13 Berkeley Square
Berkeley Square
The headquarters of the Knight Group were located in Berkeley Square in Mayfair. Gabriel arrived there late the following
morning, having flown to London from Ibiza aboard the company Bombardier Challenger. Liam Higgins met him in the lobby and
escorted him upstairs. Two blue-suited security men stood guard in the elevator foyer, and two more were posted outside the
glass-enclosed conference room where Edward Knight, a cigarette in one hand, was anxiously pacing the carpeted floor. He ceased
his wanderings long enough to take note of Gabriel’s presence.
He stabbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “Forgive me. A dreadful habit, I know. I used to burn through two
packs a day. It was Alice who convinced me to quit.”
“How did she do that?”
“She said she wouldn’t marry me if I didn’t.”
Knight lit another cigarette and exchanged a look with Higgins, who handed Gabriel a single sheet of paper.
It was a printout of an email that had been sent to a general inquiries address listed on the Knight Group’s website.
It was long on threats but short on specifics.
There was no demand for ransom—that, the kidnappers said, would come later.
They wanted Knight to send a phone number they could use for the opening round of communication.
Any attempt to pinpoint their whereabouts would result in the death of the hostage.
Gabriel read the email a second time, then slid it onto the conference table. Knight was contemplating him through a fogbank
of cigarette smoke.
“I have to say, Allon, you don’t look terribly surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“Truth be told, I was relieved when it arrived. If nothing else, at least I know Alice is alive.”
“Which is exactly the way the kidnappers want you to feel. Try not to give them the satisfaction.”
“I’ll give them anything they want.” Edward Knight lowered himself into the leather chair at the head of the table. His ragged
appearance notwithstanding, it conferred upon him a sense of authority. “I want this matter resolved quickly, Allon. If it’s
a few million they want, they can have it.”
“You should prepare yourself for a demand that runs into the tens of millions, if not higher. Furthermore, ransom negotiations
are never quick.”
“My security firm told me the same thing. They offered to provide me with an experienced kidnap-and-ransom specialist to handle
the negotiations. I told them I didn’t need one. After all,” said Knight, “I have you.”
Gabriel went to the credenza and drew himself a cup of coffee from the pump-action thermos. He should have told Edward Knight
to find someone else, should have walked out the door. The image of a woman alone in a darkened room, her hands bound by tape,
a bag over her head, would not let him.
“I’ll need an apartment, somewhere quiet with not too much foot traffic. I’ll also need phones. A half dozen should do.” He shot a glance at Higgins. “And plenty of spare SIM cards.”
“What else?” asked Knight.
“A guarantee.”
“What sort of guarantee?”
“That neither you nor your friends from your exclusive Mayfair security firm will interfere with the negotiations.”
“You have my word.”
“Then we should probably reply to their email.” Gabriel sat down next to Knight. “Use the landline number for this office.”
Higgins placed a laptop on the table. Knight nudged it toward Gabriel. “Perhaps you should do it, Allon. At this point, I
don’t think I’m capable.”
The original email was displayed on the screen. Knight recited the direct number for the conference room extension, and Gabriel
entered it into the reply and reached for the touchpad.
“Shouldn’t you include some sort of personal message?” asked Knight.
“Like what?”
“Tell them not to harm Alice.”
“That’s not how it works in a kidnapping. They’re only interested in one thing.”
Gabriel clicked the send icon, and the computer emitted a whoosh.
“What now?” asked Knight.
“We wait.”
“How long will it take?”
“Several hours, perhaps even a day. But don’t worry, we’re going to put the time to good use.”
“How?”
“You’re going to tell me all about your business. The properties you own, your partners, where you get your money.”
“Out of the question. That information is strictly private.”
“There’s no such thing as privacy,” said Gabriel. “Not in a kidnapping.”
