Private London (Private 4)

‘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.’

Chapter 68

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.