Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,89

that?”

Ingrid swiveled in her chair to see Gurley standing in the doorway. She felt her cheeks warm and hoped to God they weren’t glowing red. How long had he been standing there? “Radcliffe. You’re not too popular with him right now.”

“That’s why he was calling? To bitch about me?”

“Sometimes it helps to let off a little steam. Unfortunately, he chose me to listen to him vent.”

“You want me to call him?”

Ingrid flinched at the thought. She hoped Gurley hadn’t noticed. “Best leave him to calm down.”

Gurley grabbed a chair from the other side of the office and dragged it to Ingrid’s desk. He slumped down on it. Ingrid thought it might collapse under his weight.

“Foster gave no indication what time he’d call?” Ingrid asked Gurley, even though she already knew the answer.

“No. I guess all we can do now is wait.” Gurley rested his chin on a fist. “Seems to me it’s all we’ve been doing. Foster has made us look like fools.”

“He’s a man determined to stay hidden. There’s not much anyone can do about that.”

Gurley pulled his cell from a jacket pocket and slid it onto the desk. Both he and Ingrid stared wide-eyed at it for the next few minutes in silence. There wasn’t anything else to say or do.

When the phone finally rang, the vibration buzzing it across the desk toward Ingrid, she involuntarily jumped in her seat.

“The trace is set up?”

“We’ve been ready since six a.m.”

Gurley snatched up the phone, hit the answer key, and the speakerphone option, but said nothing.

“The silent treatment makes a change,” Foster said. “Aren’t you going to spend the next minute trying to persuade me to give myself up?”

Gurley cleared his throat. “I think we’re beyond that now, don’t you?”

“Pleased to hear it.”

Ingrid leaned forward in her chair. It creaked noisily.

“Who’s there with you?” Foster demanded.

“This is Agent Skyberg,” Ingrid said.

“Good to make your acquaintance, Ingrid. I’m hoping you can drill some sense into Major Gurley’s skull.”

Ingrid didn’t bother to reply.

“I’ve identified a location for you to pick up Tommy. You’ll need to provide the paperwork for travel—I’m sure the embassy can work that out. I don’t have his passport. I want Yvonne Sherwood to take him to the airport and ensure he gets on the plane.”

“Yvonne is here in London?”

“I haven’t told you the location yet.”

“I can take Tommy to Heathrow,” Ingrid said.

“All due respect, agent, I’d rather have someone I can trust.”

“You can trust me.”

“I know you’re trying to keep me talking, so I’m going to go now. I’ll text the location and time shortly. Remember—no police.” He hung up.

“Has he lost it completely?” Gurley said. “He thinks we’ll let that woman just walk away with Tommy? He’s crazy.”

The phone beeped. The text gave an address with a west London postal code, a time and another instruction:

Tommy in exchange for Skyberg

Ingrid stared at the words for a moment, unable to quite take in their meaning. A hostage exchange? It seemed almost a quaint notion. It was totally against Bureau protocol. Yet in the circumstances, it seemed like a logical option. If Foster wasn’t armed, surely she’d be able to handle it?

“He has lost it,” Gurley said, jumping up from his seat. “We can’t agree to that. No way.”

Ingrid watched him pacing around the room. He reached a bank of metal file cabinets and thumped the first one with his fist. Meanwhile Ingrid was trying to figure out how they could make the whole hostage switch work.

“We’d need to get the police involved,” she said. “The Bureau doesn’t have the resources here for that kind of operation.” She stared at Gurley, as if she were willing him to disagree.

“I understand. But can we at least negotiate some measure of control over their operation?”

“Maybe you should leave that to me.”

“Or get your boss involved? Maybe they’d take a little more notice of him?”

Ingrid shook her head firmly. “No way. This isn’t something I want Sol to know about. If I do this, it’s between you, me and the Metropolitan Police Service.” She managed to smile at Gurley, even though a wave of anticipatory nausea was currently making its way from her stomach to the back of her throat.

Kyle Foster had chosen a disused industrial estate in Hounslow for their rendezvous. A location that was just three miles from Heathrow Airport. According to Radcliffe, it had been pretty much abandoned in the last recession. As yet, the slow recovery in the British economy hadn’t encouraged new tenants to move in. It