“No, you won’t. You see, that would be a rather poor business decision on your part.”
“Put him on the phone. Last chance.”
“Sorry, gentlemen. But that’s not going to happen.”
Knight was crimson. “Damn it, Allon! What in God’s name are you playing at?”
Gabriel shot him a dark look across the conference table. The phone at the other end of the connection was unmuted. Someone was typing a response.
It came a few seconds later. “We want to give him our demands.”
“He has no interest in hearing your demands,” replied Gabriel. “And neither do I. Not until I know that Ms. Winter is alive and well. It’s a very basic concept in my line of work. We call it proof of life.”
There was more typing on the open line, then, “You have to trust us.”
“That’s not going to happen either. But here’s what I’d like you to do. You’re going to take a photograph of Ms. Winter holding the current issue ofThe Economist. You can find it at any reputable newsstand. A bit on the expensive side, I realize, but not to worry. If you play by the rules, you will soon have all the money you need.”
They muted the call again. Edward Knight ignited another cigarette and resumed his restless pacing. “You’re pushing them too hard, Allon.”
“Trust me, that was nothing more than a gentle nudge.”
The automated voice returned. “How do we contact you?”
Knight, relieved, expelled a cloud of smoke. Gabriel recited the number of one of the burner phones, then said, “You have twenty-four hours. Otherwise we go to the police and sever all contact. Is that clear?”
The connection died without a response. Gabriel replaced the receiver, then marked the time. It was 9:05p.m.“All in all,” he said,“I think that went rather well.” He paused, then added, “With one minor exception.”
“What’s that?” asked Knight.
“You told them my name.”
The Knight Group owned a number of commercial and residential properties in Mayfair, including the building in which its offices were located and a spacious mews house in Adams Row. Gabriel toppled into the bed in the master suite at midnight and fell into a dreamless sleep. The harsh ringtone of a mobile phone awakened him with a start shortly before seven the next morning. Regrettably it was not the burner.
“Mind telling me where you are?” inquired Chiara.
Gabriel swung his feet to the floor and wandered over to the window. Parting the curtain, he peered into the empty street below. “It appears as though I’m in London.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
He explained.
“An unexpected turn of events,” remarked Chiara.
“Not entirely. It was obvious to me from the start that she wasn’t murdered in a botched robbery.”
“It’s still possible, you know.”
“Which is why I insisted on proof of life before entertaining a demand for ransom.”
“And how will you determine whether the proof of life photo is genuine and not a deepfake?”
“At the risk of sounding immodest, I have a rather good eye.”
“For Raphaels and Leonardos, perhaps, but not for deepfakeimages. You need someone who knows a thing or two about digital forensics to tell the difference.”
“Any other helpful advice?”
“Don’t even think about serving as the bagman.”
