“Yes. Once I have Davis I don’t give a damn about the others, they are simply a means to an end. The Hammond woman is a tough customer. She won’t talk without encouragement, and our cherubic passenger will provide the incentive.”
“You won’t really hurt Katie, will you?” Donkin asked.
“Won’t have to, Rob. Hammond will fold like a cheap suit when she sees I’m serious.”
***
Dee had many options; despite the suspicious clicking on her phone she did not believe Donkin could monitor her calls. She could have called Steve Post from a landline, anyway. She could have called Vastrick for help, or at least the loan of a weapon, but time was short and she needed to think.
***
An hour away from Richmond at her lodge in Lynchburg, Gillian Davis unplugged her iPhone Vox from her iPad. The grid on the screen showed that Dee Hammond was still at her hotel in Richmond. Thank goodness for GPS.
When Gillian Davis had cloned Dee’s phone she’d felt mildly guilty. The woman was asleep and, in a strange way, she had trusted Gillian Davis, perhaps unwisely. With the clone of Dee’s phone residing on the second of the twin sim cards in her iPhone Vox, Gillian could read any text, listen in on any call and make a call as if it originated from Dee’s phone. She had also ensured that the GPS was activated. Her intention was to ensure that Dee Hammond didn’t get any wild ideas about taking Gillian out, or having her rendered back to the UK, and so this call was a surprise.
Gillian Davis too had options, and needed to consider them carefully. She could not blame Dee for disclosing Gil’s whereabouts, even though it meant that she would have to move on again, just as she was getting settled. Gil made a decision and started packing a bag.
***
Dee’s phone rang again at six minutes past two in the afternoon. She was ready; her plans were made. She would go it alone, sort of.
“Hello”. Dee responded to the call, again offering no clues as to her attitude or state of mind. The voice on the other end was different this time. It was English, the accent suggesting education at a minor public school somewhere, but the voice was determined and bordering on the harsh.
“You keep this phone on until we meet, do you understand?” Barry demanded.
“Yes.”
“Go to your car and head towards the I95 on the Downtown Expressway. Do not talk to anyone. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Dee’s phone beeped, and co-ordinates appeared on her BlackBerry.
“Type these coordinates into your sat nav and you will be here in ten minutes. Now, keep your phone on so I can hear what you’re doing.” Barry fell silent and Dee walked through reception to the valet parking area.
“Miss Hammond. Silver Chrysler 300. I’ll just get it for you,” the attendant said cheerily.
“Who was that?” Barry demanded.
“Valet Parking, they’re bringing my car,” Dee replied as she wrote quickly on a post it note which she stuck to a twenty dollar bill. The valet delivered her car and she handed the valet the cash. He saw the twenty and gushed, “Thank you Miss Hammond!”
Dee held her finger to her lips to demand silence from the valet, and stepped into the car.
“OK,” the voice said, “that’s the last talking you do, unless it’s to me!”
The valet spotted the post it note and peeled it off his tip. It read:
“Ring Richmond FBI Field Office, Steve Post, and tell him to meet me at these coordinates ASAP, silent approach only.”
The boy ran inside to talk to his manager.
Chapter 71
Darvell Salvage Yard, East 7 th Street, Richmond, Virginia. USA, Monday 2.45pm.
Dee left the expressway and headed south over the river on the Mayos Bridge which took South 14th Street over Mayo Island. On the south side of the river the road became Hull Street, which bisected the East and West versions of 1st to 6th Streets before the sat nav told her to take a left onto East 7th Street.
Dee travelled through the industrial area, much of it quiet, some of it abandoned, for six blocks. Richmond’s industry had obviously succumbed to the global recession in much the same way as the UK had.
“You have reached your destination,” the lady on the sat nav announced. A second later her BlackBerry sprang to life in its cradle in the centre console. She switched it out of speaker mode and lifted it to her ear.
