The Rift

by Rachel Lynch

  But the noose was tightening, and that’s why he’d approached his old friend for help. Not to transport drugs, he would never ask Khalil to do that, but on another matter entirely. Everybody visiting Fawaz tonight knew that it wasn’t so much that Khalil Dalmani had said no, but it was more the way he’d done it. He’d been condescending to Fawaz and his pride was ruptured by it. Fawaz had never seen it coming.

  Fawaz looked at them and they waited. He stood and walked to a maid holding a tray, taking a fruit juice from it.

  ‘Nothing is off the table,’ Fawaz added. The men looked at one another and Fawaz smiled. ‘It’s very much on.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I have something that Khalil Dalmani wants,’ Fawaz said. ‘It’s very precious to him. In fact, it’s more precious than any of his trading deals, his tankers, his oil or his pipeline with the Americans.’

  Smiles spread across the faces of those present as they learned their plans could go ahead.

  ‘So we could be up and running again as normal by when?’ The man who asked was a patriarch who supplied his boys to Fawaz as anything from couriers, to guards, or speedboat drivers. It was a family affair and everybody got involved. That was everybody apart from Fawaz’s children, because he’d made that mistake once before. And now Rafik was dead.

  As such, unlike Khalil Dalmani, Fawaz did not have an Achilles heel. He couldn’t be bribed and he couldn’t be threatened, and that was his ace card. He had nothing left to lose. He’d made sure of it.

  ‘How did Madrid go?’ another associate asked.

  ‘Better than expected. The software is tricky but there are plenty of computer experts willing to work for the right price – all we need to do is supply the components on time. And now we can use the Algiers to Marseilles route.’

  ‘Come on, Fawaz, what have you done?’

  For once, Fawaz actually smiled, and those in his company noted it as a very good sign indeed. It meant they could relax a little and perhaps enjoy some of the services on offer, courtesy of their host. But, though his smile was genuine, nobody knew the true reason behind his victory grin. Fawaz held the loyalty of those surrounding him but he hadn’t been totally transparent with them. It wasn’t a matter of trust, or indeed nor was he trying to double deal his closest associates. He simply hadn’t shared his true motive for his interest in a smoother passage to Europe. He continued to smile, and as if on cue, the noise of a vehicle approaching in the still night air aroused everyone’s attention.

  ‘It’s a bus from Marrakech.’ Fawaz promised them. ‘It should be full. I wanted to celebrate, so I splashed out a little. Turn up the music!’ he bellowed.

  The sound of laughter and heels click-clicking on the beautifully tiled floor distracted everybody, and the men looked towards the huge oak double doors that led to the courtyard at the front. It opened slowly and the noise grew louder. Perhaps twenty girls walked in and continued to gossip and giggle. They were the usual mixture of local and European women, eager to take advantage of a free party. Fawaz greeted them and showed them where they could get drinks and drugs on tap. Silver platters were on hand topped up with piles of cocaine, ready-rolled zoots, mini pipes full of meth, gold dishes full of pills and plain old American cigarettes. Maids appeared carrying trays full of flutes of champagne topped with strawberries.

  The music turned from sedate melodies to American rock, and lights flashed across the white walls. It was fully dark now. Some girls began to dance. Fawaz sat back to watch as his associates, one by one, took a fancy to a girl or two, or three.

  It was a good reason to celebrate.

  Chapter 4

  Helen looked at the plans of the Palace of Versailles spread out before her on the table. She was inside the British Embassy building, preparing for her visit to the historical site. A series of arrows, labels and markers denoted where it was most vulnerable. The biggest challenge regarding Versailles was its sheer vastness. The building itself had a footprint of 67,000 square metres. The surrounding estate covered over eight hundred hectares, with eight miles of paths. The perimeter would be tricky, but the dignitaries were scheduled to arrive only for the talks and then leave for their various accommodations around the city. There was nothing she, or anyone, could do by then, except brief each member state, because outside of the palace, each country represented at the summit would arrange their own security. They were to meet over three days. The good thing was that the gardens, parks, Grand Canal and the Trianon Estate (itself nearly one hundred hectares), which were all situated within the remit of Versailles, would all be closed.

