Dead Cat Bounce (25 page)

The rendezvous point was the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street, about half a mile away. One hundred yards on he saw
his father on a trail bike. He was facing the same way, but looking backward, watching the Helsby Cattermole entrance as Jonah passed him. Jonah reached Threadneedle Street, stopping under the bank’s solid walls. Thirty seconds later David arrived next to him.

“All clear. Park your bike over there.” David was pointing to some bays thirty yards on. “And get on the back of this one. You’ll have to hold the case.”

Jonah did as he was told, wedging the case between them as he climbed onto his father’s bike. They accelerated powerfully away, going east toward Tower Bridge, weaving in and out of the Friday evening traffic and twice mounting the pavement to speed their progress. On past Canary Wharf they burned, Jonah hanging on tight to the briefcase and his father, craning his neck at every opportunity to see if they were being followed, his heart pumping with fear and excitement. The road was clear now, and David opened up the throttle so that Jonah had to tuck his head down until finally they slowed to enter the London City Airport parking area.

“Where are we going?” asked Jonah as they dismounted. He hadn’t expected to be leaving the country immediately. He hadn’t even said goodbye to Creedence.

“Amsterdam first. I need to collect some new passports.” Jonah must have looked confused because David added in explanation, “I’ve met some
interesting
people while doing business in Russia. Some of them have connections in the underworld. I called in a favor from one of them, and the new passports are waiting in Amsterdam. Short notice job. No time to get them to us in London.”

“Oh!” said Jonah. Then he whispered, “It hadn’t occurred to
me that they were
those
kind of passports. Fake ones, I mean.” He paused, tucking in his shirt, which was hanging out after the ride to the airport. “How long are we going for?”

David handed Jonah a small rucksack from the side panniers of the bike. As he did, Jonah noticed that he was wearing an old watch with an orange strap that had originally belonged to Jonah. He must have picked it up when he’d gone back to the house to collect the clothes in the rucksacks. “Not long,” David replied, beginning to march to the check-in area. He motioned for Jonah to follow him. “We’ll head to Africa from there. We need to keep moving. They’re killers, remember?”

Jonah noticed that his father’s eyes were shifting this way and that, scanning for any sign of a pursuer. He did the same, never relaxing until they were on the plane and on their way to Amsterdam.

The Baron was
highly irritated after his meeting with Pistol. No surprise there. The man had droned on and on about the new trading controls they would have to put in place, but all the Baron really wanted to do was to check up on the boy.

He swept onto the trading floor to find it deserted. The boy’s briefcase was gone as well. He phoned him. The call went straight to voicemail. He was now running late for dinner with Scrotycz. He’d try and find out more then.

He put his laptop in his case and slammed it shut. As he walked toward the doors he pulled out his phone again. “Amelia, it’s me,” he said as soon as she answered.

“Hello, darling,” Amelia purred. “Off to see the nice Russian man, are you? What fun you will have! All that boasting and the vodka and the girls.”

“I’d rather put a thistle up my arse,” the Baron replied. “More importantly, I need you to get hold of that Clearwater girl.”

Amelia’s voice became serious. “Is there a problem?”

“I asked iPod to stay, and he’s gone. His phone’s also off. It shouldn’t be. He knows he’s on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I’m guessing he’s busy getting loved up, but I want to be sure.”

“Hold on, I’ll call her on her home line. She’s been off since Wednesday, looking after your boy, so to speak.” Amelia placed the call on hold, but despite the silence on her end, the Baron carried on walking with his phone to his ear until she came back on line. “No answer on the home number,” she said, her tone more declarative than apologetic. “Leave it to me; I’ll find them.”

It was seven
P.M.
when the Baron next heard from Amelia. He was in the penthouse suite of the Carstairs Hotel. It was
his
hotel. Not only did he own it, but he also used it as his primary residence. He found living there more efficient than purchasing a house. Everything was on site, and if it wasn’t, there was someone to fetch or organize it for him at all hours of the day. Still, tonight the hotel didn’t feel as comfortable as usual. The boy’s disappearance was nagging at his mind. He had showered and was busy trying to put cufflinks on his shirt when Amelia rang the bell. He let her in.

