Dick Francis - The Danger

'I will kill you,' he said again: and I thought yes, perhaps, but not for that.

'It's bad English,' I said. 'You could have written it better yourself.'

He let the tape recorder's weight fall back into the bag. 'Are 262

you Telling me,' he asked with incredulity, 'that you are not reading this because of the style literary?'

'Literary style,' I said. 'Yes.'

He turned his back on me while he thought, and after a while turned back.

'I will change the words,' he said. 'But you will read only what I say. Understand? No…' he searched for the words but said finally in Italian, 'no code words. No secret signals.'

I thought that if I kept him speaking English it might fractionally reduce my disadvantage, so I said, 'What did you say? I don't understand.'

He narrowed his eyes slightly. 'You speak Spanish. The maid at the hotel said you were a Spanish gentleman. I think you also speak Italian.'

'Very little.'

He pulled the paper from his jacket and found a pen, and, turning the sheet over, began to write a new version for me, supporting it on the bag. When he'd finished, he showed it to me, holding it so that I could read.

In elegant handwriting the note now said:

I AM ANDREW DOUGLAS. JOCKEY CLUB, COLLECT TEN MILLION ENGLISH POUNDS. TUESDAY, SEND CERTIFIED BANKER'S DRAFT TO ACCOUNT NUMBER ZL327/42806, CREDIT HELVETIA, ZURICH, SWITZERLAND. WHEN THE BANK CLEARS THE DRAFT, MORGAN FREEMANTLE RETURNS. AFTER THAT, WATT. POLICE MUST NOT INVESTIGATE. WHEN ALL IS PEACE, I WILL BE FREE. IF THE MONEY IS NOT ABLE TO BE TAKEN OUT OF THE SWISS BANK, I WILL BE KILLED.

'Well,' I said. 'It's much better.'

He reached again for the tape recorder.

'They won't pay ten million,' I said.

His hand paused again. 'I know that.'

'Yes. I'm sure you do.' I wished I could rub an itch on my nose. 'In the normal course of events you would expect a letter to be sent to your Swiss account number from the Jockey Club, making a more realistic proposal.'

He listened impassively, sorting the words into Italian, understanding. 'Yes," he said.

They might suggest paying a ransom of one hundred thousand pounds,' I said.

'That is ridiculous.'

'Perhaps fifty thousand more, to cover your expenses.'

'Still ridiculous.'

We looked at each other assessingly. In the normal course of events negotiation of a ransom price was not conducted like this. On the other hand, what was there to prevent it?

'Five million,' he said.

I said nothing.

It must be five,' he said.

'The Jockey Club has no money. The Jockey Club is just a social club, made up of people. They aren't all rich people. They cannot pay five million. They do not have five million.'

He shook his head without anger. 'They are rich. They have five million, certainly. I know.'

'How do you know?' I asked.

His eyelids flickered slightly, but all he said again was, 'Five million.'

'Two hundred thousand. Positively no more.'

'Ridiculous.'

He stalked away and disappeared between the laurel bushes, and I guessed he wanted to think and not have me watch him at it.

The Swiss bank account was fascinating, I thought: and clearly he intended to move the money more or less at once from ZL327/42806 to another account number, another bank even, and wanted to be sure the Jockey Club hadn't thought of a way of stopping him or tracing him, or laying a trap. As some of England 's top banking brains could be found either in or advising the Jockey Club, his precautions made excellent sense.

One victim in return for the ransom itself.

One victim in return when the ransom had disappeared into further anonymity.

Morgan Freemantle for money, Andrew Douglas for time.

No drops to be ambushed by excitable carabinieri: no stacks of tatty - and photographed - notes. Just numbers, stored electronically, sophisticated and safe. Subtract the numbers from the gentlemen of the Jockey Club, add the total, telex is to Switzerland.

With his money in Zurich, Giuseppe-Peter could lose himself in South America and not be affected by its endemic inflation. Swiss francs would ride any storm.

Alessia's ransom, at a guess, had gone to Switzerland the day it had been paid, changed into francs, perhaps, by a laundryman. Same for the racecourse owner, earlier. Even with the Dominic operation showing a heavy loss, Giuseppe-Peter must have amassed an English million. I wondered if he had set a target at which he would stop, and I wondered also whether once a kidnapper, always a kidnapper, addicted: in his case, for ever and ever.

I found I still thought of him as Giuseppe-Peter, from long habit. Pietro Goldoni seemed a stranger.

He came back eventually and stood in front of me, looking down.

I am a businessman,' he said.

'Yes.'

'Stand up when you talk to me.'

I thrust away the first overwhelming instinct to refuse. Never antagonise your kidnapper: victim lesson number two. Make him pleased with you, make him like you; he will be less ready to kill.

Sod the training manual, I thought mordantly: and stood up.

'That's better,' he said. 'Every time I am here, stand up.'

'All right.'

'You will make the recording. You understand what I wish to say. You will say it.' He paused briefly. 'If I do not like what you say, we will start again.'

I nodded.

He pulled the black tape recorder from the leather bag and switched it on. Then he plucked the sheet of instructions from his jacket pocket, shook it open, and held it, with his own version towards me, for me to read. He gestured to me to start, and I cleared my voice and said as unemotionally as I could manage:

'This is Andrew Douglas. The ransom demand for Morgan Freemantle is now reduced to five million pounds -'

Giuseppe-Peter switched off the machine.

'I did not tell you to say that,' he said intensely.

'No,' I agreed mildly. 'But it might save time.'

He pursed his lips, considered, told me to start again, and pressed the record buttons.

I said:

'This is Andrew Douglas. The ransom demand for Morgan Freemantle is now reduced to five million pounds. This money is to be sent by certified banker's draft to the Credit Helvetia, Zurich, Switzerland, to be lodged in account number ZL327/42806. When that account has been credited with the money, Morgan Freemantle will be returned. After that there are to be no police investigations. If there are no investigations, and if the money in the Swiss bank has been paid clear of all restrictions and may be moved to other accounts without stoppage, I will be freed.'

I halted. He pressed the stop buttons and said, 'You have not finished.'

I looked at him.

'You will say that unless these things happen, you will be killed.'

His dark eyes looked straight at mine; level, at my own height. I saw only certainty. He pressed the start buttons again and waited.

'I am told,' I said in a dry voice, 'that unless these conditions are met, I will be killed.'

He nodded sharply and switched off.

I thought: he will kill me anyway. He put his tape recorder into one section of his bag and began feeling into another section for something else. I had the most dreadful lurch of fear in my gut and tried with the severest physical will to control it. But it wasn't a gun or a knife that he brought out of the bag: it was a cola bottle containing a milky-looking liquid.

The reaction was almost as bad. In spite of the chilly air, I was sweating.

He appeared not to have noticed. He was unscrewing the cap and looking in the bag for what proved to be a fat, plastic, gaily-striped drinking straw.

'Soup' he said. He put the straw into the bottle and offered it to my mouth.

I sucked. It was chicken soup, cold, fairly thick. I drank all of it quite fast, afraid he would snatch it away.