James Patterson - Private London

When it was switched to video-conference mode it connected to Private’s other offices around the world. So that the table seemed to carry on beyond the screen into an identical office. Except in that office it would be Jack Morgan’s team sitting around the table in his octagonal war room, or the crew of our outfits in Rome – or Paris or New York.

Today, though, it was just my team who were there for the briefing.

Around the table were Adrian Tuttle, Wendy Lee, Suzy Malone, Brad Dexter and Sam Riddel.

Sam is my number two at the agency. He was wearing a coal-black three-piece suit and a dark blue tie. He’s a six foot four ex-copper and ex-boxer, and he’s black. He’d never killed a man in the ring, but I wasn’t so sure about out of it. He grew up on one of the worst estates in South London. Two of his brothers were killed before he was ten years old. Killed in the drug-turf wars that were still a feature of everyday life in that part of London. The fact that Sam had survived it, had never turned to the dark side as it were, meant he could pretty much survive anything in my book.

Suzy was in her early thirties. Ex-Metropolitan Police. Five foot six, auburn hair, fifth-degree black-sash Wing Chun kung fu, Third Dan kick-boxing, a marksman, a loyal friend, a deadly enemy, openly bisexual and one of my favourite people in the whole world. The Met Police’s loss was decidedly our gain. Likewise Brad Dexter. Early fifties, built like an American-style fridge, he had taken early retirement from the close-protection unit of the Met. He now headed up our personal-security division.

‘Okay, guys,’ I said as I picked up a small white remote-control unit from the desk. ‘Everything else is off the agenda. What I am going to tell you about now needs our total focus. Jack Morgan would be flying over himself to head this up, but he can’t. He’s subpoenaed to appear in federal court and can’t leave the country.’

‘What’s going on, Dan?’ asked Wendy Lee.

I pointed the remote control at the TV and clicked the on button. I would say it was state-of-the-art Apple and Sony TV technology – but it wasn’t, Apple wouldn’t be bringing their version out for a year or so.

As it was, I wasn’t using the sophisticated conference facility – I was just using it for a slide show.

First up was a recent picture of Hannah Shapiro. I couldn’t believe it was the same nervous girl I had brought over from America less than eighteen months ago. Chloe had told me that Hannah had come out of herself a lot, becoming more confident and outgoing. But the transformation was incredible, even so.

Hannah looked bold, comfortable and gorgeous. Her hair now full and wavy, a tumble of deep brunette curls. Her eyes bright, a killer smile. Her figure was more shapely, filled out – she had become a woman. A very sexy one at that.

I felt guilty thinking it. Remembering the small nervous hand holding mine on that bumpy flight. She was like a completely different person.

‘Hannah Shapiro,’ I said. ‘Registered at Chancellors University under the name “Hannah Durrant”.’

‘Why the name change?’ asked Lucy.

‘Her father is Harlan Shapiro. A very wealthy West Coast industrialist. Electronic systems. Communications.’

‘And…?’ Wendy Lee asked.

I took a sip of my coffee, remembering what Jack had told me the night before. Hannah’s mother hadn’t died of cancer like she had told me on the flight. She had died in circumstances almost too horrific to take in.

‘A good few years ago,’ I replied, ‘on Hannah’s twelfth birthday, she and her mother were kidnapped. A ransom was demanded. A ransom that her father didn’t pay.’

‘What happened?’ Lucy again. Sam wasn’t saying anything – I’d briefed him last night. He knew who Chloe was, too – and what she meant to me.

‘The people who took them, Vincent Cabrello and John Santini, were a couple of low-life hoodlums who had fallen foul of some connected people in New York State. They hightailed it over to the West Coast to lie low, enjoy some sunshine and make what they figured would be some easy pickings.’

‘And they picked on Hannah Shapiro and her mother?’ Suzy asked.

I nodded. ‘The kidnapping wasn’t planned. Hannah and her mother weren’t specifically targeted.’

‘Opportunistic?’

‘Seems that way. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cabrello and Santini, pumped up on speed and bourbon, waited in their van in an underground car park. They just planned to take the first likely candidate they saw. They figured that anybody shopping in this particular mall would have serious money, and they were right…’

I pointed at the picture of Hannah. ‘They hit the jackpot with Hannah and Jessica Shapiro. Only trouble was, they were bringing another lightning storm down on their heads at the same time. And this one they wouldn’t be able to run away from.’

‘Jack Morgan,’ Sam grunted.

I nodded.

‘Jessica Shapiro told her captors exactly who she and Hannah were, what they were worth and said she was a hundred per cent certain that her husband would pay the ransom.’

‘But he didn’t,’ Wendy Lee said.

‘No. John Santini contacted Harlan Shapiro and gave him a couple of days to come up with the money. No police or all bets were off and then he would be collecting his wife and daughter in plastic bags. Given their history as enforcers for East Coast organised crime it was no idle threat. Not that Harlan Shapiro knew that, of course. He is a man used to getting his own way.’

I took a sip of my coffee. ‘Harlan Shapiro decided to make a stand. Like his government he was going to stand firm in the face of terrorism, as he saw it. He needed a private detective agency known for getting the job done. One that would not hesitate if lethal force was required. One that wouldn’t be hamstrung with legal bureaucracy and Miranda rights, etc., etc. One that would get his wife and daughter back safe. He never believed that if he paid the money the kidnappers would make good on their promise. Most likely he was right.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ Sam agreed.

‘Yeah, so he went to a private-investigation outfit he had used a few times before. Run by a guy called Prentiss who assigned Jack Morgan to the case.

‘Right off the bat Jack advised Harlan Shapiro to pay the ransom. From what he had heard of the operation he deduced they were dealing with a couple of chancers whose ambitions far outstretched their likely experience. Pay the ransom and he could practically guarantee they would trace the kidnappers down, recover the money and deliver them to justice.’

‘But Shapiro didn’t listen to him?’ asked Suzy.

I shook my head. ‘No. He didn’t.’

‘Jack obviously managed to get them back, though?’ asked Lucy puzzled.

‘Not entirely. He saved Hannah. But not before she was forced to watch her mother being raped by Vincent Cabrello and murdered by John Santini.’

‘That’s awful.’

‘You’ve got to remember that Jack didn’t have the resources of Private behind him at the time, Lucy. When he got there he was too late for Jessica but at least he saved Hannah.’

‘What happened to the kidnappers?’

I smiled bleakly. ‘Let’s just say they didn’t make it to trial.’

‘You reckon the two cases are connected?’ asked Brad Dexter.

I shook my head.

‘I can’t see how. Cabrello and Santini were operating independently. Their ties to the East Coast were cut. This was their cock-up, pure and simple. So whoever has her now has nothing to do with that first abduction. That’s the one thing we can be a hundred per cent sure of.’