by Rachel Lynch
‘Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi!’ he cried.
He heard footsteps and lay on the floor, pretending to be badly injured. The gendarme was simply doing his job: his instinct told him to protect, and he was doing just that. Grant garbled in his best French that he’d been attacked. He pointed to the stairwell. ‘He had a gun,’ he said. ‘He ran down there with my bag – it has medicines in it and money. Lots of money.’
The gendarme checked that Grant was not too badly hurt and took off down the stairwell, speaking into a radio. Grant’s window had just become smaller. He shot up, sprinting to the other stairs, past the apartment, praying that Madame Bisset had not been tardy. He came across an elderly woman on her way down the stairs.
‘Madame Bisset?’ he asked breathlessly. She nodded.
‘Vous êtes Grant?’ she affirmed.
‘We need to hurry,’ he said.
They reached a door and Grant looked outside. Emergencies in France were casual affairs at best. Responding vehicles got stuck behind drivers unwilling to move aside, asserting their right to keep in lane. He thanked that Gallic trait now. If he’d been in Britain, traffic would be parting for them like the Red Sea did for Moses, and the cops would be here in no time. He was, of course, assuming that the gendarme had called for backup, so he could return to his duties guarding the apartment.
He held on to Madame Bisset’s elbow and ushered her away from the building, down a small alleyway that led onto a street three blocks away from his car. He’d memorised the streets around the apartment block and calculated a route.
‘Do you have a headscarf in that bag?’ he asked her.
She nodded and pulled one out, wrapping it around her head.
He took off his jacket, put it back on inside out so a different colour showed and pulled a baseball cap out of his back pocket, placing it on his head.
They were at his car in under five minutes.
Chapter 22
Helen walked across the bridge and entered the park. It was a beautiful day, but nothing could improve her mood after the royal fuck-up of last night. Somebody somewhere had failed to communicate the critical nature of the mission to secure the movements of Madame Bisset. This was her one regret when relying upon local police: they weren’t military. It was the ultimate irony of her job when dealing with civilian authorities. Her mind cast back to working with entrenched police forces elsewhere in the world; the extreme discipline which was bread and butter to the British military wasn’t always transferred when embedded in a provincial unit.
The officer guarding Madame Bisset had been tricked, that much was clear. But why had he been alone? And why wasn’t there surveillance to the rear of the apartment building? The lame excuse had come back as two officers being taken ill last night and unable to report on duty. Their replacements had arrived too late. Helen recalled that this was why Marie Bisset’s interview was rescheduled for this morning. It was monumentally frustrating but one thing was for certain: Marie Bisset was gone. Had Helen underestimated the woman’s resourcefulness or had someone got to her first? The gendarme on duty said he’d been called away to another emergency: a man who’d been attacked in the stairwell, but who’d disappeared into thin air shortly after. It stank. But the worst part was when she’d read the description of the man: white, Caucasian, six foot, blonde hair and blue eyes, and well built.
It was no coincidence and confirmed that Khalil was running his own investigation orchestrated by Grant Tennyson.
She felt like kicking the cement beneath her feet every couple of steps, but that wouldn’t help. It was the desire of a petulant child who’d lost her favourite toy.
Helen’s phone rang, and it was her father. It was a surprisingly welcome distraction. Her father’s voice was calm and reassuring.
‘Hi, Dad.’ She explained that she was on her way to work.
‘Of course you are, darling. You always are.’
‘That’s why I’m here, Dad. You know that.’
‘Busy?’ he asked.
‘Always. How’s Mum?’
‘She’s having her hair coloured for the party. We were wondering if you might not make it?’
Her parents’ ruby wedding-anniversary celebration was arranged for the weekend after next. Two hundred invites had gone out and Helen knew they desperately wanted her to attend. Her plan was to be there but the way things were shaping up here in France, it might not be possible. She felt the familiar pull of guilt.
‘Of course I’m going to be there,’ she said. The summit was next week. If that went without a hitch, she should make it back.
