Dead Line

by Chris Ewan

  He waited until Philippe was slurping at the rim again before reaching out and tilting the mug at the base.

  Philippe groaned in complaint, his eyes grown wide.

  Trent tipped harder.

  The muscles in Philippe’s throat pulsed. He tried to lower the mug. Trent held it steady.

  Philippe whined through his nose.

  ‘Drink,’ Trent said.

  He whined with more urgency.

  ‘Drink.’

  Philippe’s gullet opened. He moaned. He gagged. Hot coffee spilled from his mouth, running down his chin and soaking into his shirt.

  ‘Please,’ Stephanie said, from behind him. ‘It’s enough.’

  Trent turned and gave her a savage look. She was sitting forwards on her chair, bare knees pressed together, hands clasped tight in her lap.

  He was struck again by the contrast with how Aimée would likely behave. If she were here, she’d have elbowed him out of the way so that she could be the one forcing the coffee into Philippe.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ Trent told Stephanie. ‘The men who took your husband could call at any moment.’

  Philippe rocked his head back and gasped. He wiped his jaw with the back of his wrist.

  The mug was empty.

  Trent seized it and snatched up the coffee pot and poured a refill, holding Alain’s eye. The bodyguard stared back, steady and unmoving.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Philippe said, waving his hand. ‘I’m fine now.’

  Trent set the coffee pot down. He returned to the sofa. Jabbed the mug towards Philippe.

  ‘Again.’

  ‘It’s fine, I said.’

  ‘Again.’

  ‘I’m fine, I tell—’

  Trent didn’t wait to hear more. He snatched a knuckle-full of Philippe’s hair, yanked his head back until his jaw fell open and slammed the mug against his teeth.

  ‘Drink,’ he said.

  Philippe swallowed some of the coffee but the rest sluiced down his neck and chest. Trent didn’t back off. He poured until the mug was empty. Philippe groaned and rolled his head to one side. His skin was flushed around his lips and jaw. It matched his reddened cheek.

  ‘One more,’ Trent said.

  ‘But that is enough. Believe me.’

  ‘One. More.’

  Trent refilled the mug to the brim. He upended the coffee pot, adding a sludge of grinds to the mix. He fitted Philippe’s hand around the mug. Clamped his fingers there.

  ‘Need my help?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Philippe muttered. ‘I’ll drink it.’

  And like a kid clearing all his greens from his plate, he went ahead and did exactly that.

  Chapter Eight

  Trent took up a position in the centre of the octagonal room and began, as he always did, by describing his background and experience. His delivery rarely changed. It was no different tonight.

  He started with the usual oblique references to his formative years in the British military and his early work as an analyst for a secretive branch of the UK government, followed by his switch to a London-based corporate security outfit. He explained how his dual Anglo-French nationality had led him to move to the company’s Paris office, where he’d specialised in kidnap and ransom negotiation.

  He talked of a demanding five-year period handling kidnap cases across France, Italy, the Balkans, Greece and Spain, where he’d honed his skills and developed his own particular techniques and tactics. Then he mentioned how he’d decided to relocate to Marseilles in the wake of a spate of kidnappings throughout the south of France to set up his own niche firm specialising in all varieties of K & R protection. He outlined the scope of services his firm provided, ranging from the insurance policy that Jérôme had acquired from his colleague and business partner, Aimée Paget, to the guidance he’d hoped to provide to Jérôme concerning anti-kidnap security measures, to the sort of assistance he could offer in the case of an actual kidnapping, such as the Moreaus were experiencing right now.

  Twenty minutes’ fast talking and then he was done. One o’clock in the morning. Silence in the room. His audience had remained mute throughout. Trent had paid close attention to their reactions when he’d mentioned Aimée’s name. None of them had betrayed a thing. There was no indication of any concern or recognition.

  Stephanie had hung on his every word, shuffling ever nearer to the edge of her chair. She looked pale and tired and just about ready to drop.

