I was grateful when my landline rang again. I picked up the receiver without hesitation.
“Morgan,” I said.
“Jack, it’s Eli Carver,” the US Defense Secretary said. “Philippe Duval told me what happened. I’m so sorry. I’m sure you’re being pulled in every direction, but I want you to know that if there’s anything I can do, you are to call me. I’m in London right now, so we’re almost in the same time zone. You need something, you pick up the phone anytime, day or night.”
I had seen news reports on the London summit Carver had organized, which aimed to bring lasting peace to Eastern Europe. War had spread instability throughout the region, and Carver had made it his mission to ensure lasting peace and American geopolitical security by negotiating a multilateral non-aggression pact, with the tacit threat of US military intervention in the event of a breach. I’d saved his life during the Moscow investigation, when he’d been taken hostage at Fallon Airbase by a deep-cover Russian operative who’d tried to murder him, and since then our paths had crossed enough times for us to become friends.
“Thanks,” I replied. “I appreciate the call.”
As a senior member of the government, he knew what it was to face a crisis, and he didn’t linger.
“Anytime, Jack, you hear me? And anything,” he reiterated.
“I hear you, sir,” I replied.
“Good. And cut the ‘sir’ stuff. Keep me posted,” he said, before hanging up.
“I’ve pulled the data from the SIM,” Mo-bot announced as I replaced the receiver.
I could see her peering at her screen.
“It’s encrypted, but I can handle that. Once I break it, we’ll know where the guy you took it from has been.”
She was talking about the data from the SIM card in the phone I’d taken from the first motorcyclist. I’d downloaded the contents and sent the file to her through Private’s secure server, along with images of fingerprints I’d taken from the wallet and phone. Sci was working on those to see if he could come up with a match.
I was impatient and eager for a breakthrough that would lead me to Justine, but experience had taught me these things took time.
Burning with nervous energy, I almost jumped when there was a knock at the door of my suite.
“Careful, Jack,” Sci cautioned, glancing at the web camera that was picking up their end of the video call.
He needn’t have worried. When I glanced through the spyhole, I saw a skinny uniformed bellhop. The young guy was peering into a mirror opposite my suite and fixing his hair. He held a brown envelope.
I reached into my pocket for a five-euro note as I opened the door.
“Package for you, Mr. Morgan,” he said, turning away from the mirror.
“Thanks,” I replied, taking the envelope and handing him the tip.
I closed the door and tore open the package to find a cell phone inside. The device rang almost immediately, and the screen displayed the words “unknown number.”
“Hello,” I said when I answered.
“Mr. Morgan,” a distorted voice replied, “we are the people who have Justine Smith. Listen carefully.”
Chapter 10
“If you pay attention to what I say and do exactly what we tell you, both you and your woman will be unharmed,” said the machine-altered voice.
I swallowed my anger at the dehumanizing description of Justine as my “woman,” and the fact that this coward was using intimidation and threats of violence against her to coerce me. I focused on remaining as dispassionate as possible and applying my experience as a detective to the situation.
Their choice of phone was the second indication we were dealing with professionals. Mo-bot had tapped my cell and the hotel line, and her team was ready to run a trace at a moment’s notice. If the police were in any way competent, they would have at least covered the hotel switchboard, but here was an unexpected element, and like the scale and discipline of Justine’s abduction, it suggested we were facing people with a high degree of experience in serious crime.
“No,” I said, gesturing at the phone expressively, so I would be seen by Sci and Mo-bot via my computer webcam.
On-screen, I saw their reactions as they registered who I was talking to. Sci shrugged in frustration, and Mo-bot threw up her arms in exasperation. They realized the kidnappers had circumvented our plans to trace them.
“No?” the machine voice answered. The growling distortion was so effective, it masked whether the speaker was a man or a woman, but even through the vocal disguise, I could hear hesitation.
Good.
“No,” I repeated. “I’m not new to this and neither are you. Professional to professional, let’s show each other proper respect. You know what I need from you next.”
I’d spun that out for as long as I could because every second gained meant further grounds for hope. Mo-bot was marshaling all the means at her disposal, poised to act upon any slip-up, phone log, mast relay or data packet she could trace while I was on the line to the kidnappers.
“Proof of life,” I continued after stretching out the pause. “I need to know you have Justine and that she’s safe and unharmed.”
I didn’t bother with macho threats uttered to serve my own ego. We both knew what would happen if she had been harmed, and I’d already settled on the best way to deal with this person when I got my hands on them. I didn’t need to broadcast it. They would find out soon enough.
“Proof of life?” the voice sneered.
“Proof of life,” I reiterated coolly.
“Okay,” the voice said before hanging up.
I lowered the phone.
“Is it over?” Sci asked.
I nodded.
“You give me the number of that phone you’re holding, Jack. Right now,” Mo-bot instructed. “And I want all the data off the SIM.”
“And when you’re through with it, you’d better tell the Monaco police,” Sci suggested.
I nodded again and walked to my computer. I picked up the SIM card-reader and prayed Mo-bot would be able to work her magic.
Chapter 11
Justine had found it increasingly difficult to breathe in the stuffy, cramped space, and was suppressing waves of panic at the idea that she might die next to these unknown, silent men. She tried to control her rising anxiety, telling herself the compartment had to be ventilated otherwise she’d be dead already. But panic couldn’t be reasoned away and it was made worse by the combined body heat of three people squeezed into a metal coffin.
Justine’s legs tingled with the desire to kick out, and her stomach churned with the nausea that resulted from feeling out of control. She tried to focus on the journey, but it was hard to tune out the physical manifestations of stress.
She’d been aware of the van continuing to climb, of more twists and turns, which exacerbated her queasy feeling, but kept being drawn back into the storm inside her mind until she lost track of how long they drove or their direction of travel.
When they finally stopped, Justine experienced a surge of relief. She heard the engine fall silent. Then came footsteps and the sound of the rear doors being opened. More footsteps on the flatbed above her, and then a catch being drawn back and the concealed panel opened to allow soft light to fill the compartment. Justine found it dazzling and squinted as her eyes took a moment to adjust. In that time, arms closed around her and she was lifted from the compartment and pushed out of the vehicle.
Forcing her eyes open, Justine saw a red sun, partially obscured by a nearby mountain. The terrain, rustic architecture and notices printed on sacks of grain leaning against an old barn, told her they were in the south of France. She could see a stone building further down the mountainside, and bare brown fields either waiting to be sown or recently seeded.