The Rift

by Rachel Lynch

  ‘Excellent. Do it again, I want to film it,’ Ahmad ordered.

  Chapter 48

  Twenty armed police surrounded the entrance to the garage. Three went up to the roof to secure any escape routes as Helen and Sylvia watched on their screens. Several raids were happening simultaneously. This one, on the garage where the lorry had pulled in after its long journey from Marseilles, and others on the addresses supplied by Farid to Helen. They’d moved to a control room downstairs that could handle the volume of simultaneous material. Six screens filled the wall and each had live footage of the progress of the Gendarmerie Nationale armed response units.

  ‘What’s the latest?’ Helen asked Sylvia.

  ‘There’s been no activity around the property since surveillance was set up,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘Shit, do you think we missed them somehow?’ Helen asked.

  Last night, she and Grant had waited in the shadows, watching the lorry pull into the garage and the doors close behind it. It couldn’t have gone anywhere else. It was while they were sat outside the building that she’d brought him around to the idea that they needed to join forces on this. Khalil could be talked round. The fact was that neither of them knew where his son was, but with shared effort and cooperation, they had a better chance of finding him alive. They had to work together to find Hakim, as they only had the precious little time until Peter Knowles and his team had no option but to move in and take Fawaz down, even if Hakim still hadn’t been found.

  Of course, they both knew that Interpol would go ahead regardless of having Khalil on board or not. They didn’t need his blessing to do their jobs, but they’d much rather he was on their side and not trying to deal with Fawaz alone.

  Helen and Grant were creatures cut from the same cloth: their powers of persuasion were what defined them. With Khalil on board, surveillance had been set up quickly but had there been a gap between when Helen and Grant left and what the surveillance teams witnessed? Had the lorry in fact left or, more importantly, had the goods inside been somehow unloaded and taken out of the garage, for example, through the roof or via the rear?

  Helen couldn’t sit still and she stood with her hands on her hips. Sylvia sat before the control centre that linked them to all six screens. All she had to do was flick a switch to denote which feed she wanted access to. She checked in with each of the teams preparing to enter the addresses around the Le Croix-Rousse, but Helen kept her sight on the warehouse.

  The operation downtown was trickier because of the nature of the urbanisation. Houses had been built on the hill since the sixteenth century and it showed. The crooked arrangement of tenements, stone houses and apartments looked, in places, as though it might fall down. The tiny passageways, so useful to the resistance fighters during the war, were any gendarme’s nightmare. However, the officers were in place, as far as they could be, and the first mission of Operation Tradewind was about to begin.

  Local residents had been told to stay indoors. The streets thrummed with activity as the gendarme gently requested people go inside and await further instruction. Some complained, but, by and large, they did as they were told. The personnel of the Police Gendarmerie Nationale had a fitness level suited to clambering upon garages and roofs joined together with washing lines and terraces. They were also heavily armed. Residents poked their heads out of windows to watch the unfolding drama. Sylvia and Helen could see clearly from body cameras that they were in position and ready to go.

  Meanwhile, Sylvia flicked her mic back to the warehouse and gave the signal to advance on the storage facility, and Helen watched keenly, listening for any orders or events that might give them the answers they so wanted. After all, it was she and Grant who’d led them there. They heard bangs and foot stomping. The camera on screen with the best view was the chef d’escadron himself who had been tasked with running the mission.

  They were inside. The lorry was there, but reports came in simultaneously from all over the building that no persons were present. Helen didn’t like it.

  ‘Check for explosive devices,’ she said.

  They watched as a careful sweep of the garage and the lorry itself was performed. Officers were trained to spot improvised explosive devices in wheel arches, engine parts, door handles and other parts of the vehicle. They used long-armed mirrors, fingertip searches as well as handheld vapour and molecular detectors.

  ‘Clear.’

  The lorry was opened, and Sylvia and Helen could see that there were intact boxes loaded into it. Had the guardians of the precious load been spooked and left their cargo?

  Sylvia gave the command to open the boxes, one by one.

  Sylvia pushed herself away from the table.

