by Rachel Lynch
‘No, I just think that you getting on with your important business in your offices in Marseilles will distract you, while I track down who is in charge of your shipment. My bet is it’s Sand Cat, or at least it will lead me to him. And then I’ll find out where Hakim is.’
‘And what if it is a code name for an event, not a man?’
‘Madame Bisset was pretty shaken up by my friend. She was adamant that this was a name, not a place or a plan,’ Grant said. He was eager to get going. ‘Why don’t you stay here, if you’re worried?’ he suggested.
The flight for tonight was logged and the passenger list approved by the authorities. Every flight in the world had to hand one in. Grant had suggested driving but Khalil wouldn’t hear of it.
‘I have nothing to hide,’ he’d said.
But that wasn’t the point. Any investigator worth their salt would be monitoring Khalil’s movements in France during the investigation into his son’s disappearance. And he knew that Helen was a fine operator. She’d see the passenger list as soon as she was aware that Khalil had decamped to Marseilles, and that meant she’d see his name as well.
‘I know her,’ Grant said. At last, Khalil stopped pacing.
‘Who?’ Khalil asked.
‘Major Helen Scott, the one you spoke to. The one who asked who your new head of security was.’
‘You know her, how?’
‘We worked together, back when I was in the forces still.’
‘Is she good?’ Khalil asked.
‘Yes. The best.’
‘Good, so now I have two excellent operators trying to find my son – this is a bonus. We still fly. When she finds out you are with me, then it will make her work harder, will it not? I presume you were on amicable terms?’
Grant hesitated momentarily. ‘Yes, we had much respect for one another.’
‘Excellent. Let’s go,’ Khalil ordered. Their bags were already downstairs. The suite here at the InterContinental in Lyon would be kept for Khalil, as he expected to return after a day or so, once he’d checked in on his head office at the port in Marseilles. It was one of the most important trading posts for AlGaz, and Grant figured a visit from the boss would be a distraction from what was really going on at the port, hence giving him an opportunity to check the shipments.
The phone in Khalil’s hand rang, and he jumped, almost dropping it. Grant watched as he composed himself and answered. Grant knew straight away, from Khalil’s body language, that the person on the other end of the phone was Fawaz Nabil. There was no doubt that his boss was talking to the man who held Hakim’s life in the balance. Grant had to acknowledge that time was running out. Almost a week had passed and they’d made headway but were no closer to their target. He knew that Khalil was losing patience and clarity of thought. This conversation could prove pivotal; after all, Khalil’s ships, and whatever was being transported inside them, were almost on European soil.
‘I want to speak to my son,’ Khalil’s voice broke slightly, and Grant glimpsed into the heart of the man whose exterior was as cool as the arctic tundra. It was clear that Fawaz denied this request. Khalil closed his eyes.
‘I have done what you asked. Now it is your turn, on your honour, to show me that you are true to your word and release my son,’ Khalil said. It pained Grant to see him beg.
‘What do you mean, it’s more complicated now?’ Khalil’s question astonished Grant, and he stood up, motioning to Khalil to put the phone on speaker but it was an old Nokia without that function and Grant tutted. What the hell was going on? The goalposts were moving, and Grant didn’t like the sound of it. Khalil beckoned him over and they shared the handset. They both listened to the voice on the other end, which was as smooth as honey and utterly in control.
‘Somebody very important to me has gone missing, and I’d like you to find her for me, Khalil,’ Fawaz said.
‘Who? If I do this, my son will be returned to me?’ Khalil asked.
Grant stopped him with gestures. Khalil was pleading and on the verge of compromising any leverage he had, and Grant wanted to know who they were talking about before making any rash promises.
He found a pen and paper and scribbled to him in English.
Take control of your voice. He knows you’re the prey here – he can smell it.
Khalil nodded.
‘It depends on the woman being returned unharmed,’ Fawaz said.
Grant could have kicked something to vent his frustration at the glaring contradiction of the man, but he was dealing with scum.
Khalil replied calmly. ‘You’ve changed the rules, Fawaz. How do I know that you won’t break your promise again? My son’s life is not a game. Tell me who this woman is,’ Khalil demanded.
Grant nodded to him. They still had bargaining chips – the shipment full of Fawaz’s goods, for one, whatever that turned out to be – and Grant was going to make it his job to find out. It was all about leverage. The question was how far Khalil could push Fawaz before the reality of Hakim’s life being in danger hit him, and all bets were called off. Khalil’s nerve had held until now, but Grant could see that he had little left in the tank. He listened to Fawaz.
‘Two of our men were arrested by Interpol today. I can’t guarantee that our operation won’t be compromised. There are certain elements inside the French authorities who use excessive force,’ Fawaz said.
‘You know that well, Fawaz – I was truly sorry for the loss of Rafik,’ Khalil said. Grant heard genuine solicitude in Khalil’s voice.
Fawaz wavered. Khalil had hit a nerve. ‘If the operation is put at risk, then, I’m afraid that the life of your son, like that of my own was, will become collateral damage. There is only one way to make sure this doesn’t happen: you must find a way to refocus the inquiry by Interpol.’ Then he hung up.
