"The Wrong Hostage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lowell Elizabeth)7MIDTOWN MANHATTAN SATURDAY NIGHT DWAYNE TAYLOR REACHED FOR one of the three landline phones sitting on a desk that was neither messy nor neat, simply well used. “Steele’s office.” “This is Mandy in triage,” a husky voice said. “I’ve got a Judge Grace Silva on line four. She won’t talk to anybody but Ambassador Steele himself. I’ve forwarded what we have on her to you. File SK1/17.” Dwayne’s broad fingers danced across his computer keyboard, found the file, and opened it. “What’s her problem?” “Kidnap/ransom. Beyond that she won’t talk to anyone but Steele.” Dwayne scanned the information he’d retrieved on Judge Silva and made one of the intuitive, incisive judgments Steele paid him very well to make. “Put her on.” Dwayne took the phone off speaker and switched the sound to the headset he wore. “Judge Silva, this is Mr. Steele’s personal assistant, Dwayne Taylor. What can St. Kilda Consulting do for you?” At the other end of the line, Grace held on to her patience by a very fragile thread. “I made it quite clear to the last four people who wasted my time that it was Ambassador Steele or no one.” “I understand. Are you on a secure line?” She hesitated. This morning she would have laughed. Now she was glad she’d left her house to make the call. “I think so,” she said. “I’m at a pay phone in a cinema multiplex. I’ve got maybe two more minutes on this calling card. Then I have to go to the minimart and buy another.” Dwayne almost smiled. Whatever the judge was, she wasn’t stupid. “Were you followed?” “I-” It hadn’t occurred to her. “Is this a matter of extreme urgency?” “What’s your definition of-” “A terrorist with a gun held against a hostage’s head,” Dwayne said calmly. “I-God-no, it’s not. Yet.” “How much time do we have?” “Two days-no, two days from twelve-thirty this afternoon.” Dwayne breathed out a silent sigh of relief. Compared to most kidnap/ ransom situations, that was a decent amount of time. He wrote “RED-2” across the notes he was taking. “How necessary is secrecy?” he asked. “Life or death.” His pen paused. He circled “-2.” “Are you at your La Jolla address?” Grace didn’t bother asking how Dwayne knew where she lived. The CIA file she’d broken rules to get assured her that when it came to private solutions to problems that simply couldn’t be made public, St. Kilda Consulting was the best. That was what she needed. The best. “I’m twenty minutes away,” she said. “Go home. In an hour a woman will pick you up and take you to a secure place. At twenty-three hundred you will have a video conference with Ambassador Steele. That is eleven o’clock Pacific daylight time. Is that satisfactory?” Grace looked at her watch and automatically asked, “Can’t I just call him from my house?” “Are you going to say anything that you wouldn’t like seeing on the eleven o’clock news?” “Oh. Of course.” Grace felt like a fool. “Sorry. I’m not used to this.” “That’s why you called St. Kilda,” Dwayne said gently. “Do you enjoy reading, watching TV, yoga?” “Excuse me?” “The next two days will be hard on you. Find a way to relax that won’t fuzz your mind.” Dwayne broke the connection, called San Diego, and got the cell phone on its way to her. Then he went to work on his computer. If he was going to dump someone unexpected on his boss, he’d better be prepared with a more thorough background than he had right now. He launched a program, watched for a few minutes, and pushed back from the desk. It was only a few steps to Steele’s suite. The mammoth mahogany door pivoted at its center and opened into a six-sided room with two walls of glass that looked out over Manhattan. The glass had the special sheen that came from being bulletproof, soundproof, and one-way. It was the kind found in high-tech interrogation rooms around the world. As usual Steele was facing three walls of video screens, speaking into a headset, and sorting through various documents on his desk. Occasionally he typed on one of the computers that stood by waiting to be used, patient as only machines could be. The sixth wall was taken up by electronics and a huge, colorful clock that divided the world into time zones showing light and darkness. The time zones were made by man; they didn’t change. The areas of day and night across the globe did. Without looking up, Steele covered the mouthpiece of his headset with his hand. “What?” “You have a video telephone conference at two hundred local,” Dwayne said. “Who?” “Federal Judge Grace Silva, Southern District of California, San Diego.” “Why?” “She insisted on speaking only to you,” Dwayne said. “So do a lot of people.” “The number she called belonged to Joe Faroe’s cell phone. Apparently Judge Silva didn’t have the recent code, because her call was routed through to the public St. Kilda number.” Steele spun around and looked at Dwayne. “Interesting. Do we have a good background on her?” “I’m working on it.” “Work harder. Get help. Anyone who knows Joe Faroe’s cell phone is someone I want to know.” “Yes, sir.” Steele didn’t answer. He was talking into his headphone again. Without a sound Dwayne shut the door behind him and went to work on Judge Grace Silva’s background. |
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