The Rift

by Rachel Lynch

  During the long war between the Mali government and those Malians fighting for independence, in what the insurgents called Azawad, the French had supplied the government with weapons and explosives – namely – C4, produced in the UK, but traded everywhere it was needed, for the right price. After the loss of thirteen French soldiers in a helicopter crash sustained while fighting the rebels, French resolve had become harder than ever, and the Mali government, sensing victory, was grateful for any funds poured into their cause. Fawaz bin Nabil had been generous. This was his payment by return.

  It was the exchange of packages at the border that was the pivotal moment of the whole journey. No amount of bribery could reduce the stress factor inherent to doing a deal on an African border, in the middle of a desert, faced with automatic weapons and no exit plan. To their relief, the trade went off seamlessly and the soldiers even laughed when they pointed to a box full of American whisky. Now Fawaz’s men knew what it was for. They’d been sorely tempted to drink it but Dirty Harry had warned them not to because it would smooth their passage at some point. Now was that time.

  Once into Mauritania, the onward trek over the Algerian border and the two thousand kilometres to the capital loomed before them, but at least they could relax a little. Not too much, though, as the road system, though improved, was neglected at best and lethal at worst. They were more likely to die in a road traffic accident than be hijacked by bandits looking to make gains from passing trade. They drove past burned-out and abandoned vehicles in the desert, which no one wanted to claim. It told a story of destruction at the hands of the careless, responded to by those who cared even less.

  Their hands were sweaty as they took turns to drive, and water was running low. They took on gallons more at Abadla, a thousand kilometres from Algiers. From there, the roads grew busier, and they passed small villages made of stone, but mostly of dried mud made into bricks by the searing sun. They shone orange in the day and looked like the surface of a faraway planet, with their domed roofs and tight pod-like formations. No one came out to look at them. They attracted little attention. At least they had the luxury of a proper road now they were closer to civilisation. Each of the men dreamt of a bath, and of a woman. They itched, spat, wiped sweat from their brows and burped after a meal in transit: it was a man’s domain, the little cabins filled with detritus from long journeys, like that of any long-haul driver discarding last night’s dinner packaging wherever it would fit. They stank.

  Conversation had ebbed to a minimum and, as they neared the capital, they were almost overcome by exhaustion. They sensed the end of their epic trip and what it might mean for them in terms of reward. Their payment was in cash: half before they set off and half when they reached the port of Algiers. They could taste the dollar bills on the tips of their tongues and, once on the outskirts of the city, they perked up, wily and alert once more, ever vigilant to the prospect of being pulled over. They’d changed plates at each border, and the vehicles carried the familiar licence of the country they were in. Algerian plates were recognisable for their long numbers, denoting origin and manufacture, and were distinctly modelled on their French counterparts.

  They fitted in.

  It had only been at Abadla where all the vehicles had risked being simultaneously connected by radio, and it was exuberantly celebrated that everyone had made it through. Now, nearing the port, they drove to their prearranged meeting point and waited. It was a carpark hidden among the vastness and chaos of thousands of ships waiting assignment or perhaps docking and unloading. They merged into the cacophony and looked ordinary in their mission. As the last truck parked up, the men got out and stretched, congratulating one another and swapping stories from the desert: scorpions scuttling away from their piss, rocks the size of houses, ditches challenging the axle, close calls with death in hidden ravines and riverbanks, and what they would do to the first woman they saw in Algiers when they cleaned up and went looking. The atmosphere was one of pure relief.

  They’d done it.

  Now, they had to wait for their contact to arrive. It was the last tedious part of their arduous odyssey. They didn’t know the name of their associate, only that the guy in charge had a phone, given to him by an even more important person. The phone would ring at some point and then they could all go and get a wash. The congratulations and celebrations waned as they waited and smoked cigarettes. Empty packs of red American Legend littered the cabins but boredom eventually got the better of a few of the men and they began tidying up. Abdul, the man with the phone, who’d met Dirty Harry seemingly a lifetime ago, got out a pack of cards. Somebody else found a makeshift table: an upside-down plastic pallet, and they crouched around to play Agram. It wasn’t unusual to see groups of men doing the same, passing time at the port, waiting for work, filling gaps between ships and the like.

