Claudine wedged herself into the corner of the elevator, facing the Englishman. Blake was a tall, heavy man with a lot of blond hair he still wore long, from the time he’d spent under cover on Special Branch secondment in Northern Ireland, for which he’d been promoted to Detective Chief Superintendent. He’d been the lead witness at a trial the prosecution claimed had virtually destroyed the IRA’s Army Council, and although he’d given his evidence anonymously and shielded behind screens he’d been transferred to Europol immediately afterwards for his own protection. It was understandable – although contrary to the homogeneous intention of a police organization empowered to operate anywhere in the European Union – that each of the fifteen nationalities formed its own social ghetto. Claudine was not antisocial, simply not a group person, but on the few occasions she’d been among the English crowd she’d twice heard Blake asked about infiltrating terrorist cells knowing just one mistake would be his death sentence. He’d avoided the questions, turning the conversation aside with an amusing anecdote against himself. As the lift started to ascend she wondered if he found The Hague – Holland itself – boring after the Irish experience. Certainly she couldn’t professionally detect inherent signs of stress. But it was fatuous to attempt a psychological assessment from their few brief encounters, automatic though it always was for her to try.
‘What’s Sanglier like?’
Claudine was known to be the only criminal psychologist in Europol to have worked operationally with the French commissioner and guessed she had been asked that question as many times as Blake had been pressed about Northern Ireland. ‘Likes to play by the rules. It’s a useful name to have when dealing with national police forces that resent a federal organization like ours, which all of them do.’
‘Any guidance, for a new boy?’ Blake was examining Claudine as intently as she was studying him. Class, he decided. The simple jewellery – the single-strand gold choker and black-stoned gold ring – looked real and the black dress expensive. It was too loose for him to decide about her figure but she was obviously slim. Good legs, too.
‘Proud of the legend attached to his name, obviously. He’ll take advantage if he’s shown too much deference, but he expects a certain amount.’
‘You like him?’
‘We worked together well enough.’
Blake seized on this at once. ‘So you don’t like him?’ He stood back for her to leave the elevator ahead of him.
‘Like or dislike doesn’t come into it,’ Claudine said evasively, unhappy at having been backed into a conversational corner. ‘He keeps things strictly professional, as they should be kept.’ She hurried along the corridor, hoping Blake recognized he’d been given a ground rule by which she intended to operate.
The difficulty of how a European FBI should operate had been tentatively resolved by forming a ruling commission of senior police representatives from each of the fifteen countries, with each commissioner acting as chairman on a monthly rotating basis and one of them acting as the task force commander for each fully fledged investigation. Claudine decided it had to be nothing more than coincidence that Sanglier was again to lead whatever assignment they were on their way to be given: just as it was a fluke that her father, at the time chief archivist at Interpol in Lyon, had twenty years earlier assembled the wartime material upon Sanglier’s father for its entry into the National Archives in Paris.
It was, in any case, an intrusive reflection. To cloud her mind with unnecessary reexamination of their previous association would be not just ridiculous but totally unprofessional. And the basis of Claudine’s ‘know thyself’ creed was at all times and in every circumstance to be absolutely professional. After the personal disaster of England and the confused mess of what little private life existed here in The Hague her unquestioned professionalism was the only thing of which she felt sure.
Sanglier’s matronly personal assistant ushered them immediately into the man’s presence. The French commissioner was in his preferred position at the far end of the room, confronting any visitor with the intimidating approach that Claudine had several times endured. From the beginning she’d mentally listed the long march – and the overly large desk – among several peculiarities hinting at an inferiority complex clinically possible in someone carrying the name of a French national hero. She wasn’t overpowered by the charade and from the easy way he was walking beside her – strolling was the word that came to her mind – Claudine didn’t think Blake was, either.
There was still some way to go when Sanglier rose politely to greet them, an extremely tall, outwardly courteous man with only the slightest suggestion of grey in the thick black hair. He was, as always, immaculately dressed, the suit a muted light grey check, the black handkerchief in his breast pocket matching the black, hand-knitted tie worn over a deep blue shirt.
Claudine had anticipated a larger meeting, but there were only two chairs set out in readiness.
Sanglier steepled his hands in front of him, elbows on the desk. ‘The daughter of the American ambassador to Belgium has disappeared.’
‘How old?’ demanded Blake.
Sanglier consulted the single sheet of paper before him. ‘Ten.’
‘Any history of running away?’ asked Claudine, impressed by the immediate, no-unnecessary-questions atttitude of the fair-haired man beside her.
‘Not that we’ve been told.’
‘Ransom demand?’ asked Blake.
‘Not yet. But the Belgians favour kidnap.’
‘Why, if there hasn’t been a demand?’ persisted Blake.
Sanglier shrugged. ‘There’s no indication, from what we’ve been sent so far.’
‘When was she last seen?’
‘Leaving school yesterday. There was some mix-up over transportation. Some classmates saw her walking away by herself.’
‘And there’s been no contact from anyone?’ pressed Claudine.
