Mid-October
The Marshes
Essex, England
FOR A BIG MAN, Ian McCall’s hands were amazingly gentle as he eased the dial of the shortwave radio. Inside the crowded van greenish diodes left trails of cold light across his face. “Any answer yet?”
The man beside him shook his head. “They’re still counting the money.”
Ian McCall fought his exhaustion. As Security International’s most seasoned kidnap negotiator, he knew the next decision was his. “They’ve had fifteen minutes to count the money. It’s time to push them. Otherwise, they’ll run—and they’ll put a bullet in that little girl first,” he said harshly.
His boss, Sir George Rolland, rubbed his neck impatiently. “It’s your call, Ian. You’ve been mediating with them for three months now. If anyone knows what these animals will do, it’s you.”
“They aren’t professionals. They’re unpredictable and probably shot high on drugs. If we don’t act now, we lose our edge. Then there’s no telling what they’ll do to their hostage.”
The director nodded grimly. “Take over.”
Ian drew a hard breath and flipped on the broadcast switch near his left palm. His voice was precise, but carried the hint of soft Highland cadences. “Largo, are you there?”
There was no answer.
“Largo, this is Baker.” The code name rolled smoothly from Ian’s tongue. Field personnel in hostage situations knew better than to use their real names. If they didn’t know that, they didn’t survive for long. “What the hell is taking so long in there? We want the girl out now. Get her in front of the cottage where we can see her.”
Static rose in a sharp wave, followed by a voice rough with exhaustion and raw excitement. “We’re still checking the money, Baker. Three stacks to go. Your people had better not have left anything out.”
“Listen to me, Largo. Get the girl out now, or a team will be in with dogs and infrared tracers. If that happens, there won’t be enough of you left to enjoy a single bloody pound.”
“Threats, Baker? I thought smooth negotiating was your style.”
“My style just changed. Something tells me you’ve lost control over your comrades in there. If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up a splotch on a wall.” Ian lowered his voice. “You might be interested to know that the Italian has done this before. Both times, he pulled the trigger on his victim minutes after the ransom was paid. Then he vanished with the money. Do you catch my drift, Largo?”
The kidnapper made a low, crude sound. “How do you know that?”
“We’re in touch with Interpol, of course. The Italian’s M.O. was clear from week one. The only one who didn’t know his style was you. Obviously, he’s setting you up for the same trick.”
A string of curses filled the wire.
Ian flipped off the transmit button and sat back. Sweat glistened green over his brow in the light of the shifting diodes.
“What happens now?” Rolland asked anxiously.
“Now we pray. The next move is up to Largo.” Ian studied a video screen to his left. “Still no movement at the site, dammit.”
“You did everything you could, McCall. It looks like you were right on target about that bloody fellow Alberto. Let’s hope Largo gets to the girl first.”
Ian swung off his headset and motioned to the officer at his left, who immediately took his place. “It’s finished, Rolland. I can feel it. They’ve got most of their damned money and now they’ll start tidying up.” Suddenly he bent over the video screen. “Wait a minute…”
A moment later, the air crackled with the urgent voice of one of Security International’s support team. “Baker, are you there? The door is opening. Someone’s coming out. Hold fire until my order, understood? Baker, do you read me?”
Ian shoved his headphones back in place, responding to his code name. “I’m here, Able. We can see the field. Any ID on who’s coming out?”
“It looks like the girl. It’s—She’s out! Baker, do you copy? She’s out!”
Ian’s hands were not quite steady as he adjusted the grainy video image. “I read you, Able. Any sign of the Italian?”
“Our people in the rear just picked up a body falling from the porch. Looks like he took a round in the head.”
Ian murmured something soft in Gaelic. “What about the girl? Any sign of pursuit?”
“Not yet. She’s almost to the front steps. You can see her red hat.”
Ian frowned. “Red hat?”
“That’s it. As soon as she’s beyond the porch, we can rush her. My men will run cover while they get her to safety. Two teams are standing by to close in as soon as she is clear.”
Ian’s fingers moved restlessly over the console. He studied each window and door of the dilapidated cottage on the edge of the lonely Essex marshes. “Not yet, Able, do you copy? Don’t panic these people. They’re jittery and tired, running on pure adrenaline. Largo has followed through so far, so let’s give him a little more time.”
A taut silence followed. “Rover, are you in agreement?”
Sir George Rolland spoke into his handheld receiver. “Agent Baker is right. He knows these people. I suggest you do what he says and give them some space.”
“But—”
“Now,” Rolland said curtly.
“Very well, Rover. They have one more minute.”
Time crawled by. The four men in the cramped communications van watched the eight-year-old heiress to a chain of grocery stores wander dazedly across the yard, a toy bear clutched to her chest.
“God, she’s so bloody young,” Rolland said softly.
“She’s almost to the gate,” McCall whispered. “Two more feet. Come on, Terri. Get clear.”
As she skirted a row of withered cornstalks, black figures exploded out of nowhere, surrounding the freed victim and covering her with their Kevlar-protected bodies. Up the hill two mobile assault teams crept toward the isolated farmhouse.
Rolland gripped his receiver anxiously. “Konrad’s men have her.”
McCall’s breath rasped free. He sank back against the padded chair, his eyes closed. His part of the operation was over. The ransom had been negotiated and the victim was free and unharmed.
“Good work.” Rolland pressed his shoulder. “Now you can take some time off and—”
“Baker?” The field officer’s voice broke in urgently.
“Right here.”
“Terri wants to see you. She’s—she’s pretty broken up, and she keeps asking to see the man on the radio who told her about the teddy bear’s picnic.” The officer’s usually unemotional voice was unsteady.
“Where are her parents?”
“In a car down the hill. But she wants to see you first, Baker. She’s…bloody insistent. A real fighter, that one.”
“That’s what kept her alive,” Ian said flatly. He pushed out of his chair and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. “Tell Terri I’m on my way.”
THEY MADE AN ODD PAIR, the man with the hard face and the little girl clutching his callused hand. Though the uniformed troops were too far away to pick up the discussion, they saw the girl rub her eyes and sway. A moment later Ian crouched beside her and smoothed her tangled braids. The bear dangled perilously when she gripped his neck.
Two dozen pairs of eyes softened at the sight of a child’s bravery and the tenderness of a man whose ruthless determination had kept her safe. Ian took the threadbare toy of antique chenille and shook hands with exaggerated formality. When the little girl curtsied with equal formality, her uncertain laugh drifted on the wind, and more than one brawny military officer cleared a suddenly raw throat.
Ian McCall pulled the girl into his arms and walked slowly over the field, the wind ruffling his dark hair. At his back, a trail of smoke rose from the burning farmhouse. Four kidnappers stumbled out onto the front porch swarming with military snipers.
But Terri St. James didn’t notice. Her small hands clutched Ian McCall’s neck and her beloved bear at the same time. Snowflakes danced down from the sky, dusting the battered old toy and glistening on the little girl’s cheeks and eyelashes.
She was smiling tentatively as her parents broke from their waiting car, with the first soft snowfall of the year eddying around them.