‘Well, that’s marvellous. How are you, darling?’ he asked. She recognised the tone. Her parents had been concerned for her state of mind ever since she’d lost Luke, even though it was three years ago. She couldn’t blame them, because their sorrow at losing their only grandchild was barely overshadowed by hers as a mother.
‘I’m good, Dad. I’m on a new case and it’s keeping me busy. I think…’ The phone crackled, and the call cut out. She gazed around her, baffled that she’d lost a signal in the heart of a European city.
‘Dad?’
‘Helen?’ he replied. ‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. She’d been about to tell him her suspicion that Grant was here in Lyon. But now, she decided against it. He’d only worry further.
‘The weather’s nice.’ Helen fell back on an easy topic.
‘It’s raining here,’ her father said.
She laughed. ‘Of course it is! It’s summer!’ It buoyed her to hear his voice and to discuss mundane issues like the British weather. Next they’d be talking about tea.
‘I finish up here soon and when I do I’ll bring some Belgian chocolates back for you and Mum.’
He was pleased, and they chatted for a few minutes more about family and British politics. Chasing postings around the globe meant that Helen avoided current affairs, and that suited her. She kept up to date as much as she was expected, but she ignored the media in general.
‘You’d love it here, Dad – the restaurants and the cafes, and the weather!’
They chatted for a minute or so longer, but she was preoccupied by thoughts of her father’s face when he’d seen his grandson for the first time. It was only in a photograph. Luke had died in the hospital in her arms. She closed her eyes and cursed her body.
‘Dad, I need to go. I’ll call you later in the week. Give my love to Mum. I’ll be at the party, I promise,’ she said and hung up.
The hot summer sun beat down on her head and she turned her face up to it. She paused halfway over the bridge and let a slight breeze from the river refresh her. The water swirled beneath her and she peered into it, hoping to find what? Some kind of explanation? Luke’s face?
She carried on walking and forced herself to focus on the day ahead. Maybe finding someone else’s child might help her find peace.
She refocused and cleared her head, physically shaking it as if that would help. It did. The evidence found in Madame Bisset’s permanent residence was their strongest lead yet that the head of Khalil’s personal security, and the man charged with Hakim’s safety, was still alive. Not only that, but the fact that he had visited his mother, thus presumably was free to roam and not held captive like his ward, seriously implicated him. That was her focus for today. It was looking more likely with each passing hour that Jean-Luc was at the centre of Hakim’s disappearance. The forensic results would show if Jean-Luc had been in the flat where the blue Peugeot 206 had driven to, which the old woman had said was occupied by Les Beurs; that would be concrete evidence that he was in on Hakim’s abduction, but for that she’d have to wait.
Sweeps of the residential areas surrounding the flat had yielded nothing of significance. No one had reported seeing a van, or at least one that was memorable. It seemed like the woman was the only resident in the neighbourhood willing to risk handing over details of the comings and goings surrounding the garage. It was a common stumbling bl
ock to investigations: human reticence. Helen had yet to go to the press with finer details than simply persons of interest but was considering making this suggestion. Khalil expressly communicated that he wanted the case kept low profile, lest it harm the chances of finding Hakim alive. It was a fair point and one that she was taking on board, and indeed, given what the man was worth, the chances of fake information bogging them down was high, but she doubted he was sharing everything. To her, a man who was spending every waking moment trying to find his son, travelling to Paris to do so, would be harassing them daily at Interpol HQ, waiting for every shred of news. Khalil Dalmani wasn’t doing this and it raised her suspicions further. She couldn’t ignore her niggling worry that he was conducting his own inquiry, with the help of Grant Tennyson, flexing private muscle and exploiting private contacts. It was true that the man had resources at his disposal that made Interpol look like an amateur racket. However, what these billionaires failed to appreciate was that legal channels took time, but that didn’t mean they were less effective. If this was indeed the case, there was little she or anyone could do, unless he crossed the line of legality, for example by using strong-arm tactics of interrogation or carrying illegal weapons. It was a precarious balance and one that Helen didn’t fancy facing, but she knew that she might have to.
