LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

his thumbnails. “We’ve lost eight and the Americans have lost some as well … The first one was …” he paused again and looked at the captain, “Maybe I won’t bother with names, they’re irrelevant really. The first one disappeared without trace. Brilliant man—just developed a new process for making chips …” He stopped, briefly examining their faces. Did they understand? Unsure, he interpreted: “Computer processors.” Yolanda’s wide blue eyes signified comprehension. Damn! Trapped again.

      “He went for a ride on his bicycle and was never seen again,” he pushed on, careful to avoid looking to his right, Yolanda’s side.

      “Number two … It was put down as a suicide. Drove his car straight off a bridge into the front of an express train. Only bits and pieces were ever found and they were burnt to a cinder.”

      “Cinder?” she questioned, her voice striking him like a tenor bell—he knew which bell.

      “Um, yes. Ashes, nothing left,” he said, struggling to answer without making eye contact. “The body was never properly identified. The car exploded like a bomb when the train hit it—a huge fire, the train driver was burnt to death as well.”

      Kidding himself that he’d broken her spell, he risked a quick glance and immediately regretted it. She was waiting for him—her soft eyes drawing him in, holding him, mesmerizing him. I don’t need this, he thought, breaking free, but with a quiver in his voice continued. “Number three—encryption specialist, another complete disappearance. Went for a stroll with his dogs one Sunday afternoon. The dogs came back. No trace of him … Number four was different. The only female. She was working on an ultra-high speed system to connect banks around the world. She did kill herself, even left a suicide note. It seems she was being blackmailed but we never found out why … Numbers five and six were friends. Two of the most seasoned computer boffins …” he paused and translated, “two of the world’s top computer experts. Worked for rival companies but were responsible for some major advances in computers. They disappeared on a fishing trip off the south coast. One of them owned a forty-foot cruiser and it just … aah! . . um.” Flipping open his hands he made a “pt” sound with his lips. “Gone,” he said, expressively, expecting everyone to understand they had simply vanished into thin air.

      “Seven was a couple of months ago. A major loss to the industry. This guy had just developed an entirely new kind of processor, a complete revolution. He was on his way back from California for a presentation to the company president, but never arrived. His plane blew up over the ocean. His body was never found, neither were his plans or prototypes.”

      “I remember that,” said a Caas, “I zink that was the plane crash that killed all those Americans.”

      “Correct,” said Bliss. “Two hundred and forty-three—twenty of ’em kids.”

      “Do you honestly think they would do that?” demanded the other Yolanda in puritanical outrage, her dour face and lank, chopped, prisoner’s hairstyle as austere as her tone.

      Bliss shrugged, “I don’t know—it’s possible. Some people will do anything for money.”

      Now, with a sweeping glance around the room, he changed stance and tone. No longer the lecturer, he relaxed to being a fellow cop. “Those are all the one’s we’re sure are connected. There was an eighth one, a strange man who worked on his own and sold ideas to the highest bidder. He lived in an old farmhouse in the Welsh mountains.”

      “What is Welsh?” interrupted one of the Jans.

      “Sorry … Wales. You know, the little country stuck on the west of England …” Jan’s puzzled frown suggested that geography was not one of his strong points so Bliss tried making it easy, “It’s part of England.”

      D.C. Wilson, hailing from Cardiff, roused with a start, muttering, “Bloody not part of England,” but Bliss cut him short with a glare. “Anyway, this man disappeared sometime in the past three or four months. No one seems quite sure exactly when.”

      He looked around the room, checking the officers one at a time, taking in the fact they nearly all wore glasses, and all but one were smoking. Even Yolanda No.l, as he had decided to call her, had a cigarette in her hand, and he felt himself shudder at the sight of her nicotine stained slender fingers. “Now,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Now to Roger LeClarc.”

      Memories of the briefing room at Scotland Yard just three weeks earlier zipped through his mind—the briefing room and the pompous superintendent from Special Ops.

      “Right, listen up chaps,” the superintendent had begun, imagining himself still in the RAF where he had been nothing more than a corporal. “This is a big one. Screw this up and you’ll all be back in uniform.” He stopped and glowered at Sergeant Jones, “Name?” he demanded with a nod.

      “Jones, Sir. Serious Crime Squad.”

      “Well Sergeant Jones,” he started, almost conversationally, “smoking is a serious crime when I’m in the room.” Then he boomed, “So put it out—this isn’t a bloody bar.”

      Jones sheepishly stubbed out the cigarette amid the jeers of his colleagues and someone flicked a remote control, unveiling a monster television. “Watch this,” commanded the superintendent.

      “Roger LeClarc, 31 years.” said a caption under an unflattering close-up of a bloated face with unruly hair. “Senior I.T. Consultant, ACT Telecommunications 1999,” appeared under the heading, “Occupation.”

      A series of mug shots followed—family album types mainly: holidays, weddings, birthdays, and people doing stupid things; then a short section of home movie—Brighton beach in front of the Grand Hotel, Roger’s distended white belly and folds of flab flopping up and down as he hopped in and out of the surf.

      Then a more sinister collection, including a couple of video clips bearing the hallmarks of police surveillance cameras: Roger squeezing himself into his Renault; Roger on a train—asleep, snoring; Roger in his office— through a window; Roger eating; Roger’s parents house in Watford; Roger coming out of the old terraced house near Watford station; Roger fumbling with his flies in a public toilet—“Don’t ask,” said the superintendent as a giggle rippled round the room. “O.K. Chaps,” he added, as the video wound down, “everything points to this fat git as the target—in fact we’ve good info. he’s next on the list. We’ve reason to believe that sometime in the next few weeks he will be snatched, and it’s your job to prevent it—any questions?”

      A youngish female voice piped up from the back. “Is he married, Sir?”

      “Why … Do you fancy him?” brought a hail of laughter.

      “Have we got a full description, Sir. Address, date of birth, that sort of thing?” asked a young detective leaning forward in the front row.

      “Naturally, Officer,” he said, turning to his staff sergeant. “Pass out the portfolios, Sergeant, there’s a good chap.” He paused long enough for most people to get a blue folder with CONFIDENTIAL typed in the top right hand corner, then studied his copy. “You’ll find everything you need in here, including rotas. Three teams of four—Inspector, sergeant, and two constables. Anything else?”

      “Yes, Sir,” queried one of the sergeants. “What’s happening to them, the missing whiz kids—Do we know?”

      Superintendent Edwards slumped in his chair and massaged his face in thought, taking time to decide how much to reveal. “We know for sure this isn’t some two-bit ransom job,” he began after a few moments. “Whoever’s doing this ain’t after their piggy banks. But, at this particular moment in time …” He paused, still undecided, and finished by saying, “At this moment in time we have absolutely no idea.

      “Dismissed,” he shouted, above the buzz of speculation, stifling further questions.

      “Wait,” he commanded, stilling the crescendo of shuffling feet. “One last thing …” then he paused while a couple of fleet footed officers were motioned back into the room.

Скачать книгу