Why hadn’t dad paid: shouted at them and told them to let her go and given them the money and got her back! Why? It wasn’t fair. Would mom and dad be shouting at each other? This shouldn’t be happening. It was rude. Nasty. They were nasty. Nasty rude people in scary masks. She wanted to make pee pee. She did, knowing they wouldn’t be able to see what she was doing with the shower gushing over her. The woman would probably hit her, if she knew. But she didn’t. It was good, doing something they didn’t know about. Defying them. That’s what she had to do, defy them but not let them know, so the woman didn’t hit her any more. She didn’t feel like crying now. But she still had to get out, so they’d see her. Maybe there would be a towel, just outside. That’s where towels were, just outside a shower stall. She wished she could remember.
Determinedly Mary switched off the water, turning to the door: she could vaguely make out the grown-ups through the clouded glass. She hesitated, pushing her wet hair back off her face, and then reached out with her left hand to slide the door open. She put the other hand in front of her penny box. She kept it there as she stepped out, immediately bringing her left hand and arm up across herself, although it didn’t cover everything.
The woman was standing in the middle of the bathroom, holding the towel out. ‘Poor little bedraggled Mary. Come and get your towel!’
It meant uncovering herself to reach out but if she got the towel they wouldn’t be able to see anything. She put out her left hand but at the last minute the woman snatched the towel away and unthinkingly Mary tried to grab with her other hand and they all laughed at her when she realized her penny box was uncovered and jerked her hand back to hide it.
Mary and Félicité were dancing awkwardly round the bathroom now, the woman always lifting the towel just out of Mary’s reach. The woman said: ‘Dance, Mary. Dance for us,’ and the masked men laughed and one said: ‘This is good.’ Suddenly the woman flicked the towel to the left but lowered it, so that Mary had to twist to get it. As she did so the woman released it, making her stumble further, and then Mary felt herself grabbed from the side and bent over, as the woman slumped down on the bathroom stool to bring her across her lap, with her bottom exposed. And then the woman began to hit her, chanting with each slap. They were very hard, and stung.
‘This is for being a naughty girl and not washing. And this is for trying to run up into the hall when you were allowed out yesterday. And this is for thinking you could trick the nice man who is looking after you into letting you go. And this is for thinking you can get away from us. And this is to show you what will happen if you try to do it again …’ Félicité stopped, breathless. She brought her hand down hard, once more, and said: ‘And that’s for taking your brace out, although I like you much better without it.’
It hurt worse than when she was slapped in the face and the men were looking at her and still laughing but Mary didn’t cry. She hoped the pee pee hadn’t all washed away and the woman got some on her hand.
The message from Kurt Volker was waiting when Claudine and Blake returned to the Metropole.
‘It’s started, then!’ said the German enthusiastically, when Claudine returned the call.
‘What?’
There was a brief silence from the other end. ‘Didn’t you know? The people who’ve got the girl have made contact with the embassy.’
‘No,’ admitted Claudine. ‘How did you find out?’
‘I hacked into the embassy home pages as soon as you told me I was involved. It was the obvious thing to do, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Claudine, feeling a sweep of euphoria. ‘That’s how the approach was made, by computer?’
‘Anonymous e-mail,’ confirmed Volker. ‘A kidnap first, as far as I’m aware. Isn’t that fantastic?’
‘Fantastic,’ she agreed.
‘You want me to come down?’
‘Yes,’ said Claudine. ‘And transfer me to Sanglier. He needs to come, too.’
It was Marcel who had taught Félicité his own definition of hedonism, the pursuit of ultimate pleasure in all things, without bounds. And Félicité accepted she’d been an eager pupil. There’d been a sexual excitement – still was – in working the stock markets of Europe, which he’d been so adept at plundering, rarely losing as she rarely lost. But most of all in laughing at other people’s naivety, even those in their special sex group who imagined they were bound by a common bond, when all the time she and Marcel had laughed at their inadequacies, mocking them.
Laughing at everyone else, too. It was still amusing to serve on the charities, two of which Marcel had actually founded for tax reasons, and hearing herself described as a good person.
She had deeply and genuinely loved Marcel. She knew she could never love anyone else.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Henri Sanglier was furious. It was procedurally correct that he should publicly represent Europol at the ambassador’s side the following day, but Blake should have consulted him first. There was nothing he could do: no protest or rebuke he could make. But by appearing at a press conference he would be identifying himself as a controlling Europol executive – the controlling Europol executive, shortly to ascend even greater heights – while knowingly involved in an act not just flagrantly illegal but of incalculable diplomatic implications if it ever became known.
He would also be appearing beside a US ambassador aware – but again helpless to protest – that the Americans despised both him and his organization. It was like being cuckolded, which in fact he had been for years by countless women in the marriage of convenience that had provided Françoise with a husband of legendary name and him with the adornment of one of France’s most beautiful and legendary models. Who, by her outrageous lesbian promiscuity, was increasingly becoming a career risk.
