The Baker Street Translation (11 page)

“If you press it twice quickly, it will recite the entire rhyme,” said Mrs. Wixted.

“Must we?”

“No, the first line is all I need to show you. The correct line is ‘buckle my shoe,' as the duck said. But Mr. Liu got it wrong when he printed the instructions. Here, I'll show you.”

She placed the paper in front of Reggie. It was exactly like the one the translator had brought to Reggie.

“Previous versions of this toy were just in English, but now my client is adding French and Chinese. Mr. Liu's job was to add in the English changes from the client, then translate the English into those additional languages, and then print out the final sheets with all three languages and send them back to me. I then take them to the client's assembly warehouse, in this case Elgar Imports, where I add them into the packaging for the toy. I provide a full-service shop, as much as possible.”

“Understood,” said Reggie.

“Now, here's one of the errors,” she said. She pointed to a specific location on the translated sheet. “This is the final printed version that Mr. Liu sent back. And he not only got it wrong in Chinese and in French—and I know, because I read both—he actually introduced the same error into the English, as well.”

“I'm not sure I follow—”

“Do you read Chinese?”

“Well … no.”

“French?”

“Enough to order dinner.”

“Well, then just look at the English section, then—read what it says right there.”

Reggie read it aloud: “One, two, unbuckle my shoe.”

“You see? He got it wrong. In fact, it's the exact opposite. The line should be ‘buckle my shoe,' of course, not ‘unbuckle' it.”

“And accuracy is critical,” mused Reggie, allowing just a little skepticism in his voice.

She looked up defensively. “Yes, it is. I know it's just a toy, but this is a printed copy of the rhymes that the duck—I mean goose—speaks, so that children can follow along and perhaps learn to read a bit. He made several errors like that one, getting a word clearly wrong, sometimes the exact opposite of what it was supposed to be. I know that these aren't instructions for assembling a rocket or arming torpedoes, or some such, but accuracy is critical, all the same.”

“You're quite right,” said Reggie after a moment's consideration.

“Mr. Heath,” said the woman, “I'm not an unreasonable person. I mean, I try not to be. I could hardly run my business and make a living at it if I routinely paid for shoddy workmanship. However, I recognized that Mr. Liu did put sincere effort into his work, and I was willing to send him a minimal payment for that, even though I could not make use of what he returned and will need to have it redone. In fact, I was preparing a check and a letter to him, to that effect—until the police showed up on the step.”

She turned away for just a moment and then turned back to Reggie, with a check in her hand that she had to have written out earlier.

“Perhaps there is someone you can deliver this to—on his behalf?”

Reggie looked at the woman, who was remorsefully offering the check, and in his judgment, she wasn't faking it.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“I … I … am so sorry about what happened,” she continued. “When our new hires mistranslate, I sometimes fire them—but I never kill them.”

Reggie believed her. As much as his initial instinct had told him there was some connection between this woman and the death of Mr. Liu, he was certain now that she could not have been involved. It had to be something else. Perhaps Wembley's theory of a simple robbery was correct.

Reggie took his leave and returned to Baker Street Chambers. Along the way, he rang Laura on his mobile, but there was no answer.

At chambers, he checked his own answering machine again, and with Lois, but there was still nothing from Laura since the phone message from her the day before. And by the time he drove home that evening, Reggie was beginning to worry again.

Just how much time does one need to spend with a sick cat?

18

“One million pounds? Is that all?”

It was very late at night; only a few hours before dawn, more than a day and half since Laura's interrupted lunch with Reggie.

Since arriving at Buxton's compound the night before, Laura had spent all of her time sequestered there, with all the luxuries imaginable and servants at her beck and call, but with no further communication with the outside world. The security team had consented to the one initial phone message to Reggie, but after that, it had to be complete secrecy, they said, as they negotiated with the kidnappers. Laura was growing impatient with their rules.

But now they were all in Lord Buxton's private conference room again. This time Laura was seated at the head of the long table.

A special privilege, she supposed. Like the kind afforded Polynesian virgins before they were sacrificed to the volcano god.

Seated to her immediate left was Henry, the head of security. Standing on her right was Alex, the chief of staff. Each was flanked by an additional dark-suited security person. The brains were next to Laura, apparently, and the muscle stood on the periphery.

Alex dropped a heavy brown leather satchel on the table in front of Laura.

“That's all they asked for,” he said.

“It seems so little,” said Laura. “I mean, relatively speaking.”

But even as she said that, Laura was resisting the impulse to open the bag and see what that much cash looked like.

“Go ahead,” said Alex. “Open it.”

She did. The heavy bag unzipped with a low-pitched purr. She looked inside.

There were more banded packages of one-hundred-pound notes than she could count.

“It is quite a lot of money. But I would guess Robert spends that much each year just on his private jet,” said Laura.

“More,” said Alex. “And you have a point. A kidnapper who does his due diligence would know he could be asking ten times this amount.”

“So what does that mean?”

“I think it means we're dealing with amateurs,” said Alex. “The choice of such a public and easily accessible drop spot suggest that, as well.”

“Easily accessible for you, maybe,” said Laura. “You're not the one who'll be rowing the little boat.”

“I am sorry about that,” said Alex. “It's one of the few things they insisted on. But as kidnappings go, making the drop in the boating pond at Regent's Park is as safe as anything I can imagine.”

“Doesn't she know how to row?” muttered one of the musclemen at the far end.

The security chief next to him gave him an elbow.

“He'll be fired later for that remark, won't he?” said Laura.

“If you want,” said Alex.

“All right, then,” said Laura. “Let's review: I'm to row out with all this money in a bag. They are to put Robert—unharmed, of course—into my little boat, and I row back with him. Or perhaps I'll give him the oars and he'll do the rowing. But is that basically how this works?”

