She finally stepped out and offered a pleasant smile as introductions were made. They followed her into an office even more cramped than the holding room and sat down across her cluttered desk. She uncapped a fine pen, arranged a writing pad, seemed poised to take notes, and said, “Ms. Sandroni is on our morning sheet, which means her abduction is a primary concern. The prime minister is updated every day. You said you have some information.”
Riley, the Brit, would do most of the talking. He said, “Yes, well, as you know, there has been no contact with her kidnappers, or abductors, or whatever. That is, until now.”
Her pen froze. Her mouth dropped open slightly though she tried hard to project the standard diplomatic blankness. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Riley. “They’ve made contact?”
“Yes.”
A pause as she waited. “May I ask how?”
“It happened in New York, through our office there.”
Her spine stiffened as she laid down her pen. “May I ask when?”
“Thursday of last week. Again on Sunday. There is a demand for ransom and a deadline. With a threat.”
“A threat?”
“Execution. The clock is ticking.”
The gravity of this news began to sink in. Ms. Branch took a deep breath as her officious mood changed. “All right, what can I do for you?”
Riley said, “It is imperative that we see the foreign minister immediately.”
She nodded and said, “All right, but I need more information. The ransom, how much?”
“We can’t go there. We are under strict instructions from the kidnappers not to do exactly what we are doing now. Run to the government. This must be kept as confidential as possible.”
“Who are they?”
“We don’t know. I’m sure the Foreign Office has its own list of suspects.”
“The usual ones. Libya has no shortage of bad actors. But we can’t negotiate with someone we don’t know, can we?”
“Please, Ms. Branch. We need to have this conversation with the foreign minister.”
The stone face returned as Ms. Branch accepted the inevitable, as difficult as it was. Her rank was too low. The issue was too important. She had no choice but to hand the matter off to her superior. With a proper nod, she said, “Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”
Riley pushed and said, “Time is crucial.”
“I understand, Mr. Casey.”
For lunch they ducked into a pub, found a corner booth, and ordered pints of Guinness and bacon sandwiches. Mitch had learned years ago that alcohol with lunch seriously hampered his afternoon and made him sleepy. For the Brits, though, a couple of pints at noon worked like early morning espressos. The brew recharged their batteries and prepped them for the rigors of what the rest of the day had to offer.
As they waited for their food, they worked the phones. It was impossible to simply sit in a pub and sip ale when they could feel the pressure of the deadline. Riley called Sir Simon and recapped the meeting with Ms. Branch. Both agreed it was a waste of time. Sir Simon was hot on the trail of a former ambassador who could move mountains, and so on. Mitch called Roberto in Rome to check on Luca. They were having little luck with their contacts inside the prime minister’s office. Penetrating the Italian foreign service would be just as tricky as finding an audience in London.
Halfway through their sandwiches, and as Riley ordered another pint while Mitch declined, Darian called with news out of Tripoli. Unconfirmed, of course, but Crueggal’s sources were reporting another botched commando raid by the Libyan Army, somewhere in the desert near the Algerian border. Barakat got away. No hostage was found. Gaddafi was out of his mind and sacking generals right and left.
Darian’s fear was that the Colonel would overreact and send in his troops for a full-blown war. Once the bombing started, the casualties would be enormous and the aftershocks unpredictable.
Mitch ordered a second pint. After a lunch that was much longer than planned, and after a round of coffee, he and Riley returned to the Torpedo and tried to do something productive. Mitch called Abby for the family update. He called his office and chatted with his secretary and a paralegal.
Riley appeared at his door with the news that there was movement at the Foreign Office. They had a 5 P.M. meeting with a Madam Hanrahan, a Second Secretary.
“How wonderful,” Mitch mused. “We started with a Third Secretary and now we’ve moved up to a Second. I presume the next one will be a First. Then, beyond that, where do we go? How many layers are there?”
“Oh Mitch. The Foreign Office has ten times more departments than Scully. We’re just getting started. It could take months to see all the right people, and the more we talk the more dangerous it gets.”
“We have eight days.”
“I know.”
Chapter 30
The 5 P.M. meeting with Second Secretary Madam Sara Hanrahan began at 5:21 and ended ten minutes later. She complained of a long day, looked frazzled, and really wanted to go home. In Mitch’s opinion, which he shared with no one, she had the watery eyes of a drinker and they were probably intruding on her happy hour. She had been briefed by the Third Secretary, and felt strongly that “her government” could not possibly get involved in a ransom scheme when it had no role in the negotiations. She claimed to be an expert on Libya and knew all that was knowable about the abduction of Giovanna Sandroni. Her department was briefed every morning and had grave concerns.
For Mitch and Riley, the only successful part of the otherwise useless meeting was a promise by Madam Hanrahan to push the matter upward and to do so with haste.
Leaving her office, in the rear seat of a shiny black Jaguar with a trusted Scully driver at the wheel, Riley yanked out his phone, looked at the message, and mumbled, “This should be fun.” He listened for a moment, grunted a few times, rang off, then said to the driver, “The Connaught Hotel.”
“Seems we’re having tea with Sir Simon. He’s found an old friend.”
The Connaught was a legendary London hotel in the heart of Mayfair. Mitch had never stayed there because he couldn’t afford it and Scully wouldn’t expense it. Its elegant bars offered the priciest drinks in town. Its restaurant had three Michelin stars. Its staff was a study in tradition and precision.
Sir Simon looked right at home in the main tea room, with a platter of fancy sandwiches on the table and a pot of tea ready to pour. He was with a friend, a dapper little man at least his age or older. He introduced him as Phinney Gibb.
Riley knew him and was immediately suspicious. As Sir Simon explained to Mitch, Phinney had been a deputy minister of some variety back in the Thatcher years and was still connected. One look at the old guy, though, and it was hard to believe he was connected to anything but his pearl-handled cane.
Mitch went silent as Sir Simon laid out a plan. Phinney could still work the back channels and had contacts in the prime minister’s office. He also knew a ranking secretary in the Foreign Office. Mitch and Riley exchanged glances. They’d had a full day with important secretaries. And, on top of that, Phinney knew Libya’s ambassador to the U.K.
Phinney was confident he could arrange a meeting with the prime minister’s office. The goal, of course, was to convince the PM that the government should pay some of the ransom to rescue a British citizen.
Mitch listened hard, sipped tea that he had never learned to enjoy, nibbled on a cucumber sandwich, and worried once again that too many people were getting involved. And the more they met and the more they listened, the more time was being wasted. It was Tuesday evening. Six thirty-five. Two days down, eight to go, and the ransom pot was still empty, except for Luca’s commitment.
Phinney prattled on about what a fine fellow the Libyan ambassador was. Riley asked if he could arrange a meeting the following day. Phinney would certainly try, but there was a good chance the ambassador was not in London.