of view, the dungeon was a bit of a disappointment. It was not a medieval castle basement with cold, stone walls, torch lights, chains, and torture devices. It was another office in the same building with its windows blacked out, two folding chairs on a concrete floor, and little else. “The dungeon” was clearly a pet name.
The goons shoved the agents into the chairs, turned, and walked out of the office, locking the door behind them. Kori and Anya were free to move about the room, but their hands were still zip-tied behind their backs.
“Blood,” Anya said quietly, nodding her head toward the floor in front of them. The floor was stained with it.
“Graham’s, I’ll bet,” said Kori. “They probably beat him before they shot him, trying to determine what he had passed along to us.”
“They will beat us and kill us, too.”
“Maybe. But maybe not. We’re CIA, at least in their minds. That makes it a different ballgame. They know that if we turn up dead or missing, US government agents will be all over London. Don’t get me wrong; Graham’s murder will be investigated, too. But something tells me the investigation will close quickly.”
“Why?”
“Because of Graham’s involvement with the mob. In the course of investigating his death, the police will investigate Graham himself—his contacts, his bank accounts, his recent movements, everything. They’ll discover his moonlighting for Turner.”
“Assuming he was moonlighting voluntarily. Like you said, Kori, maybe he was being blackmailed by the mob. Maybe they had something on him.”
“But that something would still be bad. Either way, he was tied to the mob and that would be bad publicity for MI5.”
“I see what you mean.”
“If they find his murderer, probably Quincy himself, then the murderer will squeal about Graham’s involvement. Will the public think that MI5 is tainted? The person who was appointed head of the task force to find Prince Grayson turned out to have mob ties? Trust me, any investigation of Graham’s death is going to end almost before it begins. They’ll say he was on a stakeout that went bad or something. No matter how he was killed, it’s not a good look for the agency in the middle of the Grayson case. I’ll bet they’re already concocting some story. They’ll want to keep Graham’s death out of the press as long as they can.”
“And release the details only after the case is resolved.”
“Sure.”
“So why do you think the mob killed him?”
“I’m sure his job was to purposely slow down the investigation, right? And concerning us, to throw us off track. But although he tried, he wasn’t doing an effective enough job. Quincy was following us with his boys out there. He watched me pay visits to Kingsley and Bates. Twice with Bates, in fact. He saw us go to White’s. He probably didn’t see us sneak into Grayson’s manor, and I’m sure he didn’t follow us to Cambridge.”
“How do you know?”
“We’d be dead. He’d know we were making the Holland–Turner connection. But still, he saw enough of our investigation to believe that Graham was telling us things, even though he wasn’t. Quincy was afraid we were getting too close to the truth. I’m sure Graham swore up and down that he’d kept his mouth shut as he sat right here being questioned and beaten.”
“Evidently, they did not care for his answers.”
“Nope.”
“As for us, I agree that they cannot kill us, but neither can they let us go, Kori.”
“Yeah, looks like we’re stuck right here for a while. My guess is that once this thing is over—the ransom is paid, or, failing that, Grayson is killed—then maybe they’ll let us go. Put us back in the van, drive us out to the country somewhere, and drop us off like unwanted kittens. Hudson Imports will pack it up and open somewhere else under a new name. Quincy will lie low, maybe take an extended vacation until everything blows over. Turner’s secret will remain a secret, or at least that’s what they’ll believe. They’ll think they’ll have left us with no clues and nothing to investigate.”
“You are more of an optimist than I am, my friend. They may not kill us, but it is entirely possible we could be in for a good old-fashioned—how do you say?—ass-whupping, just to make sure we are telling the truth when we say we do not know anything.”
Kori chuckled. “Maybe. A few bruises, perhaps a broken nose, a fat lip. Nothing that won’t heal.”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
“In the meantime, maybe we can find a way out of here.”
“I am open to any and all ideas.”
Kori and Anya paced around the office, looking for, well, looking for something they could use. Anything. Kori wondered if they could break a window. Maybe they could push a chair toward the window, step up on the chair, and dive through. She knew they were on the ground floor, after all. Anya wondered if they could somehow summon the goons, crouch behind the door, and knock them senseless when they entered. Both trains of thought were full of holes and neither would work very well with the agents’ hands rendered immobile behind them.
Clearly, they were stuck.
Several minutes came and went with both agents lost in thought. Then suddenly they heard a commotion outside the building which carried into the front office. Kori and Anya heard voices and shots fired. More shots followed. Then more voices.
Then quiet.
Finally, the agents heard a voice outside the door. “They must be in here, mates.” The door knob turned slightly. “Locked, of course. Agents Briggs and Kovalev, are you in there?”
“Yes,” Kori said.
“Stand aside from the door, if you please.”
A moment later, the door crashed open. A man in tactical gear with an entry ram, followed by two others, barreled into the room.
“Good day, agents,” the man with the ram said. “My name is Walsh. We’re MI6.”
“Good to see you, Walsh,” Kori replied. “Needless to say.”