‘Not according to what we’ve been told.’
‘So the Belgian police are pushing a kidnap theory because that’s what’s been suggested to them by the Americans, who’ll want to believe it because it’s a lesser horror than what else could have happened to her,’ predicted Claudine. Her job as a criminal psychologist was to examine clues left at crime scenes – invariably violent crime scenes – to create a physical and mental picture of the faceless perpetrator. She had never been involved in a kidnap and was unsure what value she had at this early stage.
‘The embassy will have its in-house security,’ said Blake. ‘Intelligence personnel, as well. And probably there are a lot more in the air already on their way to Brussels.’
Sanglier had collapsed his steeple and lounged back in his encompassing chair, making his own assessments. If his transition from policeman to politician was to go as he intended it was essential that these two were the best available in Europol. He’d made a mistake with Claudine Carter on their first assignment, he now acknowledged: behaved stupidly in the belief that from her father she might know something damaging to the Sanglier legend, which he himself doubted. Nevertheless, she had performed brilliantly. It was important that Peter Blake was equally good. Their success would become his success.
Sanglier’s initial impression was of a man verging on over-confidence, but he accepted that Blake would have had to be to have done half of what his personnel file listed in Northern Ireland. That file was specially designated, recommending that Blake be armed at all times. His responses so far showed an operational intelligence that had probably got him to Ireland in the first place, and in addition to whatever weapon he carried, kept him alive while he was there. And further, again listed in the file, was the degree in criminal law showing he was as strong on theory as he unquestionably was in practice. Physically bigger than Sanglier had imagined, although there were photographs and statistics on his record. It also said that Blake was a bachelor and Sanglier wondered if there would be any sexual attraction between the man and Claudine. The thought was an uneasy reminder of one of
those stupid mistakes, introducing Claudine to his predatory wife. He said: ‘It’s going to be a minefield, diplomatically and operationally.’
The beginning of the walk-on-eggs lecture about in-country jurisdiction and diplomatic protocol, Claudine recognized. Only half listening, she went back to studying Blake, as determined as Sanglier against being burdened by someone of doubtful ability: so despised was Europol by national forces that it was all too frequently used as a graveyard for dying police elephants.
Blake was sitting attentively and slightly forward in his chair, but she suspected he’d heard it all before: it really was the standard, day one induction speech that came before directions to the cafeteria or the lavatories. If there were any psychological scars from what Blake had endured in Ireland she would have expected tell-tale signs, however slight, at the moment of being briefed to go back into the field.
When the commissioner had finished Blake looked briefly sideways at Claudine. ‘Just the two of us?’
‘We don’t know what we are investigating at the moment,’ Sanglier reminded him. ‘Until we do we can’t decide what manpower is needed. When we do every provision will be made.’
Claudine said: ‘Kidnapping is more an American than a European crime. Over half end with the child being killed.’
‘I’ve heard the statistics,’ said Sanglier. ‘I’m not underestimating how delicate any negotiations are going to be.’
The implication startled Claudine. ‘I’m to be the negotiator, if it is a kidnap?’
‘That was the specific request from Belgium,’ disclosed Sanglier. ‘They say they haven’t got a qualified negotiator.’ Which was a lie, he was sure: Europol was only ever asked to help when a national government wanted to escape the responsibility. One of the first things he intended to propose when he transferred to politics was that Europol should be empowered under federal legislation, like the American FBI, automatically to investigate major crimes. Kidnapping – as it was in the United States – would obviously be a federal offence. Quickly he finished: ‘If it comes to negotiation, Europol will have the unquestionable authority and jurisdiction. If it’s murder we will still be the responsible investigating force, in view of who it is. And there will be the same need for your involvement.’
‘I haven’t heard anything about it on a newscast,’ said Blake.
‘The Americans have asked for a publicity black-out.’
‘Which means they want to negotiate – themselves – and possibly pay any demanded ransom,’ said Claudine. ‘And that’s two different things. Negotiating we’ve talked about. Paying we haven’t.’
‘Ultimately I suppose that’s the decision of the parents,’ said Sanglier.
Claudine and Blake erupted in unison, stopping just as abruptly. Blake waved his hand invitingly to Claudine and said: ‘After you.’
‘Paying should be the last resort, not the first,’ insisted Claudine. ‘If they get the money there’s no reason to keep the child alive. If she is still alive, that is.’
‘I agree,’ Blake confirmed.
‘And I agree with both of you,’ said Sanglier. ‘We haven’t established that it is a kidnap yet. So we can’t answer any of these questions. We have to wait.’
Claudine hesitated, aware that Sanglier had avoided a commitment. ‘We’ll operate out of Brussels this time?’ Their previous investigation had been into a Europe-wide series of horrific murders committed by a Triad group terrorizing young illegal immigrants into prostitution: without a central focus a co-ordinating incident room had been established at Europol’s headquarters at The Hague.
‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ said Sanglier.
‘We’re going to need proper communications from the beginning,’ declared Claudine.