Edward Knight, only child of a headmaster and an NHS nurse, graduate of a second-tier redbrick university, had been toiling
on the bond desk of a minor London house of finance when he noticed an emerging glut of distressed commercial properties on
the British real estate market, especially in the Docklands area of the East End. With money borrowed from his parents, the
Knight Group, as he called his nascent company, made its first acquisition—a tumbledown warehouse on the Isle of Dogs. Six
months later, with a loan supplied by his firm, he purchased a second derelict warehouse, this time in neighboring Canary
Wharf.
He sold the properties to a developer just eighteen months later and used the proceeds to snap up a terrace of cottages in
Whitechapel. Next he ventured across the Thames to Southwark and Battersea, where he added still more residential assets to
his portfolio. Other acquisitions followed in quick succession—in Earl’s Court, Paddington, Notting Hill, and Chelsea, where
he bought two commercial properties along the King’s Road. He bought his first London hotel in 2000 and his first shopping
center a year later, in the Thames Estuary town of Gravesend. He now held controlling stakes in more than a dozen hotels,
several of which were located on the European mainland, and was the largest owner of shopping centers in the British Isles.
“I’m told you also own most of Sussex,” said Gabriel.
“Told by whom?”
“My dinner companion at the Wickham House fundraiser.”
“The countess? Silly old cow.”
Because the Knight Group was entirely private, its founder was under no obligation to reveal the true scale of his current
real estate empire, including his holdings in the former Kingdom of Sussex in southeast England. The document that Knight
showed Gabriel revealed that they were extensive. Still, they were only the tip of the iceberg. All totaled, the Knight Group’s
current portfolio was worth an estimated eight and a half billion pounds.
“How’s your debt?” asked Gabriel.
“A manageable five billion.”
“Where do you get your financing?”
“Most of it comes from HSBC.”
“And the rest?”
“Private investors.”
“I’ll need their names.”
Knight frowned irritably. “How is this remotely relevant to Alice’s abduction?”
“I’m wondering whether you have any enemies. Someone you wronged along the way. Someone you cheated.” Gabriel paused. “Someone
with the wherewithal to hire a crew of professional criminals to kidnap your wife.”
“The real estate business is full of sharp elbows, Allon. It is not for the faint of heart.”
“Can you think of anyone who might wish you harm?”
“Too many to count.”
“I’ll need their names as well.”
Knight tossed out the names of a few potential enemies, none of whom Gabriel recognized, along with the names of his primary investors. All were British and of reasonable repute, with the exception of the sexually disgraced former Duke of York.
“The ass,” groused Knight. “What on earth was he thinking, getting mixed up with a creature like that?”
Gabriel jotted down each of the names, then spent the remainder of the afternoon reviewing the property portfolio while Higgins
saw to the burner phones and SIM cards, and Edward Knight paced and chain-smoked.
“Perhaps you should try to get some rest,” suggested Gabriel. “Those cigarettes are doing you no good.”
“I’ll rest when Alice is home.”
“It’s going to be a while.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“You mustn’t even consider agreeing to their initial demand.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because they will conclude they asked for too little, and they will come back for more.”
“I know how to negotiate a deal, Allon.”
“Not when a life is on the line, you don’t.”
By seven that evening the phone had yet to ring, so Knight sent Higgins out to fetch some dinner. He returned forty-five minutes
later with several bags from Lilibet’s. They ate at the conference room table with the wall-mounted television flickering
silently. The Russians had unleashed the largest missile barrage on Ukraine since the start of the war. Kyiv was burning.
Knight stared at the screen, disconsolate. “Damn dreadful war. Sometimes it feels as though the world is spinning out of control.”
He pushed his food away, lit another cigarette, and stared at the phone. “Ring, damn it!”
“Try to be patient,” said Gabriel.
“You might feel differently if it was your wife sitting alone in some darkened room.”
“I might,” he agreed.
Knight turned to Higgins. “Call the bloody number. Make certain it’s working.”
“It’s working, Mr. Knight.”
“Humor me.”
Higgins drew his phone and punched in the number. The landline phone rang instantly.
“That settles that,” said Knight.
Higgins tapped end, but the phone on the conference table continued to ring. Gabriel snapped a photo of the caller ID screen, then reached for
the receiver.