by Rick Jones
Gary looked at Shari’s purse. “Did you leave the money in the safe back at the hotel?”
“Most of it,” she said. “Keep the girls close.”
“Girls!”
They turned.
“Stay close,” he told them.
They took the next right, planning to maneuver quickly around the block and back to the bus.
The man was on a cell phone and hung back at an even distance, then took the same right turn they did.
“He’s definitely following us,” Gary whispered.
“You think he’s got a weapon?”
He shrugged. “If he wants whatever you have in your purse, give it to him. I don’t want to put the kids in jeopardy.”
They quickened their pace.
Tolimir was in constant communication with the van, which was moving quickly to their location. “We are circling behind the Louvre on the side streets, moving west. They know I’m following, so hurry.”
The van was as nondescript as Božanović had stated, as it rounded the corner and came into Tolimir’s view. It rolled behind him at a pedestrian’s pace. As described, it was primed with flat-black paint with no windows and wheels that had no caps.
“You see them?” asked Tolimir.
“Yeah. We got them.”
“You know what to do.” Tolimir closed the phone and crossed the boulevard. He then headed down a side street, picked his pace up into a jog, and headed south.
Gary felt an incredible sense of relief. “He’s gone,” he told Shari.
“I don’t care. We need to get back to the bus.”
As the last word escaped her lips, tires skidded to a halt beside them, a van door sliding back on its track as four men rushed out and overwhelmed them. Two immediately grabbed the girls, the other two stalling Shari and Gary with assailing hammer blows and well-placed punches.
Gary doubled over and fell to his knees, his eyes witnessing his girls being whisked away inside the van. Another punch was thrown, this time clipping him on the shoulder as he saw it coming and juked to his left, the blow a mere graze. The men were wearing ski masks and were well muscled, their fists coming fast and furious, delivering blow after blow. Shari took the brunt of the force and it sent her to the ground, screaming for her daughters. Gary reacted by swinging out his leg and kicking his assailant’s legs out from under him, sending the man hard onto his back and knocking the air out of his lungs.
Gary quickly got to his feet, his attacker down for the moment. He confronted the other man.
Shari was down as well, injured, yet her hand reached imploringly out to the van.
The man turned on Gary, came forward, then went into a skilled boxer’s mode, coming up and across with a series of blows that Gary could hardly defend. He took a right cross, a stinger that sent a cluster of internal stars sparking inside his head, then a follow-up left that sent him crashing to the ground, his vision suddenly blurred.
The attacker helped his partner to his feet, aided him inside the van, closed the door, and gunned the engine. The tires screeched until they finally picked up traction.
Shari got to her knees. Her face was bloodied at the nose and at the corner of her lip. She cried out in a measure that was as high and keening as the wail of a banshee.
When the van skidded out of view around the corner, Shari’s hand dropped in defeat, its backside hitting the pavement hard, as the indescribable pain of a mother’s loss consumed her wholly.
Her babies were gone.
As Tolimir walked along the street, his cell phone rang. “Yeah.”
“We’ve acquired the packages.”
“Any problems?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
That was all Tolimir needed to hear, as he closed his phone and pocketed it.
At the end of the street, a sedan was waiting for him. He opened the door and got into the backseat. The two people sitting in the front never acknowledged him.
“The packages have been acquired,” Tolimir said. “So deal with the matter accordingly. Once the issue has been dealt with, let me know immediately, and you will get paid as always.”
The driver and the passenger said nothing, didn’t even move.
Then from Tolimir: “How long before you can get back to me on this?”
The driver hesitated a moment, as if deliberating, then he said, “Two, maybe three hours.”
Tolimir nodded. “Call me when the matter’s complete.” Tolimir eased back into his seat. “Now drive,” he told the man. “Take me to the Place de Varsovie and drop me off.”
Neither the driver nor the passenger spoke, as the vehicle eased back into traffic and headed north.
None of them were aware they had been captured by a traffic cam.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The interrogation room was small and dingy and spartan, the walls peeling chips of khaki and off-white paint. A small window rode high on the wall, its glass pane embedded with chicken wire. And the table and surrounding chairs held slight wobbles to them.
A lieutenant entered the room holding three cups of coffee and dispensed them across the tabletop; one for Shari, who didn’t touch or acknowledge it; one for Gary, who followed Shari’s lead; and one for himself.
The man was somewhat on the thin side with stringy and wispy limbs, the beginnings of a receding hairline, and a mustache that was grown to cover an obvious harelip. His eyes, however, were bottle green and sparkled with genuine compassion. When he spoke he did so with the lilt and flare of a French accent intermingled with English words. There was something poetic in the way he talked—smooth, kind, and gentle.
“Madame Cohen, Monsieur Molin, I am Lieutenant D’Aubigne. Please accept my apologies for what has happened to your daughters.”
