Perfect People by Peter James
‘All of the people arrested are being interrogated at this moment. I can assure you that if any of these Disciples has information about their whereabouts, they’ll get it out of them.’
‘I hope they torture the bastards to death,’ she said.
115
Two hours later, in Sheila Michaelides’s office, John held Naomi’s hand, squeezing. Renate Harrison, their ever-present shadow, dressed in a smart two-piece and crisp white blouse, sat beside them.
Naomi stared past the psychologist, out through the window into the walled garden, as the policewoman brought Sheila Michaelides up to speed with the latest developments. Naomi envied the psychologist the seeming tranquillity of her existence.
‘I’m so sorry for you, John and Naomi,’ she said, when Renate Harrison had finished. ‘I saw two police officers on Saturday afternoon and gave them as much information as I could.’
Her head was sticking out of a fluffy, fresh-looking white cashmere sweater, but she looked tired. She had more make-up caked on than Naomi had seen before, and there were bags under her eyes. Even her hair lacked its usual bounce.
‘You were going to try to make contact with some of the other parents around the world,’ John said. ‘Have you had any success?’
‘Yes, I have—’ She glanced at her computer screen. ‘I’m getting emails coming in all the time – there’s been a surge of them since yesterday morning. There’s something going on that I can’t explain, but perhaps you can?’ She stared at Renate Harrison.
‘Explain what, exactly?’ the family liaison officer asked.
‘Over the past five days, seven sets of twins conceived in the Dettore Clinic have disappeared into thin air.’
‘Seven?’ John exclaimed.
‘I’m waiting for confirmation back about one set in Dubai; the total may be up to eight now. And I suspect there are a lot more.’
Naomi swivelled on her chair to face the policewoman. ‘DI Pelham said three sets – he said three, yesterday. How could it be seven – eight?’
‘When you say disappeared,’ John asked, ‘surely there must be people who have seen something?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘All about the same age?’ he asked.
‘Their ages range from three to five.’
‘And—’ John said. ‘Are – Naomi – and I – the only people to have any evidence of their children’s disappearance?’
‘Incredibly, it would seem so. I’ve had telephone conversations with five of the parents – I’ve been up half the night with different time zones around the world – and in every single instance they tell me their twins have literally vanished. Not even one sighting so far by any security camera, anywhere.’
‘Why us?’ Naomi demanded. ‘I mean, why do we have evidence and no one else?’
‘There doesn’t seem to have been any violence involved in the other instances,’ Sheila Michaelides said.
‘So who were these people who shot this Disciple on our doorstep then took Luke and Phoebe away? The Good Samaritan and his Best Friend?’ Naomi said in an outburst of frustration. ‘Did they just happen to be out for a stroll across the fields, carrying a handgun and wearing night-vision goggles?’
There was an uncomfortable silence. No one seemed to know how to respond. Finally the psychologist said, ‘Naomi, I’m hoping during the course of the day to speak to more of the parents of the children who have gone missing. I can’t believe it’s coincidence, so there has to be some linking factor. Something will come to light.’
‘Could we speak to these parents ourselves?’ John asked.
‘I can conference you in, with their permission,’ she said, seeking and receiving a nod of approval from Renate Harrison. ‘I think it would be a very good idea.’ Then, again looking at the police officer, she said, ‘Meantime, what is the next step you anticipate from your American colleagues?’
‘I think at the moment,’ Renate Harrison said, ‘they’re as baffled as we are.’
*
The policewoman drove through Caibourne, and on up the lane. Neither John nor Naomi had said more than a few words since leaving the psychologist’s consulting room. They were both inside their shells, thinking, trying to pull together something that made sense out of all they had heard, and getting nowhere.
DI Pelham was allowing them to go home today, with the suggestion that Renate Harrison, relieved by another colleague during the night, stay with them for the next few days, and patrols would be stepped up around their house. They would be guarded as much as resources would allow.
They made a right turn into the driveway, and Naomi felt an immediate lump in her throat. They were coming up to their house.
Their empty house.
It was a fine day, sunlight glinting on the damp grass. She barely noticed. Barely even noticed the unmarked maroon police car parked in the drive, close to her Subaru and John’s Saab, and a lone policeman in a uniform that looked too bulky for him sitting inside it.
Post and newspapers slithered across the tiled floor of the hall as John pushed open the front door. Naomi looked at her watch. As if on autopilot, she said, ‘Almost one, lunchtime. I – I’d better – make something, I suppose.’
‘Would you like me to do it?’ Renate Harrison offered. ‘If you just show me where everything is and tell me what you’d like?’
John set down their holdall and his laptop bag, and scooped up the mail and papers, sifting through those that were for him and Naomi, and those that were for the owners of the house, putting them aside in a separate pile. Then he went through to his den, set his computer on his desk and went back out again, to carry in the children’s computer from the boot of the car.
Back in his den, and logged on, he saw that he had sixty-two new emails. Wearily, he slumped back in his chair and scrolled down through them.
Then he froze.
He leaned forward, hands poised over the keyboard, staring at the screen, barely able to believe what he was seeing.
