Stealing People

  He turned, and this time he had his arm outstretched with a Ruger SR9 in his hand.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Mercy. ‘I’m not here on my own.’

  He opened the sliding door to the balcony, looked out towards the Portobello Road; saw nothing. The squad car was out of sight. He backed up to the railing, which he gripped with his left hand, and in a stunning acrobatic movement fell backwards into the night. He held on momentarily with his left hand and then dropped out of sight. Mercy ran out.

  ‘Armed man, George!’ she roared.

  There was a grunt and then the sound of a gunshot.

  Mercy called the squad car, told them that Lee had a gun.

  Lee sprinted up the ramp towards the Portobello Road. As he came up to street level, the squad car reversed towards him. There was another shot and he toppled over the boot, roof and bonnet of the car and finished up on the ground. The gun skittered away from him.

  ‘George!’ roared Mercy, looking for him over the balcony railing.

  She saw his feet.

  The police driver was looking down at Mark Lee, who was moving, holding on to his leg.

  ‘Man down!’ shouted Mercy, pushing herself away from the railing as the uniforms came running down the ramp.

  She sprinted out of the flat, down the steps to where George was lying under the balcony. He was up on one elbow.

  ‘Shit, Mercy, I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I got shot.’

  28

  22.25, 17 January 2014

  Boxer’s flat, Belsize Park, London NW3

  Boxer was pacing the floor of his flat with the Walther P99 in his hand. Its weight was comforting. He stopped occasionally to look at the news, which was full of roving cameras shooting footage of people all over the East End of London rushing around with supermarket plastic bags collecting fifty-pound notes from gardens, trees, shop doorways, car windscreens, park benches. At times even the cameramen found the booty irresistible and the screen was suddenly full of a recycling bin with a bunch of notes plastered inside and a hand reaching for them.

  ‘I got seventy-five fucking grand already,’ said one wild-eyed, pierced and shaven-headed thug, who immediately ran out of shot.

  ‘My mum always used to tell me that money doesn’t grow on trees, you know, and here it is … bloody hell … it’s growing on trees,’ shouted a hysterical girl with pink hair and tattooed legs, hands clawing down her cheeks.

  ‘My dad heard this bang, he threw open the window to see what’s happening. Thought it was a gas explosion. And you know what? The house was suddenly full of all this money. We’re still counting it. Hundred and twenty-five grand so far.’

  The news package showed pandemonium around Hackney Wick station as commuters on the steady trudge home had been infected with money-grabbing madness. Fights had broken out with running battles on the main street. The presenter was being shunted around by shoals of people as he announced the possibility of riot police being called out.

  It was no better in Stratford. A shot of the station alive with fluttering notes, and some bizarre CCTV footage of the whole of the Westfield Centre emptying in a cattle stampede as if a bomb had gone off, followed by footage of people running wildly, jumping in the air and clutching at elusive notes, their faces distorted with effort and greed.

  It reduced Boxer to a gawping standstill. He wondered if this had been Conrad Jensen’s intention: to show that, much as these people might despise the wealthy, when it came down to it they were all just as rapacious.

  At least the wind had been gusting from west to east, he thought. It would have been intolerable for the money to have been blown into Hampstead, Knightsbridge, Kensington and Chelsea.

  Kushner finally called back just before eleven o’clock.

  ‘I’ve been talking to a CIA retiree,’ he said. ‘A Democrat. A guy who was at the forefront of the War on Terror until he quit the agency because he was so disgusted by extraordinary rendition and … other things. He knew the name Conrad Jensen, but it was nothing to do with the black sites. He was an IT expert, wrote – or had written – a whole bunch of software for them. He knew nothing about Rabat. But he did know Chuck Powell. Or rather he was friendly with Chuck Powell’s buddy, a Texan called Evan Rampy. They were both agency-trained. Chuck left after the Iraq invasion of 2003 because he saw a way to make money doing what he was already doing but for a PMSC. That’s how he ended up on the interrogation teams in black sites. Rampy stayed until 2010 and then went to work for a guy called Julius Klank at a PMSC called SureSafe.’