“Still no answer from the girl,” she said, charging into the room, her eyes breathing fire. “Looks like Scrotycz has put the fear of God into young iPod.” She produced a pile of photographs similar to the ones David had shown Jonah on Wednesday night and slapped them down onto the dining table. “These are from the closed circuit television cameras in the Hellcat reception area and outside the building,” she said.

The Baron surveyed them while continuing to struggle with his cufflinks. The photos documented Jonah’s walk, his shock at seeing the Audi, and his meeting with Scrotycz.

“By the look on his face I would surmise that he wasn’t very happy at seeing the Russian. The Clearwater girl did say he was terrified after the Richmond Park meeting.” She placed five more photos on the table. “You’ll notice that he doesn’t go straight up the escalator. He goes into the loo first and comes out three minutes later, almost like he was waiting for something or … someone.”

“Maybe he wanted to be sure Scrotycz had left?” the Baron suggested.

“Maybe,” agreed Amelia. Indicating the third photograph, she added, “Then he goes upstairs and comes back almost immediately as if there’s a swarm of bees chasing after him. When he leaves the building, he’s running.” She picked up the final photo, holding it out for the Baron to see. “This last one shows him getting on a moped thingy.”

“Bloody Russian,” the Baron growled. “I don’t want iPod so scared that he does something stupid. He’s already filed a complaint with the police, which will complicate things. We need to keep things quiet after Clive’s death. Ahhh, bloody cufflinks!” he shouted in frustration as he failed again to insert the left one into his shirt.

Amelia held out her hand. “Here, give them to me.”

The Baron dropped the cufflinks into her hands and stuck out his arms toward her, the cuffs now loose and covering his hands. “And what about the GPS tracker in that new iPod I gave him? Is it working? I need to know where he is,” he hissed.

Amelia calmly reached toward his left arm, turned his cuff back, and started inserting the link. “The tracker will only function when the iPod is switched on. We’ll receive a message as soon as it does.”

The Baron grunted. “When did you last hear from the girl?” he asked.

“This morning when she phoned to say she wasn’t coming in.” Amelia moved to his right arm.

“But iPod
did
come in, so why didn’t she? Get someone around to her flat and see if they’re there. Deliver them some pizza or something. And do the same with Lightbody’s house. My trader radar is saying something’s not right here. And I don’t like uncertainty at present.”

Amelia calmly finished inserting the second cufflink. She stepped back and looked him up and down. “Okay, will do,” she said at last in answer to the Baron’s directives. “I’ll call you if I have any news. You look fabulous by the way.” She smiled. “Maybe Scrotycz will let something slip if you get him drunk enough.”

In crossing the English Channel to mainland Europe, Jonah and David had gained an hour on UK time. They caught a taxi from Schiphol Airport and into central Amsterdam at what was now eight
P.M.

Jonah had visited Amsterdam once before when the Baron had flown him there, by private jet, for lunch to celebrate his exam results at the beginning of the summer. It had been the hottest day of the year, and they had eaten at an expensive restaurant by the side of one of the canals. It had been fantastic, a fitting celebration
to the end of a glorious school year: His exam results were in the top three of the school, and he’d shot the lights out of the markets, more than tripling his money to 426,804 pounds. They’d talked about the financial crisis that was developing, the profits the Baron was making, and the bands headlining at the various music festivals during the summer. It was this lunch and discussion that had led Jonah to take a month to travel around Europe. Afterward they’d walked along the canals in the sunshine, jackets over their shoulders, toward the Rembrandt Platz to get a taxi back to the airport.

Jonah peered out of the taxi window as they drove. The sun briefly flashed beneath a canopy of grey clouds before they entered the city, and Jonah tried to identify landmarks from his previous trip. It wasn’t until they turned a corner and he saw the prostitutes in the windows that the scene became familiar. They were in the Red Light District. The Baron had insisted that Jonah couldn’t come to Amsterdam without seeing this tourist attraction in particular, and he vividly recalled walking these cobblestone streets, gawking at the scene.

It was here that Jonah had had the most memorable part of his trip: meeting the man whom the Baron had said was his mentor: the Flying Dutchman, he’d called him. The man was wearing a heavy dark suit and a tie and, unlike Jonah and the Baron, did not seem to be experiencing any discomfort in the heat.