It made her think even more that whoever had Hakim must have made contact with Khalil in some way. Why else would he be so cagey? Surely a man desperate to find his son, with the assistance of the biggest international law enforcement agency on Earth, would be virtually camping on their doorstep, demanding progress daily? It verged on arrogance. He was keeping something from them, of this she was sure. She’d memorised his face from their brief electronic meeting. It wasn’t lost on her that he expected a man to head the inquiry, and that had put them on an unequal footing. Would he trust her?
She couldn’t help feeling that whichever way this investigation twisted and turned, she’d have to face the fact that, at some point, sooner rather than later, she’d have to make contact with Grant.
Chapter 23
Khalil watched his boys charge around the suite, and he smiled. Never again would he take them for granted. He wanted to witness their every whine, crash, bang, fight and annoyance. He felt physical pain when he thought of his eldest son; it had been his most important job to protect him, and he felt as though he’d led him directly into danger. The policewoman from Britain was right: he should never have put his whole personal security programme into the hands of one man. It shamed him to think that he’d entrusted his flesh and blood to a man who essentially he knew little about. He’d thought he’d known Jean-Luc, but he realised that apart from paying him, gifting him bonuses and benefits, he hadn’t really got under the skin of the employee he’d inherited off his father. Now, he remembered his face and his eyes narrowing when Khalil added another jet to his fleet, or took delivery of a new Bentley.
Did it all boil down to money? If Fawaz had lured Jean-Luc to his side with a simple promise of wealth, then Khalil had been a fool indeed.
Taziri felt cooped up like a prisoner, he could tell. It was in the way she sighed and her grimace that overtook her face where once a light smile resided. Grant Tennyson had pulled together a team of British ex-special forces to guard them, but Taziri wasn’t intimidated by them and that warmed his heart. She was as tough as the first day he’d seen her, arguing in the street about the weight of a fish she’d been sold. She was all indignation and female strength. Khalil had offered to help, to which she’d replied, ‘Why would I need your help?’ That’s why he was shocked – delighted – to see a woman in charge of his son’s case. He hadn’t quite communicated his joy, and he feared he’d got off on the wrong foot with Miss Scott. Strong women impressed him but they were few and far between in his world. He toyed with the idea of being transparent with Miss Scott, but he mistrusted large institutions that were constrained by certain laws he disagreed with. And she was a cog in their wheel, not his.
But she intrigued him. There was an earnestness in her face that he recognised in his wife. She too had fire behind her eyes, and Khalil knew when to concede. It had taken him three months of visiting the market and trying to speak to the young Taziri before she finally relented and allowed him to contact her family. Three months later they were married, and nine months after that he held his firstborn child. It was a moment he would never forget. ‘Hakim’ in Arabic meant ‘learned and wise’, or more specifically, ‘ruler’; it was a hefty expectation to live up to, but Khalil never doubted that he’d be proud of his son, no matter what path he chose. Thinking about Hakim now caused a stone-weight of dread to settle in the pit of his stomach. It had been five days. He turned away from the boys and went into a separate room that had been set up as his office. Affairs in Algeria and the running of AlGaz didn’t stop because he was out of the country.
Escaping to the private space allowed him to vent the well of anger that had threatened to explode since his son had been taken, and he beat the table with his fist until it pulsed with pain. He sat down heavily behind his desk and heard room service arrive next door. The boys quietened down as they looked forward to filling their bellies. They loved staying in hotels, even when they’d been given no reason as to why they weren’t out and about in Paris or seeing their brother. They’d asked after him, but the answer, agreed between him and Taziri, was that Hakim was in the middle of important exams and they’d celebrate together when he was done. The ages of the boys enabled them to process the information simply: they accepted it. They were in heaven: Xbox on tap, an open room-service menu, a private rooftop pool for their exclusive use and European TV. Youth was simple.