  ‘Conrad Jensen made a payment to Klank into a company called Xiphos in Belize. We don’t know what for, but we assume personnel services.’

  ‘Klank has a good reputation, but in my view he’s dubious. The agency still use him. I wouldn’t.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Rampy?’

  ‘I’ll send you a shot of him. He’s an operations and logistics expert. He can get people to the right place at the right time with the right equipment to perform their tasks,’ said Kushner. ‘Doesn’t that sound like somebody Jensen could have used for his series kidnap?’

  ‘Because of the Kinderman Corporation’s involvement we’re supposed to be working with the CIA, and yet so far they only managed to identify Chuck Powell after his capture and they’ve given out no other names,’ said Boxer.

  ‘They’re embarrassed. They train all these high-quality people and then they go out into the world and do bad things. Some of them change on the job. Find themselves doing things way beyond their normal moral boundaries: extraordinary rendition. I mean, taking people off of the streets of their home towns, illegally moving them across borders to black sites in other countries where they can be tortured, all in the name of the War on Terror. That’s got to do some permanent damage to your morality. And not only that,’ said Kushner. ‘One of the reasons my retiree quit was political influence of the wrong kind.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘Infiltration by the extreme right wing,’ said Kushner. ‘You want to find out what’s really going on in the world, don’t read the Wall Street Journal. Talk to your guys in the agency. And then you take the next step, which my guy really couldn’t stomach: shaping intelligence to the outcomes you desire.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Boxer. ‘There’s a definite political dimension to this series kidnap, which we haven’t been able to piece together. Does your CIA retiree know what Rampy has been doing since he quit the agency?’

  ‘He knows he served in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, that he speaks Arabic and has developed a love for the Arab world. He owns a property in Marrakesh. They haven’t had any contact since he left.’

  ‘So we have the name Evan Rampy, who looks a likely candidate, but how can I locate him?’

  ‘He’s got to be in Chuck Powell’s phone.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll have access to the contents of that phone.’

  ‘From what you’ve said, the kidnap’s all over: the gang’s dispersed, the hostages have been moved. If Rampy was on that job, he’ll be long gone. Maybe to his place in Morocco?’

  The squad car had a good first-aid kit and they got some packs on to George’s gunshot wound, which was in his left side. Mercy was keeping him awake, talking to him. He was in shock and trembling; his lips had blended into the same colour as his face. He blinked and concentrated on Mercy’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t tell Josie. I don’t want her to worry. You know, and something happen to the baby.’

  ‘You just concentrate on staying awake. Don’t worry about Josie.’

  The ambulance arrived and took Papadopoulos to St Mary’s, Paddington. Mercy followed in her car, trying not to cry and failing. She ran in to A&E to find that he’d already been taken in and rushed to the operating theatre. There was nobody who could tell her anything.

  She called the squad car and asked where they were taking Mark Lee.

  ‘Notting Hill police station on Ladbroke Gro
ve.’

  ‘So he’s not hurt.’

  ‘Battered and bruised, but nothing a good kicking won’t sort out.’

  ‘Book him in. I want an interview as soon as possible.’

  She knew what she was doing, putting off the moment when she had to call George’s partner, Josie. They all had their next of kin’s number on their mobiles. She went back to the A&E reception, showed her warrant card, begged the frantic staff for information, told them she was going to phone the man’s wife. A young black guy took pity, left the desk and went down to the theatres for her. Fifteen minutes later he was back.

  ‘They’re operating on him now, but they wouldn’t commit themselves on his condition. He’s alive and they’ve got the bullet out, that’s all they’d say.’

  ‘Did it hit any vital organs?’

  ‘No idea, I’m sorry.’

  She called Josie.

  ‘Josie, this is Mercy.’

  ‘Oh, Mercy,’ she said, in a voice of restrained panic at the instant realisation that Mercy had never called her.

  ‘I’m at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. We’ve just brought George here.’