And finally there was Claudine Carter. Sanglier found it difficult to believe how many mistakes he’d made about her, in his inability to believe that her appointment to Europol had been a coincidence. Yet that was surely all it could have been. Had she known the truth about his father’s wartime exploits – the truth he himself only suspected – she would have given some indication by now. All he’d done in his determination to protect the family name and reputation was probably to make himself look ridiculous. He would be adding to that stupidity if he tried to make amends. And he would, anyway, soon be away from her and Europol: how much he wished he could free himself from Françoise too. He’d make a superb Justice Minister. All he had to do was avoid any scandal or embarrassment – like being involved in hacking into a US embassy computer system – until the conclusion of the final negotiations, now interrupted by having to be here in Brussels, instead of in Paris.
The value of visiting the Belgian police headquarters went far beyond accepting the offered working accommodation: André Poncellet’s obvious ignorance of the computer contact confirmed the contempt with which the Americans were treating the Belgian police as well as Europol. The local police commissioner was effusively attentive, personally escorting them round the first-floor, five-roomed corner suite and then insisting upon dispensing drinks in his own lavish quarters to discuss the following day’s public appearance and an intended meeting afterwards at the Justice Ministry.
It was, therefore, two hours after taking up their accommodation before Sanglier was finally alone with Claudine, Blake and Kurt Volker. Even then it took another thirty minutes for Volker to access his on-line computers at Europol to check for any further messages before closing that tracer down to log on to the embassy circuits from the newly provided Belgian machines.
By the time any worthwhile discussion was possible Sanglier had become tight with frustration, stumping aimlessly around their allocated space and for a lot of the time gazing unseeingly through the panoramic window in the direction of the EU’s Palais d’Berlaymont building, trying to rearrange the mental disorder into some comfortable, logical sequence. He failed. He turned at the German’s entry and said: ‘Well?’
‘Nothing,’ said V
olker.
‘You sure you would have picked it up, had there been anything?’ demanded Blake.
Volker’s customary amiability briefly faded at the question. ‘There are two obvious pathname words: Mary and McBride. Before I left Europol I created programs to record both, either separately or together, in any communication into or out of the embassy. There’s been nothing. I’ve downloaded everything on to my system here now.’
Claudine sat back easily in her chair, for the moment content for Sanglier and Blake to go through the preliminaries, even able mildly to amuse herself at Blake’s lingering surprise at meeting Kurt Volker for the first time. As always the German looked like a scarecrow that had been left out in the rain, the blond hair a disarrayed thatch over the owlishly bespectacled face, the shapeless suit crumpled and strained around an indulged figure unaccustomed to weighing scales or tape measures. Blake wasn’t allowing any time-wasting reactions, but he was still regarding Volker like a rare species in a natural history museum.
‘I want to understand how it was done,’ persisted Sanglier.
‘Simple,’ said Volker patiently. ‘And like most simple things, it’s brilliant. Whoever’s got Mary knows about computers and how to hack in and out of them. The embassy’s e-mail address is available on the Internet through the US Information web site server. All they had to do was access it and send their message.’
‘That doesn’t help us,’ protested Blake. ‘Surely the sources of e-mail messages are recorded? So we must know where it came from.’
Volker nodded, his chubby cheeks wobbling. ‘In the majority of correspondence, yes. Otherwise the receiver wouldn’t know who to reply to. But whoever sent the message didn’t want a reply …’ the man hesitated, looking apologetically at Claudine ‘… and they beat me. I didn’t time it – I will the next one, obviously – but I calculate that the message was displayed for precisely sixty seconds, not long enough for me to get a print-out. But I do know there wasn’t a respond address. It was the logical thing to look for. The embassy uses the UNIX Internet server. I went straight into it when the message closed down. There was no trace.’
Claudine said: ‘So how did the sender remain anonymous?’
‘I’ve introduced my own entry code as a bug to their main terminal,’ said Volker. ‘Only I know what it is so the Americans aren’t aware I’m there: and there’s no way they can discover me. I can go in and out whenever I want.’ He gestured to the three newly installed blank screens glowing in the adjoining room. ‘I’m permanently linked, waiting for the next communication using the names Mary or McBride.’ He paused, frowning at the lack of comprehension from the two other men, then explained. ‘I believe that’s how whoever’s holding Mary is operating, with a slight variation. They certainly won’t be working from their own traceable terminal. They will have hacked into somebody else’s system – that’s their initial concealment, quite apart from avoiding any user costs – and installed their own entry code in what’s usually referred to as a Trojan Horse. That’s a program in which automatic commands can be stored. In this case I’m guessing they didn’t want their Trojan Horse to be permanent, as I want mine to be. I imagine they’ll have added to their bug a program that self-destructs to a certain trigger: a timed suicide, in fact. I believe they got into somebody’s system, like a cuckoo in the nest, and sent their message, and after sixty seconds the Trojan Horse destroyed itself instead of the host system, which is the normal way such viruses work.’
Claudine said: ‘They wanted McBride to know they’ve got his daughter but didn’t give the man any way of responding. That doesn’t fit a usual kidnap pattern.’