Khalil stared at the phone. Grant took it off him.
‘We need to keep this because a signal might still be traced from it. It could help locate Fawaz in the future if all else fails.’
‘You mean if Hakim dies and I no longer play by his rules?’ Khalil asked.
Grant looked him in the eye and nodded. Khalil looked broken.
‘Do you think this is all about his son?’ Grant asked.
‘I don’t know. Fawaz never took responsibility for Rafik’s death: the fact that he was working for his own father when he died. The body was never returned. It is the highest insult when a father cannot give his son his burial rites. I cannot imagine his pain.’
‘So, he takes your son to replace his? An eye for an eye? So why go to all the trouble of using your ships and creating a circus? There’s something more.’
Grant’s personal phone buzzed, and it was the concierge informing them that their car for the airport was here.
‘I’m coming with you and I’ll find out what’s in my containers,’ Khalil said.
Grant nodded and went to the door. Fawaz hadn’t told them the name of the woman he was so concerned about, but that could wait. Khalil was close to giving up. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Perhaps it’s time to tell your Interpol lady the truth,’ Khalil said.
Chapter 33
The lights of Lyon burned brightly beyond the Interpol building. Helen was weary, but she had the two suspects still to interview. She went to see Peter Knowles, and found him also still at his desk. The identification of Ahmad Azzine and the connection to her case had created quite a flurry of excitement in the headquarters.
‘He’s been on a red notice for the best part of five years, since the arrest and detention of Rafik bin Nabil. It’s a huge step forward, Helen – massive congratulations.’
‘It was Sylvia who spotted him,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘So, about your two unknowns who were arrested today, where are they being interviewed? Please don’t set up anything until you’ve got a secure connection to my office – I want to be involved.’
‘Of course, Peter. Did you say Rafik bin Nabil? As in Fawaz bin Nabil’s son?
’
‘Yes, he was arrested five years ago in London on terrorism charges. The Home Office deported him back to Morocco where he died in custody, sadly.’
‘I did come across that in my research into Nabil Tradings. How did he die?’
‘The Home Office wrote to the Moroccan authorities, who were vague. As soon as a suspect leaves our soil, they no longer come under our authority, and so I’m not sure we ever got an answer. I was working in London at the time. The thing is, with some countries, you can never be sure about the intelligence regarding penal affairs. There are accusations of torture going on all over Africa. You never know, he might be alive and well with his father.’
Helen was surprised at Peter’s nonchalance. The file she’d read stated very clearly that Rafik was dead. Fawaz’s son had now popped up more than circumstantially. Helen believed that it was enough to explain any man’s hatred for a system that protected those responsible for his death, but Rafik had died in Morocco, not Europe. She cast her mind back to the then Home Secretary, the now current prime minister. She shelved the information.
‘So, how is he linked to Ahmad Azzine?’ Helen asked.
‘He was the one who gave us Azzine’s name under interrogation,’ Peter said, leaning on the side of his desk. ‘Before he was deported, of course.’
‘Why was he deported if he was so valuable?’ she asked.
Peter looked at her. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Aren’t terror suspects held and tried in the same country as their crimes? Isn’t that the whole point? To serve as an example? I heard it was their worst nightmare to be incarcerated in the UK or the US. Surely sending him home must have been part of a deal?’
‘Maybe it was,’ Peter said.
‘Peter…’ she began. He busied himself with his computer screen and she approached his desk.
‘Hmm?’ he looked up.
‘Could you access the Home Office file on his deportation?’
He sat back and crossed his fingers together like a bridge. Helen got the impression that he was studying her.
‘Why?’
‘Isn’t it enough that we were responsible for sending Rafik to his death? And here we have an associate closely linked to those responsible for Hakim’s abduction, as well as evidence that Azzine might have been – and still could be – working for Fawaz?’
‘But what evidence do we have that any of this is linked to Fawaz?’ Peter asked.
‘Surely we should find out?’ She was losing patience and it showed in her voice. She apologised. ‘I’m hoping that I’ll get a positive ID from the two suspects in custody for “Sand Cat”. If he’s at the centre of it and Fawaz’s son gave up his name under duress, then we can’t ignore it,’ she said.
‘Be careful, Great Britain signed the Geneva Convention. We don’t torture.’
‘Of course we don’t,’ she said. ‘But anyone who loses a child like that – in any way – would want revenge, wouldn’t he?’ she added. She thought about the trading name of the company in Berkeley Square, London. Something made her hold off telling Peter. His area was counter terrorism not fraud. Perhaps she should run it by Sir Conrad?
She could tell that Peter was a man who needed tangible proof. Gone were the days when Counter Terrorism officers used strong-arm tactics to extract information. Everything had to be legitimate and legally watertight now. Presumably, that’s why he held his post. He was careful. The buck stopped with him.
Seconds passed between them.
‘Of course, I’ll get it for you,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, not daring to add anything else lest he change his mind. They turned their attention to the questioning of the two suspects in custody. They’d been taken to a local station in Lyon, and a secure preliminary interview was being set up via video link. ‘I’ll let you know when we’re all set up for the interviews with the two suspects we have in custody,’ she said, and left his office.
