Sanglier, who hated betraying any weakness, felt totally helpless at his inability to think of anything. The other three were actually looking at him expectantly! ‘I think I should meet the ambassador before the conference.’ It sounded positive, but only just.
‘McBride will be guided entirely by Norris,’ Claudine warned him.
Sanglier said: ‘And I can use your opinion as a counterargument. You’re clearly right about a planned kidnap’s being the wrong assumption from which to begin the investigation. If I can make McBride see that – realize Norris’s fallibility – his attitude might change.’
‘I’m sure I’ll get any more e-mail correspondence,’ said Volker. ‘If there’s something as positive as a suggested meeting are we going to hold back from acting upon it?’
Claudine saved Sanglier from having to admit that he didn’t know. She said: ‘Nothing is going to be as positive as an arranged meeting. We’re watching a game that’s only just begun.’
The relief was incomplete and short-lived and ended in bitter ill temper. The combined, disbelieving fury of James and Hillary McBride was the greatest and most easily understandable. When the amateur poem had faded from the computer screens, Hillary had swept in to join the inquest in her husband’s study, shouting for answers that no one had.
‘What the fuck’s going on? I hear from someone who’s got my daughter but doesn’t tell me how to get back to him!’ McBride said.
‘It doesn’t make any sense!’ Hillary added. ‘How can we pay without knowing who or how or when or where?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Norris uncomfortably.
‘You!’ demanded the ambassador, jerking a wavering finger at the computer programmer in Norris’s team. ‘What the hell happened? Why wasn’t there an address to get back to?’
‘It’s not always automatic,’ said Howard Williams. He was a thin-haired, facially twitched young man whose elbow-scaled psoriasis was on fire from the nerve-racked tension of being in charge of a communications team that appeared to have failed its first test. Williams was an excellent technician who could dismantle and reassemble any known make of computer, but a virginal stranger to the shadowed side roads of cyberspace along which Kurt Volker prowled with the sure-footedness of an alley cat.
‘You didn’t even record the fucking message!’
‘It closed down before there was time,’ said Williams miserably. ‘We didn’t expect it to come like it did.’
‘Then why the hell were four supposed computer experts included in the Task Force? You told us you’d set up a foolproof system!’ Hillary directed the question to Norris, not the dejected specialist.
Norris, who never allowed himself a single mistake, inwardly squirmed at having to accept the ultimate responsibility. ‘Telephone links go down all the time,’ he tried, desperately.
‘Is this what happened here, something stupid like a bad connection?’ McBride asked Williams, who shuffled uncomfortably, refusing to meet the ambassador’s bulging-eyed stare.
‘I don’t think it was an actual line collapse, sir. I think it was intentionally wiped at source.’
McBride went back to the FBI commander, purple-faced but speaking once more with ominous quietness. ‘Mr Norris, we were connected to the bastards who’ve got my little girl. And they got away. You want to explain mat to me in a way I’ll understand so that I won’t think you and your team are a bunch of losing, fucking incompetents? Because that’s what I’d like you to do, starting now!’
There was a sweep of mind-blanking dizziness and Norris thought he might have stumbled – fallen even – if he hadn’t fortunately been sitting in one of the few chairs fronting the ambassador’s football-pitch desk.
Although he despised his superior – thought him a total, off-the-wall jerk – Paul Harding momentarily felt sorry for the man. Lance Rampling was trying mentally to compose the message to Langley that would convey the full extent of the FBI fuck-up without letting the intercepting Bureau realize every error, no matter how small, would go into the CIA’s infighting armoury, to be broken out and fired at the first skirmish of a political battle between the two agencies.
‘I’m waiting,’ threatened McBride.
‘It wasn’t a demand,’ Norris said desperately. ‘It was to tell us they’ve got Mary. For us to be ready. They’re softening us up: proving they’ve got all the winning cards.’ The last part, admitting that he wasn’t orchestrating everything, hurt almost with a physical pain. Whoever had the child would pay, for making him do that. He’d teach them who was the boss, the moment they began proper negotiations. And then really teach them, once Mary was safely recovered. They’d know what it was like to be hunted by the time he’d finished with them.
