Mind/Reader

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘People do!’ Claudine burst in at last, anxious to help but finding her emotions as jumbled as Rosetti’s effort to talk about his wife. She pressed on: ‘Catatonia is a type of schizophrenia. She wouldn’t have been made schizophrenic by the accident. She’s in retreat …’

  Rosetti looked up to her with the startled expression of someone suddenly awoken himself. ‘They say she won’t. That there’s physical wastage, too … muscle deterioration …’ He was talking more coherently, fully aware of Claudine.

  ‘People emerge from comas after years.’ She didn’t think it was much of a contribution.

  Rosetti smiled an empty smile. ‘I’ve burdened you … still not being fair …’

  ‘You’ve done nothing of the sort.’

  ‘I love her so much.’

  Claudine didn’t know if he was referring to his wife or child. ‘I didn’t want to cause you this much hurt.’

  ‘You haven’t. I suppose you’d call this an expunging of remorse?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d give it a label.’

  ‘I …’ he began but then stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re the only one here who knows.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell me something in Rome about being able to respect confidences?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You also said something in Rome about not being sure what I was thanking you for.’

  Claudine had been unaware of the tape reversing itself and she was only vaguely conscious of it finally clicking off. Rosetti heard it, though. He said: ‘I’d enjoy introducing you to some of my music.’

  ‘I think I’d enjoy it, too,’ said Claudine.

  Predictably guarding himself against any unforeseen disasters, Sanglier had Poulard and Siemen extensively rehearsed by Europol’s public affairs division, which left Claudine to review what Kurt Volker proposed for the Internet appeal. From its completeness in such a short time - hours from the formal approval - it was obvious the German had worked upon it for several days. When she challenged him outright he offered one of his perfectly formed smiles and said, as always without conceit, that it was such a good idea the Commission couldn’t have possibly refused it.

  Volker accompanied his visual images of the murder victims with a commentary about bulletin boards and browser programs which Claudine found much harder to understand than the pictorial display, although she recognized at once how brilliantly Volker had prepared everything. Using the electronic airbrush technique again he’d digitalized the facial appearances and what few details were available about each victim, not just in Roman lettering but in the five most commonly used languages throughout the Asian countries at which the presentation was primarily directed. And that was only the beginning. When she asked about the Cyrillic print Volker reminded her that the binding wire securing the two white girls had been manufactured in Eastern Europe, so as well as including Polish, Czech and Hungarian he’d added Russian.

  ‘People who can access the Internet with a computer are literate?’ he demanded.

  Claudine frowned. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Just in case someone’s looking over their shoulder who isn’t …’ He jabbed a key she didn’t see and an audible recital began of the few facts in the various listed languages.

  ‘You want me to tell you I’m impressed?’

  ‘I want you to tell me these are the programs you want put in place.’

  ‘I do. They’re incredible.’

  Volker regarded her solemn-faced for several moments. ‘I think I might have misled you. I’m sorry, if I did. Although no harm’s been done.’

  ‘Misled me how?’

  ‘Talking about targeting the Far East.’

  Claudine grew more serious. ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘The Internet isn’t like a map, with country or continent borders. The Internet hasn’t got any borders: it’s worldwide because it can’t be anything else. Which is why no harm has been done, and why I’ve included all the languages and the multilingual commentary.’

  ‘You’ll have to help me.’

  ‘What we’re putting on will be available to anyone, anywhere in the world. I didn’t realize you all didn’t understand until I talked to Poulard, just before he went off to his press briefing. I thought you should know, too.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ said Claudine. Volker was right. There was no harm done. In fact the total availability could only be to their advantage.

  ‘I thought I’d cheat a little, too.’

  ‘You usually do,’ Claudine smiled.

  ‘I’ve made a bulletin program. I thought I’d access all the sex boards I can find and list our offering, although obviously not as an appeal for help. A lot of people are going to be disappointed but someone just might recognize one of our people.’

  ‘We paying for it?’

  ‘Only for what the Commission approved.’

  ‘How do I know how things get on illegal bulletin boards?’ The acceptance was implicit.

  For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Volker said: ‘It’s going too slowly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Far too slowly.’

  ‘What happens if there’s another murder that fits our grouping?’

  ‘We’re in the shit.’ Claudine had no difficulty expressing herself that way.

  Volker gave no reaction to her choice of word, instead taking it for himself. ‘Not in it. Drowned by it.’

  ‘She’ll break, then him,’ predicted the Serious Fraud Office superintendent.

  ‘There was that unofficial approach from the British commissioner,’ Toomey reminded him. ‘I think I should inform him officially.’

  ‘It’s important in the circumstances to do everything according to the book,’ agreed Walker. ‘We don’t want these bastards wriggling off the hook.’

  ‘We could get a court order, to open it up,’ suggested Toomey.

