The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [2]
This analysis was gold to Hazard’s clients—multinational corporations, foreign investors, prominent officials or personalities. If, say, an American canning company was thinking of opening a factory in Mindanao, they might want to know if the last five foreign-owned canning factories in the region had been torched to the ground, their foremen beheaded, for refusing to pay ‘taxes’ to rebel leaders. This information might help them quantify the risk, decide whether it was acceptable, and move to minimise the danger of it happening to them.
The hive buzzed twenty-four hours a day.
Into the melee strode the formidable Josephine—she preferred Josie—Wang, head of Confidential Investigations.
‘Welcome back, Stevie. It seems the Papillon affair has come to a successful close.’
Then David Rice entered the room, eclipsing everyone. He was all powerful chest and jaw, his thick grey hair suggesting invincibility despite his limp and the cane he carried in his left hand.
Stevie felt a jolt of pleasure and apprehension. Rice had been a commander in the Special Forces, then turned to training others when a leg injury ruled him out of active duty. He had done a spell in intelligence before moving on to advising government on their defence policy and home security. He had founded Hazard Limited shortly after. He was also the man Stevie respected most in the world.
‘Stevie Duveen.’ He announced her in his beautiful, booming voice. Only now did Stevie notice the stranger at his side.
‘Stevie, this is Alan Green. He’s just joined the Hazard board. He’s head of the UK arm of Papillon. Alan, this is Stevie Duveen.’
Stevie saw the surprise in Alan Green’s eyes. He had probably been expecting something very different to the pale and delicate creature in front of him.
Stevie was small—not terribly short, but built like a songbird, all bones and ribcage and long throat. Her hair was cropped to her jaw a la garçonne, her features bright and sharp.
‘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.