  Philippe hadn’t strayed from the chesterfield, though now he was pivoted forwards from the waist, his bony elbows braced on his spread thighs, his gaze fixed on the fragments of pulverised glass between his feet. Trent was fairly sure he was suffering from a tide of nausea. He was swallowing audibly. Another mouthful of coffee and he’d likely pass out.

  Alain was perched on the end of the desk next to the tray of coffee things, one foot touching the floor, his other leg bent at the knee. He’d shed his jacket and draped it over the chair alongside Stephanie, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his frayed collar. The Ruger was still in its holster. The holster was still fitted around his shoulder and chest. He looked a lot like a squad detective receiving a debrief.

  One spot remained conspicuously unoccupied – the office chair behind the desk. It was the most comfortable seat in the room and it would have given one of his listeners the best possible view of what he had to say. But it appeared that nobody was prepared to claim it. Perhaps it was a subconscious decision to keep the spot open for Jérôme. Perhaps it signified something else. Trent was still weighing up the possible explanations when Philippe cleared his throat.

  ‘We should contact the police,’ he said, glancing up at Stephanie and Alain. ‘Men we trust there. Men my father can rely on.’ Beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead. His skin had a waxy texture and he was squinting myopically, as though the light in the room was too bright for him.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ Trent replied.

  ‘Why?’ His cheek was still livid. Looked like it might bruise. ‘They have the manpower and the resources to deal with situations like this.’

  ‘They also have a different agenda from us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘That’s right. Like it or not, we’re a team now.’

  Philippe curled his lip. He shook his head at the others in the room. ‘He’s just looking to get paid for something the police will do better. And for free.’

  ‘Not true.’ Trent fixed his gaze on each of them in turn. He was very deliberate about it. ‘My fee is covered by Jérôme’s insurance policy.’

  ‘But you’re just one man,’ Philippe persisted. ‘I bet the police would assign some kind of specialist unit.’

  Trent bobbed his head. ‘You’re right. They would. But tell me, what would be their goal?’

  ‘To get my father back.’

  ‘Possibly. But they’d also want to try and apprehend the gang. They’d want to prevent the gang from doing this to someone else.’

  ‘Are you concerned they’ll put you out of business?’

  ‘I’m concerned they might bungle their investigation. I’m concerned they’d show their hand. When the men who snatched your father get in contact, the first thing they’ll tell you is not to talk to the police. And they’ll mean it, too. If they catch sight of the authorities anywhere near them, do you know what they’ll do?’

  Philippe didn’t reply. He just stared at Trent, a bluish cast to his lips, a simmering loathing in his sleep-hooded eyes.

  ‘They’ll kill your father. Make no mistake. They don’t want to be caught. They don’t want to come close to risking it. And catching them isn’t your concern. Your only thought should be getting your father back alive. I can help you to achieve that, but you have to work with me and you have to work with the gang. This is a negotiation now.’ He glanced at Stephanie. She was blinking rapidly. ‘You’ll have to pay. I’m sorry, but that’s the reality. Hoping for any other outcome is like putting a loaded gun against your husband’s head and
pulling the trigger.’

  Stephanie winced but Trent didn’t back off. It was vital to get his point across. Not just for Jérôme. For other reasons, too. Reasons that had to do with his own concerns. With Aimée and the bigger objective he was working towards.

  Trent turned back to Philippe. ‘What do you do for a living?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a businessman,’ Philippe replied, though he looked far from it in his ridiculous shirt and his sagging jeans.

  Alain snorted.

  ‘What kind of business?’ Trent asked.

  ‘A nightclub. In the Vieux Port.’

  ‘He has only a share,’ Stephanie explained. ‘His partners take their profits in cash. Philippe prefers to consume his in other ways.’

  ‘A lot you know,’ Philippe snarled back. ‘The way you make your living. On your back for my father.’

  ‘Hey!’ Trent snapped his fingers. ‘Enough.’

