The Baker Street Translation Page 9

  “I am sorry about that,” said Alex. “It’s one of the few things they insisted on. But as kidnappings go, making the drop in the boating pond at Regent’s Park is as safe as anything I can imagine.”

  “Doesn’t she know how to row?” muttered one of the musclemen at the far end.

  The security chief next to him gave him an elbow.

  “He’ll be fired later for that remark, won’t he?” said Laura.

  “If you want,” said Alex.

  “All right, then,” said Laura. “Let’s review: I’m to row out with all this money in a bag. They are to put Robert—unharmed, of course—into my little boat, and I row back with him. Or perhaps I’ll give him the oars and he’ll do the rowing. But is that basically how this works?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. But how do I make sure we’ve got Robert before I turn over the money?”

  “Well, they’re going to want the money first, of course,” said Alex. “That’s the way these things are done. And you are not to argue with them. The fact is, they haven’t chosen the best location for this, from their perspective. One more reason I know they’re amateurs. The park is surrounded by the outer circle road, so they won’t be able to escape unseen on foot, and we’ll be watching all the gates where they can get out with a vehicle. We will see anyone who tries to leave the park, and at the very early hour they’ve chosen for the drop, there won’t be any crowds around at all to confuse the issue. Once we know Lord Buxton is safe, we can call in Scotland Yard. It’s really perfect. So you just deliver the money and let us worry about the rest.”

  “How do they know that we haven’t just surrounded the entire park with police?”

  “We have to presume they have lookouts. Just as we do. But we’ll tail them when they leave the park, and after we have Lord Buxton secure, we’ll notify Scotland Yard and get the wankers nicked. All you have to do is row out and then row back.”

  “I think you mean make the trade and then row like hell,” said Laura. “But all right. Let’s get on with it.”

  Two hours later, at not quite 4:30 in the morning, before even the earliest dawn joggers, a shining black fortified Range Rover pulled up at the Regent’s Park gate just south of the duck pond.

  The passenger window rolled down. Laura wanted a better look.

  “Don’t put your head out the window,” advised Alex, who was behind the wheel.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Laura. “I doubt that I could be any more ostentatious than this vehicle you chose to use.”

  She surveyed the scene, but she did, in fact, keep her head inside as much as possible.

  It was still dark out, but there was enough light from the streetlamps to make out the little sandwich shop and boathouse—she had been there a few times before, actually, but it was closed just now, of course. On the near side of the little park lake, the ducks and white geese were faintly visible along the shore, with their heads tucked beneath their wings.

  “Will I be in an actual rowboat,” said Laura, “Or do I have to use one of the silly foot-pedal ones?”

  “We don’t know,” said Henry, the security chief, seated in back. “You’re supposed to take whichever boat has already been cut loose for you.”

  “Now, it appears to me that I will be exposed to all and everything as I row slowly across to the little island with the bushes where bad people are probably hiding. Is that how it seems to you?”

  Henry and Alex looked at each other. Then they nodded.

  “And where will you big strong men with guns strapped to your sides be?”

  “Right here, at the ready,” said Henry.

  “At the ready, two hundred meters away, behind all this armored plate?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do I take a weapon with me?”

  “Are you licensed for the use of a firearm?” asked Henry.

  “No.”

  “Then no.”

  “If they caught sight of it, the whole deal would be off,” said Alex. “Or worse could happen. Especially because, as I said, we’re dealing with amateurs.”

  “I see,” said Laura.

  Alex looked apologetic. He opened up his briefcase and took out a small spray cylinder.

  “You could take this,” he offered.

  Laura looked at the little can of pepper spray.

  “That would indeed be useful,” she said. “If any of the kidnappers should turn out to be small terriers.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Let’s just get on with it, then, shall we?”

  “Yes,” said Alex, checking his watch. “It’s time.”

  Laura got out of the car alone.

  She walked a few yards along Outer Circle Drive, heading toward the boathouse—and then she looked back toward the vehicle, just on instinct, to see if her well-armed allies had any further advice.

  But they had already rolled the window up.

  Laura sighed. Just out of habit, she looked both ways before crossing the street, then walked on past Clarence Gate, into Regent’s Park, and onto a paved path than ran the length of the lake shoreline.

  In the dark, she bumped into a mallard that had settled in just a little too close to the walkway; it squawked and flapped on out of sight.

  Good thing we’re not depending on the element of surprise, thought Laura.

  Between the dark and the mist, she could see no more than about five yards in front of her. But she knew where the boathouse was, and she continued on in that direction.

  She hoped she would not bump into any geese. They were not nearly so easily intimidated as a duck.

  In a few minutes, she was at the boathouse. Closed, of course. But the gate that led to the boat tie-up was open.

  Laura could see that one boat had been cut loose from the chain that linked them all together; it was attached only by a rope with a simple loop.

  There was no wind at all; the water looked black and completely still.

