Old Enemies

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t, would they, not if Mr Jones is right,’ Hiley added.

  Stiffly, reluctantly, like the creaking of a rusted drawbridge, J.J. turned to Harry. ‘What do you think, Mr Jones?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to offer but guesswork,’ Harry replied.

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  ‘My guess is that they’re in Italy.’

  ‘On the basis of one phone call?’ Archer interrupted. ‘They could be anywhere – doubled back to Switzerland, or even somewhere in the Balkans.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘But you guess otherwise,’ J.J. persisted.

  ‘Everything Mr Archer says might be correct,’ Harry conceded, feeling awkward and exposed in his sweaty sports kit surrounded by all the suits. ‘We can’t discount the possibility that the phone call was a deliberate attempt to mislead us.’

  Archer nodded.

  ‘But on the other hand, let’s assume the helicopter was heading in its intended direction. Look . . .’ He led them back to the computer with its maps and began tracing a path across the screen. ‘It was coming out of the mountains. There was no need for it to be flying in anything other than a direct line towards its destination. If it were heading south it wouldn’t have passed anywhere near Ceppo Morelli.’

  ‘And if it carried on east it could be sitting outside some souk in Turkey by now,’ the bloody-minded Archer suggested.

  ‘No, it couldn’t even get out of Italy, not without refuelling, which would have left clues. So follow the logic, and the flight path and . . .’ Harry’s fingers traced a line across the base of the Alps from Ceppo Morelli, across Lake Como, until it hesitated near Verona – ‘they’d have landed somewhere short of here.’

  ‘And then?’ J.J. pressed quietly.

  ‘Put yourself in their boots. If you were the kidnappers, wouldn’t you want to stop somewhere close at hand?’

  ‘So somewhere in Italy.’

  ‘Northern Italy.’

  ‘Even if you’re right, it’s still a hell of a lot of space in which to hide one boy.’ J.J. stood up from the screen and stretched his back wearily. ‘So what’s your view, Mr Jones? Should we talk to the police?’

  ‘I’ll say to you what I said to your wife. It’s a decision that only the parents can take.’

  ‘You did? You told her that?’ For a second J.J. seemed in pain as he struggled with the idea of Harry talking about such things with his wife. His eyes darted back and forth, searching Harry’s face for some clue as to what else they might have discussed, then stood silent, as though coming to a decision. ‘May we have a private word?’

  He led Harry back through the sitting room, past the half-decorated Christmas tree, and out onto a small roof terrace directly outside the windows. It stood on top of an extension to the main house that Harry assumed might be a playroom or garden room, the sort of thing that was common as kids came along and families grew. The terrace had been packed up for the winter, its table and chairs piled in a corner, the patio heater covered, the plants in tall stone pots covered in hessian to protect against the frost. Dead twigs lay piled in the corner. Breslin stood at the railings, looking out beneath a dull, lowering sky across the frost-covered gardens, like a ship’s captain on his bridge searching the horizon for icebergs. He buttoned his suit against the cold, lit himself a cigarette and sighed, picking a stray flake of tobacco from the tip of his tongue.

  ‘Something just between us?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘I’ve acquired the rights to the Mandela diaries. They’re historic, intriguing, sensational in parts. I’d just done the deal when we last met.’

  Harry remembered him bounding up the stairs and the words that had leapt from his lips. They’ve signed! We’re saved!

  ‘The diaries are a huge commercial coup. And now we’ve been told to destroy them, otherwise we’ll never see Ruari again. A straight swap. But . . .’ He winced, as though he had caught sight of the iceberg, far too close. ‘The diaries aren’t mine, they belong to the company. They’re worth millions. I’m not in a position to do what the kidnappers demand.’

  ‘Your fellow directors wouldn’t be sympathetic?’

  ‘We’re talking money men – pension funds, venture-capital people, red-neck bankers in Chicago. They own far more of the company than I do. And frankly, the company’s in trouble. Without the diaries, the entire newspaper group might go under. So sympathy?’ He shook his head. ‘Terri doesn’t understand, I don’t blame her, but there’s nothing I can do. I cannot hand over the diaries.’