  Stephanie’s head rolled loosely on her shoulders, like she was reeling from a physical blow. Her plump lips were pursed and moist, as if she were sucking on a straw. Great lips. Wonderful features. But right now her wan skin had pulled taut over her angular cheekbones, and she looked lost and alone and utterly abandoned. Trent could see that she was the kind of woman men would trample other men to protect. He could feel the temptation to go to her. It was a hard instinct to resist.

  ‘We don’t have time for this.’ He jabbed a finger at Philippe. ‘Let’s get back to your club. You must have all kinds of suppliers, correct? You need drinks. Snacks. A sound system. DJs. That kind of thing.’

  Philippe nodded, an amused slant to his mouth, as if Trent was tragically unhip.

  ‘But you have something they need, too, don’t you? They survive because of your custom.’

  He sniffed and lifted his shoulders. Maybe the club wasn’t doing too well. It wouldn’t surprise Trent to hear it. Philippe didn’t strike him as the dedicated type.

  ‘My point is, it’s the same with the men who’ve taken your father. You have to set your emotions aside and view this as a business transaction. Think of it like this: these men have a commodity you want. They have Jérôme. But the reverse is also true. You have something they need. You have money.’

  ‘My father has money.’

  ‘Same thing. That’s why they targeted him.’

  ‘Or because of the insurance policy,’ Alain put in, crossing his arms over his chest, squeezing the revolver with his biceps. ‘It’s possible they know it exists.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Trent replied. ‘But either way, Jérôme is worth something to the gang. And to get him back, you need to barter a deal. And that’s where I come in.’

  Before he continued, Trent finally did what he’d wanted to do since he’d first stepped into the room. He walked around the oversized desk, rolled back the giant leather chair and took a seat.

  A simple process. A comfortable one, too. The chair was well sprung, the leather soft and warm. The backrest was supportive in all the right places. It didn’t even creak as he adjusted his weight.

  But the effect was telling.

  Stephanie gazed at him uncertainly. Philippe appeared stunned. Alain tensed and slipped off the side of the desk, as if sensing a threat.

  ‘This is Jérôme’s chair?’ Trent asked.

  Stephanie nodded, mouth agape.

  ‘And nobody sits here except Jérôme?’

  ‘You should respect him,’ Alain said.

  ‘You think he’ll be mad at me?’ Trent leaned backwards. He smoothed his hands along the armrests. ‘Listen, I’m just keeping it warm for him until he returns. Believe me, I want him back alive every bit as much as all of you.’

  He scanned the faces in front of him. Philippe and Stephanie averted their eyes. Only Alain held his gaze. His stare was unwavering.

  Trent asked himself if maybe the bodyguard sensed that he was lying? If he saw clean through his words?

  Because the truth was he didn’t want Jérôme back as much as any of them.

  He wanted it much, much more than that.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Let’s talk money,’ Trent said, pressing his fingertips together. ‘The insurance policy Jérôme took out with my firm covers him for a ransom payout of up to two and a half million euros.’

  Philippe whistled.

  ‘Sounds a lot, doesn’t it? And I’m not here to try and save our brokers any cash. If that’s what it takes to free Jérôme, then that’s what we’ll pay.’

  ‘Do you really think they will ask for this much?’ Stephanie asked, as if she couldn’t quite conceive of the sum.

  ‘No,’ Trent told her. ‘I think they’ll ask for more. They’ll start with a high demand, hoping you’ll pay it. That way they leave themselves room to come down.’

  ‘How much higher?’ Alain asked.

  ‘Three million. Maybe even four. It depends if they know about the policy. It also depends how much Jérôme might be worth.’

  ‘Four million?’ Stephanie repeated, breathless now.

  ‘It’s a request. That’s all. We have to talk them down.’

  ‘But you risk aggravating them,’ Alain said. ‘They could react badly.’

  ‘Kill him, you mean?’ Trent shook his head. ‘Think about it: returning Jérôme to us safely is the only way they get paid. And trust me, the worst thing you could do would be to agree to their first demand. They don’t really expect to be paid three or four million or whatever it is they actually ask for. The going rate for ransoms of this kind in France right now is somewhere below two million. They’re a professional gang. They’ll know that. But suppose you consent to pay them four million, what do you think will happen?’

