by Rachel Lynch
Nature is so clever, she’d mused at the time, as if in some manically warped daze. It was her mental protection mechanism, she knew now: it prevented utter overload of pain, grief and bereavement.
Her senses returned to the stone wall, painted yellow, hot in the sun, and the man smiling at her.
‘You look as though you never drove through the night and have had zero sleep,’ she said.
‘You know I’m not the best sleeper,’ he replied. It was true, she never knew him go more than five hours in one stretch. She guessed some people didn’t need it. His mind was hard-wired to whatever was coming next.
‘Is it up here?’ he asked. ‘I guessed because of the number of police.’
‘How did you get in?’ she asked.
‘I know some of them,’ he replied.
She shook her head. Of course he did. ‘Come on, it’s up here. You’ll have to suit up,’ she said.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been inside an active crime scene before,’ he said.
‘First time for everything. The dogs are due any minute, so I hope you haven’t been handling firearms this morning,’ she said and winked.
Sniffer dogs used for bodies were different breeds to those used for firearms or bomb detection and disposal. He feigned a smile and nodded to the back of her pants, where he knew she carried a Glock. She tapped it and led the way up the stairwell.
A forensic officer checked Helen’s ID and gave them both masks, plastic over-suits, shoe covers and gloves. They both turned at the sound of dogs barking and went inside to make room for the newcomers. Inside, the flat was almost completely stripped, if ever it had been furnished at all. Helen had already read the inventory, and it was sparse. The weapons had been taken to a special military facility outside Lyon for forensic firearms testing. DNA swabs were circled in blue, numbered evidence cards were laid out on the floor and counter surfaces and plastic-covered areas like the toilet, kitchen sink and TV were all items well used. She didn’t envy those lab workers who dealt with bodily fluids all day long, but whatever floated your boat, she thought.
She approached the forensic officer in charge and spoke through her mask. He’d ordered thermal imaging cameras and a carbon-dioxide sensory kit, which should be here soon, he confirmed. Helen walked around, aware that Grant was close behind her. She tapped the walls, feeling for cavities, and went to the bathroom, realising that both the shower panel attached to the wall, the airing cupboard door, as well as a tiny door to a cupboard at floor height had been removed. She bent down and shone her miniature torch into the cupboard. She crawled inside and sat in the tiny space. It was large enough for perhaps two people and Grant hovered at the gap, on his knees.
‘Shhh,’ she told him, putting her fingers to her lips. He sat silently and watched her. Her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and she looked around. Wooden panelling was roughly hammered onto the walls and a few rugs were scattered on the floor, numbered with markers for evidence, which she avoided carefully. She began tapping the wooden panels.
The sound of dogs panting took her attention away, and she and Grant listened as they came to the bathroom. ‘In here,’ she said. Grant got up and allowed the officer handling the dog to enter the tiny space. The dog seemed excited and went straight to Helen. She sat still, not wanting to distract it. It began to bark and Helen jumped, startled by the volume. The handler let it go, and it disappeared behind her, Helen spun around and the officer peered inside. The dog barked continuously now. It headed for one of the wooden panels and sat down.
Helen crawled towards it. ‘Boy or girl?’ she asked the handler.
‘Girl, she’s called Keekoo.’
‘Good girl, Keekoo! What have you found? Grant, get me something to get through wood, but carefully,’ she asked.
‘A wrench?’ he asked.
‘Smart arse,’ she replied. She waited, her ears deafened by Keekoo’s bark. The handler had crept in also, and knelt beside the dog, praising her and giving her treats.
‘What does it mean?’ Helen asked.
‘She’s trained to sit still and bark when she finds a match,’ he said.
‘A match as in the body was here or is here?’ Helen asked.
‘Either.’ The handler was calm and stroked Keekoo, who looked pleased with herself. Helen always believed that dogs were capable of smiling. Compare the picture of a miserable one to one that is loved, and it’s obvious. Keekoo was loved. She panted and her tongue lolled as the corners of her mouth curled up. Helen petted her.
Grant returned with a wrench and she took it, rolling her eyes at him. It was about the only part of her body he could see.
‘Thanks.’
She crawled behind Keekoo, who nosed her hand towards the panel.
‘Good girl,’ Helen soothed.
She used the heel jaw to grab a nail and closed the nut. She yanked it out and went on to another, and another, until the whole thing came off. Dust flew everywhere and Keekoo went crazy, charging into the space.
‘Grant, get a medic up here now!’ she shouted from the tiny space. He hesitated for a moment, but she communicated her urgency to him silently and he got it. He left. She turned her attention back to where Keekoo had disappeared. The dog had stopped barking and Helen heard what could only be described as a whimper. Helen hoped the dog wasn’t hurt, there must be all manner of broken wood and old rusty nails in there. She called to her gently, squinting in the darkness. There was no doubt they’d found some kind of sealed-off eaves, but the whole flat must be surrounded by botch jobs covering old roof space, as the buildings grew exponentially on top of one another. It was like a hidden cave.
