by Rachel Lynch
They caught up briefly about the usual topics: civvies and how much shit they didn’t know. Then Grant listed the kit that he’d discovered, both in the flat in Paris and there in Lyon.
‘What sort of shit does that make?’ Grant asked.
‘Anything. But my guess is drones.’
Chapter 30
Hakim lay on a concrete floor. Gone were the days of relative luxury in captivity when he was fed every day and the old man smiled at him. Gone were the longed-for moments of light through a window or the sweetness of cold water. He could taste his own blood, but at least that meant he was alive.
The past few days had been tense as he’d been moved from flat to flat. They almost got caught this morning, as they waited at a junction for the light to turn green, according to the men who were becoming more and more nervous,. Police Nationale and Gendarmerie had both screeched past them, in the direction from where they’d come. Hakim’s captors had stopped hooding him, and that was a sure sign that they were either very stupid or very scared; either that or he was going to die very soon. He was disorientated, thirsty and losing hope. His resolve, given to him by the training paid for by his father, was waning. All he could do, to keep sanity from slipping away, was to count his breaths. His body ached from the beatings.
He heard the voices of men. Like before, they were of North African descent, mixed with French, and he prayed that his father was closing in on him. The Dalmani family had few enemies that he knew of, but then he didn’t know his father’s business, and he tried to piece together the possibilities for the reasons for his capture. He surmised that the interest in him must have come from outside of Algiers, where his father was considered one of the most significant and influential philanthropists of his time. He listed all the motives for hostage taking – greed, jealousy and family secrets – and went over each one methodically. It calmed him.
So did prayer.
Up until this moment, he hadn’t scrutinised the words of the Quran or the meaning of his faith. That’s why he’d chosen Paris as his preferred city of study: the bohemian hub of hedonistic culture. Atheistic by nature, rebellious in spirit and free at its core, the city of love offered him an outlet by which he could explore who he was, who he’d been and who he might become. But now, isolated and afraid, it was the Prophet he turned to. The word ‘Islam’ itself meant ‘submission and surrender’; to ask God for approval that one’s heart was ready to do both was the core of Islamic belief. He felt shame for his sins and asked for forgiveness. Lying down with French girls topped the list, and he damned his lust in self-condemnation. Only by such submission could one hope for acceptance from God and thus the path to peace. His God was compassionate and merciful and only by renouncing ego could access to Him be gained. He held no form, but Hakim had to conjure an image in his head to find any kind of strength to carry on. For reasons unknown, he’d formed an image of a lamb. Its fleece was pure white and its face was benevolent and innocent, but its stature was large and powerful. The irony wasn’t something he dwelled on and the likeness grew in his mind until it took over every thought.
Hakim knew that the five daily prayers could be somewhat flexible under special circumstances, and he wasn’t sure if he’d prayed five times already today. He figured that his predicament allowed him some latitude on geographic knowledge as well as times of the day. He had no idea which direction Mecca was, and he had no idea if God would forgive him for not using a mat. Would his bare knees do? Or would God be offended? He knew that his father contributed millions of dollars every year in zakat (charity) for the poor and needy, surely this covered Hakim too?
His mouth formed around the verses of the Quran: the supreme act of worship. Though he couldn’t purify himself before each recital, he had to believe that God would forgive him.
‘Glory be to You, O God, along with Your praise, and blessed is Your name, and high is Your majesty, and there is no God other than You.’
His body felt broken and cold, but his mind was pure, and grew in strength when he prayed. It was as if his soul was feeding off his body in preparation for something. As the hours slipped by, he felt himself giving all his fibres, organs, consciousness and ego over to a higher purpose. His purpose. He saw that all matters of the flesh were secondary to the spirit, and thus any pain was peripheral to the health of the inner self. If he closed his eyes as he prayed, he found that his four other senses became more honed: his hearing, taste, touch and smell all worked together to form a picture of the outside world beyond the four walls of his new prison. But that was the point. He slumbered only in prison if his mind allowed him, and it did not. He saw the lamb beyond the wall and knew that he was safe. For if his physical body was to be sacrificed to save his essence, then so be it.
He’d made peace with his family and his maker.
He was ready.
Chapter 31
Helen returned to the office she shared with Sylvia after learning that Khalil Dalmani had flown to Lyon by private jet. She instructed Ricard to set up the surveillance on his suite at the Ritz in Paris in his absence, as it’d make the whole installation a damn sight easier with him away.
The change of scenery visiting Fraud, and the stretch, had done her good. She was itching to get out on the streets of Lyon and follow leads, but it was still early days and she couldn’t chase thin air. So, she resigned herself to sitting behind a computer screen for now. She still hadn’t decided what to do with the information about Marseilles given to her by Angelo.
As requested, Amélie Laurent had presented herself at a police station near Sorbonne University, Paris, at just after dusk. She’d gone willingly and was to be interviewed by the local Police Nationale, watched via video link by Helen in Lyon. As Hakim’s girlfriend, she might be able to shed some light on his state of mind leading up to the abduction, and if she’d noticed or commented on anything unusual in the lead-up to last Sunday. Though Hakim hadn’t seen Amélie for four weeks, she could give context to his movements and routines when he was in Paris.