Shari’s eyes were red and raw from too many tears. Gary had never seen Shari like this before. It was a side of her that was completely alien to him. She had always been rock-solid with her emotions, always kept in check under the most severe conditions. But this was something different. This was personal.
“How many were there?”
“Four,” she answered.
“And the vehicle?”
“It was a black van,” Gary stated. “It was primed. No windows. No hubcaps. No dents from what could see. We told you this before. Why aren’t you out there looking for them?”
“We are,” said D’Aubigne. “Sometimes we re-ask questions, because when time passes, when minds begin to settle, victims will remember something they initially omitted the first time around. Often it is something that will aid us in the search.”
D’Aubigne took a seat. “I understand that you work in law enforcement, Madame Cohen?”
She nodded. “The FBI.”
D’Aubigne gave off the impression that he was impressed. “And you, Monsieur Molin?”
“Former government employee.”
“I see.”
“What exactly are you doing about our daughters?” he asked, his voice rising.
The lieutenant raised his hands and patted the air. “Believe me, Monsieur Molin, we have all our resources looking for them as we speak. I know it’s hard. But we have to be patient in such matters.”
“Such matters? This happens all the time, does it? People get lifted off the streets by strangers?”
“Monsieur Molin, I know it’s difficult—”
“Do you have children, Lieutenant?”
“Four.”
“Are they all at home?”
“Two. Two are away at school.”
“So they’re all right, then? No problems?” Gary was beginning to tax D’Aubigne, he knew. He could tell by the way the man was chewing on his lower lip, as if to bite back his words. But he was angry and needed to vent.
Then in an even and steady measure that was almost without feeling, D’Aubigne said, “There are no problems.”
“Then you don’t know what difficult is until you go through what my wife and I are going through right now.”
“Yes, of course, you are right, Monsieur. But as I sit here, and because I am a father, it doesn’t take away the fact that I feel complete sorrow for your situation. I do. Most fathers would. But I’m trying my best to reach out to you and make things right. We’re trying our best.”
Shari reached across the table and cupped the lieutenant’s hand. “Thank you,” she told him. With the cuff of her sleeve she wiped away tears that were brimming along the edges of her eyes.
“Trust me, Madame; we’re doing all we can. Unfortunately, there are no other witnesses other than yourselves. And Paris is a very large city.”
She bowed her head and let out a sob, causing Gary to sweep her into his embrace.
“So what usually happens at this point?” asked Gary. “Will they call the hotel for a ransom? What?”
Lieutenant D’Aubigne turned toward a camera situated at the upper corner of the wall, raised his hand, and made a motion as if he was beckoning someone. “Monsieur Molin, Madame Cohen, I think there’s something you need to know. Something you’re not going to want to hear.”
The door opened and two men entered the room, each one a facsimile of the other. They were both smartly dressed—same black suit and red tie, with each man carrying waxy appearances and conservative haircuts. At first they conversed in French with D’Aubigne, who gave them an accurate outline of communication up until this point. When he was finished he got to his feet with his eyes cast downward in a solemn manner. “Madame Cohen and Monsieur Molin,” he pointed to the men, “these fine people will assist from here on in. So please, and I mean this candidly, I am truly sorry for what has happened, and we are doing everything possible to locate your children.” Without anything further, Lieutenant D’Aubigne exited the room as the two men took the vacant seats at the table in his proxy.
One man extended his hand to Gary, who accepted it. The other man remained idle.
“Monsieur Molin and Madame Cohen, please accept our apologies as well. We are looking for the van as we speak,” said the idle man. “I am Inspector Beauchamp, and this here is Inspector Reinard. We are from the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire.”
“What about Lieutenant D’Aubigne?”
“Lieutenant D’Aubigne will no longer be handling this case,” he told them. “We will be.”
“Why the switch?”
“Kidnapping, Monsieur Molin, is our department. It is our chief field of investigation.”
“We told the police at the scene, we told Lieutenant D’Aubigne, everything we know.”
“Yes, we know.”
Shari turned toward the inspectors with her eyes, and especially her heart, already knowing the truth. “We’re never going to see them again, are we?”
Inspector Beauchamp met her eyes straight on. “Madame Cohen—” He cut himself short, the sudden inability to tell her the truth difficult. But it was something that had to be said. “Madame Cohen, I am told that you are FBI, yes?”
She nodded.
“Then you know that such kidnappings, almost all kidnappings…involve ties to cartels that deal with human trafficking. The profit no longer lies with contacting individuals who may or may not have the funds to pay off the bounty of a loved one. The profit now lies with the victims being auctioned off to parties in need of certain labors. It’s guaranteed money.”
Gary leaned forward. “Are you telling me that my girls were abducted by a human trafficking ring?”
“All I’m saying to you, Monsieur, is that the probability of this happening…it is the most likely scenario.”
Shari lowered her face into her hands, and sobbed. She knew all along, thought Gary. That’s why she’s a mess.
“Your wife works with the FBI. So she knows the reality of today’s world and the statistics involved in such cases.”