“The Flying Dutchman! I didn’t think you were allowed out of Switzerland. Taxman wouldn’t let you,” the Baron had roared.

“We came to an agreement,” the man had replied solemnly. He’d then turned to Jonah. “And who’s this young man? Don’t tell me you’ve procreated!”

Jonah had blushed, but the Baron laughed it off. “No such thing. Though if I had, I would have wanted him to be like this one,” he’d said, at which Jonah had swelled with pride. “This is Jonah Lightbody, or iPod as we in the Bunker call him. Jonah, meet the Flying Dutchman. My first ever boss.”

The man’s hand had been massive, and when he’d shaken it Jonah had felt a large signet ring on his little finger.

They’d had a conversation about the markets and the crisis, and Jonah was surprised to discover that the Flying Dutchman was actually very interested in Jonah’s opinion on these issues, making him feel important. Sadly though, the meeting had meant that Jonah’s day with the Baron had come to a rapid end, and he ended up traveling back to England alone in the private jet while the two older men repaired to a hotel to catch up on old times.

Back in the present, the taxi pulled up outside a windowless building, and David turned to Jonah. “Sorry, son. The Red Light District’s not really appropriate for someone of your age, but it’s where I pick up the documents. We’ll head to the hotel from here. I hope you’re not too shocked by it all.”

Jonah decided it was probably best not to tell his dad that he’d been here before. “I’m sure I’ll cope,” he said.

“Okay. Sit tight. I won’t be long.” He opened the door and got out, leaving Jonah to gawk just as he had done two and a half months previously.

David returned five minutes later with the passports, a loaded gun, and backup ammunition. He kept the latter two items hidden from his son. “We’ll walk from here,” he said to the driver, and to Jonah
he whispered, “No point in having this taxi connecting us with the airport and the hotel.”

Jonah clambered out of the car, the few belongings they’d come with in hand, and hurried along after his father. It was dark, and they walked quickly. Jonah was very conscious of the laptop in his briefcase and held it close to his body, fearing that someone might snatch it. In the background he could hear David blabbering away trying to relieve the tension. “Did you know that Amsterdam was at the center of one of the world’s first financial bubbles? Yes, it was tulips back in the 1600s. It was the Dutch who created the first derivatives.”

Jonah wasn’t in the mood to talk.

At the hotel Jonah hung back while David checked in. He looked around the seedy lobby with its nicotine-stained walls, worn carpet, and cheap furniture. When David finished, they headed for the elevator, which was small and old, with an inner and outer door. “We’re on the top floor,” his father informed him, pressing the buttons. “Room 835. Can you time how long it takes to get to the top?”

“Why?”

“Might come in useful.” David shrugged, and they reverted to silence until the elevator shuddered to a halt.

“Forty-eight seconds,” said Jonah. “I could have run up the stairs quicker.”

“Well, there they are,” said David, pointing to the fire escape at the end of the corridor as he unlocked their room door. David went in first, and Jonah followed.

“I see you’re keeping costs down, Dad,” he said. The room was very basic, with two beds, a wardrobe, a desk, and a bathroom. It looked old and tired, in keeping with the rest of the hotel.

“I chose the hotel for its location, not its quality,” David answered. “It’s built in the middle of a single block, which means there will be at least four possible ways out should we have visitors. It also has a fast, free Internet connection.” David paused. “And besides, you know as well as I do where most of our money is right now.”

Jonah nodded. It was strange to him that he’d been given a million pounds and yet in a way he was poorer than he’d been previously due to the Scrotycz bet. “What about food?” he asked, throwing his bag on the bed. He wasn’t trying to be indignant, but his stomach was growling. He hadn’t eaten on the plane. “It doesn’t look like the type of place that does room service.”

“I’m going to go out and check all the exits in a minute. There’s a Hard Rock Cafe nearby. I could get takeout.”

“That’ll do. Double cheeseburger with chips, please. I’ll get started on the laptop.”

David left the room, and Jonah took the laptop out from the case and placed it on the desk. He opened it, pressed the “start” button, input the password he’d memorized, and waited for computer to fire up. When it did, the desktop was blank, and the dock at the bottom displayed only the usual programs—Word, Excel, PowerPoint, iTunes, Firefox, Bloomberg, and the Hellcat system link.