  ‘Between the rocks and a very hard place.’

  ‘Oh, if only I could lock my wife inside the boardroom with my fellow directors, she’d win them round, either that or pummel them into submission. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for that boy.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Breslin hesitated. He stood gazing out over the bare winter garden. The tops of the empty trees were bending in a freshening wind, and old leaves were scattering across the grass like rats in search of a new home. ‘This is a time of extraordinary pressure on my family, Mr Jones. And while I’m grateful for what you’ve done, the suggestions you’ve made, I really don’t need you around here making things worse.’

  ‘Look, I’ve done nothing—’

  Breslin tossed away the stub of his cigarette and turned sharply to face Harry. ‘I’m making no accusations, but I’ve seen the two of you together, you and my wife. The chemistry, the tension when you’re both in the same room.’

  That’s only because I’m so pissed off with her, Harry wanted to object. It’s only anger you’ve picked up, nothing else, but Breslin wasn’t interested.

  ‘I’ve no idea what was going through Terri’s mind when she involved you, but whatever her motives, they’re not shared within the Breslin family.’

  ‘Ah, your father.’

  ‘My father loves Ruari more than any person in this world.’ The words carried the unalloyed sincerity of a believer professing his faith in the Resurrection.

  ‘But he doesn’t much like me.’

  ‘Neither do I. I don’t find it comfortable when my wife’s former lover suddenly pops up on the scene. Narrow-minded of me, I know, but that’s how I feel.’

  Former lover? Terri had said she’d never told him, not outright. Did he really know or was he simply testing the air? No, Harry decided, the man knew. In any case, it didn’t seem to make much difference. ‘You’re being uncomfortably honest.’

  ‘There’s little point in being otherwise in my situation. My son’s life is at stake. They have already killed two people, I have no doubt they will kill Ruari if it serves their purpose. If we’re to save him, it’ll take teamwork, not mavericks with their own agendas.’

  A winter breeze ruffled through Harry’s hair, cut through his tracksuit, it was too cold out here for comfort.

  ‘Beautiful woman, isn’t she?’ Breslin muttered.

  He didn’t bother to answer, yet it was true, and more so than Harry dared admit, even to himself. The years had added a fullness that he’d been struggling to ignore.

  ‘Leave her alone.’

  ‘You have to understand, it’s never been my intention—’

  But Harry’s protest was cut short. Breslin had turned his back on Harry once more and was staring out across the leaf-strewn lawn. ‘So petty, don’t you think, these personal issues? When a boy’s life is at stake?’

  It was Harry’s cue to leave. He took it, and didn’t look back, so he didn’t see Sean Breslin at the window, his hawk-like eyes watching every step, burning into his back until he had disappeared from sight.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Of all the Romanians, Nelu the computer geek was the most important. Like the others he had been conscripted into the Armata Romana, where his military service had consisted of several years being immersed in some of the more sordid techniques of cybercraft. He had been treated like a dog and fed worse than a pig, b
ut it had proved useful experience. In the kaleidoscopic world of international politics the Romanian Army that had once been part of the Warsaw Pact was now a member of NATO, its former sworn enemy, so its conscripts were used to marching to many different tunes. The long-term effect, combined with abject poverty for most ordinary Romanians alongside official corruption on a scale that was almost pornographic, was to give soldiers like Nelu extraordinary flexibility and a burning loyalty to no one but themselves. After his discharge Nelu had kept up his cyber-skills, making a good living racketeering on eBay, selling products he didn’t own and making off with the proceeds before anyone could catch him, always staying a cyber-step ahead. Now he had hired out his talents to de Vries. The offer was enticing, a few months messing around with Skype and he’d been promised more money than he could make in two years mugging bewildered punters on the Internet, and the beauty of it all was that for Nelu there was absolutely no risk. Even if they’d kidnapped the Queen of England it was probable that their messaging would have remained secure, yet they’d kidnapped a mere boy, and the authorities didn’t know where he was, or even if he was still alive. Yes, Skype was a bloody wonderful weapon, much more fun than getting your balls blown off in the military.