  Walker shook his head. ‘We’ve already got it sealed. Nothing can happen to it. So let’s use the fear factor. Throw it at her. If she doesn’t break then - which she will - we can get the order and hit her a second time.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The worldwide media response to the press conference was completely underestimated by everyone within Europol. So huge was the instant and concerted clamour to attend that the media division initially came close to being overwhelmed. The Commission had less than twenty-four hours to convene a special meeting at which Belgium’s newly installed chairman, Jan Villiers, nervous at the prospect of responding to EU Justice Ministers, urged that the whole idea be scrapped. The cancellation argument was lost when Sanglier, caught as much off guard as anyone, pointed out that arbitrarily to abandon it without a satisfactory reason risked the very adverse publicity they were all abruptly concerned about.

  It was clearly no longer sufficient for just Poulard and Siemen to appear. Only by agreeing to be on the platform with them was Sanglier able to resist the call that he take over their role as spokesmen. Although once he was identified it was inevitable his name would make him the focus of attention, certainly from French journalists, Sanglier in turn insisted he should be accompanied by the commissioners representing the countries in which the killings had occurred. That proposal was so fervently opposed it had to go, at Sanglier’s demand, to a vote which he won, as he cynically guessed he would, with the majority support of those gratefully uninvolved commissioners seizing their chance to evade personal association with any controversy that might arise.

  More anxious than ever to have an absent scapegoat for the anger the amnesty and Internet ideas were likely to engender, Sanglier worked hard to prevent any discussion of Claudine Carter’s taking part. He failed. Foreseeably it was David Winslow who asked why Claudine wasn’t listed to appear and headed the bewildered chorus at her exclusion. None appeared satisfied that it was at her own request or that it was too late for her to be rehearsed for the press briefing. Franz Sobell, to whom Claudine had verbally presented her initial profile,
said he couldn’t imagine anyone who needed less guidance and Winslow said he was prepared to order her attendance.

  Sanglier was forced to improvise, and hated it. He caused more confusion when he said he welcomed Claudine’s reluctance to court publicity. None of them needed reminding that hers was far and away the major contribution to everything Europol had achieved, and he did not want their practical policing limitations to become obvious by contrast, particularly when by inference they were criticizing the national forces of the countries involved.

  Sanglier tried to listen to himself speak, to avoid any pitfalls, his difficulty made all the more galling by his having to praise the woman he was working to undermine. There was some visible acceptance of his hurriedly created explanation but far too many unreadable or sceptical expressions.

  The planning meeting was immediately followed by a session with the head of the Public Affairs Division, a plump and easily perspiring man named Walter Jones, who formed part of the English contingent. Jones was as unnerved as the commissioners by the escalating scale of the press conference. He promised that Poulard and Siemen were fully prepared, and did his best to impress by proposing they maximize the presence of so many international journalists by giving them guided tours of Europol’s facilities, followed by a cocktails and snacks reception.

  Having had time to recover some of his composure Sanglier pressed for the drinks and food to be offered before the actual conference, to avoid unmonitored lobbying afterwards. Accepting Sanglier’s point at once the shiny-faced Jones assured them everything would be recorded from beginning to end on video and sound tape to ensure there was no misquoting or exaggeration. He, of course, would conduct the proceedings.

  Sanglier sent a general memorandum to the incident room, advising that although the conference had escalated to commissioner echelon Poulard and Siemen would remain the task force representatives responsible for answering questions. Siemen said he hadn’t realized the conference was going to be this big and wondered why Sanglier wasn’t going to take over. Poulard, alert to the personal recognition he was going to get not just from being associated with atrocities terrorizing the Union but by being on the same platform as one of the most famous names in France, said the size didn’t affect anything and there was no reason to be overawed. Claudine believed she perfectly understood Poulard’s eagerness and tried to help Siemen, who said he couldn’t understand either why she didn’t want to take part, by saying they knew as much as she did and were much better able to answer questions about EU police investigations, having taken part in two. Poulard said he thought she was right. The German looked unconvinced.

  Sanglier’s memo also warned of the intended tour of Europol’s facilities. Despite the guarantee that no media people would be allowed inside the incident room Claudine left it for her own office long before the scheduled press arrival. She waited, too, until thirty minutes after it began before going to the reception, curious to know what it would be like but anxious to slip in unseen.

  There were far more people than she expected, even after Sanglier’s note. Beyond a large pile of television equipment and cameras directly inside the door the room was crowded, reverberating with the babble of too many people talking too loudly all at the same time. It was already thick with smoke and briefly her breath caught, before clearing. The Evian water she collected from a passing waiter helped, like the reassuring presence of the inhaler in her pocket. All the commissioners were gathered close to the table upon which the food was laid. Sanglier had already been identified and was in the centre of a group of reporters: as she watched he forcefully shook his head against a photograph separate from the other commissioners. A cigar-waving Scott Burrows was in intensive discussion with two men whom from their clothes Claudine guessed to be American. Poulard and Siemen were by themselves, although Poulard was smiling frequently at the group around Sanglier. Siemen was frowning, anxiously taking a glass of red wine from a waiter the moment he finished the one in his hand. Claudine looked hopefully around the room for Rosetti but couldn’t see him. She couldn’t see Volker, either. She was aware of David Winslow detaching himself from the group near the table to thread his way across the room towards her, and at once moved away from several people she suspected were close enough to overhear any conversation between them.

