She smiles.
I have a walkie-talkie clipped to my top pocket and a Glock 17 self-loading pistol in a holster under my left arm. The radio receiver tucked into my right ear is tuned to the same frequency as a handset in Aleksei's car.
I also have a dark blanket I can drag over myself at traffic lights or when vehicles pull alongside us.
“Remember not to look at me. If you have to park somewhere, try to avoid streetlights. Choose somewhere darker.”
She taps the steering wheel once.
The cell phone rings again. She reaches down and presses the speaker button.
In the background a girl is crying. The male voice, still heavily distorted, screams at her to be quiet. Rachel flinches.
“You called the police, Mrs. Carlyle.”
“No.”
“Don't lie to me. Never lie to me. A detective visited you at work five days ago.”
“Yes but I didn't invite him. I told him to leave.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't insult my intelligence.”
“I'm telling the truth. I swear. I have the ransom.” Rachel's voice is shaking but she doesn't waver.
If this were a police operation we would be tracing the call, narrowing down the signal to the nearest transmitting tower. Then again, he's probably moving and he won't stay on the line for more than a few minutes at a time.
“I just need some assurance. I want to see Mickey,” says Rachel. “I need to know she's OK, otherwise I don't think I can get through this—”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP! Don't try to bargain, Mrs. Carlyle.”
“I'm not trying to be unreasonable. I just need to know she's—”
“Alive? Can't you hear her?”
“Yes, but . . . how do I know . . . ?”
“Well, let me see, I could cut out one of her big brown eyes and post it to you. Then again, maybe I should just run a knife across her pale pretty throat and send her head in a box. Then you can put it on the mantelpiece as a reminder of what a STUPID COW YOU ARE!”
Everything reels. I can see Rachel's chest heaving. For a long while she can't speak.
“Mrs. Carlyle?”
“I'm here.”
“Are we clear?”
“Yes. Just don't hurt her.”
“Listen very carefully. You get one chance at this. Disobey my instructions and I hang up. Argue with me and I hang up. You mess up and you won't hear from me again. You know what that means?”
“Yes.”
“OK, let's do this one more time.”
What does he mean by “one more time”? Has he done this before? Everything about his vocal tone and pace of his speech suggests he's not a first-timer. A cold draft of fear settles over me. Mickey's not coming home tonight. She's never coming home. And these people won't balk at killing Rachel. What was I thinking? It's too dangerous!
“Where are you now?”
“Ah, um, I'm getting close to the roundabout. It's just ahead of me.”
“Circle the roundabout three times and then go back the way you came.”
“Where to?”
“Prince Albert Road Roundabout near Regent's Park.”
Roundabouts are open and hard to police. They're making her circle so they can check that she's not being followed. Hopefully, Aleksei will realize and hang back.
We're returning toward the West End now. From my hiding place, below the level of the windshield, I can only see the upper floors of buildings and the globes of streetlights. Ahead of us, above the Post Office Tower a blinking red light moves across the sky; a helicopter perhaps or a plane.
The phone line is still open. I raise my hand and make a talking motion. Rachel taps once on the steering wheel.
“Is Mickey OK?” she asks tentatively.
“For now.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“No.”
“Why did you wait so long?”
He doesn't answer. Then, “Where are you now?”
“Just passing the London Mosque.”
“Turn right onto Prince Albert Road. Follow it around Regent's Park.”
There is something about the voice. Even with the distortion I detect a slight accent, possibly South London or farther east. Beads of perspiration shine on Rachel's top lip. She licks them away and keeps her eyes fixed on the road.
“Get to Chalk Farm Road. Follow it north.”
Through the windows I see the faintest wisps of clouds, engraved against the night sky by a half-moon. We must be climbing Haverstock Hill toward Hampstead Heath.
The caller begins naming crossroads and counting them down. “Belsize Avenue . . . Ornan Road . . . Wedderburn Road . . .” And then suddenly, “Turn left now. Now!”
My knees bang against the gear stick. Fifty yards farther, he yells, “STOP! Get out of the car. Bring the pizza.”
“But where—?” pleads Rachel.
“Walk along the street and find the car that isn't locked. The keys are in the ignition. Leave the phone. There's another waiting for you.”
“No. I can't—”
“DO AS YOU'RE TOLD OR SHE DIES!”
The phone goes dead. Rachel seems to be frozen in place, both hands still locked on the wheel.
“You OK?”
She taps the steering wheel once.
“You see anyone?”
She taps it twice.
“What about behind us?”
Two taps.
I ease myself upward, fighting the cramp in my legs. We're on a tree-lined street, with major intersections at each end. Branches shield the parked cars from above.
Rachel reaches for the door handle.
“Wait!”
“I have to go. You heard him.”
He knew the crossroads. He was rattling off the distances. Either he's nearby or everything has been planned in advance. Can I take the risk of going with her?
“OK, I want you to take the ransom and walk along the street. When you find the car unlock the trunk.”
She reaches into the backseat and retrieves the pizza box. The door opens. The interior light has been disconnected. Using a handheld periscope with a zoom lens, I watch her walk away from me, at the same time scanning the street for any movement. I punch the button on the two-way.
“Oscar Sierra this is Ruiz. Rachel is on foot. The target vehicle is changing. Be vigilant.”
Rachel tries each car door and then moves on. She's getting farther and farther away from me. Far off I see the interior of a car light up. Rachel slips inside and picks up another cell phone. The door closes and the brake lights flare. It's now or never.
I'm out of the car. Running. My legs are stiff and wracked with cramps, making it hard to stay on my feet. Meanwhile the pavement is uneven and broken by tree roots.
A Vauxhall Vectra is pulling out ahead of me. Rachel spies me at the last minute in her rear mirror and slows down. I open the trunk and tumble heavily inside, pulling the lid closed until it jams hard on my fingers but doesn't lock shut.
We're moving again. I'm curled up in a ball, with my cheek pressed against the nylon floor mat and my heart pounding. The wheel arches amplify the sound of the tires on the road and I can hear nothing else.
I feel for the earpiece. It's fallen out and is dangling down on my chest. Putting it back into my ear, I hear Aleksei yelling in Russian. They don't know which car to follow. There are two vehicles leaving the street—a BMW turning south down Fitzjohn's Avenue and the Vectra turning north.
They're trying to contact me. The walkie-talkie is digging into my chest. I lever myself upward and pull it free. There's no response when I depress the talk button. I must have broken the two-way when I rolled into the car.
Aleksei won't know which vehicle to follow until the cars are far enough apart for the transmitter to identify which one is carrying the ransom. By then he risks losing us completely.
I can't help. Instead I concentrate on creating a mental map of north London in my head, trying to calculate which turns we make and the direction we're heading. The minutes and miles tick by.