  ‘Let’s go back to the city,’ Helen said. She couldn’t bear to wait around doing nothing as the boxes were unpacked.

  In Le Croix-Rousse, in the heart of les traboules, five separate teams were in position and ready to enter the addresses, by force if necessary. Sylvia and Helen watched as some doors were opened by terrified occupants, but others had to be smashed in. They listened carefully to all the commands and reports, staying on top of each search. At the top of each screen, an address reel allowed them to follow along. For a moment, the noise of simultaneous raids took over, and to a bystander, it might look like chaos, but Helen and Sylvia knew exactly which addresses were yielding results, and which ones weren’t. Rooms were cleared, suspects found inside were lined up on the floor and cuffed, and arrests were made. All five properties were to be made secure and forensic teams sent in. Body-cam images were streamed back to the office, and Helen and Sylvia both stood now, leaning over the desk, adrenalin rushing through their bodies, making them unable to be still. Sylvia tapped her foot and Helen grabbed the desk harder. They were looking for familiar faces.

  ‘Wait!’ Helen said. ‘There.’

  ‘Which screen?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘Five. I want to see the two suspects on the ground, on the blue carpet… that one!’ she pointed. Sylvia communicated this to the capitaine leading the raid on that particular property. Helen looked at the notes in front of them and linked the screen to an address overlooking the Rhône, high up on the hill. The capitaine went back to the suspects lying on the ground and made the two men face the camera. Helen tried to concentrate on managing the barrage of reports coming in to her audio, but couldn’t take her eyes off the men.

  ‘We’ve found two automatic weapons and four pistols,’ said the capitaine.

  ‘Any sign of the target?’ Helen asked, as she surveyed the room from the vantage point of the capitaine’s chest camera. It was sparse, vacant almost, and the men were putting up no resistance.

  ‘We’re still searching.’

  ‘Check balcony exits, underfloor hatches, loft spaces and chimneys – the bath panel if they have one. He’s most likely gagged.’

  Helen stared at the two men, in particular the one looking directly into the chest camera of the capitaine, as if he could see her, and he said something in Arabic. The capitaine swiped him over his head and Helen silently thanked him. The suspect had called her ‘beyra’.

  Helen’s tiny hairs on her arms stood up. The Arabic word was used to describe barren land that no one wanted because it couldn’t be farmed. But it was also used to shame women who weren’t married as washed up and undesirable. Helen had heard it plenty of times in Afghanistan, where she’d studied the language. It was highly offensive, but what Helen couldn’t understand was how he knew that the person running the operation, and thus watching the cam footage, was a woman, and she was indeed unmarried.

  ‘I want those two brought here,’ Helen said.

  ‘Agreed,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘What are your names?’ the capitaine bellowed into the faces of the two men. He handled them roughly and Helen waited, used to witnessing forceful apprehension techniques in her time. Eventually, one of them had his head banged on the floor and decided to reply.

  ‘Fudail,’ he said.

  ‘I c
an’t hear you,’ the capitaine said, bellowing in his ear and holding his neck at an awkward angle. The man looked into his body cam and repeated his name.

  Helen seethed and forced herself to look away to the warehouse search. It was a coincidence, she told herself. Unless Khalil… No, that was absurd.

  ‘Look,’ said Sylvia, bringing her out of her pondering.

  Inside the garage, all the boxes had been opened and photographed. They contained oranges and rugs.

  Chapter 49

  Three catering lorries and four minibuses carrying the staff entered the back gates of the Palace of Versailles. It would be a long security check-in and the catering company had factored this in to their employees’ shifts. A tightening of perimeter surveillance and defence had been ordered by Special Agent Roy White, and seven French gendarmes took responsibility for this particular entrance to the west of the Grand Canal. The convoy had to pull over into specially designed bays provided for the purpose of the summit, and the staff climbed out while checks were done.

  The gendarmes had in their possession a whole armoury of gadgetry: thermal imagers, extender mirrors for checking under vehicles, infrared cameras, carbon dioxide sensors, as well as good old-fashioned canines. Four German shepherds, considered the best breed for olfactory prowess, barked and pulled against their leashes and the catering staff huddled away from them.

