‘Surprised, Mr Green?’ Rice had noticed the look too. Hazard’s clients responded differently to Stevie than to the firm’s ex-military consultants. This didn’t always work to her advantage, but sometimes Stevie was able to get through where others weren’t.
‘Stevie’s job isn’t at the sharp end of things, although she’s stronger than she looks,’ Rice informed him. ‘She is skilled in body combat, and can fence and shoot—’
‘In fairness,’ Stevie broke in, ‘they’re skills I’ve learned for self-preservation, rather than for the preservation of others.’
Rice chuckled. ‘Her role is as lightning conductor for clients. Prevention of a security incident is always the goal. If the worst happens, we guarantee a trained negotiator on the ground within twenty-four hours.’
Rice beckoned to Stevie to follow them. The next room was sparsely furnished, a long bench with telephones, more wall maps, a big whiteboard. Several people were moving about; no one was sitting down.
‘This is Crisis Response. Most of the people in here are kidnap and extortion specialists. It can get pretty hot in here.’
Rice pointed to the whiteboard. A list of names ran down the left side. ‘These are the names of people who are currently being held, the time and date of the kidnapping, location, suspected perpetrators and so forth.’
Alan Green examined the board. The locations ranged from Chechnya and the Philippines, to Colombia, Russia and Iraq.
‘That second chap, he’s been held for three years by the date on the board—is that common?’ he asked.
‘Unfortunately, in some parts of the world it is, Colombia for instance,’ Rice replied. ‘You will be familiar with Ingrid Betancourt. She was held for six years before being rescued. Others are not so lucky. It is most often a matter of money. Occasionally it is political and there is very little Hazard can do.’
‘Avoid being kidnapped in the first place, I suppose!’ Alan Green’s eyes were wide.
‘And that’s where Stevie comes in: we had her in strategic analysis at Hazard for some years—Russia, Central Asia, Indonesia and North Africa. Only it turns out she’s rather good at spotting risks
before
they materialise—we call it her Early Bird Alert—so now she’s assigned to specific clients rather than regions.’
Stevie was feeling a little uncomfortable, being talked about as if she were not there. She concentrated on a small ball of teal blue fluff that had formed on the edge of the carpet.
‘Stevie advises clients interested in preventing security incidents. She’s been on most of Hazard’s training programmes—hostile environment training, close protection, defensive driver training, crisis management and so on—so she has a good understanding of what she is recommending for her clients.’
Alan Green was unable to hide his scepticism as he looked Stevie over. ‘Surely it’s very risky to intervene in these situations . . .’
‘I don’t intervene, Mr Green,’ she said evenly. ‘In, say, a kidnapping I’d stay on hand to provide an ongoing assessment of the situation for Hazard, the client and the negotiator—anything that might help them in communications with the kidnappers, and the media.’
‘We have more active departments for any rough stuff—mostly ex-paramilitaries,’ added Rice. He hand-picked those teams and he was very proud of them.
‘Well, Papillon were very impressed with how you handled our problem. Discretion was vital.’
Stevie flushed a little but managed to look Alan Green in the eye and say ‘Thank you’ in a firm voice.
The Papillon affair had been an extortion case involving Papillon chocolates, the largest confectionary manufacturer in Europe. An anonymous person had threatened to poison a batch of their popular hazelnut praline bon-–bons unless a ransom was paid. A sample of the poisoned chocolate was included with the ransom demand, to prove means and intent.
Stevie had flown to Papillon headquarters in Amsterdam and had the chocolate analysed. The unusual choice of poison had led her to a disgruntled food chemist employed by the company. The matter was then resolved internally to the satisfaction of all but the food chemist.
‘Sir!’ A shout from young Boyd, manning the phones. ‘It’s Mexico City—Portland Trucks, sounds like a fast-food job.’
Rice was at Boyd’s side in a flash.
Alan Green turned to Stevie. ‘Fast-food job?’
‘It’s when they snatch someone off the street, drive to an ATM and force them to withdraw the contents of their bank account,’ Stevie explained. ‘It’s petty criminals mostly, but lots of people have been killed this way
.
’
Rice was in fast conversation with Harold Betterman, head of the department. ‘Get Della Mare on the phone, and Fillippo Berez.’ Rice was all business, his face hard. Stevie loved watching him work: he was invincible under pressure.