“OK, Mrs Hammond. Be sensible, now. Park over the road on the waste ground, behind the stretch limo will do nicely. Then cross Dinwiddle Avenue. You are joining me in the junk yard between 7th and 8th Street. Keep the phone to your ear until I can see you.”
Dee did as she was told and walked around the perimeter of the salvage yard, which was completely fenced off, until she saw the sole entrance. She pushed the rusty old gates and they scraped long gouges in the ground until there was an opening large enough for her to pass through.
In front of her around twenty yards away she could see a new minivan. It stood out because everything else around it was scrap. There were narrow corridors of open space between precariously stacked squashed cars. There were rusty fridges, containers and oil drums that might have been stacked here in the 1960s. The place had the stink of dereliction. Dee walked carefully up to the van with the phone still at her ear, and looked inside. It was empty.
“We can dispense with the phone now.” Barry stepped out of a shadow and let her see a deadly looking hunting knife. He saw her staring at the lethal blade and he smiled.
“I love the USA. I picked this up for thirty five dollars at a truck stop come hunting store. It’s razor sharp, so don’t try any heroics,” he offered by way of introduction.
***
The junk yard had obviously not been used for some time. All of the cars were from the 1970s and 80s. Dee walked ahead of Barry and found herself in a preparation yard, a cleared area surrounded by mountains of scrap. Escape was only going to be possible by exiting the way she came in. Trying to clamber over the scrap could bring tons of the rusted metal down on top of anyone who attempted it.
In the middle of the clearing Dee could see two old folding chairs with ropes tied to them. The first chair was occupied by a tied and gagged Katie Norman, terror and bemusement visible in her teary eyes. She sobbed when she saw Dee. Dee moved towards her, but Rob Donkin stepped in front of the young starlet, blocking the way. Dee could have hit him twice and then moved his lifeless body out of her way, but she restrained herself. His time would come.
“Hands on your head,” Barry insisted, poking the point of the knife into her back. Dee obeyed slowly. He frisked her whilst Ron Donkin held the knife. The balding middle aged creep ran his hands over her body with an intensity that spoke more of sexual control than of searching. Dee showed no emotion, but she registered her disgust internally. She was keeping score.
Donkin handed the knife back to Barry and took his place behind Katie’s chair, stroking her hair proprietarily as he grinned at Dee. Barry Mitchinson ushered Dee to the second chair and ordered her to sit down. The second chair was around four yards from Katie’s chair, and they both faced inwards towards the centre of the clearing. Dee knew that once she was tied up her survival would lie in the hands of a valet parking attendant ten miles away, but at the moment she was out of options, so she sat down.
Barry told Donkin to tie Dee’s hands and feet and then secure her to the chair. Donkin pushed Dee forward on the chair so that she was leaning forwards and so he could get to her hands. Barry stood in front of her, wielding the wicked looking blade. It was now or never.
Whilst remaining in her seat, Dee flung her head back with as much force as she could, smashing the back of her head into Donkin’s forehead. He went down, falling backwards with a yelp of pain and surprise. As she moved back into position, she sprang from the chair, pushing down on bent legs to power herself into the moderately built Mitchinson. He tried to bring the knife around but he was too late. Her head butt to the chest had unbalanced him and as he began to tumble his fingers loosened their grip on the knife. Dee turned through one hundred and eighty degrees so that her back was toward Mitchinson, and she used both hands to grab his knife arm. Her thumb, forced into the pressure point in his wrist, elicited a scream and an involuntary opening of his fingers. The knife clattered onto the dirt. Pulling his arm down at an unnatural angle, she bent the MI5 man double and used her right arm to secure him in a headlock, whilst twisting his arm up his back. It seemed to be all over, but Dee heard a muffled cry from Katie. Without relaxing her hold on Mitchinson, she turned her head just in time to see the twisted, bloodied face of Donkin forming a painful grin as he fired the gun at Dee from a distance of just three yards.