She could see Keekoo now, sitting; panting, and whining ever so gently. Helen crawled towards her in the dark. She could hear the concerns of the handler behind her: there was only room for one. Helen concentrated on getting to Keekoo. Out of the darkness, next to the dog, Helen spotted a lump. She inched closer, on all fours, carefully moving obstacles in her path. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she saw that the lump was a body, and the body had a face.
It was Hakim.
Chapter 51
Grant came back, followed by a medic. He wore the familiar navy-blue shirt and trousers of the SAMU emergency medical responders, and he peered into the hole and shouted at her from beneath his red helmet. Other voices penetrated the gloom, but Helen was absorbed by the plight of the young man bundled into a blanket. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
‘Wait, I need to come back out to make room,’ Helen advised the auxiliaire paramédical. She could see his heavy black boots, into which his trousers were neatly tucked. She’d begun to sweat, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she crawled towards him. Breathless, she made it to the opening and allowed him through. He carried a standard responder’s bag, which was slung over his chest as he got down on his knees and swapped places with her.
‘I tried to find a pulse,’ she said after him.
She remained on the floor, peering into the bleakness and felt an arm on hers.
She turned around, and Grant helped her up.
‘It’s him. It’s Hakim,’ she said.
‘Is he alive?’ he asked frantically.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied.
A second medic rushed up the stairs and past Helen and Grant to the hole in the wall with a medical bag and a collapsible stretcher and rushed in.
‘It’s tight in there,’ Helen said in French. He entered anyway and Helen was amazed that he made room.
She looked at Grant who, she could tell, felt as helpless as her.
‘He was put in here to rot,’ he said, spitting his words. ‘Bastards.’
Helen remembered the face of the man called Fudail, who’d been arrested here in this apartment. He knew what was in these walls, and he’d left him there to die.
They heard sirens, but they both knew that it would take vital minutes for a fully equipped team to get up here and then into the tiny space, to provi
de any emergency care that Hakim might need. If he was still alive. They’d both seen active service and what happened when medevacs were minutes, or seconds, too late.
‘Des nouvelles?’ she shouted into the airless hollow.
‘Il est vivant!’ a medic exclaimed. Grant closed his eyes and Helen bent over, holding her knees with her hands, feeling as though she might vomit. ‘Thank God.’
They both stood back and watched as a medic backed out of the space, carrying a stretcher. Neither Helen nor Grant knew how they manoeuvred their bodies into such contortions, but they got him out, and the first medic brought up the rear. They backed up against the wall and allowed the professionals to do their jobs. They both watched Hakim’s face, which was ashen and unmoving, tubes stuck out of him, and the rear medic carried a saline bag. They disappeared down the stairwell, handling the stretcher deftly. Helen touched Grant’s arm. Who knew what Hakim had endured, and indeed if he’d survive?
‘He’s going to be all right,’ she said gently, hoping it would be true. ‘Do you want to inform his father?’ Grant nodded. They both walked down the stairs, following the stretcher. Downstairs, they stripped off their forensic covers and went outside. They watched the stretcher being loaded into the waiting ambulance, which sped off, sirens blazing. Helen took the name of the hospital destination and called Sylvia. As she did so, she saw Grant make a call and figured it would be bittersweet. Khalil might still lose his son.
The dog handler followed them outside into the sunlight, petting Keekoo, and Helen put out her hand as they passed. Keekoo nuzzled her and looked up.
‘Good girl,’ Helen said. She watched them leave and walked down the steps.
Sylvia answered her phone and Helen briefed her.
‘Fecking fine job!’ Sylvia exclaimed, and Helen imagined her doing a celebratory dance in the office. They’d achieved their number one priority: finding Hakim. Now they could go after Fawaz. He’d lost his chief bargaining chip. The gloves were off.
‘But I have less exciting news,’ Sylvia continued.
‘Go on.’ Helen said.
‘The Mercedes SUV you followed out of Marseilles, when it split from the lorry, travelled north to Paris, but it disappeared between two péages halfway up the E15 between the Orléans junction and the merging of the A77. There’s absolutely no way it could have exited on that stretch of road – a helicopter is searching now. However, what we do have is the appearance of another vehicle, not filmed before the Mercedes disappeared.’
‘Our lorry was a dummy,’ Helen said.
‘Exactly. I reckon we’ll find the Mercedes abandoned and empty,’ Sylvia said.
‘So, do we have an ongoing trail on the other vehicle? What is it?’ Helen asked.
‘We’ve got the registration and we’ve traced it entering Paris. A notice is out to apprehend. It’s a Ford Transit, navy blue, darkened windows, we think driven by two men,’ Sylvia said.
‘So no ID?’
‘The camera footage wasn’t close enough, I’m afraid.’
‘And where is it now? Do we know?’ Helen asked.
‘It entered the Gare du Nord district and travelled east. We lost it on an industrial estate that has three exits, we now know that the CCTV cameras around that area were vandalised recently,’ Sylvia said. ‘It could have gone in any direction if it left the estate,’ she added.
‘Or maybe it’s still there,’ Helen said.
‘That’s what we’re looking into. I’ll take care of booking your flight to Paris. Now we have Hakim, you’re free to get your ass up there. Peter left strict instructions that should you find Hakim, then he wanted you on the first flight. Do you need to go home and grab some kit from your apartment?’