  When Abdul’s phone rang, the men had almost forgotten why they were here, and the sun was dipping towards the horizon. There was a brief conversation, and they watched as Abdul nodded and took instructions. He hung up and walked towards the dockside, between huge containers looking as though they were out of use or forgotten. He came back empty-handed and gave a brief résumé of how they would spend the next few hours. They were waiting for a blue pickup truck and a man who would deliver their cash. After that, they were free to go wherever they wanted. Accommodation had been organised around the city and transport back to their homes in Morocco would be arranged as soon as it was possible. The men nodded and seemed appreciative of the thought that had gone into their welfare. They split into groups and stood chatting and smoking.

  Waiting was part of what they did. They listened to the sounds of the working port and watched the sun sink deeper towards the earth far to the west, where they knew the sea to be. None of them had been near the sea in their lifetimes – apart from Abdul, who regularly travelled to Tangier for the boss. The nearest the others had got was a swim in the dam back home. But they still imagined what the sea might look like: sparkling and vast like they saw on posters and tourist pamphlets.

  Some time had passed when a blue truck arrived and parked near the vehicles. There were two men – one driver and his passenger – who got out of the cabin and walked towards Abdul. They shook hands and the man gave Abdul another phone, plus several envelopes. He also handed him some papers, which Abdul studied. It was the inventories of the vehicles and Abdul nodded as he looked over them. The man looked satisfied and made a joke about how Algiers women would take care of them tonight. As he and Abdul walked back to the blue truck, more information was given and they shook hands again. The truck drove away and Abdul returned to the men, distributing the envelopes, which contained cash and hotel details. The men were excited and talked about where they might stay and if they’d have a sea view. Abdul smiled. Fawaz bin Nabil was a generous man.

  Abdul opened his envelope and saw that he was booked into the Marriott downtown. He retrieved his personal bag from the back of one of the trucks.

  ‘Don’t go telling long stories about yourself tonight!’ he teased the men in advance. ‘Until we meet again, my friends.’ He walked away. He felt dirty and wondered how he would be seen arriving at the Marriott in such a state. He soon forged a plan and managed to catch a lift with an engineer leaving the port after a long shift. He asked to be dropped off at the nearest McDonald’s. There, in the toilets, he’d wash, change and refresh himself. Enough to look like a weary traveller just off a long-haul flight perhaps, unshaven and tired.

  He waved goodbye to the kind stranger who’d driven him downtown and went to do his ablutions in the world’s most anonymous bathroom. After, he ordered a burger and chomped on it, relishing the salt and fat. Outside, he discarded his soiled clothes in a waste bin and hailed a cab.

  Chapter 25

  Helen stared out over the city far below her and wished she could open a window. Nowadays, upper-floor windows were securely closed due to health and safety regulations, and it stifled her.

  Sylvia bree
zed in and Helen saw it as an opportunity to stretch and walk away from her desk. She’d taken the decision to release a Photofit of the two men who’d vacated the apartment where the Peugeot was impounded, courtesy of the memory of a very sharp old lady. It had gone out to all major European media outlets this morning.

  ‘If I wanted surveillance equipment set up in Khalil Dalmani’s personal penthouse at the Ritz, who would I speak to?’ Helen asked.