  Laura stepped down from the dock into the wooden rowboat. It wobbled just a little as she got in, but there was no issue of her falling—she and Reggie had, in fact, rowed here before; she knew how to handle a boat on a pond.

  She looked out toward the little island. It was only about a hundred yards out, but in the dark it was barely visible. It was lucky she had been to the park before.

  She grabbed hold of the oars. The handles were damp; slime dripped from the ends of the oars when she raised them out of the water, and in the overall silence of the pond, the first oar stroke made a very loud racket of clanging metal and splashing water as she set out.

  She resolved to try to row more quietly—she wasn’t sure why—and she proceeded in the general direction of the island.

  In perhaps five minutes, she had covered nearly half the distance. The bow of the boat was toward the island, and she was facing the stern, of course, in order to row, and so after each stroke, she had to crane her neck and look over her shoulder to see if anyone had yet appeared.

  She was halfway there, and still she could make out no one in the darkness along the shore. And quite probably the kidnappers were not going to announce themselves with any sort of light.

  And then, on the very next pull of the oars, her boat struck something hard.

  “Ease up.” It was a man’s voice.

  Laura stowed her oars and turned to look. Her boat had struck up against another.

  In the boat—a ten-foot dinghy, like Laura’s—was just one man.

  Laura didn’t know if it would ever matter, but she tried to pay attention to the details.

  The man was of average height, though he was sitting, so it was not easy to tell. He had a gardener’s hat pulled down low over his forehead, and he had a cloth scarf or handkerchief of some kind wrapped around the lower part of his face.

  In the predawn darkness, this was all undoubtedly sufficient for the man’s purpose; Laura could see nothing about his face that she would be able to recognize again.

  “Show it t
o me,” he said.

  The man’s voice was muffled by the scarf. It was a deep voice, but not naturally deep, it seemed to Laura; rather, it was deliberately deep, like that of a radio announcer who was trying too hard. But more than anything else, the voice was just plain whiny. Laura was sure she would recognize that voice if she ever heard it again.

  The leather bag full of one million pounds was beneath Laura’s feet at the stern of the boat. She bent down and raised the bag up so that the man could see it.

  “Put it there,” he said, pointing to the stern of his own boat.

  Laura immediately and deliberately dropped it back again into her own boat, keeping it out of his reach.

  “Show me Lord Robert Buxton first.” Laura said this in the same quiet tone of voice the kidnapper had used; she made it as much of a command as she could.

  The man stared at her, and for a short moment they both just sat there in their respective boats, glaring their respective glares, in silence except for the faint sound of the pond water lapping ever so slightly against the boats.

  Then the man turned and flicked a large flashlight one time in the direction of the island.

  It was a small island—less than a hundred yards across. But the bushes and trees were densely packed along the shore, and in the dark Laura could see only the general outlines of the foliage.

  After a moment, someone flashed a light back in response.

  “Well?” said Laura to the man in the boat.

  He flashed his own torch once again. And then the shoreline light came on again, briefly. But this time, instead of pointing out, it was held chest-high and pointed upward, illuminating a mans’ face, from the chin up, in the way that children would do to frighten each other.

  There was tape over the man’s mouth, and Laura guessed that his hands were bound and someone else was holding the flashlight on him.

  Now the lamp was switched off.

  This all took place at some distance, in an instant, and in the dark. From the outlines of his torso, and the general shape of the captive’s head—minus the nice, expensive hair—it might very well be Buxton.

  Or it might not.

  “I need another look,” said Laura.

  “No,” said the man in the boat. “That’s all you get. Take it or leave it.”

  Laura hesitated.

  The man in the boat pointed at the leather bag at Laura’s feet and gestured for her to transfer it to his boat.

  “Throw it in,” he said.

  Laura considered it.

  She didn’t give a damn about the money. Even if it had been hers—well, a million quid could not be hers, but if it had been something like it, relatively speaking—she still would not have given it a second thought at all.

  It just seemed to her a poor negotiating tactic.

  But Buxton’s chief of staff and the security chief had both said to give the kidnappers the money. And what reason would they have for not releasing Buxton once she had done so?

  And surely they would not simply kill him. Not in a location in the heart of London, where they had to anticipate that the security team was scattered all around, watching, as in fact it was, and with daylight approaching.

  They could not hope to escape. They could only take the money and hope that no one really tried very hard after that to apprehend them.

  “Now, please,” said the man.

  Laura nodded. She bent down and grabbed the bag with both hands. She hoisted it up onto her lap.

  She looked at the man in the boat, who looked expectantly back at her.

  Then she grabbed the bag from both bottom corners, raised it up off her lap, got her arms levered underneath it, and threw it from her boat into his.

  The bag landed in the man’s boat with a loud plop; Laura, adrenaline coursing, was surprised at how much force she’d put into it.

  So was the kidnapper. His boat actually tipped back a bit, but he righted it quickly and threw an angry glare at Laura.

  She shrugged. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve never done this before.”

  The man grabbed the bag, opened it, and looked inside.

  Then he closed it, looked at Laura, and nodded.

