Break Point: BookShots (2 page)

And then nobody did anything. The crowd stayed silent, with no idea how to react. Basilia eyed Keller suspiciously, wondering if this was some weird new mind-game. But it wasn’t. After what seemed like for ever, Kirsten Keller got to her feet. She was covered in red dust from the court. Her eyes scanned the crowd wildly, she was gulping for air and she burst into tears. Then she put her head in her hands and ran from the court, disappearing into the locker rooms and never coming back.

THE PINK EARLY-MORNING
sky stretched out impatiently over London, testing the horizon, looking for weak spots. Chris Foster watched it from his office window. He had developed a reputation for being the best in the business, which made him a man in demand. Quiet moments like this were rare, so he let himself enjoy the calm. He watched the city pulling at the edges of the pastel clouds, and waited to see what the new day would bring.

Foster was sitting in a Knightsbridge office building that housed a bunch of high-end services: legal, medical, and his own offering of investigation and protection. It was the same job he used to do for the Metropolitan Police, only the pay was a million times better and so far he hadn’t been shot or stabbed, or worse.

He sat behind an uncluttered glass-topped desk wearing an expensive charcoal suit and a fresh white shirt. No tie. Two buttons open at the neck. Same as every other day. Twenty-four hours of stubble, courtesy of a late job watching the back of an Indian steel magnate; but he wore good cologne and his dark-brown hair was cut short and tidy.

His assistant, Danny, walked through his open door with coffee and the morning papers. The three clocks on the wall between them ticked a little too loudly, chasing different time zones around the world.

The phone rang in the outer office and Danny headed back and picked it up by the third ring. The assistant’s young face was unreadable and Foster smiled; he’d learned well, for when Danny had started he’d been too emotional and reactive. Now he took everything in his stride.

Without a word to the caller, Danny looked up at Foster. ‘Tom Abbot?’

Foster instantly leaned forward. He hadn’t heard that name for over three years, but it was a welcome surprise. Tom Abbot had always been a good man, and an even better officer. ‘Yeah, Danny. Put him through.’

Foster tucked the receiver under his chin and turned his back on the seductive morning sky. Three years ago the two men had sat next to each other in a Metropolitan Police office with no windows and no sky. He almost felt embarrassed by his view these days.

‘Abbot,’ Foster said.

‘Alright, Sarge?’

‘There’s definitely no need to call me Sarge,’ Foster said. ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘That’s unless I need to pull rank at any point in the future, in which case you’ll do as you’re told.’

They both laughed, because it was an honest joke.

‘How’s your arm?’ Abbot asked.

‘Still attached.’

Under the tailored fit of Foster’s suit, vicious scars traced the lines that the surgeons had cut in order to attach titanium plates to his radius and ulna, and his humerus and clavicle; which was lot of words for a lot of pain and the end of his police career. It was the end of something much more, too. It was the end of Elaina.

‘I heard you left the Met,’ Foster said, letting the unwelcome memories dissipate. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘I’m at the Paris embassy,’ Abbot said. ‘There’s a girl who’s been here for a few days. She’s a tennis player.’ Abbot paused. Inside the office the clocks ticked and Foster’s eyes moved back to the window. Outside the pink-and-orange sky was turning a watery blue. ‘Her name’s Kirsten Keller.’

Foster, like 90 per cent of the world’s population, recognised the name at once. ‘The American? What’s she doing at the British Embassy?’

‘Using the facilities.’

‘Using the facilities?’ Foster asked. ‘You make it sound like she’s been taking the world’s longest bathroom break.’

Abbot laughed. ‘We’ve got a grass tennis court on the back lawn.’

‘Of course you have,’ Foster smiled.

‘It’s the only one in Paris,’ Abbot continued. ‘She’s been training ahead of Wimbledon.’

On the line, Foster could hear the clicking of heels on a marble floor. High ceilings, by the sound of the echo. Abbot was on the move.

‘We’re hosting her as a favour to the US Ambassador,’ Abbot said. ‘She had a strange turn at the end of the French Open, and the press have been on her back ever since.’

‘Okay,’ Foster said.

‘That’s not the whole story, though.’