  It was the kind of decision not to be taken lightly, but France’s anti-terror laws were laxer than the UK’s. It was another reason she’d joined the RMP; the excitement of a foreign field, with different rules of engagement and higher risk indices, as well as a broader orbit of responsibility all converged on cases like this one, and she was grateful to Sir Conrad – if only for a moment – for sending her. Only one question lurked at the back of her head: why he would put so much emphasis on what was essentially Counter Terrorism’s concern. In her brief moments of pause, she’d read the files – courtesy of Sylvia’s computer – on Afghan drug lords and their poppy trade, but Helen had found nothing pointing to Fawaz, yet Sir Conrad was adamant that this element of the summit was vulnerable. But that was her brief, albeit temporarily. Furthermore, Hakim Dalmani’s case had caused her to wander into the territory of other branches of Interpol, and she couldn’t ignore her findings. To Helen, it was Khalil’s behaviour that was suspect, and it was a matter of international interest to watch him.

  She waited for Sylvia’s response to her proposal to bug Khalil’s suite at the Ritz, which wouldn’t be cheap. Her reaction would be a good indicator of Helen’s status here. She couldn’t help feeling that Sir Conrad wanted her out of the way – why else send her to another city? Though perhaps that was Colonel Palmer’s doing. But at the same time, the ambassador had been emphatic in his case to her that he was sure that her new mission was indeed an important one. Hadn’t he himself said to her that she was to dig around Nabil Tradings, to figure out what Fawaz was up to in Europe, as well as keeping one eye on other criminal activities of consequence, such as any noises regarding drug trafficking out of Afghanistan leading up to the summit? But then he’d gone behind her back by briefing Peter Knowles about his concerns. Or was she paranoid? Surely the head of Counter Terrorism had a vested interest in Fawaz’s movements too? What didn’t fit into her mandate was the glaring anomaly that trafficking out of Afghanistan usually went through states such as India and Pakistan, and Sir Conrad was adamant that Fawaz’s presence in Europe was a red flag. Was he being overcautious? A typical civil servant covering his back? He certainly hadn’t displayed the poise she’d expect from a senior foreign office official. She sighed. All she could do was keep her head down and complete her own assignment, and part of that was finding Hakim. It wasn’t that she was unused to being uninformed on some aspects of a case – working for multiple agencies at the same time was an art – but like a mushroom, fed shit and kept in the dark, she didn’t feel like she was privy to the whole picture. She smiled at the irony. Maybe Khalil knew this to be the case, and that’s why he was conducting his own inquiries, or so she suspected, because he knew that his son’s welfare wasn’t the number one priority in all of this: European security was.

  Yes, that’d be it.

  ‘You look like your head is going ten to the dozen – I can hear the steam puffing away like an old locomotive,’ Sylvia pulled her out of her musings.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help thinking that this isn’t a straightforward missing-persons case,’ Helen said.

  ‘Of course it isn’t, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, and Hakim’s file wouldn’t have landed on my desk and attracted Peter Knowles’s nose. It’s taken you two days to work that out?’ Sylvia asked.

  Helen was shocked but only for a second.

  ‘So, it’s unusual for you to be sent secondments?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Rare but not that unusual. Secondments turn up here all the time, just not in my department. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled you’re here, but I reckon the engine’s been lit by someone sat in a lofty office somewhere higher than you or I can reach, and we won’t know the reasons unless we find them ourselves. Why do you think I showed you the memo from the UK Home Office to Peter?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘That’s what’s pissing me off. If there’s an ulterior motive to finding Hakim, then I should know about it,’ Helen said.

  ‘Sure you should. In the meantime, I’d speak to Ricard in Surveillance if you want to set something up at the Ritz – tell him I sent you. He’ll give you all you need.’ Sylvia gathered a few things from her desk and left; she was always on the move and carrying a look of grievance across her forehead.

  A quick phone call to Ricard gave her the answers she needed. She didn’t waste any time and set about arranging for surveillance kit to be ordered, and installed at the Hakim’s suite at the Ritz. They’d need compliance from at least one member of staff, but they had plants in all of Paris’s major hotels. They’d need uniforms, shift times, a timetable of the family’s movements (the hardest part) and time. Ricard explained the logistics of such a task without seeming to flinch at all and suggested taking the kit into the suite as part of a routine security drive. After all, Khalil Said al-Rashid ibn Dalmani was an esteemed guest and his son had been abducted. The Paris press knew that much at least. Ricard was keen to make sure everything ran smoothly, including checking entry and exit points to the suite, window and roof access, as well as picking up drone activity in the area.