  A gendarme apologised: they weren’t here, after all, to scare anyone, and if they had nothing to hide, then they’d be on their way very soon. Once well away from the jaws of the animals, several of the staff lit cigarettes and chatted amicably about their excitement at catering, serving, and – for some of them – cooking, at the great palace. The entrance was surrounded by trees and hedges, so they couldn’t see the grand building yet, but it had been a large contract for the company to land so the excitement was palpable. Versailles didn’t keep its own standing kitchen staff any more; those days were long gone. They’d been given maps, equipment lists, timings and dietary requirements months in advance, and each knew their job. Cooking for the president of the United States at a NATO summit would look good on any CV, and it was a chance to stand out.

  Maybe the president was already there, inside the palace? Maybe he was even staying there? They gossiped and smoked as the checks were carried out inside the vehicles. Boxes were opened, the spaces under chairs were searched, inside the engine and side panels were photographed and imaged, and the gendarmes took notes and nodded. A few of the cooks gazed nervously at the officers, worried that some of their cold storage might be compromised.

  Finally, one of the gendarmes walked over to them and handed one of the drivers a piece of paper. They were free to carry on towards the great kitchens, where, they apologised, further personal checks would be made. They’d been instructed to bring their passports, a staffing list, spare photographs and one other form of ID. It was worth the extra hassle, and they piled back into the minibuses. They were given directions and were escorted by a gendarme on a motorbike. The buzz of being so close to something on the world stage pushed exhilaration around their bodies, and they peered out of the windows, trying to get the first glimpse of the palace itself.

  There were slight logistical problems – as there often are when catering in large stately homes – but the Palace of Versailles was a whole other ball game. It was colossal. Luckily, the main kitchen was only two storeys underneath the Hall of Mirrors, where the welcome banquet was being held. The staff had to get five courses for sixty people up five different dumb-waiter systems. There was so much that could go wrong. What to serve? It needed to travel, stay warm – or cold – present perfectly upon arrival and be tidied away with the same efficiency. The executive chef had worked for six months on the details.

  Suddenly, they were in the open, travelling next to a beautiful gully of water, which was crystal clear and surrounded by flowers of all shapes and colours.

  ‘That’s the Grand Canal!’ one shouted.

  As they neared the centre, white marble statues adorned the treeline, and they spotted the golden sculptures in the middle of the water. Animals, nymphs, cupids and virgins frolicked in the water and stared as the catering trucks rounded the fountain. They’d had no idea that they’d be allowed to drive around it. They’d wholly expected to be sent on circuitous access routes and service roads, but, they supposed, with no one around – the palace being shut until next week to the public – it was the quickest way.

  The motorbike stopped in front and the gendarme turned back and smiled, he pointed in the distance and, as each truck rounded the fountain, they knew why. Up on the higher ground to the south east, framed by perfect blue sky, sitting as regally as she had for centuries, was the palace. Box bushes, preened to the ultimate precision, lined the route to the house, which sat white and resplendent. No one talked.

  The small cavalcade carried on, not directly to the house, as the gravel walkway wouldn’t allow, but over the crossroads and round past the Grande Trianon. No further such view was available as they made their way around the back of the great house and reached their destination, but they didn’t need it; they’d seen everything they’d wanted and more.

  Chapter 50

  The flat where the man called Fudail had been arrested this morning had been searched, but there was no sign of Hakim. The fact that he’d looked into the body cam of a gendarme and said ‘beyra’ haunted Helen. Was it mere coincidence that she was a woman and unmarried? But she came back to the fact that the man had looked into the body-cam lens while being apprehended by a man. There were plenty of insults he could have hurled against the male gender, but he hadn’t.

  Or was she simply paranoid? They were closing in on suspects and her mind whirred. She tried to concentrate on her phone call to the forensic officer at the scene of the flat where the same man had been arrested.