  ‘Oh Christ, what’s happened?’

  ‘He’s been shot. They’re operating on him at the moment. They haven’t been able to tell me anything about his condition yet.’

  Josie dropped the phone. Mercy heard her shunting her chair back and chasing after it.

  ‘What I’m going to do, Josie, is send a patrol car round to your flat and they’ll bring you here. Do you have someone who can come with you?’

  ‘Yes, my sister, she’ll come with me. I’ll call her,’ said Josie. ‘Is it …?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that he was still talking to me when they put him in the ambulance and he was taken straight into theatre as soon as he arrived. The bullet has been removed, that’s all they’ve said.’

  Mercy told her what had happened as best she could, keeping it level and calm, and Josie took it as well as could be expected. They hung up. Mercy arranged the patrol car and went to Notting Hill police station.

  Mark Lee was brought up to an interview room. He was limping and had a black eye and a grazed face that had been treated. He took one look at Mercy’s hardened expression and started bleating.

  ‘It was an accident. I dropped to the ground. The guy grabbed me. The gun went off. I had no intention …’

  ‘You had a gun in your hand. You threatened me with it. Your intention was to get away and you were prepared to kill to do it. That’s my reading of what happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Was he your partner?’

  ‘Yes, he’s married with a pregnant wife, and if you’ve killed him …’ said Mercy, and just shook her head.

  ‘OK,’ said Lee, squeezing his eyebrows and pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Whatever it takes. Just tell me what you want to know.’

  ‘How many times were you in the Old Vinyl Factory?’

  ‘Four times.’

  ‘And what did you see inside the factory when you went there?’

  ‘I was picked up at Hayes and Harlington railway station by a guy who didn’t give his name. He took me to this building, which we entered via a loading bay. There were two squad cars. He gave me the keys to one and that was it. I drove out of the loading bay the way I’d come in. I didn’t see any other activity. The second time was a bit different. The same driver took me to the loading bay and told me to follow him. We went past what looked like some old offices. The door to one of them was open and I saw a girl, twenties, lying on a bed with a mask over her face. I was taken into an office where there was a bunch of computer and telecommunications equipment and I was presented to this guy. No names used. He laid into me for sending Rylance to bring the squad car back. Said that I should always follow the instructions given.’

  ‘Describe him. Was he English? Did he have an accent?’

  ‘No, he was an American. I don’t know much about American accents, but he seemed to be from the south. Maybe Texas, I don’t know. He had long blonde hair and a beard and really piercing blue-green eyes, and he was built. I wasn’t going to argue with him. Something like six foot three, sixteen stone, but none of it fat. He wore jeans and a big floppy roll-neck sweater under a winter parka, gloves and thermal boots. I mean, it was cold, but not that cold.’

  ‘How was the beard?’ asked Mercy. ‘Full, wispy, trimmed, shaggy?’

  ‘It was full, not shaggy, but it didn’t look as if he fussed over it too much.’

  ‘Was that the only time you saw him?’

  ‘No. I was taken to see him again after the Weybridge job. I’d dropped the two shooters off in south London and brought their uniforms and weapons back with me. He wanted to know what had happened, whether I’d seen everything clearly. I told him about the shooting. He asked if the guys in the boy’s car had been armed and I said yes. He seemed annoyed that there’d been some killing, but the two shooters were up for it. They were pumped, as if he’d specially selected them to do just what they did. And that was it. I didn’t see him again.’

  ‘How did you get this job?’

  ‘I’m a driver. I know London backwards. That’s what Jim said they wanted.’

  ‘How did Jim get the job?’

  ‘Jim’s ex-army, like the Rylance guy. He works all over the world in security. He heard about the job, I don’t know how, said it paid well.’

  ‘How do I get hold of Jim Ford?’

  Boxer couldn’t stomach any more news: the traffic jams around the City because of cars heading east to pick up on the bonanza, the clogged M25 because of all the people piling in from Kent, Surrey and Sussex. The endless interviews with a vast range of Londoners, some appalled by the behaviour on display and disdaining to pick up even a note of what was clearly dirty money, while others were nearly insane with an ugly rapacity that was reminiscent of the looting during the London riots.