Of course it wasn’t. Foster knew there were plenty of protection officers in Paris who could keep the press off Keller’s back. There was something more, or else Abbot wouldn’t be on the phone to him.

‘Will you meet her?’ Abbot said.

Kirsten Keller was Foster’s usual type of client: professional, high-profile, rich. He glanced at his diary. His steel magnate was back on a plane to Mumbai and there was nothing that couldn’t be moved. Besides, he was intrigued to know what Abbot was holding back.

‘Sure, I’ll meet her.’

‘Can you come here? She’s mid-training.’

‘Sure,’ Foster said. ‘I’d like to see your tennis court.’

Tom Abbot laughed and then the line went dead.

FOSTER TOOK THE
Eurostar from St Pancras and arrived at the embassy just before midday. It was a grand sandstone building with polished brass signs and wrought-iron balustrades. Inside, a middle-aged woman in a security uniform eyed him suspiciously as he placed his passport, phone and wallet into a plastic box. The woman ran the box through an X-ray machine and handed it back to Foster, just as Tom Abbot arrived down a curved marble staircase.

‘You’ve landed on your feet,’ Foster said, looking around at the marble floors and the high ceilings. His gaze came to rest on Tom Abbot. He looked the same, but different. Longer hair, smarter suit, but his smile and slightly hunched frame were unchanged.

‘You came. Thank you.’

‘I’m intrigued,’ Foster replied as they walked further into the building. At a panelled wooden door marked ‘Private’, Abbot paused and nodded.

‘It should be pretty straightforward.’

Foster doubted that.

Inside the room two women sat behind a highly polished antique mahogany table. The curtains were drawn against large windows, and a bottle of water sat untouched between them.

Foster recognised Kirsten Keller straight away. She looked smaller sitting down, but as she rose in greeting he realised that her height was all from her legs. She wore a smart black tracksuit, and without make-up she looked young and vulnerable.

Next to Kirsten was a dark-haired woman who barely met Foster’s eyes and didn’t shift an inch from her chair. She was dressed in training gear, too, but Foster knew from his research that her playing days were behind her. Her years of training had toughened her body, and she had compensated for this with polished nails and a delicate silver chain, which fell just below the hollow of her neck.

‘This is Kirsten and her coach Maria Rosario,’ Abbot explained as he quietly shut the door behind them and indicated to a seat. ‘Chris was my boss in London,’ he told the women. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

‘Does he?’ Rosario asked. ‘He hasn’t done anything yet.’

Foster turned to get a better view of her. She wore her straight dark hair loose and consequently it fell over fiery dark-brown eyes. Every few seconds she brushed the hair back with her fingers, and Foster wondered why she didn’t just tie it back.

‘You haven’t asked me to do anything yet,’ Foster replied. Their eyes locked for a moment, neither of them aggressive and neither friendly. Just two confident people evaluating each other.

Foster wasn’t a huge tennis fan, but he knew Maria Rosario had been a decent player until her late twenties. Never a champion, but always a contender. And now she was coaching the hottest talent on the tour. Although at that moment it didn’t seem to be making her very happy.

Abbot sat down next to Maria. ‘With respect, Maria, Chris has protected Prince Harry and the British Prime Minister in the past. You don’t need to worry about his credentials.’

Keller looked at Foster while Abbot was talking.

‘He saved King Abdullah from an assassination attempt last year,’ Abbot continued, and Foster held up a hand.

‘Look, I’m not a salesman. People come to me because they need me. If you don’t think you need me, that’s fine.’

‘I think we need you,’ Kirsten Keller said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was soft but held an air of uncompromising authority. It was a trait Foster always noticed in people who had found success early. ‘I haven’t slept for days.’

Foster studied her face. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and faint blue shadows were smudged below them. In that moment she looked terrified.

He had watched Keller’s career highlights via YouTube on the Eurostar train. She was impressive. Her explosive power made her look untouchable on the court. Not like the woman sitting in front of him today. She bent down and reached into an expensive-looking clutch bag, pulling out a folded sheet of white paper.

‘This is why I need your help,’ she said, her hands shaking as she put it on the table between them.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

He was less than careful with the paper, making a point of creasing it slightly as he handled it. All designed to say to Keller,
It’s just a piece of paper
.