‘Yep, I’ll take a driver from here and be quick,’ Helen replied. ‘Good luck with that Transit,’ she said. Her original brief was to investigate any potential breaches of security at the summit regarding Fawaz bin Nabil. Sylvia was right: she was now free to chase the bastard. They hung up.
‘I’m going back to Paris,’ she said to Grant, who’d be been waiting while she took the call from Sylvia. ‘Interpol will arrange for Khalil to be allowed into the hospital, but he might not be able to see Hakim straight away.’
Grant nodded.
‘Tell me where Marie Bisset is, and I’ll have her arrested. She’s no longer leverage,’ Helen said. The bitch could roast in hell as far as Helen was concerned, and when finally in her custody, she was tempted to hand her over to Fawaz to give herself enough rope to hang. But, alas, that wouldn’t be the case. He gave her the address.
‘Give me an hour to warn my man to get out of there,’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Come on,’ she said to Grant. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
They walked towards the car and got into the back seat. She gave the driver the address of her apartment. They didn’t speak. The physical effects of the adrenalin rush of the last twenty minutes were draining and they were weary. On route, Colonel Palmer called her, but she ignored it. The last thing she needed right now was a smarmy colonel fawning over her and backtracking to save his skin. An overwhelming sense of peace came over her: she’d achieved her mission to find the boy. But – and there was a big but – now she had to find Fawaz and make sure the summit was safe. She’d had to choose one over the other, and she hoped that time would prove her choice justified.
The car pulled up outside her address and she told the driver to wait. Grant followed her up to her flat. Inside, she grabbed a bag and threw clothes in, as well as toiletries, which she always kept packed and ready. She left her weapon in the safe: she’d be re-issued in good time. Grant lingered in the doorway.
Helen turned to him. ‘What will you do?’ she asked. They’d spent less than twenty-four hours together, but it felt like days. Her dread that ever seeing him again would turn her world upside down hadn’t happened. In fact, the opposite. She didn’t want this to be goodbye.
‘I’ll go and see Hakim in hospital and ask Khalil for some time off. I won’t head back to North Africa just yet. I’ll go back to London and do normal stuff like sit by the Serpentine and read a paper.’
‘Well, you’ve earned it,’ she said. ‘Interpol will still need to interview both of you,’ she said.
She was packed and ready to leave. She walked towards him and stopped a foot away. He closed the gap until their bodies were touching. He reached over and kissed her forehead. She didn’t pull away, but leant on his body and closed her eyes.
‘I want you to come with me,’ she said.
‘I can’t,’ he replied.
‘I know,’ she said. She looked up. He put his arms around her and bent his head, and she opened her lips. His hands ran underneath her hair and held her gently as they kissed. Moments later they parted and Grant let his hands fall.
‘You need to go. I’ll have time between connections in Paris if you want to see me before I go back to the UK. I’ll head there tonight,’ he said.
‘I do,’ she replied.
They left her flat and locked the door, and they got into the waiting car. She gave the address of the hospital to the driver and they travelled in silence. Only once did Grant reach over his hand to touch hers, and she let him.
Chapter 52
The car drove on to Lyon-Saint Exupéry Airport and dropped Helen by the private entrance reserved for security and first-class celebs. She was escorted straight through security and onto a waiting plane that had been delayed twenty-five minutes for her. She took her seat in first class and ignored the irate stares of the few privileged passengers around her who clearly didn’t approve of being held up.
As the plane took off, Helen watched the city below getting smaller and smaller as they banked north and then east, west and then north again. Only clouds could be seen down below as they climbed even further.
The flight took a mere hour, and it was as if they’d reached cruising altitude only to begin their descent into Charles de Gaulle. Within twenty minutes, they wer
e on the ground and she heard the scream of the reverse thrusters.
She was escorted off the plane before any of the passengers were allowed to unfasten their belts, and a car waited on the tarmac to take her to the US embassy in the city centre where she was to brief Special Agent White. She made contact with Peter to see if she’d missed anything while travelling. She had. The Transit van had been picked up again, driving around the same industrial estate, in an area of Gare du Nord. It had been stopped and a secure perimeter was in place on the estate. The drivers of the van were in custody and the search was about to begin.
‘I’m on my way,’ Helen told him.
The Paris traffic was more forgiving in July and it didn’t take the driver long to negotiate his way south through the ninth arrondissement to Avenue Gabriel and the graceful white stone building of the US embassy. Cordons were in place all around the perimeter, something that the Americans did year round as a matter of course, and guards looked solemn and proficient.
The car sped through two gates, manned with pristine-looking US soldiers in full uniform. She was taken to a back entrance, and her door opened for her. The driver carried her bag and after entering a corridor, he handed it to another soldier, who escorted her to a flight of stairs. She followed him two flights up to a lavish landing carpeted in red, white and blue. He knocked on a double door, which was closed. It was the first time he spoke.
‘I’ll take care of your bag, ma’am.’ His voice was formal and direct. She reckoned he was from Texas or somewhere nearby.
