James Patterson - Private London

‘Someone’s rotten on your team, Dan. Someone set you up.’

Harlan Shapiro wasn’t much to look at.

But then, what are multibillionaires supposed to look like? He was a small, quiet man. Dustin Hoffman’s shy cousin, perhaps.

He had been angry, naturally, when I explained what had happened at Parliament Square but hadn’t gone ballistic, which surprised me a little. One thing all billionaires have in common – they’re used to getting their own way.

Del Rio was exactly as I remembered him, though: hard as nails and a man of few words. But when he spoke people listened, or they did if they knew what was good for them.

I hadn’t told Harlan what Kirsty had said to me but I outlined it to Del Rio who was with me in my office drinking black coffee. Their flight had been delayed and hadn’t landed until just after ten o’clock. About the same time the blacked-up Morris dancers had disappeared into the crowds. You would have thought their distinctive costumes would have made them easy to spot. But by the time the chaos had been brought under control they had long gone.

I held a hand to my cheek, remembering the slap Kirsty had given me. Maybe she cared after all.

Del Rio put his cup down. ‘Your ex-wife reckons we’ve got a rotten apple in Private?’ he said.

‘It makes sense.’

‘You got any theories?’

‘No, and I can’t see the point in the play. What do they get out of it?’

‘How many people here knew about the drop?’

‘We took a big team out there, covering all the exits.’

‘So it could have been pretty much anybody in your outfit?’

I nodded. ‘Or Stateside,’ I said.

‘How do you figure?’

I opened a desk drawer and flipped a picture of the dark-suited American who’d been with Brendan Ferres and Ronnie Allen at his pub last night.

‘I kept thinking this has nothing to do with the original kidnapping. Nothing to do with America. But now I don’t know.’ I tapped on the photo. ‘Do you know this guy?’

Del Rio tilted his chin slightly and worked his jaw muscles as he looked at the picture. ‘Wiseguy, name of Sally Manzino. East Coast. Importer and exporter.’

‘I take it we’re not talking coffee beans.’

‘He’s on the payroll of the Noccia family. Not the mobile-phone people. Sally Manzino is their East Coast connection. Private has had dealings with the family before. What’s the connection?’

‘This man’ – I pointed to a photo of Brendan Ferres – ‘was seen entering the university where Hannah was studying, a couple of hours before she was abducted. He works for a piece of work called Ronnie Allen.’

‘I’ve heard the name.’

‘He denies any connection with the kidnapping.’

‘You buy it?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s not his usual line and if he knew what Harlan Shapiro was worth, then if he had taken the girl he’d be asking for a lot more than a million pounds’ worth of pretty stones.’

‘It’s not exactly chump change, but I take your point. So what’s his story?’

‘Snake Ferres reckons he was making a delivery.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Yeah. Tertiary-educational institutions in our country are not exactly immune from drug abuse. And in the main the students at Chancellors come from money. They can afford the good stuff.’

‘And Ronnie Allen can provide it?’

‘He certainly can.’

‘I’ll speak to Jack. Check them out.’

‘If Noccia is involved in the kidnapping, is he likely to say so?’

‘Depends how you ask the question,’ Del Rio said.

He had a point. I finished my own coffee and my mobile rang as Sam came into the office. I waved him in, looked at the caller ID and saw that the number had been withheld. I answered it, clicking it to loudspeaker.

‘Dan Carter.’

The same mechanical voice as before boomed out.

‘You were told not to talk to the police, Mister Carter.’

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to listen to me…’

‘No, you have to listen to me,’ he said. ‘You were told not to speak to the police and you were told what the consequences would be if you did so.’

‘It wasn’t us,’ I said, keeping my voice level.

There was a pause. ‘You get one more chance, Mister Carter.’

I sighed quietly. ‘Go on…’

‘As is traditional in these kind of negotiations, when instructions are ignored you get penalised. The fee has gone up to five million. Same deal. Flawless stones. Five million pounds’ worth.’

‘Where and when?’

‘Two o’clock this afternoon. Eastbound platform for the Metropolitan Line. Finchley Road Tube station. Have Harlan Shapiro with you. Anyone else and the consequences will be terminal. Her father is to make the drop.’

‘If I can arrange-’

‘He’s in the country, Mister Carter. Please don’t take us for fools. That’s the deal. It is not negotiable.’

‘Okay.’

‘Trust us, this is your last shot. Sit on the second bench heading towards the end of the platform and put him on the first Metropolitan train to Baker Street. Not a Jubilee Line train.’

‘How do I know Hannah Shapiro isn’t already dead?’

‘Check your email, Mister Carter. There’s all the information you need.’

The line went dead.

I walked around my desk and sat down, pulling my keyboard towards me and angling my monitor so Del Rio and Sam could see it.

I opened my mailbox and there were three new messages.

Two of them were unrelated but the third was from a similar random numbers and letters address as the first YouTube message I had received. The subject line read Last Chance Saloon.

I opened the email and sure enough the message was the same as the first – another hyperlink to a YouTube address.

I clicked on the hyperlink and it opened to a dark screen in the video panel. I clicked on the play icon and after a second or so it faded up on the same room as before. This time, however, Hannah Shapiro was sitting on a chair. She was still wearing the same black underwear, and her face was scrubbed clean of any make-up. She looked like the girl I had first met. Young, vulnerable and very afraid.

She had good reason to be.

What was different this time was that she had explosives strapped around her body. Wires connecting the various packages, suicide bomber-style. Rope hung again from one wrist and the other hand held a typewritten note.

She looked at the camera, her voice trembling.

‘They want you to know,’ she said, ‘that this bomb I am wearing can be triggered remotely. Any attempt to do anything other than what you are instructed to do and it will be detonated. Likewise if you attempt to deliver fake diamonds. They will be examined and if they are not genuine the device will be detonated. If police are there again as they were this morning, the device will be detonated.’

She let the paper fall to the floor as tears welled in her large, terrified eyes.

‘Please help me,’ she added in a desperate whisper.

The screen faded to blackness and I rewound the video and paused it. Looking at the devices strapped to her body.

‘They look genuine to you?’ asked Sam.

‘Yup,’ I replied.

‘We have to tell the police, then.’

‘Can’t do that,’ Del Rio said softly.

Sam held his hands up. ‘We can’t let a walking bomb get on the London Underground.’

‘We go to the police and they’ll kill her,’ I said to Sam.

‘What is it they call it – collateral damage?’ he persisted.

‘They’re not going to do anything, Sam. They want the money, is all. It’s business.’

Del Rio worked his jaw muscles again. ‘We have to protect the client,’ he said. ‘That’s our job here. We save the girl.’