  Helen’s concentration on Ricard’s plans was interrupted for a moment as an officer delivered an envelope to her desk. She nodded her thanks and opened it with her office phone still under her chin. She scanned the document quickly; it was a lab report. She put it to one side while she finished her conversation with Ricard, whose enthusiasm gave her the impression that he didn’t have much on at the moment. Sylvia knew some handy people, and, once again, she was thankful they’d hit it off. She was beginning to feel comfortable in her new surroundings. Once she’d finished with the logistics regarding the Ritz, she hung up and turned her attention to the report.

  DNA had been taken from Khalil and his wife, Taziri, as a matter of course before they left Algiers for Paris. Children share exactly 50 per cent of each of their parent’s DNA and, as a result, it was quite simple to create a profile for the child without their own DNA being readily available. Very soon after Hakim’s disappearance the local National Central Bureau of Interpol in Algeria had taken samples from various items left in Hakim’s suite, such as tooth- and hairbrushes as well as pillowcases. The lab report in front of Helen showed a match between a sample from one of those items and the familial sample given by the parents. They now had a watertight benchmark to hand when they needed it, which Helen prayed would be soon. She hoped it would never be used to identify a body.

  Her phone rang and it was the control room dealing with telephone reports from the general-public tip line. Data could come in from all over the world off the back of an Interpol yellow notice, but this had come from right here in Lyon. It was a sighting of the two men in the Photofit. The source – a female living close to the La Croix-Rousse area of the city – told them she’d seen the two men talking heatedly in a cafe close to her house. It was a credible lead, because it featured both of their persons of interest at the same time. She said that they had attended the cafe more than once, always over lunchtime. The address of the cafe had been noted and the phone call to Helen was a request for permission to set up reconnaissance on the premises immediately. Of course she approved.

  She hung up and searched through her notes for the forensic report of the vehicle apprehended at the scene. It remained in an Interpol compound and had been thoroughly processed. Three separate DNA profiles had been lifted from hairs: two from the driver’s seat, replicated in the front passenger seat; and a third from the back seat, also present inside the boot. She ran the profiles through her computer but came up with no matches. Then she returned to the lab repor
t.

  She entered Hakim’s DNA into the Interpol database and waited.

  It was a match to the DNA found on the back seat and inside the boot. It was their first major breakthrough. She could now say with absolute faith – backed up by indisputable forensic evidence – that the two men traced to the flat where the car had been found, had at least journeyed in the same car as Hakim.

  The cafe mentioned by the tip was her number one priority; they couldn’t let these men get away. Questioning them was imperative, and, with the concrete evidence of her discovery moments ago, finding the men who might have had contact with Hakim was a priority. Part of her couldn’t help wondering if Grant was as close.

  She gave the direct order for an operation to commence at the address, and it wasn’t long before they were in place. She checked her connection to the body cams of the officers attending and switched her computer to live so she could monitor the footage beamed from the three separate vehicles onto her screen.

  The officers made final checks to their equipment and an operation order was sent to Helen as she watched live. Two of the teams were plain-clothes, while another was fully uniformed and kitted for rapid response. All wore body armour, and all were armed. Helen’s pulse raced as she watched the streets of Lyon whizz by.

  The small unit arrived on scene and Helen prepared herself for a long wait.

  The two plain-clothes squads got out quickly and observed the area. The uniforms held back, awaiting instruction; they would take care of any potential break-ins or arrests. The Police Nationale was informed and put on standby to secure the area if necessary, and prepare for armed retaliation. Helen had to sit on her hands as she watched the street view of the plain-clothes officers making contact with the cafe entrance. Two others went round the back, and she was relieved to see that only one door led away from the premises. It was secured.