  It was moving towards dusk, red ribbons of cloud leaking into the sky in the direction of Venice, when Nelu was driven away from the farmhouse by de Vries and Grobelaar. It was one of the perks of his role, escaping from the claustrophobia of the farmhouse, leaving that to the others. After all, that’s what they were being paid for, they were the muscle, while he was the one with the brains. And he used them. It wasn’t enough that Skype was such a bomb-proof system, Nelu wanted to go one step further, to add another layer of cover just in case some other nerd in a wrinkled T-shirt had developed software that would change the rules overnight. He sent every message using a different Skype account and from a different location. It was easy, even up on the Carso. Drive around the few small towns on the plateau until they discovered a wi-fi hot spot, usually some public building like a school or hospital whose wi-fi system could be picked up from the road or parking lot outside. Then they would piggyback on it, send their message through someone else’s server. So even if a police force or intelligence service somehow managed to track down their location, even to the yard, by the time they arrived they’d discover nothing but an empty stretch of tarmac.

  This evening they drove to Opicina, passing the shops and small eating places that were still open, until they found a senior school whose doors had long since closed for the day. Nelu had identified this as a wi-fi hot spot on a previous recce, now they parked as close as possible, away from the bustle of the main road, while Nelu opened up his laptop and set up the call. It took him less than twenty seconds.

  It was six days since Ruari had been snatched. The burble of the Skype ring tone carved through the house in Notting Hill like a fire alarm. Hiley answered, rushing from the kitchen where he had been making himself yet another mug of coffee. He was the family’s designated negotiator, a role that had been agreed during the last call, when the demand for the Mandela diaries had been put to them. The arrangement suited both sides; negotiation is a skill requiring experience and emotional detachment, qualities that hysterical parents rarely provide. A kidnapping is nothing less than a declaration of war, a vile and degenerate assault upon the innocent, but at the end of the day both family and criminals usually share a common interest – they want an early end to the hostilities. Hiley was a man who could help them achieve that. He scrabbled for the mouse and hit the accept button.

  ‘What have you got for me? What have you decided?’ de Vries asked, speaking into a simple headset. He was sitting in the car parked within the shadows of the school, yet his words rang as clear as if he were in the next room.

  ‘Look, can I have a name for you first?’ Hiley began. ‘Any name. If you don’t mind. Jan, Rudi, Willem. I’d find it easier to call you by a name, whatever one you want.’ He needed to break down the barriers, develop some sort of personal connection with this man, perhaps even create an element of trust between them. It might end up making a crucial difference. Anyway, he hoped to keep this man talking for as long as possible so that he and the sound men who would analyse the recording could learn from every minute, every morsel, every castrated South African vowel and every bit of background noise.

  ‘Call me whatever you like,’ de Vries replied testily. ‘Just stop wasting my fucking time.’

  ‘Then . . . Jan. I’ll call you Jan. Is that OK?’

  ‘You waste my time, and I get really pissed off. And when I’m pissed off I take it out on the boy. This morning instead of giving him breakfast we gave him a bloody good kicking. You carry on babbling and he’ll get the same for his dinner. Now what about the diaries?’

  Hiley sighed. The easy bit was over, now he really had to earn his money. He had spent most of the morning discussing his plan with J.J. and the others. It had been tossed back and forth, J.J. had asked many questions, raised many objections – a stubborn man – but in the end they’d all accepted Hiley’s proposals. Yet it was one thing to persuade them, quite another to throw it at the kidnappers. He sipped his coffee, winced as his upper lip dipped into the overheated liquid, then stepped out into the minefield. ‘Look, Jan, what you ask, about the diaries. You must know that’s impossible.’

  ‘What’s impossible? You have the diaries. Burn the stinking things!’

  ‘Trust me, Mr Breslin wants to be as cooperative as possible, but you have to understand. The diaries aren’t his. They belong to the newspaper.’

  ‘And he owns the stinking newspaper.’

  ‘But he doesn’t. He’s a shareholder, a significant one, of course, but nowhere near a majority. And the other shareholders simply won’t agree to destroy a very valuable bit of property. Would you?’