‘What are they doing then?’ demanded Sanglier, needing to catch up. At the same time, like a mantra in his head, he was thinking: What am I doing, sitting here, calmly discussing breaking the law, condoning it, agreeing to it, learning how it’s done?
‘Amusing themselves, taunting McBride,’ said Claudine. She looked briefly at Blake. ‘And it fits how Mary was grabbed in the first place. I think she’s being held by paedophiles.’
‘What!’ demanded Sanglier, incredulous, just ahead of Blake, who said: ‘How the hell do you reach that conclusion?’
Speaking more to the detective than the commissioner, Claudine said: ‘We’ve already decided it didn’t start as a planned abduction. She was snatched by chance, a child looking younger than her age. The message is derived from a child’s nursery rhyme: that’s paedophile thinking, maybe more subconscious than a positive choice. It’s a taunt—’
‘Aren’t you literally reading a lot from very little?’ broke in Blake.
‘That’s what I’m supposed to do,’ Claudine said, unoffended. ‘And I haven’t finished. There are variations of Mary, Mary Quite Contrary recited in continental Europe but it’s really an English nursery song …’ She paused again, looking at Volker. ‘And the message sent to the embassy was in English?’
‘Yes,’ he confirmed.
‘And although it’s a pretty rotten poem the English was good,’ continued Claudine. ‘One or more of the people holding the child could be English by birth, although I doubt it. I think it’s more likely that they were educated at an expensive private school where English was well taught as a second language: it might be, even, that the person who wrote the message had an English governess or nanny.’
‘So they’ll be rich?’ suggested Blake, prepared for the moment to go along with Claudine’s reasoning.
‘Possibly,’ she agreed. ‘Or were, once.’
‘How does that square with the computer use?’ demanded Blake. He looked at Volker. ‘The contact method might seem simple to you but it’s not to me. To me it’s complicated and technically obscure. Only someone who uses computers all the time would have that level of expertise. How many rich people need to reach that level of computer literacy?’
‘Mary is being held by more than one person,’ said Claudine. ‘Paedophiles usually hunt in packs and take their pleasure in packs. It doesn’t follow that the person who wrote the message was the one who physically sent it.’
Blake switched his attention fully to the German. ‘Now you think you know how they’re going to communicate, will it be possible to trace a source before the thing self-destructs next time?’
‘Maybe,’ said Volker cautiously. ‘I’m ready to go into UNIX the moment another message appears. But don’t forget it literally is the World Wide Web. The next message could originate from somewhere in Belgium – right next door to this building if you like – and ride piggy-back through two or more totally unsuspecting host systems in two or more countries anywhere around the globe before appearing on the embassy screens back here.’
Momentarily there was complete silence as the awareness settled in the room. Blake said: ‘Are you saying we can’t stop them? Or find them?’
Volker said: ‘It’s not going to be easy. They can come from anywhere and close down before we’ve alerted any local police force. And I really mean anywhere in the world.’
‘But at some time there’ll have to be proper contact if they want a physical hand-over of a ransom,’ said Blake.
‘If they make it a proper kidnap,’ Claudine pointed out. ‘The messages might just be an additional amusement that they’ll tire of …’ She hesitated. ‘And even if they do try to get money they’ll still use Mary in the way they originally snatched her for.’
Volker, who doted on his five children, said: ‘Are you absolutely sure she was originally taken for sex?’
‘That’s my professional opinion,’ said Claudine bluntly.
The German shuddered, very slightly. ‘Would they let her go, afterwards? Exchange her for a ransom, I mean?’
‘There are too many variables for me to give a definite opinion,’ Claudine replied. ‘The most difficult to assess is the Americans and their negotiator, Norris. We’re not on the inside by invitation, remember.’
‘No. We’re inside illegally,’ protested Sanglier. ‘We can’t officially
do anything about what we know. We can’t even tell the Belgian police, with whom we’re supposed to be working. Can you imagine how it could affect us: affect Europol?’
Looking directly at the Frenchman, Claudine said pointedly: ‘I can certainly imagine how it could affect a ten-year-old child.’
Sanglier flushed. ‘Don’t misunderstand me.’
No one spoke because no one had to.
Hurriedly, Sanglier said: ‘There can’t be any question of the Americans’ keeping us out?’
Claudine hesitated momentarily, undecided if it was the right time to introduce her concern. Then she said: ‘Whether they do or not, it’s my professional judgement that John Norris is incapable of conducting a proper negotiation even if the opportunity arises.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Sanglier, knowing how the other three had interpreted his concern at legality and hot with self-anger because of it.
In clinical detail – itemizing her indicators against Norris’s attitude and remarks – Claudine recounted that morning’s meeting with the FBI negotiator. ‘People like Norris, on the verge of losing personal control, invariably overcompensate by imposing as much external command as possible on those over whom they believe they have authority,’ she concluded. ‘The operational danger is in their thinking they have authority over those with whom they’re negotiating. That’s the road to disaster for a victim caught between opposing sides each believing they can manipulate the other: quite literally it’s the rock and a hard place syndrome.’
The Predators Page 8
