“I told you, he doesn’t have it.”
“He just bought an Irish hotel.”
“With borrowed money.”
“Tell him to borrow some more,” said the voice, and the connection died.
That evening Gabriel and Ingrid attended a breathtaking performance of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major by Nicola Bennedetti andthe London Symphony Orchestra. They were back at the apartment at ten thirty, and the burner phone rang promptly at midnight. As always the automated female voice greeted Gabriel affably by name.
“I’m sorry,” he informed her, “but nine hundred million is simply out of the question. You and your friends have to be reasonable.”
“We’ve been more than reasonable, Mr. Allon. And our patience is growing thin.”
It was music to Gabriel’s ear. He was beginning to wear them down. “Let’s get this done, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s.”
“I had a long heart-to-heart with my client this evening and managed to convince him to sweeten his offer.”
“How sweet?”
“Twenty-five million.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” said the voice humorlessly.
“It’s an enormous sum of money.”
“Not for a woman like Alice.”
She was right about that. “Give me a number,” said Gabriel. “Arealnumber.”
At length the voice said, “Eight hundred and fifty million.”
“The eight hundred part is never going to happen, but I might be able to swing fifty.”
“Eight hundred and fifty is as low as we’re willing to go. You have until nine o’clock tomorrow morning to give us an answer.”
“Or what?”
“Good night, Mr. Allon.”
At Gabriel’s insistence the next conversation took place at ten the following morning rather than nine and was so productive it required four separate three-minute phone calls on the part of the kidnappers, each from a different device. By the time the automated voice badehim a cheerful farewell, he had managed to whittle down the ransom demand to $750 million. His counteroffer now stood at $100 million. It was an astonishing number and they were still miles apart, but they were moving in the right direction.
The next call, however, was full of threats and rancor, as was the call that took place the following morning. But the evening session once again required four calls from the kidnappers from four different phones. In a gesture of goodwill, as they described it, they reduced the ransom demand to $700 million, leaving Gabriel no choice but to increase his counteroffer to $150 million.
“I’m afraid a hundred and fifty won’t do, Mr. Allon.”
“Have a nice long think about it. And while you’re at it, send me a photograph of Ms. Winter with the new issue ofThe Economist.”
“We already have.”
The flash drive was taped to the trunk of a horse chestnut tree in the Bois de Boulogne. Gabriel and Ingrid retrieved it the following morning—same pose, same unwashed hair and bruised cheek, different issue ofThe Economist—and were back in London in time for the next call from the kidnappers. It was scheduled to take place at 6:00p.m.,but they rang at six fifteen instead. The automated female voice apologized for the delay, then asked, “Are we good, Mr. Allon?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. She looks dreadful.”
“Yes, I know. But you alone have the power to end her suffering.”
“I’m prepared to offer two hundred million.”