  She was due to meet with Special Agent Roy White, from the US president’s Secret Service, at the palace at midday. The Americans had taken over the site and assumed primary control over summit security, which was standard. No other country boasted the resources available to the United States when it came to policing events on foreign soil.

  The logistics of VIPs coming in and out of meeting rooms, taking tea and lunches on the Imperial lawns, being given courtesy tours of the Hall of Mirrors and such, was all a logistical nightmare, but Helen was confident that once Special Agent White ran through the arrangements with her, she could report back to Sir Conrad, and then pack up and perhaps return to the MOD. All thoughts of resigning her commission had vanished. The new assignment reminded her why she joined the RMP in the first place: to be attached to varied and multilateral operations in her capacity as an expert in certain fields; a free agent of sorts, assigned a new role every couple of years. The type of life that fitted around such transience suited her, especially now, but it wasn’t for everyone. All her professional career, she’d missed birthdays, funerals, christenings and holidays because of her job. But she couldn’t blame her miserable personal life on her professional choices. That was squarely her own fault. She’d tried to settle down, even attracting derision from former colleagues, who could never envisage the Wrench at home, feeding babies and mopping floors. But no one had known she was pregnant. Being fit and slim meant that she didn’t show that much under loose clothing. After, everyone just assumed that she’d left a failed relationship behind because she was mis-wired and detached from her feminine instincts: an anomaly of Mother Nature. A female career soldier.

  Fresh out of university, she’d told no one she was applying to the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, to become a commissioned officer of Her Majesty’s armed forces. She wanted to prove that she could do it before informing anyone, including her parents. When she finally did tell them, the week before the passing-out parade, before the grandeur of Old College, with her at the head of her female-only platoon, the only one out of nine, they were speechless. They actually cried. Some of her counterparts never told their loved ones for fear of being labelled as either lesbians or nymphomaniacs desperate to fraternise with their male counterparts: an unfair stereotype but one nonetheless. For Helen, an only child, her parents’ pride continued long after.

  Years later, when she’d told them about her pregnancy, she sensed their relief that she was finally going to be, in their eyes, true to her sex and settle down. She didn’t blame them, nor did it offend her: it was their generation. And they certainly hadn’t been the only ones to raise eyebrows. Helen Scott in a serious relationship attracted derision, but for the opposite reasons. ‘You’re throwing your career away,’ a senior male officer had told her. ‘It’ll affect your report,’ another warned her. Of course, in the real world, one’s relationships were nobody else’s business, but the army was different.

  Once she boarded the train to Versailles, at just before eleven, she busied herself with staring out of the window and watched the countryside fly past, as they left the depressed suburbs of the city; graffiti and concrete gave way to flat fields and the promise of cleaner air. Every journey seemed another milestone in separating herself from what had gone before. As she notched up the mileage, from city to city, she hoped that memories of Luke, her dead son, would fade, but they never did.

 
A Chevrolet Suburban met her at the station and she was driven to the back of the sprawling Versailles estate. The rear was underwhelming compared to the tourist entrance. She could still see the magnificent gardens as they sped towards the staff buildings, where the beating heart of the palace operated. Visitors stared at them, thinking the occupants of the car either famous or otherwise important enough to be chauffeured into the grounds. The darkened windows gave solace and the air-conditioning kept them cool. Apart from greeting her as ‘Ma’am,’ the driver said nothing and concentrated on being vigilant. He wore an earpiece and occasionally he acknowledged an instruction or observation. Helen took in the scale of the place. It must give any event organisers the jitters. The palace had played host to concerts and grand picnics in the past, but nowhere was safe from terrorism now, and a lone knifeman, missed by the scanners at the entrance, could cause havoc and instil fear: something that hadn’t been expected pre-9/11.

