The venue’s location was in Knightsbridge, which struck Morgan as no surprise. Given that the streets were dotted with Ferraris and Maseratis, where better to hold a private party for London’s mega-rich and ultra-connected?
It was the appearance of a tall woman that first gave away the location. She was every inch the Russian millionaire’s wife, with blonde hair piled on top of her head, and fur over her shoulders. Knightsbridge was home to rich clichés, and Morgan watched as she was followed out of the golden Lamborghini by a bearded man whose clothes were twenty years too young for him, and two chest sizes too small. Morgan slowed and watched the couple as they climbed the steps to a black door. The bearded man gave his woman a helpful grab on the ass as she slipped slightly in her heels, then knocked on the door. The couple waited patiently to be admitted. As there was no one else outside the building, one thing was clear to Morgan—the security, and the weapons he wanted, were behind that black door.
“Dammit,” Morgan swore softly, pulling his car into a side street a block away so that he was clear to think—how the hell could he get inside there without starting World War Three?
And then he had it.
“Hello,” Morgan said into his phone when it was finally answered. “I know, it’s been a long time,” he went on politely. “Listen, I’m calling because I need a favor.”
Chapter 82
AFTER MORGAN HUNG up the phone, he drove to the nearest twenty-four-hour superstore to collect what he would need to turn that favor into weapons. By the time he had arrived back at the Knightsbridge location, the American had received a text that told him he was “all good.” Armed with that piece of information, he began the short walk to the party. With each step he prayed that the rain would hold off and he could ascend the steps dry, his freshly purchased clothes spotless. Despite knowing what was soon to come, Morgan fought back his adrenaline and took the steps slowly, trying hard to appear as cool and calm as possible. He needed to look as though he belonged at that party.
He knocked and counted to ten.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Eight… nine… ten…
“Yes?” a female voice buzzed from the intercom beside the door.
“I’m here to see Albert,” Morgan announced, using the phrase he had been given in his phone call.
“There’s no Albert here,” the voice answered through the intercom.
“Yes there is,” Morgan insisted. “Abbie Winchester told me to come and say hello to him.”
The intercom went silent. Morgan pictured how the woman within would be looking on her phone for confirmation that the well-known socialite Abbie Winchester had indeed invited a guest.
“She’s not here,” the voice came back, and Morgan wondered what his chances were of knocking down the thick door—zero, he reckoned.
“I’m visiting from out of town,” he explained, smiling, certain that he was on camera. “Abbie recommended this place. I don’t really know London.” He shrugged, with another disarming smirk.
A second later the electronic bolts of the door clicked open, and Morgan found himself looking into an empty hallway, the dull thud of bass drifting down from above.
He stepped inside, and sense told him to wait. Moments later he was met from an adjoining room by the owner of the intercom’s voice, a petite young woman with tattoos teasing up her neck.
“You’re too clean-cut to be a friend of Abbie’s, mate,” she assessed, looking Morgan over.
“I’m American.” He smiled helplessly. “We’re not known for our fashion.”
“True.” The girl smiled. “You got a phone?”
Morgan shook his head. “Abbie told me to leave it in the car.”
“Good. No photos allowed here. Lifetime ban if you do.”
“Any other rules?” Morgan asked.
“Just don’t be a dickhead.” She shrugged. “Three hundred quid, please.” The girl put out her hand.
Morgan reached for his wallet and pulled out the notes.
“Next time bring a girl and you’ll get in easier. Or don’t.” She shrugged with a smile, playing the game.
“Here’s another two hundred for your trouble,” he told her, playing it himself.
The girl held his look before finally nodding her head. “Upstairs. You can’t miss it. Just follow the music.”
“I’ll see you later,” Morgan promised, and walked toward the staircase. As he moved, he looked through the open door that the girl had walked out of. He saw two muscular men on a sofa, their eyes on a bank of CCTV screens that showed what must be the party upstairs, and the building’s exterior. They were big men, Morgan thought to himself, dismissing the idea of rushing them immediately. Better to bide his time, he decided, and to think of a plan.
Knowing that there was only one place in the building to do that without attracting attention, he followed the thump of bass and walked up the stairs.
Chapter 83
AS YOUNG MARINES, Jack Morgan and his comrades had enjoyed letting their hair down, short as it was. As head of Private, a multimillion-dollar business, Morgan had been invited to plenty of parties.
He wasn’t sure if any of those experiences had prepared him for the sight that greeted him at the top of the staircase.
It was not one of Caligula’s orgies, by any means. It was more just the sight in front of him was…bizarre, like a wild, wacky dream.
To begin with, the building itself was a marvel. What appeared on the outside as a Knightsbridge home was actually a party space as well appointed as any London club. There were lasers, flashing lights and smoke machines. There was a DJ, a packed dance floor and a bar running across the back wall. Morgan realized that the building didn’t end there, and a quick look into the other corridors showed him a maze of rooms filled with bean bags, smoke and beautiful people.
Having got his bearings, he turned back to the main room, first scanning the crowd for anyone known to him—in his position, it was always a possibility that he could run into a former client at a high-end establishment like this. Morgan saw none of them, but he did recognize an international football star sweating and grinding his jaw as he raged on the dance floor. In the room’s back corner, a toppled TV presenter was doing bumps of cocaine from the fingernails of a Page Three model. Little wonder they wouldn’t allow phones and cameras inside, thought Morgan. And little help these people would be to him in his attempt to liberate the guards of their weapons.
Or maybe not, he thought, remembering a British showbiz scandal that had made the American news.
Morgan stopped at the bar and ordered a virgin daiquiri. “Dress it up,” he asked the bartender. “I like flowers in there.” He slipped the man a note as tip once the glass was brimming with decoration.
Then, having watched the TV presenter take another snort from his companion’s nail, he made his way over.
“Hi.” Morgan smiled at the pair, directing his biggest grin at the presenter. “I’m Jack.”
“I’m Natalie,” said the model.
The presenter simply greeted Morgan with a nod, arrogant enough to believe that everyone knew his name.
“You’re Matthew Alexander, right?” Morgan offered his hand as he named one of the man’s biggest rivals.
“Matt Lloyd,” the presenter corrected, unable to take his scowling eyes from Morgan’s flowery drink. “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a daiquiri.” Morgan smiled. “Would you like some?”
“Looks like something from the Chelsea Flower Show.”
Morgan allowed his smile to drop and his shoulders to slump slightly. Natalie noticed.
“Aw, don’t be a dick, Matt. You’ve hurt his feelings.” She stepped over to Morgan and put a protective hand onto his shoulder. Matt Lloyd saw the picture in front of him, and realized that the attractive woman’s attention had now switched to the American.
“Are you gay?” he sneered.
Morgan looked taken aback. “And what if I am?”