  Nobody answered. Trent hitched an eyebrow at Philippe. Philippe shuffled restlessly, unwilling to speak up.

  ‘They’ll think you’re a soft touch, is what,’ Trent said. ‘They’ll collect your four million and then they’ll demand another instalment. This entire process is about squeezing you. Pay them early and they might try for two or more ransoms. I’ve heard of one family who paid as many as four times. And all the while, they keep hold of Jérôme. His ordeal is prolonged. So the best thing you can do is to engage with them. Negotiate a one-time-only fee. You have to pitch it right. You have to pay the smallest amount of money possible and still get Jérôme home safe. Understand?’

  ‘What if they’ve killed him already?’ Philippe asked.

  Stephanie shied away, as if bracing for impact.

  ‘It’s simple,’ Trent replied. ‘Every time they call or contact us we demand proof that Jérôme is still alive. They’ll anticipate the request and there are various ways they can satisfy it. The easiest way is to put him on the phone. Next easiest is for us to ask a question that only he could answer. But it’s important to remember that they won’t kill him if we agree to pay a fair amount.’

  ‘Fair.’ Stephanie spat the word.

  ‘To them, yes,’ Trent insisted. ‘You don’t have to like it. You don’t even have to understand it. You just have to accept it.’

  Stephanie shuddered. She clenched her cardigan around herself.

  ‘Remember, everything they do is designed to manipulate you into paying a better price. My job is to help you analyse the gang’s communications and expose their tactics for what they are. But you three have to make the decisions. You have to be comfortable with whatever is decided.’

  It wasn’t entirely true. Trent was confident he could exert his influence on them when it mattered. He was relying on it, in fact. But it was a line he’d used often in the past and it had always tended to put his clients at ease.

  ‘Three is an ideal number,’ he continued. ‘You’ll each have a vote on team decisions and you’ll go with what the majority decide. Alain can be chairman. The two of you’, he said, indicating Stephanie and Philippe, ‘are more emotionally involved. So in the event that you can’t agree on a particular course of action, Alain will make the call. But you each need a different role beyond that
, too.’

  They looked at him, waiting for more. Nobody spoke. Nobody suggested an alternative arrangement. Trent wasn’t surprised. He was often confronted by a curious lethargy among the friends and families of kidnap victims. Plus they were exhausted. It was almost two-thirty in the morning. Before the attack, Stephanie, Jérôme and Alain had been on their way home to bed. And though Philippe might not have planned to end his night just yet, there was a reasonable chance he would have flaked out by now if his father’s abduction hadn’t altered his plans.

  ‘Alain, you’ll be in charge of security. That makes sense given your current role. The house here looks very safe.’ Trent nodded towards the glow of halogen around the edge of the thickened curtains. ‘That’s why the gang attacked you before you reached the gate. But you need to be aware of the risk of follow-up kidnappings. You have to be responsible for the movements of Stephanie and Philippe. That’ll be much easier if you all stay inside the grounds.’

  ‘Wait.’ Philippe wagged a finger. ‘I don’t live here. I have an apartment in the city.’

  ‘Argue with Alain, not me. If he thinks you’re safe to leave, it’s his call. I’m pretty sure your father would agree.’

  ‘No way,’ Philippe muttered.

  Stephanie rolled her eyes.

  ‘You can be the group’s liaison to the outside world,’ Trent told Philippe. ‘You say you’re a businessman, then act like it. If there comes a time when we need to contact the police, or if the press become involved, you’ll be the family’s conduit. Agreed?’

  He threw up his hands, as if he couldn’t care either way.

  ‘And me?’ Stephanie asked.

  Trent leaned forwards and placed his hands on the surface of the desk, fingers spread, knuckles raised.

  ‘You have the most important role of all,’ he told her. ‘You’re the one who talks to the gang.’

  She leaned backwards, eyes like dark pools. A vein throbbed at her temple, a squiggle of blue ink beneath her skin.