Revenge (David Shelley #1) - James Patterson Page 0,51
zones when her life had been in danger every day—it went with the territory then. But now they’d decided to turn their backs on that life. She wasn’t supposed to nearly bleed out in the car park of a spa in Hampstead.
Claridge arrived a short while later, laptop under his arm. He greeted the armed guard with a formal nod and handshake then approached Shelley, shaking his hand with a politician’s grip. He turned his attention to Lucy, solemn and deferential. “You handled them like the old soldier I know you are,” he said. “They can count themselves very lucky indeed that they have all escaped with their lives.”
“Old soldier, eh?” said Lucy, consulting the heavens with her eyes. “Not quite sure how to take that.”
“Take it any way you want. Just take it the right way,” smiled Claridge.
Across Lucy’s bed was a wheeled table on which Claridge placed the laptop. “I’d like you to take a look at some pictures,” he told her. “Shelley, you need to look at these as well.”
Up came mug shots. “These are our friends from the London arm of the Chechen Mafia,” said Claridge. “Tell me when you’d like me to stop. We’re looking for any of the men who attacked you and took Susie Drake.” He began scrolling through the pictures.
“That’s one of them.” Lucy pulled herself up in bed with the excitement of seeing one of her attackers. “I’m pretty sure I winged that guy.”
“Okay,” said Claridge. He clicked to place a marker on the guy. “This is one of the soldiers, the kind of low-ranker that I’d expect to be mixed up in something like this. What about this guy?”
“Yes. I recognize him,” confirmed Lucy.
“And this guy?”
“That was the driver. Mr. Glock 18.”
“Makes sense. As far as we can tell, they operate as a kind of unit. Now, I’m particularly interested to know whether you recognize this gentleman.”
A new face came up. Youngish. Handsome. Unfamiliar to either Lucy or Shelley. She shook her head.
“And this guy?” said Claridge. The next picture was of a slightly older but muscled man, wearing spectacles. Again Lucy shook her head.
“That last guy was Sergei Vinitsky. High up in the organization. This guy is Dmitry Kraviz. As far as we know he is the head of the London branch.”
He navigated back to the shot of Sergei Vinitsky. “As you know, the Chechens are based in Moscow and Grozny. Now, in Moscow this chap’s brother, Ivan Vinitsky, may or may not have attempted to organize some kind of takeover. Intelligence is patchy but a short time after, he disappeared for good, never to be seen or heard of again.”
“Well, I don’t think he was part of the kidnapping,” said Lucy. “Neither of those guys. There were just the gunmen, a driver, and the woman.” Lucy’s eyes shifted. “Do you have any details on the woman?”
“Right, yes,” said Claridge, “I’ll come to that . . .”
Just then, Shelley’s phone rang in his pocket.
CHAPTER 43
SHELLEY STOOD. “CALL of nature,” he said, and although Claridge barely turned a hair, Lucy shot him a searching look, knowing him too well, as he stepped out of the room and into the corridor.
He pulled the phone from his pocket. “Hello,” he said as he hurried away from Lucy’s room, casting a look up and down the corridor. It was deserted.
“Is that Captain David Shelley of the Special Air Service?” said the voice. It was Dmitry Kraviz; he recognized the voice from Drake’s phone earlier. The weirdness of it struck Shelley. Seconds ago he’d been looking at a picture of Kraviz. Now he was talking to him.
Shelley moved quickly down the hall, thinking that you’re not supposed to use your mobile in a hospital. It’s forbidden; phones interfere with the machines. Or at least that’s what they used to say.
“It’s tough to speak right now. How about you ring back in five minutes?”
Dmitry Kraviz chortled. “Negative, my friend,” he said, “we need to speak now.”
Here. A restroom. Shelley ducked inside, relieved to find it empty. “All right,” he said, “you win. Proceed.”
“Well, I ask again: is this Captain Shelley?”
“You got my name and number from Johnson, did you?”
“He’s been a very valuable source of information,” said Dmitry. “But that woman at the spa today . . . who was she?”
“He didn’t tell you about her, then?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“One of our operators,” said Shelley. Need to keep Lucy out of this, he thought. At all costs. “And when she’s recovered from her injuries she’ll be an ex-operator.”