Private Monaco

Chapter 9

Our suite at the Hôtel de Paris was alive with the buzz of activity, but in the most important way it felt lifeless to me.

Justine’s empty suitcase was set on a stand at the foot of our king-size bed, the contents distributed between the closet, antique dresser and shining ebonized chest of drawers. I couldn’t believe she was gone and still half expected her to come through the door, smiling.

I was on a video call with Mo-bot, who had mobilized the Los Angeles office, and Seymour Kloppenberg, our resident forensics expert, who wore the same worried expression as I did.

My landline kept ringing with calls from international offices who’d been alerted by the company-wide bulletin Mo-bot and I had drafted, giving details of Justine’s abduction. I spoke briefly to each and every country manager and thanked them for their offers of practical or emotional support. My experience of running large teams was that people needed to feel invested in an idea, personally connected to it in some way. Each one of these leaders would convey that to their team, so I knew it was important for me to take the time to talk, listen and instill in them the conviction that there was no higher priority than finding Justine Smith.

I had no idea who had taken her or what I was up against, so I wanted everyone to be ready. Better to overreact and scale down as the nature of the crisis became clear, than try and play catch up when things were in motion.

I answered my hotel line. “Morgan.”

“Jack, I’m so sorry to hear about Justine.”

It was Dinara Orlova, the head of Private Moscow. We’d become close after smashing a Russian intelligence operation that had almost claimed the life of Secretary of Defense Eli Carver and put US geopolitical superiority at risk.

“I know you are busy, but I just wanted to let you know we will do whatever you need from us to get Justine back. Our thoughts are with you, but we also stand ready to act,” Dinara said.

“I appreciate it. I’ll keep you posted,” I replied, before hanging up.

“Busy,” Mo-bot observed.

“It’s good to feel the love,” her colleague remarked.

On the video call, I could see both of them in Private LA’s fourth-floor server room. They were surrounded by members of Mo-bot’s team, all focused on screens full of information on Justine’s abduction.

Mo-bot was a formidable white-hat hacker. A digital genius who used her skills for good. Fifty-something, she was the embodiment of the unexpected. Her tattoos and spiky hair suggested a cold, hard rebel, but she had the warmest heart and was thought of by many at Private as their second mom, someone they could go to with any problems. The only thing that hinted at a softer side were the bifocals she wore, which I always said looked as though she’d lifted them from a Boca Raton grandmother.

Seymour Kloppenberg, nicknamed ‘Dr. Science’ — ‘Sci’ for short — ran a team of twelve forensic scientists who worked out of a lab in the basement of the Los Angeles building. He was an international expert on criminology, and when time allowed, would consult for law-enforcement agencies all over the world, ensuring Private stayed current with the very latest scientific thinking. A slight man, Sci dressed like a Hells Angel, which was where I think his heart lay because he was always restoring old muscle bikes.

Diligent and brilliant, I’d known them both long enough to consider them good friends, but I wasn’t about to tell them the other reason I was glad of all the calls: distraction. By taking Justine from me those men had torn out my heart. If I allowed myself a moment to reflect on what had happened, it might break me. The steady stream of people expressing concern and offering support was all that enabled me to keep my composure.

I was grateful when my landline rang again. I picked up the receiver without hesitation.

“Morgan,” I said.

“Jack, it’s Eli Carver,” the US Defense Secretary said. “Philippe Duval told me what happened. I’m so sorry. I’m sure you’re being pulled in every direction, but I want you to know that if there’s anything I can do, you are to call me. I’m in London right now, so we’re almost in the same time zone. You need something, you pick up the phone anytime, day or night.”

I had seen news reports on the London summit Carver had organized, which aimed to bring lasting peace to Eastern Europe. War had spread instability throughout the region, and Carver had made it his mission to ensure lasting peace and American geopolitical security by negotiating a multilateral non-aggression pact, with the tacit threat of US military intervention in the event of a breach. I’d saved his life during the Moscow investigation, when he’d been taken hostage at Fallon Airbase by a deep-cover Russian operative who’d tried to murder him, and since then our paths had crossed enough times for us to become friends.

“Thanks,” I replied. “I appreciate the call.”

As a senior member of the government, he knew what it was to face a crisis, and he didn’t linger.

“Anytime, Jack, you hear me? And anything,” he reiterated.

“I hear you, sir,” I replied.

“Good. And cut the ‘sir’ stuff. Keep me posted,” he said, before hanging up.

“I’ve pulled the data from the SIM,” Mo-bot announced as I replaced the receiver.

I could see her peering at her screen.

“It’s encrypted, but I can handle that. Once I break it, we’ll know where the guy you took it from has been.”

She was talking about the data from the SIM card in the phone I’d taken from the first motorcyclist. I’d downloaded the contents and sent the file to her through Private’s secure server, along with images of fingerprints I’d taken from the wallet and phone. Sci was working on those to see if he could come up with a match.

I was impatient and eager for a breakthrough that would lead me to Justine, but experience had taught me these things took time.

Burning with nervous energy, I almost jumped when there was a knock at the door of my suite.

“Careful, Jack,” Sci cautioned, glancing at the web camera that was picking up their end of the video call.

He needn’t have worried. When I glanced through the spyhole, I saw a skinny uniformed bellhop. The young guy was peering into a mirror opposite my suite and fixing his hair. He held a brown envelope.

I reached into my pocket for a five-euro note as I opened the door.

“Package for you, Mr. Morgan,” he said, turning away from the mirror.

“Thanks,” I replied, taking the envelope and handing him the tip.

I closed the door and tore open the package to find a cell phone inside. The device rang almost immediately, and the screen displayed the words “unknown number.”

“Hello,” I said when I answered.

“Mr. Morgan,” a distorted voice replied, “we are the people who have Justine Smith. Listen carefully.”