One of the other MI6 men took out a knife and cut through the zip ties.
“How did you know where we were?” Anya asked, rubbing her wrists.
“Chief Hayes had a man follow you from his office,” Walsh said.
“Wow, what a guy,” said Kori.
“Yes, Chief Hayes always seems to have a sense about these things. He wanted to take no chances.”
“We have a chief like that ourselves.”
“Sorry we didn’t get here sooner. Our man notified us you were snatched and we responded as fast as we could. We lost your van, but our helo picked it up again and led us here.”
“Where are Quincy and the others?”
“The blokes that kidnapped you? We traded a few shots with them and then they scurried out the back. Bastards had a speedboat tied up to the dock. Can you believe it?”
“So they got away.”
“Afraid so. But our helo is still in the air. We’ll find ’em.”
“Anybody get hurt?”
“No, I believe we’re all in splendid shape. But now, Ms. Briggs and Ms. Kovalev, if you’ll please come with us. Chief Hayes has informed us that you’re late for a meeting at Thames House with the MI5 task force, a meeting he himself arranged.”
“I’m afraid we are at that,” said Kori.
“Well, then. We’ll give you a lift. You can make your apologies when you get there.”
The meeting with the task force at Thames House was less productive than Kori had hoped. She and Anya hadn’t learned much more than they’d already known. For their part, MI5 appreciated the Holland–Turner connection and everyone seemed to agree that the connection extended, in some way, to the prince’s disappearance. But Chief Hayes had been overly optimistic. The circumstantial nature of the link meant that Sir John Holland could be asked to come in for questioning, but he could not be forced to.
Certainly, Andrew Quincy could be arrested and, in fact, the issuance of a warrant was underway. Unfortunately, it had come to light during the meeting that the pilot of the helicopter monitoring the speedboat observed the boat come ashore in a wooded area in East Tilbury, then lost the crew in the trees. Police converged on the area, but Quincy and his men were nowhere to be found. Undoubtedly, Quincy had called other mob members for help. The wooded area was probably a prearranged meeting spot; a car and driver had most likely been waiting for them on the other side of the trees where there was a busy street, picking them up and blending into traffic. Now there was no telling where Quincy was.
The agents further learned that Newton Dempsey had been in contact with Buckingham Palace twice since his original email, both times more or less demanding updates. Just that morning, he had sent an email to remind the queen, as if she needed a reminder, that the following day would be “the prince’s last on this earth if the money does not make it into the account.” The queen had remained adamant, reminding the prime minister, who had passed her sentiments along to MI5, that “We have never, and will not now, negotiate with kidnappers or terrorists. The fact that the life of a royal is at stake, painful as it might be for your queen on a personal level, does not alter this doctrine.” Nevertheless, word out of the palace was that the queen’s condition had been elevated from “concerned” to “quite agitated” by the lack of progress being made on Prince Grayson’s rescue.
There was one positive, perhaps helpful, thing that the Rampart agents learned. Newton Dempsey had been spotted two days before. Someone had recognized him in a supermarket in St. John’s Wood. His picture as a person of interest had made the rounds on TV and social media, and some observant shopper had seen him in a checkout lane. He had a mustache, but she was sure it was him and called the police. In truth, it was one of hundreds of reported sightings of Dempsey. The public still didn’t know the scope or nature of his involvement, as Buckingham Palace had insisted that no news of a kidnapping be reported, but that didn’t stop the leads from coming in. None of them, besides this one, had panned out. MI5 had taken store video footage, enhanced it, run it through a facial recognition program, and determined that the man in the checkout lane was, indeed, Newton Dempsey with a false mustache. Consequently, it was believed that wherever he was holding the prince, it was most likely not far from the store. No doubt he was there to restock food and other miscellaneous staples. Where he went from the store, no one could say, but roads in and out of the area were now patrolled by the police, and cars were routinely stopped and checked. But Dempsey’s appearance was not relayed to the media; MI5 did not want Dempsey to know he’d been spotted.
And that was the gist of the briefing. Of course, the entire agency was reeling from the death of Victor Graham and his possible connection to the London mafia, but that matter would have to wait. The deadline was fast approaching. And Kori had been right; news of Graham’s murder was being temporarily withheld from the press.
Kori and Anya had been brought up to speed but were left with little direction. After thanking their counterparts and being promised that they’d be privy to the latest information, they left MI5 headquarters. Instead of walking this time, they hailed a cab. “Quincy and his cohorts know our car,” Kori said. “Let’s leave it where we parked it.”
With nowhere else to go and the day getting late, Kori suggested they check out the supermarket where Dempsey was last seen. “I can’t imagine we’re going to find anything that the police didn’t find,” Kori said, “but I guess you never know. Can you think of anything else?”
“I’m afraid not,” Anya replied. “And I fear time is running out on the prince. Tomorrow is just a few hours away. But we will figure it out, Kori. We always do.”
Kori nodded as the two stepped into a cab and headed to the supermarket in St. John’s Wood. But Anya knew enough about her partner to know this: Kori was unconvinced.