Private London

Chapter 29

I live in a small apartment in Soho, on the third floor of an old building on Dean Street.

I have a lounge, a bedroom, a small kitchen that I rarely use and a bathroom. I had the front window double-glazed shortly after I moved in and the place is snug. I have a small television and a digital internet radio.

Dean Street is one of my favourite places in the world. Home to The Crown and Two Chairmen, the Groucho Club and the best bar in the western hemisphere – The French House – even if it does sell beer only by the half-pint and you have to steer well clear at lunchtime when it’s packed with media types and tourists.

But at half-six in the morning the pubs are closed tighter than a drum. The little Italian cafe round the corner was open early, though. I bought an espresso to go, which I sipped as I walked across town to the office.

I was short of the recommended eight hours of shut-eye – by about seven hours, I reckoned – and the sharp, bitter jolt of the caffeine was kicking in fine. Normally, before going into work, I’d have gone to the gym I used just off Piccadilly Circus near the Cafe Royal. But Chloe was still unconscious in intensive care, Hannah Shapiro was still missing and we still didn’t have a clue why she had been taken.

Jack Morgan had been straight in touch with Hannah’s father, Harlan Shapiro, who was getting on this evening’s flight to London.

Her abductors had made no contact. We didn’t know if Hannah’s cover had been blown or if a ransom demand was imminent. Given what Kirsty had told me last evening I very much hoped that was the case. If she hadn’t been taken for money… I shook the thought away, dropped my empty espresso cup in a litter bin outside a newsagent’s and picked up my pace. The clock was ticking and we didn’t have a minute to waste.

Ten minutes later I sprinted up the stairs to my office. I never take the elevator if I can help it. I don’t like elevators.

Lucy, my PA, flashed her cut-glass smile as me as I punched in the security code and stepped through to the open-plan reception office. She was blonde, beautiful and had a top-drawer accent to go with the smile.

‘Morning, Lucy. Everyone in yet?’

She shook her head. ‘Dr Lee is on her way in but Sponge won’t be coming in today. The rest are in the conference room.’

‘What do you mean, he won’t be coming in?’ If my tone was a tad sharp I didn’t apologise for it

‘It’s his mother.’

Vladimir Kopchek, or ‘Sponge’ as he was known because of his ability to soak up every bit of information and retain it, was our computer and technical support expert. He defected to the west before glasnost. He’s in his fifties now and has a mind sharper than an ex-wife’s tongue. His mother back in Russia had fallen ill and he was awaiting the results of tests. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘They don’t give her very long. Maybe three months. He’s booked himself on the first flight over.’

I nodded, resigned. I couldn’t blame the guy, but he was going to be hard to replace.

Wendy Lee came through the door, carrying a paper sack. ‘I got you coffee,’ she said.

We walked into the conference room. About twenty foot by eighteen. A long walnut table running to the wall opposite the door. Flush with the end of the table and rising up the wall some ten foot by eight was a state-of-the-art LED television screen. Fractions of an inch thick.

When it was switched to video-conference mode it connected to Private’s other offices around the world. So that the table seemed to carry on beyond the screen into an identical office. Except in that office it would be Jack Morgan’s team sitting around the table in his octagonal war room, or the crew of our outfits in Rome – or Paris or New York.

Today, though, it was just my team who were there for the briefing.