She glanced at one of the clocks on the wall: London time. The Hammer-Belles were expecting her at the Ritz and she never kept a client waiting.
The lobby of the Ritz
was warm and comfortable and Stevie didn’t mind waiting. Perhaps her shoes would dry in time.
Her muscles were aching. She had been at the Swords Club, her fencing
salle
, the night before. Four bouts with Patrick Molyneux had left her with a Dalmatian’s coat of bruises along her right thigh. He’d even been rude enough to try a flick hit, whipping his foil upward then cracking it down over Stevie’s shoulder like a stockwhip to sting her on the scapula. An ungentlemanly strike that stung like a wasp. But Molyneux had lost his cool and never regained it; Stevie had won three out of four bouts. He had left the club frustrated and perspiring—a most satisfactory result.
An abandoned magazine caught her eye. Joss Carey, art’s latest overnight superstar, brooded on the cover.
Damn him
.
His coming show was attracting so much attention. She hoped he was still in Barbados . . . She couldn’t think about Joss now. She wished she were home in Zurich.
Stevie rummaged around in an enormous battered black alligator bag. Somewhere inside were her cigarettes and Josie’s detailed description of her clients’ background.
Stevie had never been a smoker, but as cigarette bans crept across the Continent she knew that soon tobacco would no longer be possible in public places. So she had taken up smoking—long black cigarettes from Russia, with gold filter-tips. She intended to participate fully in the end of an era.
Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle were megawatt Hollywood celebrities. They were so famous that Douglas’ trainer had his own television show, so famous that the couple spent most of their time when they weren’t on set secluded in a massive compound in an undisclosed location (Arizona). They were über film stars, undeniably famous and competitively so.
Stevie, reader of gossip magazines for work and sometimes pleasure, knew all this already. Part of protecting a high value target—or HVT—involved researching just how much information about their private life was in the public domain. It was astonishing how much you could learn about people, especially public figures, for free from the internet.
There was little about Douglas and Sandy’s life that was not documented, celebrated, criticised and publicised. They were not, as her indomitable grandmother Didi would have put it, shirking violets.
A blow-wave of hairdressers burst through the Ritz revolving doors. Stevie counted five from her position in a gilded armchair facing the door. Their deep tans, stiff highlights and large black cases marked them easily. The leader of the wave drifted to the front desk and announced his intention to ascend to the suite of Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle. Loud enough, oh yes, so that most of the lobby could hear.
Good luck, thought a bored Stevie, stretching her drying toes. She’d been here twenty minutes just waiting for permission to access their floor.
The posse moved without delay towards the lift and disappeared to the upper floors.
In astonishment, Stevie stubbed her half-smoked cigarette, gathered up her bag and approached the front desk.
‘Excuse me. Are you certain Mr Hammer and Miss Belle know I am waiting to see them?’ she asked, keeping her voice mild.
Another call was put through. Then, ‘Madam, yes they do. They are ready to receive you now. The Berkley Suite is on the seventh floor. The lift is on your—’
‘Right. Yes. Thank you.’
Under the rather unforgiving, she thought, lift lights, Stevie smoothed her hair and checked her face for smudges of mascara. Presentable.
Did Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle have reason to fear for the safety of their five-month-old son, Kennedy-Jack? They were moving to London and had requested the services of Hazard. Stevie would probably recommend the kidnap package which included surveillance-awareness training for the parents, discreet bodyguards that went wherever the baby did, some defensive driving techniques, and detailed home security. The services of a negotiator would also be possible as an extra, should the worst happen.
Stevie had found that training made the HVTs feel safer and more prepared. Training would calm the fears of the parents in this case and make them more aware of what situations posed an elevated risk, and at what times they would be relatively safe. Existing in constant fear, and not feeling like there was anything you could do about it, was not living. The latest research Stevie had read found that this situation, when replicated in laboratory rats, produced severe neurosis.
The door to the suite was answered by a woman dressed in a black lycra dance-top and soft shoes, all gentle curves and bumps. She was midway through a conversation via headset that continued at full volume as she waved Stevie into the room.
It smelt of expensive scent and cleaning products and food and body odour all at once.