  The US operation was being run from the Petit Trianon palace, and they drove through the busy Place d’Armes, around the back of the main palace, then along the Avenue de Trianon, flanked by linden and chestnut trees. The signature character of the Petit Trianon was its English gardens, and Helen smiled to herself at the irony. The spectre of home was never very far away. Her father, a keen gardener himself, would love it. A great oak sat majestically in the middle of an open space, and Helen knew that some of them planted here dated back to the seventeenth century. The grounds were quieter away from the main house and few people noticed her leave the car and slip into a back entrance of the chateau.

  She was taken to a conference suite and guessed that the guy in the black suit, pointing at interactive maps of the gardens and house, speaking in an authoritative and knowledgeable voice was Special Agent White. After he finished addressing the gathered team, he strode towards Helen and held out his hand. She tried to take the measure of him, which was difficult to do with a special agent from any country. Their bread and butter was sinking into any background as the ultimate Mr or Mrs Grey. He was of medium height and build, slightly balding, tanned, pleasant and disarming: perfectly forgettable. He looked in his forties, had a kind unreadable face, and sported a large scar running down the side of his face.

  ‘Call me Roy.’

  The US security personnel filed out and, after asking if she wanted coffee, Special Agent White got straight to business, running through what they’d achieved so far regarding their final risk assessment. He took her over to the giant electronic map of the site.

  ‘Snipers will be on the roof here, here and here,’ he explained. ‘We’re creating a multinational team pulled mainly from the US and NATO, but it’s my operation, so if you want anything adding, now’s your chance.’

  ‘I’ll be with the British ambassador. Are there photos on the lawn?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. They will take place on the first and last days, in front of the palace.’ He pointed to the gravel balcony overlooking the Parc du Chateau, and she remembered the iconic view over the Grand Canal. He showed her where the world’s press would be positioned behind cordons – all previously vetted and cleared by multinational agencies, of course.

  ‘Should we take a look around?’ he asked. It was a welcome suggestion and one that suggested his transparency was complete. He guided her back outside and into the waiting vehicle which had brought her from the station. The driver got out and saluted Roy. They drove slowly up the Allée St Antoine and Roy pointed out certain points of security interest. Once further up, he explained the logistics of the summit. Tourists pointed to the car.

  Since the Second World War, there’d been thirty NATO summits. They were opportunities for member states to discuss matters of policy, unlike the regular ministerial meetings, which were more frequent and attended by senior civil servants. One of the purposes of this round of meetings was to discuss the new initiative in Afghanistan and how to reduce the amount of heroin being farmed and exported, despite the existing eighteen-year campaign. The problem was that drug money underpinned the Afghan economy. The car turned the corner and the palace sat in front of them, pristine and resplendent. The photographs of the world’s leaders here would be spectacular.

  ‘Journalistic gold,’ Helen said.

  Roy White looked puzzled.

  ‘I mean the backdrop and the history. You know, the Treaty of Versailles, signed here, in the Hall of Mirrors,’ she said.

  ‘Woodrow Wilson, right?’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Though your senate never ratified it.’

  ‘And twenty years later, we all paid the price,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all right, Ma’am – we’ve got your back,’ he said.

  She smiled. Fair enough.

  The sun shone gloriously on the estate, and the white stone was immaculately clean, adding to its splendour. It was tempting to get out of the car and Helen wished she were here as a VIP tourist for the day.

  ‘Current intelligence?’ she asked as they drove on.

  ‘Very low threat. Recent terror cells have been swept up in Germany, Spain and here in France over recent weeks, thanks to a joint operation between your European governments. Your borders here are at best porous and…’

  ‘At worst, leaking like an old Victorian toilet?’ she finished for him, and this time he smiled at her.

  ‘We’ll have snipers on the roof over there.’ He pointed and Helen looked up through the darkened window.