Now it was Sanglier who hesitated, looking at her steadily. ‘You want Kurt Volker?’
‘He’s brilliant.’
‘He also operates unconventionally,’ Sanglier reminded her, knowing the protest was a weak one: because it had been expedient, during the Triad investigation he’d unwillingly condoned the German expert’s method of hacking his way through every computer system in Europe like some lost explorer cutting a path through jungle undergrowth.
‘Our previous case was Europol’s first. And established the need for its existence: our existence. We wouldn’t have been able to do that without Kurt,’ Claudine said simply, confident she had an unarguable case. She went on: ‘If America’s involved – the very FBI that we’re modelled upon – we can’t afford to fail, any more than we could have the first time. At any time.’
‘I’ll have to see if he’s available.’
‘He is,’ said Claudine. ‘I checked before coming here.’ She stopped short of adding that the German was as anxious as she was for another assignment.
‘That was extremely prescient of you,’ said Sanglier testily.
It had to be the father, concluded Claudine: the fear – maybe even the knowledge – that the old man didn’t fully deserve all the homage for his wartime exploits, and that Claudine knew it. Would she ever be able to find a way to tell this confusing, deeply uncertain man that his father’s genuine bravery totally justified every accolade and honour?
Blake said: ‘Will you work from Brussels with us?’
Sanglier shook his head, intending to be instantly available for any call from Paris. ‘Not on a day-to-day basis. Brussels is easily reached. I’ll come as and when I judge it necessary.’
As they rose to leave Sanglier said: ‘This could be even bigger than the Triads. Don’t forget that.’
Claudine doubted that they would be allowed to.
On their way back along the corridor Blake said: ‘You two have any personal problems the last time?’
‘Not really,’ said Claudine. If she were right about Sanglier the bastard had virtually offered her to his lesbian wife, which was difficult to conceive, unless he was sexually perverse. It could explain their marriage, she supposed. ‘Why?’
‘Thought the atmosphere was a little chilly at times.’
‘Just professional, as I told you on the way here.’
‘He’s right about its importance.’
‘Unless she’s found, safe and well, by the time we get to Brussels.’
He stood directly opposite her in the elevator, looking at her unblinkingly: his eyes had a strange blueness, seeming to vary from light to dark. He said: ‘Well, how did I do?’
‘You could have been a little more deferential,’ replied Claudine honestly.
The easy smile came at once. ‘What the hell! He can’t put electrodes on my balls or shoot me, can he?’
Shit, thought Claudine, at once recognizing the psychological flaw. He’d survived Ireland and convinced himself he was invulnerable. So everything now had to be a test, pushed to the limit. Such people were dangerous.
Claudine did not return to her own office but went immediately to Kurt Volker’s on the floor below. The plump, habitually dishevelled German beamed at the announcement but agreed there was no purpose in his travelling with her to Brussels until they learned what sort of investigation it was.
The man gestured to his terminals. ‘I don’t really need to be with you at all. These can take me anywhere I want to go without getting out of my chair.’
‘I’d feel more comfortable with you closer,’ said Claudine.
‘I’ll be there,’ he assured her.
The late afternoon train connections gave her time to lunch with Hugo Rosetti, although in the cafeteria not in one of the better restaurants outside the Europol building. The forensic pathologist was already at a table when she arrived.
‘A lot of supposition,’ he said, after she outlined the assignment.
‘That’s what Kurt said. It’s the familiar Europol shell game, everyone shuffling responsibility.’
‘It might not even be a case at all.’
‘Let’s hope it isn’t. She’s just ten years old.’ Claudine abruptly cut herself off, alert for
any reaction from the Italian. Sophia had only been three when she’d died, in a car crash with Rosetti at the wheel, so the circumstances were entirely different, apart from the loss of a daughter. But she always tried to avoid reminders. Rosetti gave no reaction.
‘Kurt’s part of the team?’ questioned the Italian, as their meal arrived.
‘We’re going to need him, if it turns out to be a crime.’
‘But not a pathologist?’ They’d met when Rosetti was appointed to the Triad investigation.
‘We don’t have a body yet. Hopefully we won’t get one.’ She paused, momentarily uncertain. What the hell, she thought. ‘And it might be a good idea for us to give each other a little space, don’t you think?’
He sipped his wine, to give himself time. ‘Do you?’
Now it was Claudine who didn’t immediately reply. ‘I believe you know how I think. And how I feel.’
‘And you know how I feel.’
Claudine pushed her plate aside. ‘Round and round we go in a circle.’
‘I haven’t misled you, ever.’
‘I’m bloody glad I don’t have any religion!’ she said, with sudden bitterness.
‘It isn’t just my being Catholic. In fact that’s the least of it. As you know.’
‘Are you going to see her this weekend?’ Claudine could not think why she’d asked. He went most weekends to the Rome clinic where Flavia, who’d suffered brain damage in the car crash, lay in the irreversible coma into which she’d lapsed after being told Sophia had been killed.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What’s this British detective like?’
The Predators Page 3