“What statistics?”
Inspector Beauchamp looked at Shari. “That we have to find your children within ninety-six hours.”
He shrugged. “What happens after ninety-six hours?”
Shari’s sobbing became louder.
She knows, Gary thought. But he had to hear it for himself. “What happens after ninety-six hours?” he repeated.
“After ninety-six hours, Monsieur Molin…the trails as to the whereabouts of your children will grow cold, and they will disappear from the grid entirely.”
“What do you mean by entirely?”
“They will never be seen again.”
Shari finally broke, crying uncontrollably.
“Are you telling me that we only have four days to find them?”
“We are already looking for the van,” he proposed.
“That’s not good enough. You must have an idea as to who heads up these crazy organizations.”
“Monsieur Molin, Paris is a big city with lots of places to hide. Crime here is no different than crime in the United States. Like your country, the numbers are high and our resources are limited. But we are looking.”
Gary sounded drained. “Limited resources. What exactly does that mean?”
“It means that we can do only so much with what we have.” The inspector then shrugged in a manner that suggested isn’t-it-quite-obvious-what-it-means?
Gary was becoming more animated, his hands moving wildly about. “Are you telling me that your resources are so limited that you’re simply going through the motions? Is that what you’re telling me? What you’re telling us?”
Beauchamp shook his head. “Of course not, Monsieur Molin, not at all. I’m saying that I can only do so much with what I have. And right now, all I have are the vague descriptions of a van and the four men who were inside that van, all wearing ski masks, no less.”
Tears were beginning to well in Gary’s eyes too. “These are my children we’re talking about.”
“I understand that, Monsieur Molin. And I am so sorry.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Monsieur Molin, more than five hundred children disappear from the streets of Paris every day. Every…single…day. I’m sorry for what has happened to your family. But you have to understand that every parent feels the same way as you do, that they deserve exclusive assistance in such matters. And as much as my department would like to aid them by doing so, we just can’t accommodate everyone with what we have. We try. We really do. But all I can guarantee you and your wife is what I can guarantee everyone else who happens to be in your position: that we will do our very best with what we have to find your children. This I promise you.”
When Beauchamp got to his feet, it was also a cue to Reinard that it was time to leave.
“Go back to your hotel,” Beauchamp told them. He then left them a card. “Call my department should you remember anything else. Anything. I’m sure Lieutenant D’Aubigne will assist you with a ride back to your hotel.”
Beauchamp turned on his heels and left the room with Reinard walking with a gait and manner that was oddly similar to Beauchamp’s.
Gary watched them leave. And then he pulled his wife close.
At least they had each other.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“She’s FBI!” said Beauchamp.
“It matters not,” said Tolimir, who was sitting in the rear seat of the inspector’s vehicle. Reinard remained vigilantly silent as they parked in a vacant lot that had a panoramic view of Paris in the far distance. The Eiffel Tower was shrouded with late-afternoon smog.
“‘It matters not’? Are you serious?”
Tolimir handed Beauchamp an envelope by tossing it over the seat and into the inspector’s lap. Reinard, from his position, gave a sidelong glance at the money-filled packet without turning his head.
“That is your normal fee,” said Tolimir. “You know the routine. Slow the progress of the investigation for four days. By that time the products will be moved.”
Beauchamp whipped around and looked Tolimir in the eyes with a hard and steely gaze. “Did you hear what I said? She’s FBI. Do you know what that means?”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“It means that she’s most likely going to call in liaisons to hasten the matter. You’re asking me to put my head on the chopping block by prolonging the investigation.”
“Monsieur Beauchamp, sometimes there are obstacles. And obstacles were made to be conquered. Jadran Božanović has paid you handsomely over the years, for your assistance in prolonging investigations for the four days necessary to move our products. Once the products are moved, you have nothing to worry about. You have done well in the past, so I’m sure you will do just as well in the future.”
“Are you not listening to what I’m saying? Regardless of what I do, the agency will move on this. And that’s my point. My hands are tied on this one. You chose poorly.”
“Božanović never chooses poorly. He’s a man with a keen eye for detail and profit.”
“Then I’ll need more money,” said Beauchamp. “I’ll need to grease more palms to see this through.”
Tolimir smiled. “So this is what it’s all about, is it? To raise your price?”
“I can’t do this alone. Not this one.”
“Then pay them with what I gave you.”
Beauchamp swooped up the thick envelope and held it up. His face appeared red and angry. “This is not enough!”
“It’s more than enough,” Tolimir told him. “You will not receive one Euro more for your efforts.”
Beauchamp tossed the envelope into Tolimir’s lap. “Then you’re on your own.”
Tolimir said nothing, waiting the man out, their eyes holding steady. Then: “Do you really want to do this, Monsieur Beauchamp? Is this…really…what you want to do?”
Beauchamp faced forward, pretending to look over the landscape of Paris without care, often giving nervous and periodic glances to the rearview mirror.