Stevie’s first view of the celebrated Sandy Belle in the flesh was utterly confusing. The star was lashed into a motorised contraption that consisted of rubber strapping tightly buckled to her limbs and torso, which vibrated at high speed then shifted, as if into different gear, to an even higher speed. Sandy Belle, to make matters worse, was groaning. Stevie was horrified but no one seemed to be taking any notice.
She looked around for Douglas Hammer, caring husband and dashing dresser, tabloid darling, feeder of orphaned masses, five-time Oscar nominee and inveterate collector of fine cars. He was sitting in front of a large mirror surrounded by the hairdressers, ants on a biscuit crumb. A man was filming him with a tiny digital camera.
Hammer was very handsome, in his early forties, tanned and slimline, dark brown eyes and hair. He was also naked to the waist. All eyes were on Douglas’ reflection, none appeared to even hear the cries of the agonised Sandy Belle. Nor did they appear to notice Stevie.
The torture machine picked up even more speed, Sandy groaned louder, her body rolled and tossed like a cloth doll, her copper-coloured ponytail whipping the air in a fury.
Stevie stopped one of Sandy’s black-clad assistants. There were five that she could count.
‘Is Miss Belle alright? She doesn’t sound very well.’ Stevie approached the machine, intent on some kind of intervention.
‘What are you doing?’ cried one.
‘Don’t touch the gyroniser! It cost a quarter of a million pounds!’ pitched in another.
‘Sandy Belle has three of them,’ cried yet another. Stevie looked for the one who had spoken last.
What
?
Finally Sandy Belle came to a stop, shiny-red in the face, but recovered enough to speak for herself, or rather, to allow others to speak for her.
‘This is Stevie Duveen, Sandy, from Risk Dangers.’
‘Sandy’s exercising. This is not really a great time.’
‘The gyroniser is the latest in cellulite treatment, originally developed by NASA scientists to prevent muscle wastage in astronauts. Fascinating.’
Stevie was surrounded. She fought panic like a gulp of bile in the back of her throat. There seemed to be an endless number of small round people dressed in black: headsets, tiny hands and feet, scurrying.
Like beetles, she thought. She drew a breath and looked Sandy Belle right in the eye.
‘Hello, Miss Belle. I am Stevie Duveen, the risk assessor for Hazard Limited. I am here to talk to you about your concerns for the safety of your family. Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?’
One of the beetles began to protest but Sandy Belle silenced her with a wave of her hand.
‘It’s okay, Melanie.’ She turned to Stevie and smiled. ‘Call me Sandy. All my friends do.’
Another beetle scurried in. ‘Sandy, Kelli from
Chloe
is bringing you bags and shoes in half an hour. Your stylists are going to pick out something you
love
for the premier.’
Sandy’s eyes left Stevie’s and began to dart around.
‘Sandy,’ said Stevie sharply, re-focusing her attention, ignoring the beetles completely. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?’
A few minutes later, perched on the apricot silk bedspread with the door firmly closed, Sandy Belle, wrapped in a robe, her eyes lowered, began to tell Stevie of her fears.
‘I’m terrified that Kennedy-Jack is going to be kidnapped. The thought keeps me from sleeping at night.’
‘It’s a terrifying thought for any mother,’ Stevie reassured her sympathetically. ‘Do you have any particular reasons to believe that Kennedy-Jack is in danger?’
Sandy turned her extraordinarily blue eyes on Stevie and blinked.
They filled with tears.
‘He’s the most famous baby on the planet. Everyone wants him.
The paparazzi, my fans, the talk shows, the magazines. It’s not right.’
‘Well, it’s true that the children of high-profile or celebrity parents are more likely to be a target because they are simply more visible to kidnappers.’ Stevie kept her voice gentle but business-like. It was her job to paint an accurate—but not alarmist—picture of the risks generally faced by people in Sandy Belle’s position.
‘Also the wealth of the parents is often advertised—trade publications, rich lists, gossip magazines—and this can tempt criminals. The movements of the child and the parents on many occasions are also known in advance: public appearances, premiers, parties, holidays. This makes the kidnapper’s job easier, and so again, more tempting. But there are also simple things that can be done to reduce the risk.’