The page contained a small, neatly typed message:
Good luck in the final. I’m coming
. There was also a loose memory stick along with it. It had been attached to the note and there was a tear where Keller had pulled it off. Next to that, a lock of hair was crudely taped onto the paper.

‘What’s on the memory stick?’ Foster asked.

‘A video of my parents’ house,’ Keller said.

Foster studied the words. Not much to go on.

‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’ Keller said quietly.

Foster looked at her and smiled softly. ‘I promise I’ve seen a lot worst. Do you think they were in the grounds when they recorded the video?’

Keller looked surprised by the question, then thought about it. ‘No, I think they were filming from the street. But you can see my mom in the window.’

Foster nodded. ‘And the hair?’

‘My dog,’ she said. ‘The police tested it and it’s definitely dog hair. There’s no way I could bring a dog out on the tour, so Benji lives back home with my parents. Someone took a chunk out of his fur back in the States and then brought it over here with them. We found a patch cut out of his coat, when we checked.’

Foster glanced at Abbot. ‘Have you watched the tape?’

Abbot nodded. ‘There’s nothing there, though, Chris. Half a shadow across a windscreen, but I couldn’t even tell you if it was a man or a woman.’

‘Okay,’ Foster said. ‘And there’s been nothing else?’

Keller shook her head slowly. Foster guessed her life was pretty routine: a series of arrivals lounges, hotel rooms, training days, match days and then departure lounges, before the whole process started again in a brand-new city. Same meals. Same staff. Same old, same old. If there had been anything unusual, he believed she would remember.

‘Did all of this come through the post?’

Keller shook her head.

‘It appeared in my kit bag. Like magic.’

‘Like magic?’

‘During my first-round match at the French Open. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t in my bag when I went out to play, but it was there when I got home. That’s what scares the shit out of me. Whoever did this must have been able to get access to restricted areas.’

Foster nodded. ‘I can’t think of many places that are truly private, in this day and age.’

Keller’s coach snorted. ‘We’ve been here thirty minutes,’ she said suddenly. ‘You don’t take a single note. You write down nothing. Not very professional, I think.’

Foster kept his eyes on Kirsten. ‘I don’t need to write things down. I notice things, and remember them. It’s my job.’

Rosario snorted again.

‘You bit your nail when the rest of us were looking at Kirsten’s letter,’ Foster said. ‘You snapped the acrylic right off, by mistake. You thought nobody noticed and you slipped it into the left pocket of your tracksuit. It’s there right now.’

On instinct, Tom Abbot and Kirsten Keller glanced at Rosario’s fingers. A flicker of embarrassment played across her eyes for half a second, but then she shrugged and said nothing.

‘You also thought I didn’t notice you texting a taxi firm under the table three minutes ago, because you think this meeting is almost over. But before you go, let me give you some advice. If you ever meet a close-protection officer who needs to write things down, for God’s sake don’t hire him.’

Abbot suppressed a smile.

‘It’s a good trick,’ Rosario said coldly.

Foster’s face was impassive.

‘Which bit?’

Rosario shrugged, gathering up her things.

‘The eyes under the table.’

‘I learned it at sniper school,’ Foster said. ‘Back in the day.’

‘What else did you notice while you were spying on me?’

Foster smiled. ‘Surely you don’t want me to say in front of everybody else?’

He held Rosario’s angry gaze. After a few uncomfortable seconds she swore and then pushed up from the table. Keller stood up, too, and put a restraining hand on her coach’s arm.

‘This is not helpful,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you wait downstairs?’

Without another word, Rosario walked to the door, opened it and slammed it shut behind her.

‘You said you don’t do a hard sell,’ Keller said. ‘And I’m glad. But tell me what you think? Should I be worried?’

‘If you’re worried, you’re worried. That’s neither right nor wrong. But is there a credible threat? My gut says no. People who genuinely want to kill you usually get on with it. They don’t send notes. If someone wants you dead, they sneak up on you instead of giving you a heads-up.’

‘I guess,’ Keller said.

‘I know,’ Foster said. ‘But Tom will give you my number. You can call me day or night.’