  ‘All roads, canals and pathways are to be blockaded from zero-one hundred hours on Sunday, to zero-five hundred hours on Thursday.’

  VIPs were scheduled to begin arriving from lunchtime onwards on Sunday, including the US president and the UK prime minister.

  ‘Da’esh is on the back foot.’ He was referring to the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS). It was true they were damaged by recent wars in the region, but there were thousands of cells still active or sleeping across Europe, and the threat was always present. Home-grown grooming was rife, and Helen knew that around two hundred planned attacks were discovered and foiled every year in Europe.

  ‘So no transport in or out, apart from the obvious catering vehicles and security services?’ she asked.

  ‘None.’

  ‘What about air traffic?’

  ‘Covered. The area over Versailles will be closed for forty-eight hours. It’s a relatively quiet space, as you can see today. Look at that sky. It reminds me of Montana. French air traffic control have been planning for it for a month,’ Roy said.

  ‘I’ll report back to our ambassador – he’ll be encouraged. Thank you for giving up your time, Agent White— Roy,’ she said. ‘When do you pack up? Our ambassador is due to chair the meetings with the Afghanistan delegates after the traditional summit is over,’ she told him.

  ‘We stay on a week after the president leaves, Ma’am.’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘There is one development, here in France, which I was only told about an hour ago. It’s not mission specific, but it’s turned heads.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked. They were almost back at the control room. She hadn’t been given any intel before leaving the embassy and she wondered what it could be.

  ‘Hakim ibn Khalil Said Dalmani, son of Khalil—’

  ‘I know who he is.’

  ‘He was abducted from Le Bourget airport yesterday, shortly after landing from Tangier.’

  Chapter 5

  Grant Tennyson watched the electronic iron gates open slowly and steadily as the driver waited patiently. They both looked about the vicinity for opportunists with bad intent. Many people in Algiers knew that this was the home of the richest man in the city. Grant didn’t like not being in control and he was as unhappy being driven as he was being flown. Helicopters were the worst, with their clunky blades threatening to spin off at any moment, leaving the bird to drop like a stone.

  But it was a relief from the relentless heat to be sat in th
e air-conditioned car, and Grant leaned back in his seat and pushed his floppy sandy hair off his face with his hand. He’d allowed it to grow since leaving the military. He also remained unshaven for several days at a time. He was tanned by the sun, fresh from his visit to the Sahara, where he’d spent three weeks touring the AlGaz site, identifying vulnerabilities and vetting staff. It was a pleasure to be dust and sand free and in clean clothes again.

  He travelled to the house of Khalil ibn Dalmani, the owner of AlGaz. The disappearance of Grant’s boss’s son yesterday, along with his head of security, was no secret, and in all probability the reason why he’d been summoned. The city air was clearer up here on the hillside and Grant felt the pace of life slow down, compared to the hectic chaos downtown, where he stayed at the Marriott Hotel in between visits to Dalmani’s oil and gas facilities all over the country. His job was to make sure that the company’s perimeter was watertight.

  The engine purred. Khalil made sure that the manufacturers of all of his vehicles disabled the eco-friendly system that cut out the engine when static, designed to save on fuel and bail out the environment. It was too risky. A trained driver’s foot was quicker than any system made by an engineer in a factory, sat in front of a computer. The vehicle nudged forward when the width between the gates allowed, and they waited on the other side as they closed behind them. The driver clicked his key fob to open the inner set of gates only once the outer ones closed.

  The grounds were immaculate, and they drove past water features, garages – no doubt housing Khalil’s collection of classics and one-off editions – as well as elegant palm trees, pruned to look identical, and bushes full of brightly coloured flowers. The approach to the main house was long, and Grant peered ahead with curiosity. He’d never been here before. His final interviews for the post had taken place either on the phone, or downtown in the Marriott. AlGaz’s headquarters occupied a whole block not far from the hotel district and rocketed skyward over fifty-two floors of metal and glass, and that’s where he’d met the man just that one time and secured the job.