Revenge (David Shelley #1) - James Patterson Page 0,52
was told she fought like a lion.”
Shelley felt himself glow with pride, hating himself for what he said next: “She’s a silly bitch who had one job, to provide close protection for Susie Drake.”
“An ‘operator,’ you said. Isn’t that what you call your troops in the SAS, Captain Shelley?”
“It’s a figure of speech. Now listen, what are you doing calling me, and not Drake or Bennett?”
“Because you are a level head,” said Dmitry. “Because I know that you are experienced in kidnap situations, and for that reason you will know better than to involve the police.”
“I think it’s a bit too late for that.”
“Well, yes, your incompetent operator saw to that. But there are ways and ways, are there not? Ways that police involvement can be minimized—circumvented.”
He was right, of course. Shelley knew full well the dangers of getting the authorities involved in a kidnap situation. He was familiar with cases in South America where the intervention of the cops meant things had gone badly wrong, ending in a bloodbath. Body parts. Broken-hearted parents. Nobody wanted that.
“Now you tell me something. Is Susie Drake unharmed?”
“Not only unharmed but well cared for. My darling wife is seeing to that. Now, listen carefully, Captain. I’m going to ring this number later today, and I expect to speak to Mr. Drake at that point. I think that if you really are experienced in kidnap situations then you will know better than to involve the police in this.”
“I agree with you, but first I need proof of life as well as certain assurances from you.”
Dmitry sighed. “So impatient. Wait until later, and if all is well then you shall have your proof of life. That shall be your assurance, Captain. And if you involve the police then I’ll supply proof of death, one piece at a time.”
“You’d do that, would you? You’d kill his wife as well as his daughter?” Shelley was fishing, wondering how Dmitry would react, still trying to answer those questions.
In response Dmitry sounded affronted. “Daughter? I had nothing to do with his daughter’s death. I didn’t give his daughter the drugs. I didn’t put a gun in her mouth. I didn’t even recruit the girl to work in my studio. All of these are Emma Drake’s own actions, with a little help from her friends and her drug dealers and maybe, yes, with a little help from her parents. Because we need to ask ourselves, do we not, Captain Shelley, why such a nice girl was mixed up in such a terrible business.”
“That’s true, is it?” said Shelley. “You give me your word, do you? Emma Drake killed herself.”
“How else do you think she died?” Dmitry sounded genuinely puzzled. “Perhaps you were hoping that she was murdered, is that it? Is that the most desirable outcome for her friends and family?
“No, I had nothing to do with Emma Drake’s death. You know what is funny? I would never have known that she was this millionaire’s daughter were it not for the fact that he employed men—men like you, Captain Shelley—to try to do harm to my business. Why am I saying ‘try to’? You have significantly harmed my business. And you have insulted me, which is perhaps the worst offense of all, something that I’m afraid cannot be tolerated.
“Now, for that insult I make a charge and to ensure that charge is paid I have Susie Drake in a safe place, ready to be exchanged for the money. Now, please, you must excuse me, Captain. This business is really little more than a diversion, and there are plenty of other things I have to attend to.”
“The godfather’s work is never done, eh?”
Dmitry gave a theatrical sigh. “Something like that, yes. Just make sure that Mr. Drake takes the call later, and we can get all of this over and done with as soon as possible.”
“Oh yes, that’s her,” Lucy was saying as Shelley reentered the room. This, presumably, was the woman in sunglasses from the spa.
Lucy glanced at Shelley as he stepped toward the bed. They knew better than to try to pull the wool over Claridge’s eyes. He’d spot any meaningful looks. Instead Shelley turned his attention to the laptop screen, where Claridge scrolled through a series of pictures, each showing the same woman: dark-haired and slightly hard-faced, though not unattractive, usually clad in black.
“Who is she?” he asked, the question drawn out and thoughtful. As with the photographs of Sergei Vinitsky, Dmitry Kraviz and Co., these had been