Helen watched as the young woman was led into an interview suite and asked if she’d like a drink, which she declined. She was of petite frame, and her manner was open, if a little wary, but Helen put that down to nerves. Given the seriousness of the situation, Helen judged from the girl’s mature approach that Amélie was a confident individual. She looked forlorn as Helen studied her face on the screen, and she picked her slim hands. She was dressed in fine clothes that looked as though they were tailored, and Helen wondered if Hakim funded her wardrobe. A flick through the information they had on her confirmed that her parents were of minimal means and her education was funded by loans. The Versace bag hung on the back of the chair didn’t look as though it came out of a meagre allowance.
The formal introductions were got out of the way and Helen continued to observe.
‘Thank you for coming in today. We’d like to ask you some questions about Hakim and his usual schedules when in Paris, if that’s all right?’ The interviewing officer was gentle. He was a local gendarme, usual for any Interpol case.
‘Do you know where he is?’ Amélie asked. She was softly spoken and keen for news of her lover. Helen was struck by her soft beauty, typical of effortless French chic, and she was taken in by her innocent warmth.
‘No, we don’t.’
Amélie sniffed and produced a tissue with which to wipe her eyes.
‘Is he a religious young man?’ the officer asked.
Helen bristled. It was a stereotypical racial assumption, and it got her back up.
‘No,’ Amélie replied. Helen could see that the young woman wasn’t impressed either.
‘So he doesn’t pray?’
Helen rolled her eyes. Where was he going with this? She interjected by pressing her mic and she watched him listen to his earpiece. ‘Can we keep it to his movements in Paris? His Sunni family isn’t relevant here,’ Helen said. The interviewer wasn’t personally approved by her but it was all they had.
‘Did he show any signs of being afraid for his safety?’ He did as he was asked.
‘No. He said his father is very powerful in Algeria and well respected here in France. But Hakim also told me that he’d been sent on extensive training courses to deal with scenarios.’
‘Scenarios?’
‘Just in case. It was silly, and Hakim thought it a waste of time, but now… His father wanted him to be wary. He said they carried a great responsibility and that their wealth attracted trouble,’ Amélie said, fidgeting with a ring on her right hand. Her answers were open and full. Somebody with something to hide generally spoke in monosyllables, this wasn’t the case with Amélie; she appeared to want to be as helpful as possible.
‘Did he say what kind of trouble?’
‘He had a bodyguard, as do all of his family members. I thought that meant they were safer.’ Amélie sniffed again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added.
‘Indeed. Do you know the names of his bodyguards? Would you recognise them?’ Helen had traced all but two of them, including Jean-Luc, and it was found that they had no idea of Hakim’s disappearance or whereabouts upon initial interview because they were on full paid summer leave. They also had solid alibis.
‘They all looked the same with their scowls and suits. He said the man in charge was Jean-Luc and that he arranged all cover here in Paris when Hakim was studying.’
‘So the bodyguards changed frequently?’ the officer asked.
‘I don’t know, I didn’t really pay attention. Hakim taught me how to ignore them.’
‘And did he ignore them?’
‘Kind of. He said that we should act as if they weren’t there, so I did.’
Helen felt as though Amélie had something to add and she pushed the officer to allow her to elaborate.
‘You don’t seem too sure about that? Was there one that stood out, perhaps?’
Amélie nodded. ‘There was one I didn’t feel comfortable with. He… looked at me.’
‘What do you mean “looked at”?’
Amélie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘He didn’t seem to be focused on his job. I don’t think he approved of me, of Hakim having a girlfriend.’
‘Right. I have here some photographs of the men in the employment of Hakim’s father. Please take your time and let us know if you recognise any of them.’
The pictures were handed to Amélie one at a time, and she nodded her recognition of some of them.
‘Is the one who “looked at you” among the photographs?’
‘This one,’ she said.
The officer noted the exhibit number and the positive identification of the witness.
It was Ahmad Azzine, or ‘Sand Cat’. Helen scribbled frantically. ‘My, you’ve been busy,’ she said under her breath.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Positive, that’s him,’ she said.
‘And how many times would you say you’d seen him?’
‘Maybe four or five.’
‘Over what period?’
‘He was new, about four weeks before we broke for summer. I told Hakim I didn’t like him, but he reminded me that they weren’t there to be liked. But I didn’t forget.’
‘Did you meet Jean-Luc?’ he asked.
‘No, but I saw him a few times. We were never properly introduced but Hakim pointed him out.’
‘Did you ever witness Jean-Luc talking to the man you have identified as “looking” at you?’
Amélie thought.
‘Yes. Hakim took no notice of them but I watched occasionally. I suppose I found it fascinating. I’ve never lived like this before – every move being monitored and scrutinised – I don’t like it.’
‘You’ve said. When did you see them converse?’ The officer asked.
