Hunted: BookShots by James Patterson Page A

as it was called by those in the know.
    ‘Sir Eric, hello. This is Curtis. Your voiceprint ID check is complete. I hope we find you well.’
    He felt his pulse quicken. ‘You do, Mr Curtis, thank you very much. You’re calling with news of an event, I take it?’
    ‘Indeed, Sir Eric, at a premium location. Our head of security informs me that the quarry is an experienced combat veteran with an excellent record. As a result, this event is open to Gold Club members only.’
    Sir Eric swelled with pride. Attaining the experience points needed to rise to Gold Club status with the Company had been a high point of his life so far.
    ‘Well, I must say I’m honoured to be considered a part of the enterprise,’ he replied. He was simpering a little, he realised, but then again it couldn’t hurt to keep on their good side.
    ‘And we’re grateful for your custom, Sir Eric. Our coming event is planned for the weekend after next. How does that sound?’
    ‘I shall need to consult my diary,’ replied the Under-Secretary, knowing his decision already: whatever was diarised for that day would have to be rearranged.
    ‘Of course, sir. Shall we say fifteen hundred hours for your second call?’
    ‘I’ll have an answer for you by then.’
    ‘And, as is the usual procedure, a bid, too, if you please.’
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘It’s likely to be our last hunt of the season, Sir Eric; we intend to lay on some superb entertainment afterwards. Entertainment of a very willing and Russian persuasion. As you can imagine, we’re anticipating a lot of interest from Gold Club members. Bidding begins at a minimum of three million, I’m afraid.’
    Appleby took a large intake of breath.
    ‘As ever, you have one opportunity to register your bid,’ continued Curtis. ‘Only winning bids will be notified. All notifications to be made by zero eight hundred hours tomorrow.’
    ‘Perfect. I shall make myself available at three.’
    ‘Good speaking to you, Sir Eric.’
    Financial-recruitment specialist Stuart Cowie was carrying an ancient, brick-sized mobile phone to a Wolf of Wall Street fancy-dress screening when his phone – his regular phone – rang.
    Excited at the ID that flashed up on the screen, he answered quickly and then gave his name and voiceprint password, ‘Jerusalem’.
    ‘No,’ he said, when his caller had finished speaking, ‘you don’t have to ring later, Mr Boyd. My answer is yes and my bid is four.’
    There was a pause at the other end of the line.
    ‘Hello?’ prompted Cowie.
    ‘We usually prefer our clients to consider bids and availability more carefully. These things really shouldn’t be rushed, Mr Cowie.’
    Emboldened by the line of coke he’d snorted from his desktop not twenty minutes ago, Cowie was excited; his blood was up. ‘Make it five, then,’ he said rashly.
    ‘Thank you, Mr Cowie. You will be informed whether or not your bid has been successful by zero eight hundred hours tomorrow.’
    ‘At five million quid, it better bloody well be accepted,’ spluttered Cowie.
    In the five-star Chiltern Firehouse, the German CEO of the defence company Diamond & Perry, Daniel Kiehl, was lunching with city lawyer Sebastian Bramwell.
    Bramwell’s phone trilled and, after shooting an apologetic look at Kiehl, he took the call. Listening, he said, ‘Bramwell. Shortcut,’ and then the number three. He ended the call, avoiding Kiehl’s gaze as he replaced the phone on the tabletop and then resumed his conversation.
    Nothing passed between the two men until, suddenly, Kiehl’s own phone rang and, with an apology to Bramwell, he answered.
    ‘Kiehl. Retinue,’ he said, and at that Bramwell gave a start, staring across the table at his dining companion, suddenly aware of what Kiehl had also just realised: they were both Quarry Company clients.
    ‘Four,’ said Kiehl, with a ‘what can you do?’ shrug for Bramwell.
    The lawyer fumed.
    Later, as their meal drew to an end, Kiehl’s phone rang once more.