Old Enemies (10 page)

J.J. Breslin came bounding up the stairs with the energy of a condemned man who has heard the telephone ring on his way to the execution chair. And why not? His spirit was soaring, his manhood restored. He’d shown them, shown the bloody lot of them, the doubters, the destroyers of faith, the spreaders of gloom, not to mention that bitch and the other bankers. Yet the breathless enthusiasm that had carried J.J. Breslin up the stairs disappeared the moment he stepped into the room to discover his wife, in tears, sitting on his sofa with her former lover. Feet that had sprung wings now remained nailed to the polished wooden floor, excited eyes now clouded in suspicion. ‘What the f . . . ?’ He was a cultured man, not used to throwing out expletives, but his surprise and disappointment escaped him before he managed to strangle the rest. Jealousy defies logic, it ignores double standards, forgets its own failings, it is a voracious consumer of both light and joy, and of memory, and in Breslin’s case had absolutely no recollection of hours lost in Blackheath.

‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ he managed, recovering, lying, but already Terri was flying across the room and into his arms.

‘It’s Ruari,’ she sobbed against his cheek. ‘Somebody’s taken Ruari.’

Since his last beating at the hands of de Vries, Ruari had been careful not to give his captors any cause for anger. The pain that filled his face seemed remorseless, as though a thousand rats were trying to gnaw their way out through his skull, and the flesh around his eyes and cheeks had swollen to such an extent that he could only see out of one eye, and that only with difficulty. All plans of retaliation, escape, revenge, were put to one side while he tried to recover. But that didn’t save him.

From below came the smells of the kitchen. Once again meat was roasting, pork he thought, if he could trust his battered nose, but they never gave him any of it, nothing but porridge and pasta to scoop around a bowl. One of the Romanians came up with his meal of mush in one hand and a cigarette in the other. As he stood over Ruari he blew out a cloud of acrid smoke, and as it hit his bruised airways the boy started choking, violently, gasping for breath as his head began screaming in insult. The guard laughed and exhaled more smoke over him.

The other guard sitting in the chair by the window with his Makarov by his side joined in. ‘Hey, Sandu, your cooking make him sick!’

‘What, Little Shit, you no like my food?’ the cook shouted in mock despair, holding out the bowl as though for inspection.

Ruari shook his head in denial. He was hungry, the struggle for recovery from his beating had soaked up his energy and even this mush was better than loading still more pain upon his misery. He held out his hand, turning his head, blinking through his sore eye as he tried to locate the bowl, but the guard drew it back.

‘You insult me,’ he accused.

‘No, no . . . please.’

‘He hate your food,’ the other guard mocked. ‘Sandu, we all hate your fucking food.’

‘I’m hungry,’ Ruari pleaded.

‘Little Shit, you do nothing but sit around all day and complain. Do no work, do nothing but complain.’ He kicked the metal bedstead. ‘You no deserve my food.’

He blew more smoke over the boy, leaving him twisted in another fit of coughing, yet it was as nothing compared to the pain he felt from his sense of loneliness and overwhelming despair.

‘You learn,’ the guard said. ‘Like a dog, you learn.’

He said something in their native language that made the other guard guffaw, then he walked out, taking the bowl with him.

Two other men had arrived at his home with J.J. Breslin. One was in his mid-fifties, tall, with a long chin and a boxer’s gnarled brow and eyes just a fraction too close. His tie was knotted so carefully that its point hovered absolutely level with his belt buckle, and his trousers were pressed so tight they threatened to squeak. Harry noticed the shoes, they were brilliantly polished but had thick composite soles, the sort of footwear that was ideal for long periods of standing, or creeping. Gumshoes. Harry was right in suspecting he was a former policeman. Three years earlier Brian Archer had been a chief super in the Met, now after thirty years and a retirement package that he always described as ‘considerably less than copper-bottomed’ he had ‘come over to the dark side’ – the commercial sector, or Breslin’s bit of it, where he was employed as the newspaper’s head of corporate security.

The third man wore a suit that was expensively cut yet casually worn, not as a uniform but merely as something to get him through the day. No tie. He was much nearer seventy, small, lean in both frame and face, with hollow cheeks in constant motion, agitated, like a mountain stream finding its way around rocks, but the eyes, which were remarkably bright for a man of his age, moved cautiously, staring, analysing, digesting, seeming to doubt everything they saw and disliking much of it. They stayed fixed on Harry for some time, even as Terri began explaining to her husband what had happened. As she did so, J.J. seemed to turn to stone. When she had finished, his arms closed stiffly around her, he was in shock, needing support, trying to be strong, wanting to scream, knowing he couldn’t. They continued to stand in silence, in each other’s arms, struggling for composure, his face buried in her hair, until he took a deep breath for courage and turned to Harry.

‘And why are you here, Mr Jones?’

‘I called him,’ Terri answered, too quickly, before Harry had a chance to. ‘I couldn’t get hold of you and I thought Harry might help. He’s already—’

He cut her off, but not unkindly. ‘I’m sure that’s particularly generous of you, Mr Jones, but Archer here is my head of security.’ The gumshoe bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. ‘He’ll handle matters from now on. And as this is a family matter, I’m sure you’ll understand if I simply offer you my thanks for coming. And ask you to leave.’

The words were well honed but the edge to his voice didn’t convey much sense of gratitude. Terri’s eyes widened in embarrassment. ‘Please, J.J . . .’

