Michael Robotham - Lost

“So what do you plan for?”

“There are two types of drop—the long haul or the quick intervention. The long haul involves a complex set of instructions, making the courier jump through hoops, moving him around from A to B to C, stretching the resources of the police.”

“And the alternative?”

“Well it starts off the same way, sending the courier back and forth between public phone boxes, on or off buses, swapping directions . . . then suddenly, somewhere along the way, something happens. They strike hard and fast, radically changing the plan.”

“For example?”

“Back in the eighties a fellow called Michael Sams kidnapped a young estate agent, Stephanie Slater, and demanded a ransom. Stephanie's boss was the courier. It was a dark, foggy night in an isolated part of South Yorkshire. Sams left messages on telegraph poles and in public phone boxes. He moved the courier around like a chess piece through narrow country lanes until suddenly he stopped the car with a roadblock. The courier had to leave the money on a wooden tray on the edge of a bridge. Sams was down below. He pulled a rope, the tray fell down, and he escaped on a motor scooter along a muddy track.”

“He got away?”

“With £175,000.”

The Professor's eyes betray a glimmer of admiration. Like a lot of people he appreciates ingenuity but this wasn't a game. Michael Sams had already killed a girl.

“Would you have chosen Rachel to be the courier?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You can't expect to make rational decisions when it's your own child involved. They must have nominated Rachel. It's what I would have done in their shoes.”

“OK, what else would you have done?”

“I would have prepared her. I would have gone over the different scenarios and tried to get her ready.”

“How?” Joe points to an empty chair. “Imagine Rachel is sitting here now. How would you prepare her?”

I stare at the empty chair and try to picture Rachel. There were three coffee cups in my kitchen sink. Rachel was with me. Who else? Aleksei perhaps. They were his diamonds.

Closing my eyes I can see Rachel in black jeans and a gray pullover. Until now her appearance has melted into vagueness because of her pain but she's an attractive woman, rather bookish and sad. I can see why Aleksei was drawn to her.

She has her legs together and a soft leather satchel on her lap. Scraps of plastic and confetti-like foam are scattered on the kitchen floor.

“Remember, this is not a done deal,” I say. “This is a negotiation.”

She nods at me.

“They want you to follow blindly but we cannot let them dictate terms,” I tell her. “You have to keep insisting on assurances that Mickey is alive. Keep asking for proof. Say you want to see her and speak to her.”

“But they'll say we have the hair and bikini to prove it.”

“And you'll say they prove nothing. You just want to be sure.”

“What if they want me to drop the ransom somewhere?”

“Don't do it. Demand a straight exchange—Mickey for the diamonds.”

“And if they don't agree?”

“It's no deal.”

Her voice is as fragile as spun glass. “What if they don't bring Mickey? What if they want the diamonds first?”

“You say no.”

“They'll kill her.”

“No! They'll claim that she's alone or hungry or running out of air or water. They'll try to frighten and bully you—”

“But what if . . .” her voice catches, “. . . what if they hurt her?”

I can almost see the penny dropping.

She sobs. “They're going to kill her, aren't they? They'll never let her go because she can identify them . . .”

I cover her hands with mine and make her look at me. “Stop! Pull yourself together. Right now Mickey is their most valuable asset.”

“And afterward?”

“That's why we have to dictate the terms and you have to be ready.”

On my feet now, I stand behind her. “OK, let's practice what you're going to say.” I pull out my cell phone and dial. The phone in front of her begins to ring. I nod toward it.

Uneasily she flips open the receiver. “Hello?”

“DITCH THE FUCKING WIRE!”

She looks up at me and stutters, “What . . . what . . . do you mean?”

“NOW, BITCH! DITCH THE WIRE OR I KILL MICKEY. RIGHT NOW.”

“I'm not . . . I'm not wearing a wire.”

“DON'T LIE TO ME. Dump it out the window.”

“No.”

“SHE'S DEAD. YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE.”

“I'll do whatever you say. Anything. Please. I'm doing it . . .”

Rachel is shaking. I take the phone from her hands and terminate the call.

“OK, he didn't know you had a wire. He bluffed you. You should have called his bluff.”

Rachel nods and takes a deep breath.

We go through the rehearsal again. I want her to be polite and forceful without being confrontational. Disagree but don't challenge. Delay.

“Tell them you're scared. You're new to this. You're nervous. They want control so let them think you're vulnerable.”

For the next two hours we practice, going through the various scenarios. Realistically, I can only instill a handful of ideas. Over and over I repeat the same question. “What are you going to ask?”

“To see Mickey.”

“When are you going to hand over the ransom?”

“When I have Mickey.”

“That's right. When you're holding her by the hand.”

I look into her eyes, hoping to see the same resolve that I witnessed at the first press conference after Mickey had gone missing when Rachel refused to break down or cry. I saw the same determination on the courthouse steps after the verdict when she read from a prepared statement.

“You don't have to go through with this,” I remind her. Rachel doesn't blink or even breathe. Her fingers flutter against the buckles of the satchel.

On the edge of consciousness I hear a phone ringing. Joe leans across his desk and diverts the call. He looks at me expectantly, his left arm jerking like a broken fire hose.

“You remembered something.”

I feel my stomach heave and settle again. “Not enough.”

His arm has stopped shaking. His face assumes a pale blankness except for the brightness in his eyes. Life is one big mystery to him, an ever-shifting puzzle. Most people don't stop to think. Joe can't stop himself from thinking.

Ali has had her phone turned off all evening. Finally she calls me.

“Where have you been?”

“Working. I'm coming home now.”

“Not on my account.”

“I've been working .”

Twenty minutes later she comes through the door, looking different. They say you can tell when a woman has had sex. Maybe I never did it well enough.

Ali has something for me. The Police National Computer confirmed that Gerry Brandt shared a prison cell with Tony Murphy four years ago. Brandt was released on parole two months before Mickey disappeared.

“And how's this for another coincidence,” she says. “Tony Murphy got paroled six months ago—just in time to be involved in all this.”

“How is ‘New Boy' Dave?”

With just a hint of a smile: “He's a very happy bunny.”

Although tired, she sits and goes through her notes. Gerry Brandt disappeared off radar screens the same month that Mickey went missing. Since then there have been no tax returns, social security payments, traffic fines, police cautions or overdue library books . . . He popped up again three months ago when he applied for welfare.

“So tell me, my clever young thing, does Mr. Brandt have a current location?”

“As a matter of fact he does,” she says, holding up her hand. Between her fingers is a small piece of folded paper—an address in South London.