Джеймс Паттерсон - Revenge

“Of course,” said Dmitry. His voice went slightly distant. “Mrs. Drake, please tell your husband how well you’re being treated.”

The next voice belonged to Susie: “Guy, I’m all right, they’re being good to me—” She was cut short, as though the phone had been snatched away.

“Sweetheart, honey, I love you,” Drake was saying quickly. The words tumbled out of him. His eyes gleamed with tears. And for a moment, the space of a heartbeat, he looked like a lost child.

“No, no, Mrs. Drake,” they heard as Dmitry returned to the call. “You can have this conversation another time, later tonight, maybe, when you are back home safe and sound, drinking tea and telling of your exciting day with those lovely Chechens, yes?”

“What do you mean, tonight ?” asked Drake. His jaw clenched, chewing.

Shelley and Bennett exchanged a look. They wanted to do the exchange right away. Good news , thought Shelley. They could have got more, but were prepared to settle for £20 million in return for a quick and painless trade.

“I am about to give you the details of an account,” said Dmitry. “Transfer the money from your secret offshore account into that and, when it is done, I will deposit Mrs. Drake at . . .”

Shelley was shaking his head. Drake looked at him, confused, in need of more detail.

“Ah, you’re being coached,” they heard Dmitry say. “It is Captain Shelley again, is it? Put him on, Mr. Drake, so that he can tell me himself what he wants to say.”

Shelley took the phone. “There’ll be no money transfer until we see Susie. When she’s standing there in front of us, unharmed, and when we’re confident that you plan to honor the agreement. Only then are we pushing buttons, got it?”

There was a pause. “We are the ones with the hostage, Captain Shelley,” said Dmitry, firmly but agreeably.

“I’m not disputing that. And believe me, I’ve no intention of trying to double-cross you on this. Just that it makes no sense for us to pay up ahead of time. Don’t take us for fools, Dmitry, because if you do we might be tempted to act like fools. Be straight with us and you’ll get the same in return.”

Dmitry gave a short chortle. “Oh, he drives a hard bargain, and yet I find I have to agree. Let us all meet together and do our business.”

“Tell me what I have to do,” said Drake.

“You do, of course, remember my studio. Not the studio in which your daughter Emma died, but the other one. The one that you burned to the ground. That one. We meet there at midnight tonight. Mr. Drake, do you understand me so far? We will bring your wife, unharmed, to the meeting point, and you will bring the means of transferring the twenty million that you have in your ransom fund to me. When the transfer is made you may have your wife back in one piece. It really is that simple.

“Now, I hardly need to tell you that this negotiation operates on trust. You trust me to bring your wife unharmed. I trust you to provide the money. Because I know that there are police there with you now, I have to insist that the person in charge of the handover comes alone.”

Shelley shook his head and did the slit-throat motion with his finger. Absolutely not. In response, Drake nodded that he’d got the point. “I want to bring one of my men,” he told Dmitry.

Dmitry chuckled. “Mr. Drake, I haven’t finished outlining my terms. And I’m afraid to say that one of these is that you, personally, will not be present at the handover.”

“No, no,” protested Drake, “Susie’s my wife. All this is down to me. I’m coming.”

“No, Mr. Drake,” replied Dmitry almost wistfully, “for you it is all too personal. As you say yourself, it is your temper, your pride that has brought us to this unfortunate crossroads. Besides, your house is crawling with police, is it not? You have to remain where you are. This is the beauty of the plan. This whole transaction will take place under their noses.”

Yes. Shelley could see it. There were police at the house; no doubt there were cops keeping watch on the Chechens, too. Having handed over the money and collected Susie, she would have to be left somewhere and from there contact the police with a story about being dropped off. The cops might suspect collusion; they might think that an exchange had taken place. But with the Chechens and Guy Drake both under surveillance and no evidence of any withdrawal from Drake’s bank account they’d come to the conclusion that the Chechens had got cold feet and released Susie. Providing she was unharmed they were unlikely to continue the investigation with a great deal more enthusiasm. It was virtually end of story.

It was a good, maybe even great, plan. And of course it meant that the Chechens were less likely to feel the heat. Any heat at all.

Mostly, though, it was encouraging for what it suggested to Shelley, which was that the Chechens intended to keep up their end of the bargain. It was in their interests to make sure everything went smoothly.

For that reason Shelley allowed himself to believe this whole shitstorm could have a positive outcome, and instantly reversed his previous reluctance, indicating to Drake that he should accept the plan.

“Good,” said Dmitry, and Shelley thought he detected a note of genuine relief below all the bonhomie. “Then we shall see Mr. Shelley tonight. Shortly after, you will be reunited with your wife, Mr. Drake. We will consider your debt to us paid, and I myself will disregard the insult you have given to me.

“But let that be an end to it, do you hear me, Mr. Drake? You have watched me demonstrate my power. Believe me, you do not want a second example. Good night, sweet dreams.”

CHAPTER 53

THEY HAD POSTED a round-the-clock guard in Lucy’s room, which was a good thing, of course. But it did mean that talking to her was difficult. In the end she and Shelley had a truncated and very one-sided telephone conversation during which he told her the plan for later.

He told her the ins and outs, the way he thought the plan would work and why it was engineered in such a way that he doubted the Chechens planned a double-cross. And when he’d finished she said “Okay,” but in a long-drawn-out fashion that suggested she might have her doubts—doubts they weren’t in any position to discuss. Maybe he was even somewhat grateful that the guard was present, because it meant she wasn’t able to quiz him on all that other stuff bubbling just below the surface: the loyalty, misplaced or not. The sense of duty. The guilt.

“Just be careful,” she told him, which he supposed was about as much as she could say without arousing the suspicions of her guard.

Drake did what Shelley had wanted him to do earlier, he took himself off to bed. A couple of hours after that, Shelley announced he was leaving.

“Really? I thought you were on Mr. Drake’s security team?” said DI Phillips, who himself was preparing to depart for the night.

“You thought wrong. I’m a consultant,” said Shelley, “and I’ve got a wife in the hospital. Bennett will keep me informed of any developments regarding Susie Drake. Otherwise I’m needed in London.”

For a moment he wondered if Phillips was simply going to forbid him from leaving. He could picture the thoughts flashing through the other man’s head. Did he have any legal right to stop Shelley leaving? Was there any investigative justification for making him stay? Phillips, of course, knew that Shelley was friendly with Claridge and had the MI5 man’s trust, his seal of approval. No doubt all of this played a part in his decision. “All right, leave if you must. But don’t think about going too far, will you?”

Shelley briefly considered pressing the point— So what if I do? —then decided against. He made a show of saying goodbye to Bennett and Gurney and that was it. He put Guy Drake’s mansion, with its twisted metal gates and so many memories, to his back, and headed for home.