He hoped to raise his children without ego and instead teach them humility. He hoped that Hakim had drawn on these resources to soften his captors. It is infinitely more difficult to be cruel to someone who is kind. A scared animal normally bites back, but the one which keeps coming, despite the blows, touches something basic in the most barbaric. He hoped he’d disarmed them with his generosity.
Khalil needed some air. The thoughts going round his head of Hakim in a bare room, possibly bound and even gagged, guarded by thugs for hire, potentially starved and already descending into the depths of the dehumanisation process, made his blood boil and his body sweat.
Taziri came in and handed him a package. Khalil was puzzled.
‘The men that are keeping us prisoner have told me it’s been scanned electronically. They opened it, so I took a look for myself. Why are you being delivered phones, Khalil?’
She stared at him with those piercing eyes of hers. She was difficult to lie to.
‘You’re not a prisoner, my love,’ he said.
‘Pfft. Whatever you say. I know why we have to stay cooped up, that is the least of my concerns. What are you up to?’ She held his gaze steadfastly. He was the first to look away.
‘I have to make sure that everything is being done and Grant is being careful not to be traced,’ he said.
‘Grant? And how do you know you can trust him? He turned up pretty quickly from the desert, didn’t he? Why do you trust a white man?’
He overlooked her traditional views. They’d been raised, as children, to mistrust the infidel, but Khalil read and watched, making his own mind up about the value of warring indefinitely. He’d witnessed the Twin Towers fall, and he’d studied what came after: Bush’s wrath on the Middle East and the millions of lives obliterated. War wasn’t the answer to anything, but Khalil knew that Taziri wasn’t open to this logic at the moment. Perhaps another day, but not now. She was angry and lusted for revenge. He let her rant.
‘What are you hiding, my love? Who sent you this?’ Taziri asked. She still wouldn’t accept his explanation, and that’s why he loved her.
‘I’m not hiding anything. I need to communicate with Grant in secrecy – I can’t have people listening to my business. I have to get some air – I’m going to the roof. Don’t worry, I’ll take one of the guards.
’
Taziri eyed him as he walked past her clutching the phone, in case Fawaz called him. He’d done what was asked of him, and now it was time to make some demands of his own. The container ship was waiting, as instructed, at the port of Algiers, and would load tonight. He’d kept to his side of the agreement, and now he would insist that Hakim be returned. There was no longer any leverage to be had by keeping him. He felt Taziri’s eyes burn into his back.
He took a burly six-foot Englishman to the rooftop, by a private lift, and he wondered at the life they led; these mercenaries out for hire with all the training of the British Army elite. He supposed that his father, as well as Fawaz’s father, had been somewhat similar in the sense that they were cast into the wilderness and fought for a cause, willing to fight to the death. These ex-special forces men were hard and steely. They knew the risks, which is why they got paid so much. The key was to stay ahead of anything anybody else might offer them. Loyalty had a price, and Khalil wondered if he’d paid Jean-Luc too little. He had to find a way to shed some light on what his ex-head of security’s motivation had been. He didn’t know where to start.
But perhaps his mother, Madame Bisset, did.
Chapter 24
The trucks bumped and bounced along the rough, sandy track. Travelling at night gave them respite from the fierce Saharan sun that beat down on them like the blast of a furnace, the air-con whirring like a whining dog as they still gained valuable miles. But at night, the moon lit their way, and they made better progress. They were able to open the windows and allow the cigarette smoke, accumulated by day, to escape in clouds. It was the only thing that kept them sane: the rush of nicotine to while away the boredom.
The journey to the Mauritanian border had gone without a hitch, despite it being the junction of four major North African territories: Mauritania, Morocco, Western Sahara and Mali. The Mali officials were the trickiest but had been paid handsomely in advance with weapons and supplies for the Malian army fighting insurgents pushing south for domination of the region. They had been at times funded by the French, and so that helped. Foreign occupants were always easier to bribe than a man defending his children.