It was an email from Luke and Phoebe.
116
From: Luke & Phoebe Klaesson
Subject: Safety
Dear Parents,
Please do not fret about our whereabouts.
We are here because we consider you incapable of providing us with adequate protection against the Disciples of the Third Millennium and other fanatical groups. And because you are unable to provide us with the levels of stimulus and education we require – although we know you have been trying and we are grateful to you for that.
Don’t waste energy trying to trace the source of this email – as any geek will tell you, it will take you years. We are safe and well and happy for the first time in our lives and that is all you need to know.
You will not be able to reply to this email. If you wish to meet with us, we will grant you one visit because we believe as our birth parents you are owed that courtesy. We know it may be hard to believe, but we do love you – but in our own way, which you won’t understand.
Two seats have been reserved for you on Alitalia flight 275 to Rome today, departing London Heathrow at 1810 hours. In Rome you will take a taxi to the Hotel Anglo Americano and wait in the room reserved for you for further instructions. Come alone, bring no camera. If you are accompanied or followed, there will be no further instructions for you in Rome.
As proof that we are fine, a short video clip is attached.
Your children,
Luke & Phoebe
117
On a computer monitor, in a room at Sussex Police Headquarters, Luke and Phoebe stood side by side, each with an arm around the other. They appeared to be in a small studio, with a plain grey background, which gave nothing away about their location. Luke wore a sweat shirt, jeans and trainers, Phoebe a purple tracksuit and trainers. Clearly visible beside them was a television screen, with the CNN morning headlines of today.
The children looked, Naomi had to admit to herself, happy and relaxed.
‘H
‘Hallo, Parents!’ Phoebe said. ‘Actually, we’re great!’
At the end of the clip the image froze. Naomi stared at it through tears. My children, she was thinking. Luke, Phoebe, my babies. Then she closed her eyes, unable to look any more.
Please, God, let me wake up and find out that this has all been some horrible dream.
Pelham, Humbolt, Renate Harrison and the computer geek, Cliff, were in the room with John and Naomi, seated around a table.
‘What are your chances of tracing the email, Cliff?’ the detective inspector asked.
Cliff, in clothes as grimy and crumpled as before, looked no less tired at two thirty on a Monday afternoon than he had at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Pushing his hair back with his hands, he said, ‘The thing is, if you want to make an email anonymous and you know what you’re doing, you can make it anonymous. It’s not a problem.’
‘Can you explain how to us?’ Tom Humbolt asked.
The computer analyst gave a nervous laugh, then, blinking furiously at the table, said, ‘There are several different ways. They mostly involve routing an anonymous email from server to server around the world, with software designed to delete its own footprints as it goes. If I’m right in the way I think this has been sent – and it’s the way I would have done it – you’d have to physically send me round the world, tracking it back, trying to find the footprints in every server it’s been through.’
‘How long would that take?’ Naomi asked.
‘Assuming we could even find every server, gosh, I don’t know.’ He gave another nervous giggle. ‘Months.’ Then, staring at the table again and blinking furiously, he said, ‘That’s not the answer you want to hear, is it?’
Dave Pelham leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, then pressed his fingers together to form a bridge. Resting his chin on it, he said to Humbolt, ‘The lab have a copy of this?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The detective sergeant directed much of his reply at John and Naomi. ‘They’re enhancing the sound to see if they can pick up any background noise that might give us clues about where they are.’
John glanced at his watch, then caught Naomi’s eye. They were going to have to leave soon for the airport.
Pelham said to both of them, ‘I really think someone should accompany you, in the background.’
Naomi shook her head adamantly. ‘You read their instructions, Detective Inspector. We can’t take the gamble.’
John said, ‘They haven’t given us much time, have they?’
‘That’s deliberate,’ Pelham said. ‘We barely have time to get anything in place. OK, if we don’t send anyone with you, then we need to get the cooperation of the Italian police.’
‘NO!’ Naomi was emphatic. ‘You have to let us handle this the way they are telling us.’
‘Mrs Klaesson, let me make this clear. We never accede to demands of kidnappers.’
‘What demands? They’re not asking for anything. They’re saying if we wish to meet them. What kind of demand is that?’
‘These people, whoever they are who have abducted your children, are clearly highly professional and well organized. If you do what they are requesting without adequate police back-up, you and Dr Klaesson would be taking an unacceptable risk with your safety.’
‘My children come above everything,’ she replied. ‘I don’t care what risks I have to take to get them back. With respect, doing anything less than they ask in that email is what I would call an unacceptable risk.’
118
The plane was sinking steadily on its landing approach. Naomi, gripping an empty bottle of mineral water, her tray still down, sat squeezing her eyes shut against a headache that two paracetamol had done nothing to relieve.
John had a science magazine open in front of him but hadn’t turned the page in an hour. How could either of them concentrate on anything?
A stewardess, hurrying, took the empty bottle and slammed her tray shut. Minutes later, the plane touched down. The engines bellowed in reverse thrust. She felt the seat belt dig into her, then they were taxiing.
