Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

under an alias with a small provider—known for their discretion. It’s paid for through an account under the same alias. So use that and stop asking questions.”

“Your plan isn’t foolproof. There are people who can follow the course of an email and trace it to the source. It just takes a while—maybe a couple of days. It could be less if the recipient involves their security administration—or Interpol. I can do this, but I can’t work miracles or guarantee how long you’ve got before someone finds the source.”

Linus just sat back in his chair with a smirk on his face and said, “Well, you’d better hope you’re good at miracles because you know what happens if you fuck it up.”

Gareth had run out of reasons to stall and told them he knew how to proceed. There was no choice but to guarantee he would do his best. In his profession, tracing communications that skip around the globe in anonymity was an important part of his job. He was given the address of an Internet café and also given another unnecessary warning. Both men got up at the same time and plodded out of the bar. Gareth stayed there, staring at nothing, until the barkeep told him either to order or leave. He had no appetite for food or drink and returned to his room where he fell face down on the bed, planning just a few minutes rest before dealing with his task. Exhaustion and the need for escape quickly brought sleep.

Within an hour he startled awake and remembered what he had to do. Gareth scooped up his wallet and room key then rushed down to the hotel desk, where he inquired about the address he had been given. It was only a five-minute walk, and soon he was seated at a corner table with a cup of black coffee and a computer screen ready to take him online. He accessed his Internet account and then his email. There it was: the fake account, the email text, and the attachment he was meant to send by a circuitous route to the woman whose daughter was at great risk in a foreign country.

* * *

Hugh McKinnon concluded the meeting with his two old acquaintances from Interpol and headed back to the museum. He had telephoned Paris to see if anything had happened, but was told no, that they were still waiting. It was slow going in the afternoon traffic and he was short on patience. He then decided that the slow crawl of traffic would give him the opportunity to mull over in his mind all that had been discussed. They had come up with several scenarios for making the criminals believe that Paris would do as they asked. Yet he had to ask himself why she would cooperate if there were no danger to anyone—no good reason to acquiesce. Everything depended on the call, if it would be a call and not another tape. He stopped at another traffic light and fidgeted in the seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly.

The office was quiet. Ben was playing games on his phone. Ana was perusing the shelf of art books in Paris’ office, while Paris sat at her desk with eyes glued to the exhibit paperwork. She was anxious for Hugh to return, anxious to find out what their options would be. When they heard the sound, all three looked up from what had been occupying their attention. It was the familiar sound alert from Paris’ computer, informing of a new email. Her first instinct was to ignore it, but Ben urged her to view its content. In spite of the attachment being from an unknown sender, it had not gone to the Spam folder. In a job such as hers, emails often came from senders relevant to her work, senders whom she did not know. Therefore, her spam filter could not be set to a high level.

Paris stared at the screen, hesitating to open the email, until Ben said, “No one needs more suspense. Open it, Mum. It could be nothing—just work related.”

She did as he said, and after a moment of perusing the content she moaned, “No, no, no … this can’t be true.”

Ben walked around the desk, put his hand on her shoulder, and looked at the screen. “Did you see that there’s an attachment?”

He didn’t wait for her reply, just reached forward toward the keyboard, opened it and waited for the download. In a few seconds a photo appeared. His sister was sitting on an old mattress in handcuffs with her hair in tangles and her clothing rumpled. Her face was filled with terror. Beside her in partial view was Valerie, his ex-wife. They could see that she was also handcuffed and filled with fear. Paris continued to utter words of denial—that it was a trick. Ana hurried to their side and all three stared at the frightened and disheveled women in the photo.

Ben began to read the text aloud. “We have your daughter and the woman who was with her. This is the surprise we had for you—a surprise that should make you cooperate. You know how it works. If you want her back still breathing, you’ll do what we tell you.”

Paris interrupted, “But I still don’t know what that is. Oh my God, what will Hugh do when he sees this?”

“Dad will know what to do. He should be here soon. But let me finish reading. Maybe what they want is in this email.” Paris stopped talking. Ana squatted beside Paris’ chair and gently rubbed her arm in an effort to calm her. Ben continued to read. “Within an hour you’ll get a call at your office with specific instructions. And don’t bother trying to trace the call. You know about burner phones.”

The three looked from one to the other, trying to take in what was happening. Ana went to Ben and wrapped her arms around him, saying softly how sorry she was