”

Win shook it off. The car stopped.

“My man is directly inside on the left. Go in, get your phone, get wired up, catch a taxi to that address on Fulham Palace Road.”

Myron did as Win asked. He had brief flashbacks to his last time in the hotel, to the death and destruction and mayhem that followed, but he pushed them away. Myron didn’t recognize the man who helped him. The man went about his tasks in silence. First, he put a listening device on Myron’s chest under his shirt.

“Yikes, that’s cold,” Myron said.

Nothing.

The man put the second device inside Myron’s shoe. Myron headed out the front door. A uniformed doorman complete with top hat said, “May I help you, sir?”

Gripping the money bag a touch too tightly, Myron did his subtle scan, searching for someone suspicious who might be watching him. There was no one out on the streets yet-no guy leaning against a wall pretending to read a paper or stopping to tie his shoelaces or anything like that.

The only thing maybe worth noting: a gray car with tinted windows down the block on his left.

“Taxi, please.”

The doorman blew a whistle, even though a black Hackney carriage was a car’s length from where Myron stood. He made a big production of opening the door for Myron. Myron fumbled for some change, didn’t have any, gave the doorman a hopeless shrug. The doorman seemed unimpressed. Myron slid into the back, digging the legroom, and gave the driver the bank’s address on Fulham Palace Road.

After three blocks it was clear to Myron that the gray car was following him. Myron knew the line was open between him and Win so that Win could hear everything. But there was no reason to play games with that yet. Myron picked up the phone and put it to his ear.

“You there?”

“I am.”

“There’s a gray car following me,” Myron said.

“Make?”

“I don’t know. I’m not good with cars. You know that.”

“Describe, please.”

“The logo looks like an aggressive lion standing.”

“Gray Peugeot. It’s French. You love the French.”

“Indeed I do.”

Despite its being five A.M., Fulham Palace Road still had plenty of traffic. The taxi dropped Myron off in front of the NatWest Bank. It was, of course, closed. Myron paid the driver and stepped out. The taxi drove off. Myron stood in front of the bank, holding the bag of cash. The bills were “marked”-that is, Win knew the serial numbers on them-but Fat Gandhi had not asked for unmarked bills. Or was that another movie trope? Who checked the serial numbers of bills when you spent money?