  ‘Hell of a turn-out,’ the flushed man said by way of greeting.

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘Still think it’s a mistake you’re not taking part, despite what Sanglier says. You’re Britain’s representative, after all.’

  ‘What does Sanglier say?’ Claudine asked curiously.

  ‘Risk of it becoming too obvious that you’ve done all the work,’ said Winslow, in his clipped voice. ‘Invidious, he says. Rubbish I say.’

  Claudine wasn’t sure whether to take Sanglier’s reported remark as praise or criticism. ‘My taking part would have served no useful purpose.’

  ‘It would have let the people in Britain know we’re in the vanguard.’

  Caught again by the navalese, Claudine said: ‘Do you have a boat on the lake?’

  ‘Thirty-five-footer, gaff-rigged,’ beamed the man. ‘You sail?’

  Claudine was sorry she’d begun the pointless conversation. ‘No time. But I was out there recently. Saw quite a lot of boats and wondered if you were among them.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Must have heard something from somebody. Can’t remember who.’

  ‘Fancy a trip one weekend, you let me know.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Claudine emptily. ‘Looking forward to the conference?’

  ‘Hope it goes all right,’ confided the man. ‘You know how bloody sensitive people are. They could get upset about amnesties and having stuff thrown at them on a computer screen.’

  Claudine frowned. ‘Both can be justified.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Winslow, frowning back at her.

  Patiently Claudine explained, unable to believe Sanglier had not included her arguments in his presentation. When she finished Winslow looked towards Poulard and Siemen and said: ‘Hope they don’t forget to make that clear.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Claudine. Following the general direction in which the British commissioner was looking Claudine saw the group surrounding Sanglier had grown. The noise around her seemed to be growing, too.

  It registered with Winslow as well. ‘Wise move, getting them all mellow like this.’

  In her preoccupation with the mass murders Claudine had forgotten the birth-pang uncertainty in which Europol existed. ‘Providing there’s not an outbreak of food poisoning.’

  For several moments Winslow looked at her in concern, relaxing only slightly when she smiled to show she was joking. Claudine wondered how hard it had been for London to find someone like Winslow to illustrate their utter contempt for a European federal police organization. With David Winslow she would have believed they’d carried out a lobotomy to make their point.

  Still not totally sure Claudine hadn’t meant the remark, the man said: ‘Let’s hope there’s not.’

  Claudine was saved by Walter Jones hammering on the food table with a spoon to announce, in English, that there were guides to take everyone to where the conference was to be held. She pushed herself back against the wall for the gradual exodus to pass. Siemen smiled, briefly, but Poulard gave no acknowledgement as he went by. Neither did Sanglier. Burrows detoured on impulse, taking another Scotch from a tray.

  ‘Guys I knew in Washington from Newsweek recognized me. Wanted to do a piece. Just spent the entire fucking lunchtime trying to persuade them not to.’

  ‘What sort of piece?’ She was grateful he’d finished the cigar.

  ‘The FBI’s contribution to its European counterpart … that sort of crap.’

  ‘Did they ask if you were involved in this investigation?’

  ‘Of course they did,’ said the American, answering her look.

  ‘What did you say?’

  He didn’t respond at once or
look away. Then he said: ‘That I wasn’t, of course.’

  ‘Did they ask if there was a profiler involved?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Burrows again.

  Claudine didn’t ask and the American made her wait, taking several long sips of his drink. ‘I know you think I’m an out-of-date asshole and I know why you don’t want to share. Understand the last part. But I’m not a jerk. And I don’t shit on colleagues, even those who despise me and don’t want to be my colleague.’

  Claudine felt herself flush, confused by the man’s anger. ‘I think I’ve been corrected.’

  ‘And you’ve got a long way still to go, lady.’

  Claudine was still discomfited by the encounter when she got to the conference chamber. Burrows was at the very back of the room, to the left. She went to the right. Jan Villiers, bracketed by Sanglier and Winslow, was at the centre of the assembled commissioners ranged along a table that filled the width of the dais. Poulard and Siemen were at a smaller table close to the audience. Walter Jones sat between them. As Claudine entered, press journalists, bent double against photographers’ protests, were scurrying back and forth creating a tiny wall of tape recorders on the detectives’ table. Sound and television journalists were doing the same with microphones, trailing the leads back to the tripod-mounted cameras banked at either side of the room. There was a brief lightning effect when floodlights were tested. From the body of the hall, where each chair was equipped with an earpiece for simultaneous translation, the hubbub was only slightly less than at the reception.