  ‘Then we’ll chop the boy to bits and they can have that on their conscience.’

  ‘Let’s not bother with the conscience bit, shall we? I don’t think it fits either of us particularly well.’

  ‘And the boy’s fingers aren’t going to fit particularly well on what’s left of his hands if you screw around with me. So what are you going to give me?’

  Hiley’s heart leapt. The other man was making threats, that was entirely predictable, but he was also suggesting he might be open to some sort of deal, willing to negotiate. A carrot along with the stick. Hiley sipped again at his coffee, so focused that he no longer noticed the pain from his lip. ‘Mr Breslin is talking to the other directors. Everyone wants to be helpful, Jan. We’ve been pulling our hair out trying to think of some way we can satisfy you. We’re doing our best, truly we are. Look, if we could delete just part of the diaries, or delay their publication for a while. Anything along those lines and there’s a chance Mr Breslin will be able to persuade the other directors and we could get this situation sorted.’

  ‘Parts? I’ll give you parts. What do you want first, his ears or his prick?’ De Vries was shouting now, intent on making his words hit home all the harder when the tape was played back to the family, as he knew it would be. And he could shout as loud as he wanted in this isolated spot; Grobelaar was standing watch on the roadway outside and no one else was going to hear him.

  ‘Come on, Jan, if Mr Breslin could stop publication, he would. But he can’t. So we’ve got to find some other way. Give me a little help here, something I can take back to them.’

  ‘The whole diaries. Or you’ll never hear from us or the boy again. You’ve got five seconds before we start cutting him. Four, three—’

  ‘Jan! Jan! Just think for a moment. Even if the other directors agreed to cover up the diaries, someone would leak them. Nelson Mandela – he’s the Black Jesus, his diaries are like the bloody Bible. If we tried to cover them up, you know they’d only end up on the Internet, like everything else in this world. There’s no such thing as secrets any more. Look, you’re good, I know that, it’s obvious you know how this techie stuff works. You
know some spotty kid sitting in his bedroom can hack into NASA, or my overdraft, or even the Pope’s medical records if he works out what buttons to press. Nothing gets buried forever, and too many people already know about these diaries. But what I’ve suggested, burying one part instead of trying to bury the whole thing, or at least delaying it until it doesn’t matter so much – well, it might just let us keep control. Isn’t that what you want?’

  Hiley was taking a gamble. He knew there was a possibility the other man would simply end the conversation and they would never hear from him again, and that at some later time, in some distant place, what was left of Ruari would be dug up or dredged from the river mud. Or the silence might mean that the South African was deciding what particularly bloodied part of Ruari’s anatomy would be sent to them in order to smash the resilience of the Breslins to pieces. Yet there was also a third possibility, that the silence meant he was thinking, turning over what Hiley had said, wondering if it might work.

  After a few seconds, time that seemed to stretch out to eternity, the voice returned.

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  Hiley sank his teeth into his tongue rather than betray the elation he felt. He’d made a significant breakthrough. The first chink of light had appeared through the curtain, but he knew he couldn’t leave it there, he had to push further. ‘There’s one other thing, Jan. It’s totally important and if we don’t get this there’s no point in you calling back. You’ve got to give us proof of life, show us that Ruari is still alive.’

  ‘He was still alive when I kicked the little shit awake this morning.’

  ‘You have to prove it. Without absolute certainty on that, you’ll get nothing.’

  It was now Hiley making the demands; the pendulum had swung back, just a fraction. There was another pause before:

  ‘I said, I’ll get back to you.’ In the car, de Vries pulled his hand across his throat as a signal to Nelu and the connection went dead.

  Seven hundred and fifty miles away from where his tormentors were already making their way back along leaf-strewn roads towards their hideout, Hiley was left with a sore lip and sweat trickling down his forehead, mulling over what had happened. The conversation had been long, suggesting the kidnappers were confident they could not be traced, even though the technicians hired by Hiley’s firm would be sifting through every byte of the recording in search of clues – Hiley thought at one point he might have heard the muffled sound of a car door being slammed in the background, or was it merely a table being kicked? He didn’t know, but the sound boys would work it out.