17 Adams Row
Adams Row
It would be twelve days from start to finish. Twelve days of waiting and worrying, of burner phones ringing at all hours,
of numbers and deadlines—the size of the ransom payment, the length of time Alice had to live if Gabriel didn’t agree to their
demands. The automated female voice at the other end of the line was unfailingly courteous, even when she was issuing the
direst of warnings. She never raised her voice, never uttered a profane word, never lost her cool. Her emotionless, staccato
delivery lent an air of unreality to the proceedings. Gabriel grew fond of her and on several occasions attempted to engage
her in small talk, but she was far too disciplined for that. Each call lasted three minutes, and not a minute more.
He spent the first forty-eight hours of the negotiations attempting to convince his adversary that Edward Knight, while wealthy,
did not have a billion dollars to spend on ransom. The automated voice, however, was having none of it. Knight, she insisted,
had more than enough money to meet their demands.
“I’m afraid you’ve been misled,” Gabriel explained during one of the calls. “Mr. Knight simply doesn’t have that kind of cash
on hand.”
“One billion dollars,” repeated the voice cordially. “Otherwise his wife dies.”
“Will you at least hear my counteroffer?”
“We’re not interested.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do. What time should I expect your next call?”
“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Noon would be better.”
“Noon it is. Sleep well, Mr. Allon.”
It was a tactic Gabriel employed at every turn of the negotiations, to delay the next contact, even by only an hour or two.
Time, he explained to Ingrid, was his ally. Yes, the kidnappers had Edward Knight’s wife, but Gabriel had Edward Knight’s
money—and that was what the kidnappers wanted. He would not allow himself to be swayed by empty threats.
“But how can you tell the difference between an empty threat and a real one?”
“Experience.”
“And when they’re serious about killing her?”
“We make a deal.”
The price of that deal, in the end, would not be a billion dollars—of that much, at least, Gabriel was certain. Still, he
needed to know how much Edward Knight was willing to hand over to ensure his wife’s safe return. They hashed it out together,
just the two of them, in the Knight Group’s Berkeley Square office. The property magnate, as Gabriel suspected, did not have
a billion dollars in cash at his disposal.
“Maybe four hundred million,” he said. “But anything more would require me to unwind a few investments.”
“How long will it take?”
“That is a question for my man at Bank Josef B?nzinger & Company in Zurich.”
“Peter Hoffmann?”
Knight nodded, then asked, “But how exactly does one make a nine-figure ransom payment? Not in cash, surely. It would take a lorry to hold that kind of money.”
“Two lorries, at least. But we haven’t broached that subject yet.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“We’re not there yet.”
“Get there,” said Knight. “I can’t take much more of this.”
Gabriel advised his client to concentrate on his work, at least publicly. Knight responded by announcing the acquisition of
a luxury hotel and golf resort in the Republic of Ireland. Looking none the worse for wear, he told a television interviewer
that his wife, the prominent British socialite Alice Winter, would play a role in managing the property. Needless to say,
he made no mention of the fact that Ms. Winter had vanished without a trace during a recent holiday on Ibiza. Her abductors
phoned Gabriel, as scheduled, at two that afternoon. The automated female voice, for the first time, expressed a willingness
to entertain a counteroffer.
“Ten million,” said Gabriel.
The silence lasted nearly a minute. Then the voice said, “Don’t insult us, Mr. Allon. It won’t end well, I assure you.”
“Your turn,” he said. “Give me a number. Something I can work with.”
Another long delay, then, “We will accept nine hundred million.”
“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 and the 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. “A real number.”
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 bade him 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 of The 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 of The Economist—and were back in London in time for the next call from the kidnappers.
It was scheduled to take place at 6:00 p.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.”
“Nice try.”
“Can we do this again at midnight?”
“Can’t wait,” said the voice as her three minutes expired.
She rang, this time, at the appointed hour.
The conversation went well—three calls, three different phones—and resulted in a narrowing of their differences.
The kidnappers’ automated spokeswoman indicated she might be willing to settle for a mere $650 million.
Gabriel countered with an offer of $200 million.
He advised the kidnappers to thank their lucky stars and take the deal.
It was, he suggested, the best they were going to get.
“In that case,” said the voice flatly, “the next time you see Alice she’ll have a bullet hole in the center of her forehead.”
The threat turned out to be as empty as its predecessors, as evidenced by the reduced ransom demand the kidnappers placed
on the table at three the following afternoon. At $625 million it was still out of the question. Gabriel nevertheless raised
his counteroffer to a quarter billion. The kidnappers rang him unexpectedly at nine that evening with a counteroffer of their
own.
“Six hundred million,” said the voice.
“Better than a billion,” replied Gabriel. “But it’s still never going to happen.”
“I would advise you, Mr. Allon, to make it happen.”
He informed his adversaries that he would put their demand to Edward Knight, though in truth he did nothing of the sort. The
subsequent five calls came and went with no further progress—and with numerous threats of violence. Ingrid feared they were
approaching the point of no return. Gabriel, for the first time, wondered the same thing. Reluctantly he raised his offer
to $300 million and counseled the kidnappers to take the money and run. They held fast at $600 million instead.
“Sorry,” said Gabriel. “No can do.”
“Where would you like us to leave the photograph of Alice with a bullet hole in her head?”
“Why don’t you deliver it personally to me here in London?”
“Six hundred million, Mr. Allon. Going once, going twice . . .”
“The offer is three hundred million.” He paused, then added, “Take it or leave it.”
“Unwise move,” said the voice.
“I’ll wait to hear from you.”
But for the next forty-eight hours he heard nothing at all. Fearful he had overplayed his hand, he rang the old numbers the
kidnappers had used but received no answer. Finally, at three o’clock in the morning of the twelfth day of the negotiations,
the burner phone rang. Gabriel let it ring several more times before accepting the call. This time the female voice he heard
was not automated.
“Help me, Mr. Allon,” she said. “Please, you must help me.”