As she walked, she called Sir Conrad’s private number and told him about what she’d learned about Nabil Tradings.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said.
Helen thought it an old-fashioned statement which reminded her of her father, but acknowledged that Sir Conrad’s vocab came directly from the twentieth century.
‘Rafik, you say?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, well… I’ll be damned.’
He hung up.
Chapter 34
As she neared her office, Helen’s phone rang. She was still distracted by Sir Conrad’s reaction to her findings on Nabil Tradings and didn’t check the number.
‘Major Scott?’ The voice spoke in English.
‘Yes, speaking.’ It came from a forensic contact who was heading the emergency search at the property they’d raided today. They got introductions and small talk out of the way and went straight down to business. A frisson of excitement flickered inside her, and she hoped it was positive news: something she could work with.
‘In the rear room of the property, extensive genetic matter was recovered and sent to the BioLab here in Lyon. I’ve requested as speedy a turnaround time as they can muster – after all, we’re paying five thousand euros for the service.’
Helen nodded. ‘Right, and?’ she asked.
‘They’ve identified workable DNA but haven’t profiled it yet.’
‘Describe the room to me.’
‘A bedroom overlooking the street. The window was shuttered. There was a single chair, a cot bed, what looks like a vessel for ablutions and a toilet.’
‘Where was the DNA extracted from?’ Helen asked.
‘The bed. And the vessel containing live excreta.’
‘Good. When can we expect the results?’
‘Sometime in the next twenty-four hours, I’m told.’
‘Are they examining the specimen for diet too?’ Helen asked. Any information they could gather about Hakim’s wellbeing was crucial.
‘Of course.’
Helen hung up.
Back in her office, she opened her computer and saw that she’d been sent a live link to the interview of the two suspects. They were ready. She emailed Peter the secure password to join the proceedings. He replied straight away and told her that he was joining now. She did the same.
Two cells came onto the screen. In them sat the two men arrested this morning. They looked nonchalant and bored. Lawyers sat next to both of them, paid for by Interpol.
Biographies of the suspects had been filed by the lawyers. Helen had already scanned them. Arrested and interviewed under caution, they each had to at least give their names, nationalities and dates of birth. They were both Moroccan and here in France illegally. She had scant details on their histories but knew where they’d been to school (for a couple of years), where they’d worked (legitimately only) and their passport details. There were gaping holes in travel histories, but it was a start.
The interviewing officers signalled to Helen that they were ready to commence, and the preliminaries were got out of the way. In each room, the men answered a simple yes or no, as appropriately nudged by their lawyers.
The details of all present were read out in English and French. It was made very clear that the men were under caution and as such anything they said would be recorded and given in evidence. Helen was used to this kind of interview procedure, which was becoming more and more common among investigating teams. The senior investigating officer’s physical presence, it was surmised, during the initial stages of the proceedings, was best used remotely, as an observer. Sometimes, interviews in person caused vital signals to be lost, due to the officers in question zeroing in on faces and words, rather than the whole picture. It was only once watched back on tape, that certain nuances became clear. This way, both she and Peter could scrutinise body language patterns, and the overall picture. She’d already instructed the first few questions and she was glad to see that, unlike the police officer interviewing Amélie Laurent in Paris, the Lyon of
ficers were sticking to her brief to the letter.
It was pretty standard stuff until Ahmad Azzine was mentioned.
‘Sand Cat,’ the officer emphasised.
Helen watched the faces of the two men in separate rooms. Their body language was simple to read.
Both lawyers leant over to their clients and whispered into the men’s ears privately. Each man replied, ‘No comment.’
Helen was reminded of her first interviews in training years ago, at Pirbright, Surrey. Since then, she’d come to appreciate it as an art. Listening to the proliferation of ‘no comment’ was a standard and tedious part of her job. However, what was indisputable was how a human being reacts to being shown photographs. She’d studied experiments where people were exposed to highly emotive images, like war zones, compared to familiar images, such as of somebody they knew and felt comfortable with. Both men displayed signals of the latter when they looked at Sand Cat, if only for a fraction of a second before they shut down. Helen spotted the subtle reactions because of experience: she’d been waiting for them. She made a note of the time, so she could rewind the recording later.
She watched as the first pieces of evidence, as handed to the lawyers before the interviews began, were presented. The two men were shown photos of the Peugeot driven from Paris to Lyon. They were also shown the witness statement from the old woman, the tip-off from the witness overhearing them argue, the surveillance of the cafe, as well as body-cam images of their arrests and initial forensic findings. The men’s DNA had been taken and Helen prayed the lab got back to her soon.
‘It looks like somebody was held here,’ one officer stated. The same assertion was put to the other suspect.
‘No comment.’
‘Was it this man?’ They were shown a photograph of Hakim Dalmani. Again, the body language of the two men changed dramatically when they looked at the evidence. But one of them in particular looked the more nervous of the two. Helen looked at his name. Farid. The same name as Hakim’s little brother.
‘No comment.’