‘When I noticed him start on the job. I asked Hakim about him but he was annoyed, reminding me that new faces came and went and that I should ignore them. I wanted to fit in, but it didn’t feel right.’
Amélie was proving to be a reliable and natural witness. She was open and helpful. The officer showed her more photos, this time of places where they’d traced Hakim’s last movements in Paris before leaving after the summer term for his break in Algiers. He also spread a map across the desk, and she pointed to each place on it, confirming her knowledge of the locations, even if she hadn’t been there with Hakim.
‘Would you say that Hakim’s routines were predictable?’
Amélie laughed a little. ‘Yes.’ Her smile was engaging and came out of the blue. Helen watched as her face melted into adoration as she spoke of Hakim. ‘He took me to the coolest bars and the most amazing restaurants. We always went straight to the front of the queue, even if people were waiting in line for a long time.’
She stopped speaking and fiddled with her hands again. Helen knew that this was painful for her. She loved him; that was plain to see.
‘You attracted attention?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the bodyguards? Where were they?’
‘Hakim always surprised me, but I guess not the guards – they were always ahead of him.’
‘So his plans were always run past the guards first?’
‘Of course.’
‘Every time, without exception?’ he asked.
‘Every time. Like I told them.’
‘Who?’ The officer stopped writing and looked up. Helen sat forward in her chair. Had someone got to her first?
‘The first time I was interviewed.’ The woman was suddenly wary.
‘Where and by whom?’
Amélie looked worried, as if she’s made a blunder. ‘I thought you were all working together, looking for Hakim. Have I made a mistake? A man came to see me at my flat on Tuesday – he showed ID.’
‘Ask her for a name,’ Helen said. She closed her eyes and put her head on a single finger in the middle of her forehead. She knew the answer.
‘This man, do you have a name?’ he asked her.
‘Mr Tess… erm… Tessin…’
Helen watched as the woman struggled to remember.
‘He was English and very nice. He knew Hakim’s family well. I thought…’
Helen slammed the table. Amélie couldn’t hear her outburst but she was still aware that somehow, there’d been a blunder.
‘Has he got something to do with it? He said he worked for the family. Did I do something wrong?’
Helen saw panic rise up in Amélie’s body.
‘What did you talk about?’ asked the officer.
‘I think he said that he was Hakim’s father’s head of security.’
Amélie was no longer concentrating on the questions being asked of her.
‘That would be Jean-Luc Bisset.’
‘No, it wasn’t him.’
‘Of course it wasn’t him, so who was it?’
‘An Englishman,’ she repeated.
‘Grant, you have so many questions to answer,’ Helen whispered. She pressed her mic.
‘Tennyson,’ she said.
The police officer repeated his name.
‘Yes, that’s it!’ Amélie was clearly relieved to be helpful after her mistake.
‘I’d like you to try to remember exactly what he asked you and what he found particularly interesting.’
‘Interesting?’ she asked.
‘Let’s say the focus of his attention.’
‘Ah, I understand. So, he seemed to be really focused on the man you just showed to me.’ She pointed to the photo of the same man she’d just identified; the officer made a note. Helen closed her eyes in disbelief.
‘And did you tell him that this man conversed with Jean-Luc?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. I’ve one more question. We have a telephone call from Hakim’s mobile phone to yours, made mid-air, as he travelled back to Paris.’
‘Yes, I couldn’t take it. I hate myself for missing the call, but he left me a voice message,’ she said. Tears came to her eyes and spilled down her
cheeks.
‘Good, do you still have it?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She took out her phone and played the message on speaker. The voice of Hakim rang out in the small room.
‘Amélie, I’m arriving soon. Can you come to the airport?’
Amélie bowed her head and her shoulders shook.
‘He’s never asked me to meet him at the airport before.’
‘Never?’ asked the officer.
‘I thought he was joking,’ she said quietly.
‘And now what do you think?’
Amélie’s eyes widened as realisation took hold of her.
‘He was trying to tell me something.’ She blew her nose.
Whatever happened on that plane, it now seemed Hakim potentially knew what was going on halfway over the Mediterranean Sea.
Chapter 32
Grant watched as Khalil paced up and down his suite at the InterContinental with the burner phone in his hand.
‘“Sand Cat” – it means nothing to you?’ Grant asked.
‘It’s a small cat from the desert in North Africa,’ Khalil replied. He waved his hands around. This much Grant knew. It wasn’t so much the animal’s ecology or habitat that Grant was after though. He considered his boss. During the week he’d spent with him in close company, he’d observed a cautious man but one given to eruptions of anxiety, brought on, no doubt, by his pampered upbringing. For all the bravado and poise, Khalil did not control all things, and his sudden outbursts of panic belied a man who was scared.
‘It’s obviously a code name for someone – we need to find out who he is,’ Grant said.
‘So, you think leaving here, where my son is, to spy on my own ships in Marseilles will deliver him to me? What if I miss a call to meet somewhere here in Lyon? For an exchange, perhaps? I only just arrived.’
Grant was seated by the window, overlooking the city. Khalil’s pacing made him dizzy.
