Spider - Michael Morley [116]
Just your type. Dark hair, slight build, nice shape. Mother would approve.
He got out, taking a road atlas with him. He could see that there was no one around, no prying eyes to save her. He waved the road atlas and explained that he and his wife were lost, could she show him on the map where they were. He unlocked the back door of the motor-home to get some light, and handed her the atlas. As she traced a finger over the page, he grabbed her from behind, a well chloroformed handkerchief stopping her struggle as he bundled her into the van.
He’d planned to do the same with the King woman, but she was not so foolish. She was never alone. Except at night.
For the past few days, as Nancy and Zack had slept in their beds, Spider had been less than a hundred metres away from them, quietly preparing the underground area in their garden for what he was about to do. Here in the damp, stinking darkness he’s hidden the tools of his trade: some specially customized electronics, several lengths of rope, thick coils of heavy-duty tape, a selection of razor-sharp knives, a sixteen-inch bone saw and a gun. The firearm came from Rome’s Porta Portese. What the locals call mercato delle pulci. It has more than four thousand stalls, most of them trading illegally. It’s not only Europe’s biggest flea market, it’s one of the continent’s best-known one-stop shops for anything from counterfeit clothing to drugs and guns.
Spider shines his flashlight and can see that the Lidocaine is starting to act on King’s wife. Her legs are beginning to buckle beneath her. Soon, the anaesthetic will rob her of the ability to move, let alone walk. He pushes her and the child on, deeper into the blackness of the catacomb, closer to their fate.
82
Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York
Jack stood impatiently in Yoana Grinsberg’s small kitchen, while she insisted on boiling the kettle again.
‘How can I help?’ she said, excited by the idea of being involved with the FBI. Jack was praying she was going to give him the right answers to his questions and give them to him quickly. ‘Do you know the man across the road? The guy in number fifteen?’
‘Can’t say I do. I’ve seen him from time to time. Never spoke to him once, though.’
‘How long has he been living around here?’ asked Jack, sensing he had to play a patient game with the old lady.
Yoana frowned so deeply that her face became completely corrugated with wrinkles. ‘Fifteen, maybe twenty years. Fancy that. All that time and we’ve never so much as exchanged the time of day.’
The pieces were coming together. Jack fished a little further. ‘Does he drive a yellow car, a four-door Japanese model, probably about three to four years old?’
Yoana shook her head. ‘No, not him, that wouldn’t be his car.’
‘You sure?’
‘I know my cars,’ said Yoana, smiling as memories flooded back. ‘Cars have fascinated me since I was a child. My husband once had a Buick. An Oldsmobile; beautiful it was. I think the stupid company has stopped making them these days.’
Jack’s heart sank. Still, she was quite old and could be wrong. ‘You really are sure?’ he persisted.
‘Positive,’ said Yoana. ‘The man across the road has a Hyundai, but that’s South Korean not Japanese. And anyway it’s white not yellow. I don’t know of any Japanese cars around here. Mr Cohen had one…’
Jack cut her off. ‘I’m sorry to stop you. But it might be our mistake. It is a Hyundai that we’re looking for. Do you know exactly what type he has?’
Yoana didn’t hesitate. ‘Hyundai Accent SE. Nothing special, not even alloy wheels. I always thought