  He was on a mission now after connecting with Louise, the talk with Amy and that call from Kushner. He’d always had a powerful motivation to bring victims back to their families, to fill the terrible gap left by the missing. And he was aware that he had a huge need to fill his own black hole, but this time it was different. He was maddened by what Conrad Jensen was doing.

  Gangs kidnapped people mainly for profit, sometimes for political purposes, occasionally for revenge, often for family reasons but never for a game. Conrad Jensen, the ideologue, was enjoying himself by torturing a select group of billionaires who, in the age of super inequality, were already a popular target for communal anger. He was indulging in this Robin Hood act of stealing from the rich and redistributing to the poor to demonstrate that everyone was as bad as each other, that they’d all relish being rich, disdain the poor and be greedy for more given half a chance. That was fair enough as a discussion over a pint in the pub, but you didn’t taunt parents, even massively wealthy parents, by torturing their children. And as part of the game you didn’t kidnap the investigator’s child and lover.

  That was when he realised he felt an immense hatred for Conrad Jensen and knew with certainty that he was going to do what Siobhan had hired him to do: find him. Then he was going to do what Mercy had asked him to do: kill him. First he was going to find Evan Rampy, and he was going to do it on his own. No Mercy this time. The kidnap unit was infected with spies; the CIA had proved to be suspect and unpredictable and, according to Kushner’s contact, politically infiltrated.

  Mercy was driving to St Mary’s. She’d asked Hines to arrange the pickup of Jim Ford. She wasn’t taking that risk again and she had more than enough proof of his involvement to arrest him. She stumbled through the doors into A&E and was struck by the terrible randomness of life and death. How she’d spent the last days in paroxysmal bouts of fear at the thought of Marcus and Amy being hurt and of herself losing the work that held her together. As for the possibility of Marcus being killed, she hadn’t been able to even go there. And now here she was looking a completely different tragedy in the
face.

  Josie and her sister were not in the A&E waiting room. She asked at reception. A different shift. She showed her warrant card. Asked after Josie, tried to remember her surname: Wentworth, that was it. A porter was called for, a young Pole. He took her to the family room near the ICU, where Josie was sitting staring straight ahead while her sister held her hand and looked at her as if waiting for seismic shifts.

  Mercy introduced herself, sat on Josie’s other side.

  ‘Have you had any news?’

  ‘He’s lost a kidney and he can’t feel his legs. They’re not sure why. It might be trauma or it might be damage,’ she said. ‘But he’s alive.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?

  ‘Just briefly when he came round after the surgery. Then he went under again. He’s been sleeping since.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go and have a look at him?’

  She shrugged, emotionally exhausted.

  Mercy went to ICU. The nurse took her to the bedside.

  ‘It doesn’t look it, but he was very lucky. The blood loss was nearly catastrophic. A minute later and we’d have lost him.’

  Papadopoulos didn’t look good. He was grey. The only thing about him that still looked like George was his thick Greek hair. Everything else about him was in negative form.

  He opened his eyes, saw her, closed them again. He raised his index finger from the sheet in a salute.

  Boxer was going to follow Kushner’s lead: Rampy had a house in Marrakesh. He didn’t know anybody there but he had a contact in Casablanca who would know how he could be supplied with a weapon and would point him in the right direction for some intelligence. The number was in the same encrypted file on his computer as Dick Kushner’s.

  Omar al-Wannan was somebody he’d met through Simon Deacon. It was only later that he’d found out that al-Wannan already knew about him from a consultation he’d done whilst still at GRM for a Jordanian whose daughter had been kidnapped in Oman. Al-Wannan was a businessman and family man, but he enjoyed the excitement of the other life, the feeling that he was making things happen in another dimension. He provided intelligence for MI6 and the Spanish CNI on potential terrorist threats, but he’d taken a liking to Boxer and had let it be known that he could be of service, as he put it.