The Negotiator

Qui

“What do they mean, he’s gone?” shouted Kevin Brown in the listening post at Grosvenor Square. He had been sitting there all morning, waiting, as they all were, British and Americans alike, for Zack’s latest and maybe last call. At first the sounds coming from Kensington had been merely confusing; they heard the phone cut off, heard Qui

Sam Somerville had come back into the room, shouting at the bugs: “He’s gone! Qui

“Agent Somerville,” he boomed when he heard her on the line, “get after him.”

At that moment McCrea’s fifth kick broke the lock on the apartment door. He raced for the stairs, followed by Sam. Both were in bedroom slippers.

The greengrocer’s shop and delicatessen across the street from the apartment, whose number Qui

Qui

“Those kids are stealing your oranges,” said Qui

The Kensington exchange had reacted fast, and the inquiry would show they had done their best. But they lost several of the forty seconds through sheer surprise, then had a technical problem. Their lock was on the flash line in the apartment. Whenever a call came into that number, their electronic exchange could run back up the line to establish the source of the call. The number it came from would then be revealed by the computer to be such-and-such a booth in a certain place. Between six and ten seconds.

They already had a lock on the number Zack had used first, but when he changed booths, even though the kiosks were side by side in Dunstable, they lost him. Worse, he was now ringing another London number into which they were not tapped. The only saving grace was that the number Qui

“Take this number, Zack,”said Qui

“What the hell’s going on?” snarled Zack.

“Nine-three-five; three-two-one-five,” said Qui

There was a pause as Zack scribbled.

“Now we’ll do it ourselves, Zack. I’ve walked out on the lot of them. Just you and me; the diamonds against the boy. No tricks-my word on it. Call me on that number in sixty minutes, and ninety minutes if there’s no reply first time. It’s not on trace.”

He put the phone down. In the exchange the listeners heard the words “… minutes, and ninety minutes if there’s no reply first time. It’s not on trace.”

“Bastard’s given him another number,” said the engineer in Kensington to the two Metropolitan officers with him. One of them was already on the phone to the Yard.

Qui

“ ’Ere, wot on erf…”

Qui

McCrea stood in the street, dejected. Sam joined him. They looked at each other, then ran back into the apartment building. The fastest way to talk to Grosvenor Square was to get back to the third floor.

“Right, that’s it,” said Brown five minutes later, after listening to both McCrea and Somerville on the line from Kensington. “We find that bastard. That’s the job.”

Another phone rang. It was Nigel Cramer from Scotland Yard.

“Your negotiator has done a bunk,” he said flatly. “Can you tell me how? I’ve tried the apartment-the usual number is engaged.”

Brown told him in thirty seconds. Cramer grunted. He still resented the Green Meadow Farm affair, and always would, but events had now overtaken his desire to see Brown and the FBI team off his patch.

“Did your people get the number of that motorcycle?” he asked. “I can put out an all-points on it.”

“Better than that,” said Brown with satisfaction. “That attaché case he’s carrying. It contains a direction finder.”

“It what?”

“Built in, undetectable, state-of-the-art,” said Brown. “We had it fitted out in the States, changed it for the case provided by the Pentagon just before takeoff last night.”

“I see,” said Cramer thoughtfully. “And the receiver?”

“Right here,” said Brown. “Came in on the morning commercial flight at dawn. One of my boys went out to Heathrow to pick it up. Range two miles, so we have to move. I mean right now.”

“This time, Mr. Brown, will you please stay in touch with the Met.’s squad cars? You do not make arrests in this City. I do. Your car has radio?”

“Sure.”

“Stay on open line, please. We’ll patch in on you and join you if you tell us where you are.”

“No problem. You have my word on it.”

The embassy limousine swept out of Grosvenor Square sixty seconds later. Chuck Moxon drove; his colleague beside him operated the D/F receiver, a small box like a miniature television set, save that on the screen in place of a picture was a single glowing dot. When the ante

They drove fast down Park Lane, through Knightsbridge, and into Kensington.

“Activate,” said Brown. The operator depressed a switch. The screen did not respond.

“Keep activating every thirty seconds until we get lock-on,” said Brown. “Chuck, start to sweep around Kensington.”