  “Now there’s just one more thing,” he said.

  “Don’t you even think about it,” said Laura, not certain at all what he was about to say, but certain that it wouldn’t be good.

  She looked again at the shore of the island: no sign of Robert, or of the kidnapping accomplice with the flashlight.

  “Just one more thing,” repeated the man calmly.

  “Give me Lord Buxton,” said Laura.

  “You will get Lord Buxton back. You have my word. But the money is only a down payment.”

  “I knew it!”

  “Relax. We aren’t going to ask for the moon, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he has some sort of leasehold on it. All we need is for you to do a small task for us. Then your great man will be released.”

  Laura glared across at the other boat. If she had brought the pepper spray, she would have used it.

  “What sort of small task?”

  “We want the letters.”

  “What letters?”

  The two boats had drifted apart just a bit. The man hooked the gunwale of Laura’s boat with the end of an oar and pulled her boat up against his.

  He lowered his voice.

  “Bring me the Baker Street letters.”

  Laura considered that for a moment.

  “Can you be a bit more specific?” she said.

  “Specifically, bring me a few bits of nonsensical paper and canceled stamps, and I will give you the richest man in the world in return.”

  Laura did not like this man. She was not fond of sarcasm.

  “I didn’t say to rephrase,” replied Laura. “I said to be specific. Many letters are delivered and sent up and down Baker Street every day. Precisely which ones are you referring to?”

  “You should not play games with me,” said the man.

  “I am damp and cold and beginning to want breakfast. You should not play games with me,” said Laura. “If you want me to trade letters for lords, you must, unavoidably, tell me which letters you mean.”

  The man hesitated. Laura was afraid for a moment that he was about to let go of the oar and the whole arrangement.

  But then he leaned in.

  “All of them,” he said. “All the letters delivered to Sherlock Holmes at Baker Street Chambers in the past month. I want every one of them. If I don’t get every one of them, complete, then you will not get Lord Buxton back, complete.”

  The man jerked his head just slightly back toward the shore, where his accomplice was presumably still standing with Buxton. In the dark, it was difficult to tell.

  And now, apparently, Laura was taking too long to respond.

  “Can you do this?” said the man quite impatiently. “I understood that you have access. I understood that you can do this.”

  Of course I can, thought Laura, but she wasn’t sure she should say it.

  “It won’t be easy,” she said instead. “I will need some time.”

  The man released her boat.

  “You have twenty-four hours,” he said.

  Then he put the oar against the side of her boat and pushed off.

  Laura’s boat turned in a half circle; she quickly got it pointed right again, but now his boat was several yards off, and about to vanish in the fog.

  Laura looked back toward the shore, where the security team was still in the Range Rover. Then she looked toward the dark little island where she had last seen Robert Buxton.

  She began to row toward it.

  She knew she wasn’t supposed to. But she didn’t like it that the demands had changed. She didn’t like it that she had been allowed only a distant glimpse of Robert—or the man who presumably was Robert. She didn’t like the way this show was being run at all.

  Her adrenaline was pumping; she put everything she had into the row, not worrying
at all about proper form, drops of water flying down on her on each upswing of the oars.

  It felt like forever. But it wasn’t. When she felt the bow of her little boat slam into the shore mud, she turned and caught a glimpse of someone running toward the brush on the opposite side of the island.

  Laura scrambled out of the boat. Her shoes immediately sank into the soft muck. She abandoned them and began running barefoot on the wet ground.

  There was no clear path. She simply had to push on through the branches, dead leaves and twigs crackling uncomfortably under her feet, until she reached the shore mud on the opposite side of the island.

  She had made it through. She looked quickly left and right and saw no one.

  But then, to her right, in the dark between the island and the opposite Regent’s Park shoreline, she heard the sound of an outboard engine.

  The kidnappers had another boat.

  She heard the motor sputter, then roar; then it whined in acceleration. She couldn’t see it; from the sound of it, she presumed it was heading to the far end of the lake. But there was no way to know just where it would put ashore.

  Laura stood in the darkness on her side of the shore and could do nothing. The sound of the outboard grew more distant.

  Laura shoved her way back through the thicket of trees and trudged toward her own little boat, hoping that even in her haste she had managed to pull it enough onto the shore for it not to have drifted away.

  Nothing else had gone right.

  Mercifully, it was still there.

  She got in and started rowing back toward the shore where she had gotten out of the Range Rover.

  This had not gone as planned. But surely, surely, the security team had done what they’d said they would do and would nab everyone before they could leave the park.

  It was just barely dawn now; the obscuring dark was beginning to yield to obscuring fog. The park would begin to get populated, especially on the edges, with health-crazed Londoners looking for their thirty minutes of cardiovascular exercise to start the day. Laura continued to row and just hoped the hordes of security operatives presumably watching the perimeter knew what they were doing.

  She was getting close to the shore; now she could see Alex and the security chief and all the personnel from the Range Rover standing and waiting for her at the shore.