He cut across her again, more firmly. ‘Thank you, Mr Jones.’

Harry rose, shrugging off the stare that Breslin had fixed on him, like searchlights on a rabbit hunt, and shoved his hands still deeper into his coat pockets. He hadn’t asked for this, didn’t want any part of it. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ he said.

‘This is my son’s life at stake here. I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention this to anyone. Forgot about it altogether, in fact.’

‘I’ll do my very best.’ Harry headed for the stairs. Every step felt as though he was walking against an Arctic wind. ‘Goodbye, Mr Breslin, Mrs Breslin.’ She couldn’t hold his eye, he couldn’t use her name. ‘Good luck.’

He found himself back on the street, gulping down the early winter air. Christ, tangling with Terri was like undergoing root-canal surgery with a rusty nail. The pavement seemed to agree; he stepped on an uneven paving stone that tipped and threw a jet of freezing liquid mud over his trouser leg, staining it up to the knee. It was already trickling into his sock. He swore, something very rude in Arabic. He had promised not to breathe a word and wouldn’t, of course, but as for forgetting – well, that was an entirely different matter.

And something was nagging at him, something he’d heard as Breslin first came up the stairs.
They’ve signed. We’re saved.
Odd words, with a meaning he didn’t yet understand. It wasn’t just a kidnap that was going on here. There were troubles aplenty for the Breslins, so it seemed, but that had nothing to do with him, he hadn’t asked to be involved, had been warned off. And yet trouble always held an irresistible attraction for Harry. He strode down the street, squelching, and reached for his phone.

Breslin, Archer and the other man sat and talked with low voices and spirits that were lower still. Not until an hour later, when they were joined by two others, was any sense of organization brought to bear on their discussions. The newcomers, one mid-thirties, the other a few years older, both bore the neat, fit, understated appearance of former military officers. They were security men, from a company specializing in risk assessment and the protection of what their website rather drily referred to as ‘high net worth individuals and their families’ – otherwise known as rich kids and their parents. ‘We underpin corporate assets and protect your competitive advantage,’ it went on to proclaim. Clumsy words, yet when the corporate copywriters took their lunch breaks, those involved could be more down to earth about what it was they did.
The world out there is a pond overflowing with the most enormous quantities of shit. We help you avoid it whenever possible, or drag you out when you can’t.
Kidnap, extortion, hostage-taking, ransom, murder. The sewage in their pond flowed deep. Theirs was a world in which the players were a kaleidoscopic assortment of terrorists and criminal opportunists on one side, with rich men and insurance brokers on the other, but whatever side they found themselves on, these were the sort of people who insisted on results and didn’t usually care too much how they were achieved. And in between them stood guys (and a few girls) like Will Hiley and his slightly older boss, Andy Brozic.

It took a certain type of operative to work in this field, the sort who were used to situations of crisis and danger and who, when required, were willing to put their own necks on the line but who were much more comfortable putting the other bastard’s neck on the line instead. It was a rough and often unpalatable business, one that operated in the shadows and too often became confused with the dark world of the mercenary, but it was always possible to tell the difference. Mercenaries didn’t work out of addresses in Mayfair and Bloomsbury.

Hiley and Brozic had been summoned by Archer, the gumshoe. He knew their firm and was familiar with its ability to handle its affairs with discretion, a familiarity that had grown to enthusiasm during several serious dinners and a couple of evenings of cup football at Stamford Bridge as its guest. The men arrived laden with a collection of sophisticated electronic equipment and, charmingly, a supply of paper notepads.

‘You’re a sort of private police force,’ Terri suggested as they introduced themselves.

‘K&R, really – kidnap and ransom. That’s what we specialize in.’

The risk assessors quickly took charge. They commandeered the dining room and installed their equipment, which included their own computer – ‘in case your own computers have already been infected with malware. That could let the kidnappers listen to every word we say’. The computer was connected to recording and monitoring equipment, all the family’s phones were inspected, the house checked for bugs. Then they began asking questions, hundreds of them. Did the Breslins have kidnap insurance? No. Might the newspaper cover the costs? Again, no. ‘That’s a benefit in some ways,’ Brozic announced, ‘it means all the decisions are down to you. No outside interference.’ He didn’t mention that such interference was often highly desirable in the moments when a family lost all sense of perspective, as at some point they usually did.

Had they any idea who might be behind this? Did they have any personal enemies? Was the newspaper caught up in any contentious campaigns? Why Switzerland? What did they know about the school and its staff? And a thousand other things that were scribbled down on their notepads, even though they were recording every word.

Terri didn’t sit with them. Once she had handed over all the memories of the message, something they required her to do several times, she was asked to provide tea and coffee, make arrangements for their lunch, direct them to the bathroom and fetch family photographs, but she wasn’t invited to join this tight-knit group or offer an opinion. The K&R men took their lead from her husband, who took her cooperation and consent for granted. It wasn’t that J.J. was trying to be unkind, rather the contrary; he wanted only to protect her, to spare her the anguish, as if a mother’s mind couldn’t fail to see every terrifying alternative. Anyway, J.J. was suffering himself. Every question hit him like a punch from a heavyweight’s fist that left him struggling for breath. His mouth and lips grew so dry that soon he could do little more than mutter his replies. The assessors took the reins.