“Yes.”

“All right. But how do I make sure we've got Robert before I turn over the money?”

“Well, they're going to want the money first, of course,” said Alex. “That's the way these things are done. And you are not to argue with them. The fact is, they haven't chosen the best location for this, from their perspective. One more reason I know they're amateurs. The park is surrounded by the outer circle road, so they won't be able to escape unseen on foot, and we'll be watching all the gates where they can get out with a vehicle. We will see anyone who tries to leave the park, and at the very early hour they've chosen for the drop, there won't be any crowds around at all to confuse the issue. Once we know Lord Buxton is safe, we can call in Scotland Yard. It's really perfect. So you just deliver the money and let us worry about the rest.”

“How do they know that we haven't just surrounded the entire park with police?”

“We have to presume they have lookouts. Just as we do. But we'll tail them when they leave the park, and after we have Lord Buxton secure, we'll notify Scotland Yard and get the wankers nicked. All you have to do is row out and then row back.”

“I think you mean make the trade and then row like hell,” said Laura. “But all right. Let's get on with it.”

Two hours later, at not quite 4:30 in the morning, before even the earliest dawn joggers, a shining black fortified Range Rover pulled up at the Regent's Park gate just south of the duck pond.

The passenger window rolled down. Laura wanted a better look.

“Don't put your head out the window,” advised Alex, who was behind the wheel.

“I wouldn't worry,” said Laura. “I doubt that I could be any more ostentatious than this vehicle you chose to use.”

She surveyed the scene, but she did, in fact, keep her head inside as much as possible.

It was still dark out, but there was enough light from the streetlamps to make out the little sandwich shop and boathouse—she had been there a few times before, actually, but it was closed just now, of course. On the near side of the little park lake, the ducks and white geese were faintly visible along the shore, with their heads tucked beneath their wings.

“Will I be in an actual rowboat,” said Laura, “Or do I have to use one of the silly foot-pedal ones?”

“We don't know,” said Henry, the security chief, seated in back. “You're supposed to take whichever boat has already been cut loose for you.”

“Now, it appears to me that I will be exposed to all and everything as I row slowly across to the little island with the bushes where bad people are probably hiding. Is that how it seems to you?”

Henry and Alex looked at each other. Then they nodded.

“And where will you big strong men with guns strapped to your sides be?”

“Right here, at the ready,” said Henry.

“At the ready, two hundred meters away, behind all this armored plate?”

“Yes.”

“And do I take a weapon with me?”

“Are you licensed for the use of a firearm?” asked Henry.

“No.”

“Then no.”

“If they caught sight of it, the whole deal would be off,” said Alex. “Or worse could happen. Especially because, as I said, we're dealing with amateurs.”

“I see,” said Laura.

Alex looked apologetic. He opened up his briefcase and took out a small spray cylinder.

“You could take this,” he offered.

Laura looked at the little can of pepper spray.

“That would indeed be useful,” she said. “If any of the kidnappers should turn out to be small terriers.”

“Sorry.”

“Let's just get on with it, then, shall we?”

“Yes,” said Alex, checking his watch. “It's time.”

Laura got out of the car alone.

She walked a few yards along Outer Circle Drive, heading toward the boathouse—and then she looked back toward the vehicle, just on instinct, to see if her well-armed allies had any further advice.

But they had already rolled the window up.

Laura sighed. Just out of habit, she looked both ways before crossing the street, then walked on past Clarence Gate, into Regent's Park, and onto a paved path than ran the length of the lake shoreline.

In the dark, she bumped into a mallard that had settled in just a little too close to the walkway; it squawked and flapped on out of sight.

Good thing we're not depending on the element of surprise, thought Laura.

Between the dark and the mist, she could see no more than about five yards in front of her. But she knew where the boathouse was, and she continued on in that direction.

She hoped she would not bump into any geese. They were not nearly so easily intimidated as a duck.

In a few minutes, she was at the boathouse. Closed, of course. But the gate that led to the boat tie-up was open.

Laura could see that one boat had been cut loose from the chain that linked them all together; it was attached only by a rope with a simple loop.

There was no wind at all; the water looked black and completely still.

Laura stepped down from the dock into the wooden rowboat. It wobbled just a little as she got in, but there was no issue of her falling—she and Reggie had, in fact, rowed here before; she knew how to handle a boat on a pond.

She looked out toward the little island. It was only about a hundred yards out, but in the dark it was barely visible. It was lucky she had been to the park before.

She grabbed hold of the oars. The handles were damp; slime dripped from the ends of the oars when she raised them out of the water, and in the overall silence of the pond, the first oar stroke made a very loud racket of clanging metal and splashing water as she set out.

She resolved to try to row more quietly—she wasn't sure why—and she proceeded in the general direction of the island.

In perhaps five minutes, she had covered nearly half the distance. The bow of the boat was toward the island, and she was facing the stern, of course, in order to row, and so after each stroke, she had to crane her neck and look over her shoulder to see if anyone had yet appeared.

She was halfway there, and still she could make out no one in the darkness along the shore. And quite probably the kidnappers were not going to announce themselves with any sort of light.

And then, on the very next pull of the oars, her boat struck something hard.

“Ease up.” It was a man's voice.

Laura stowed her oars and turned to look. Her boat had struck up against another.

In the boat—a ten-foot dinghy, like Laura's—was just one man.

Laura didn't know if it would ever matter, but she tried to pay attention to the details.

The man was of average height, though he was sitting, so it was not easy to tell. He had a gardener's hat pulled down low over his forehead, and he had a cloth scarf or handkerchief of some kind wrapped around the lower part of his face.