  ‘What exactly was searched?’ Helen asked him. ‘Bath panels? Loft spaces, floorboards? Cupboards? Have we sent in dogs or carbon-dioxide sensors?’ She fired questions off, partly to escape the thoughts of Hakim, and what shape he might be in after a week of captivity. If, indeed, he was still alive. It was a sweltering day and the forensic officer was no doubt kitted from head to toe in plastic. Helen knew it was a shitty job, but she needed answers. She grabbed her bag and headed out of the door.

  ‘The two men are in custody,’ Sylvia told her. The other had finally given his name as Nizam; Fudail’s accomplice.

  ‘He knows something – I’m convinced Hakim is in that flat or somewhere nearby. I’m going over to Le Croix-Rousse to work with the forensic team. Keep in touch,’ Helen said.

  Sylvia nodded. ‘I’m going to interview that one first,’ she said, pointing at the still copied from the body cam of the man calling himself Fudail. ‘He’s not on any of our databases, by name, but he’ll have DNA and fingerprints extracted as soon as he’s booked in,’ Sheila said. ‘Good work with the young man earlier – the transcript was genius to read,’ Sheila added.

  ‘Thank you,’ Helen said. She didn’t hang around for compliments and left, charging an Interpol driver to shoot her across town.

  The journey was frustrating but she knew that she needed to be close to where she believed Hakim had been, and perhaps – if they were lucky – still was. The door-to-door was still ongoing in Le Croix-Rousse, taking longer than normal because of the alleyways and hidden corners of les traboules, but the Police Nationale was admirably diligent, and updates pinged up on their inquiry noticeboard as more and more residents were accounted for. She peered at her iPad in the back of the car and fiddled with her clothing. Her shirt felt uncomfortable and her hair hot. She tied it back and checked her mascara in a tiny mirror she pulled from her bag. Smudged make-up wasn’t a great look, but it was sometimes a hazard of the job. She was thrilled when she’d found a super-waterproof brand in Paris, and it seemed to be holding up so far. Her phone rang and her cheeks flushed when she saw it was Grant. She answered the call.

  ‘I’ve got Kh
alil on board, and I’ve gathered everything you wanted. He’s had another phone call. You know I said Fawaz alluded to a woman he wanted released?’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen replied.

  ‘He confirmed to Khalil that it’s Madame Bisset. He said if she wasn’t released into his custody this afternoon, Hakim will die. It’s our last chance. Khalil is on the verge of breaking – we haven’t got much time,’ he added.

  This was their first solid lead linking Fawaz to the abduction, Jean-Luc and to Europe. It solidified her position and gave her the conviction she needed to proceed.

  ‘Grant?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has Khalil at any point told Fawaz that a woman is in charge of the Interpol inquiry into Hakim’s disappearance?’

  ‘I don’t know, why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  She hung up and communicated the information to Peter, who informed her that he’d contacted Sir Conrad to update him. He was awaiting his flight at the airport.

  ‘I think it’s safe to say your line manager is in shit alley,’ he said. Helen couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Ben Palmer crawling out of this one.

  They hung up and, as if on cue, her mobile rang again and it was Sir Conrad himself. Not his secretary or military attaché lackey, no. Now he wanted to speak. Well, he could fuck right off. She ignored it and instead called Grant back.

  ‘I’m heading to les traboules, if you happen to be over that way,’ she said.

  Grant laughed gently.

  ‘You’re already on your way there?’ she said.

  ‘I can’t sit and do nothing, and we know that if he’s anywhere, it’s in that neighbourhood. When’s your ETA?’

  ‘Three minutes.’

  They hung up. She got the car to drive her up the hill and stop next to the building that was being searched and showed her ID tag. The street was quiet, as many people were abiding by the wishes of the gendarmerie and staying indoors. It didn’t stop people peering over balconies and from behind shutters, but that was fine. She spotted Grant and met him on a stairwell overhanging with bougainvillea. The deep purple flowers reminded her of Cyprus, which is where her body had laboured to bring Luke into the world. The hospital at RAF Akrotiri had provided excellent care, talking her through every step of her spontaneous abortion. She hated the term, but that’s exactly what it was: her body was giving birth because her child was dying.