Rome. A short while ago they had been home; then they had been in a room at police headquarters; then in a speeding police car with a motorcycle escort. Now they were in Rome.
‘OK, hon?’ John said.
She eked out a tearful smile. In a hotel room in this city they would get instructions. They would be reunited with Luke and Phoebe. In her hopes, they would all go back home together, and this nightmare would fade away into the past.
The entrance was a busy modern lobby in an old building. They sidestepped a horde of Japanese tourists being marshalled towards a coach, and reached the front desk. John filled in the forms, handed over their passports and a credit card, and declined the offer of help with their luggage, which consisted of her handbag, a small holdall and John’s laptop bag.
The clerk’s lapel badge said, VITTORIO. ‘Travel light, good thing, eh, very good!’ Vittorio flashed a smile that was wasted on them, and handed them their door card and minibar key.
‘Do you have any messages or mail for us?’ Naomi asked, looking around, scanning faces in the lobby, wondering if the person Luke and Phoebe’s email had said was going to make contact with them was already here.
‘One moment, huh? I check.’ He turned round and peered at the rows of pigeon holes, then pecked at the computer keyboard. ‘Doctor Meeses Klayassion, no mail and – eh – no, no message. Anything come, no worry, straight to you room. Have a good stay in Roma!’
The room was narrow and gloomy, and even with all the lights on felt dark. Naomi sat down on the bed and looked at her watch. It was ten thirty local time, nine thirty in England. ‘Do you really think they will contact us, John?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why haven’t they yet? Why isn’t there any message?’
‘Hon, they – whoever – they’ll know we’ve only just arrived. Give it time.’
‘DI Pelham has contacted the Italian police, hasn’t he? I bet he has.’
‘He agreed he wouldn’t, provided we sent him an email by midnight telling him we were OK.’
‘I don’t believe him. I think he’s contacted them, and that’s why we’re not going to hear from Luke and Phoebe, or whoever’s taken them. Pelham has blown it.’
‘Give them time.’ He walked over to the window. It was a huge, heavy old sash, double-glazed, with a view down on to a busy street. He unclipped the catch and slid the outer unit upwards. Immediately, he felt a cold draught from the chill night air, and heard the rasp of mopeds and motorcycles, the roar of car engines, the cacophony of horns, the endless crazed symphony of a Rome evening.
He let the window drop shut again, set his laptop up on the small writing table and took out his adaptor kit. After a couple of aborted attempts he was logged on.
There were twenty-seven new emails. Running his eyes down them, he felt a sudden beat of excitement, and instantly double-clicked the ninth. ‘Hon,’ he said. ‘Come here.’
From: Luke & Phoebe Klaesson
Subject: Travel
Dear Parents,
You have reservations on Alitalia flight 1050 to Dubai, United Arab Emirates, departing 13.45 tomorrow. Collect your tickets from the Alitalia desk in International Departures. You will be met by your driver in the arrivals lounge at Dubai.
The same warnings apply.
Your children,
Luke & Phoebe
‘What’s in Dubai?’ Naomi asked.
‘I have absolutely no more idea than you do, hon. Anyhow, it’s maybe not the final destination.’
‘It sounds it, if we’re being collected by car.’
John wrote the details down on a slip of hotel notepaper, then logged off, opened the earlier email from Luke and Phoebe and again played the video clip of them.
Staring at the screen, Naomi put an arm around his shoulder. ‘I know they haven’t been all we dreamed of, that they’re not pe
‘Yes, absolutely,’ he said, trying to sound confident, trying to mask his doubts from her.
They must be alive, still, he thought. In this clip, with this morning’s CNN news they are alive. Whoever has taken them, and whatever their agenda, they must still be alive at this moment, and all we can do is keep obeying the instructions. And hope.
Then, to try to keep Detective Inspector Pelham off their backs and to prevent him from involving the Italian police, he sent an email to him.
Communication received from Luke and Phoebe. They have advised us we are being kept under observation for twenty-four hours and we are to stay put here in the hotel, to await further instructions.
Twenty minutes later, when he logged on again, there was a reply from Pelham.
Will hold back from contacting Italian police provided I receive a further email by 1500 hours GMT tomorrow assuring me you are both safe.
John logged off again, then phoned down to the front desk and booked a taxi to the airport for seven in the morning.
119
A million placards, some from hotels, some from car rental companies, some in English, some in Arabic, were thrust at John and Naomi by a clamouring horde of people as they walked out through customs, into the air-conditioned cool of the cavernous arrivals hall. They looked around, increasingly anxiously: AVIS, HILTON, HERTZ, NOUJAIM, THOMAS COOK, DR HAUPTMAN. Then they saw it.
KLAESSON.
A short Middle-Eastern man in a grey suit with damp patches under the arms, a cheap white shirt and plain black tie, greeted them eagerly in bad English.
‘I Elias,’ he said. ‘Come driving you.’ Then, despite John’s attempts to resist, he took both the holdall and the laptop bag, and led the way through the melee and out into the cloyingly warm evening air.