‘You saying we’ve got to wait until they feel like getting back to us?’ asked Hillary.
Norris fervently sought an alternative but couldn’t think of one. ‘It’s a negotiating ploy.’
‘I don’t give a shit what it is,’ said McBride. ‘I’m not waiting. We are ready. The money’s here. I want to get back to them. How are we going to do that?’
Norris felt a sink of helplessness, unthinkingly half turning towards Williams. Anxiously the technician blurted: ‘We could log a message on the browsers.’
‘What the hell’s that?’ said McBride sharply.
‘A browser is like a subject directory or index, in a classified telephone book. People surf the Net through browsers, searching for information logged there. We’re doing the press release tonight so there’s no need for secrecy any more. Why don’t we make an entry – it’s called starting a thread – naming Mary through News-cape and Microsoft Explorer? It would be inviting them to come back to us.’
It sounded good, some positive action, conceded Norris. Eager to contribute – and to illustrate his psychological ability – he said: ‘To let them know it’s aimed at them and that we want to deal, our response should be along the lines of their message to us.’
‘Whatever it takes,’ insisted McBride. ‘Get it done! Get Mary back.’
They were very late returning from Antwerp – they hadn’t driven down until after Jean Smet had left his office – but he still invited Félicité Galan into his house off the rue de Flandres to watch his latest movie from Amsterdam. Afterwards Félicité said: ‘One of the boys was at least sixteen. And a professional.’
‘It was still good,’ defended Smet. ‘The others will like it.’
‘I wonder what Mary will think of it.’
‘You said she wasn’t going to be touched,’ said Smet.
‘I said no one else was to touch her. And it was only a little slap on her ass.’
‘It was a hiding. You hit her too hard.’
She knew the man was right. ‘A necessary lesson. She’ll do as she’s told in future, so I won’t have to do it again.’
‘Dehane did very well with the message, didn’t he?’
‘I knew it was technically possible. And I told you it would be completely undetectable.’
‘I still don’t like it,’ said the man weakly.
‘Why hasn’t the Justice Ministry created a supervisory committee the way they did when the boy died?’ she asked, ignoring the man’s protest.
Smet smiled. ‘It was proposed before I left the ministry this afternoon.’
‘And?’ asked Félicité, smiling too.
‘I’m responsible for establishing it, just like before. And I head the legal advisory team that will sit with it.’
Félicité’s expression broadened in satisfaction. ‘So everything will be as foolproof as last time.’
‘The Americans have brought in a huge team of people, apparently. And Europol’s involved.’
‘We anticipated it would be more high-powered than before,’ Félicité said dismissively.
‘Would you have done it? Broken up the group if we hadn’t agreed about Mary?’ asked the ministry lawyer, no longer smiling.
‘I want things my way,’ said the thin-face
d woman. ‘I get tired of telling you mat.’
*
The military aircraft repatriating Harry Becker and his family was delayed for two hours that night to enable the even more distressed Howard Williams to travel back to Washington on Norris’s personal authority.
From the US embassy Norris sent a ‘Respond This Day’ reminder to Washington for the requested in-depth reinvestigation into McBride’s business affairs. That request as well as the browser message to the unknown holders of Mary Beth McBride, were both instantly picked up by Kurt Volker’s ever attentive Trojan Horse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Americans’ Internet message read WHERE IS MARY, MARY QUITE CONTRARY? and was signed off with the embassy’s e-mail address.
It appeared a light-hearted, joking invitation except to those aware of the desperation of the plea. Claudine acknowledged the need for the nursery rhyme connotation but at the 1 a.m. conference for which she, Blake and Sanglier had to be awakened Volker, alerted by his computer-linked pager, warned the result would be chaotic on a never sleeping World Wide Web as user-crowded as Oxford Street or Fifth Avenue on Christmas Eve.
Volker had been proved right by 8 a.m. when they assembled again in Sanglier’s Metropole suite to discuss their pre-conference encounter with the ambassador. By then there were two hundred and twenty responses – with more arriving on average every five minutes – the majority mostly eager to participate in an imagined Internet mystery game predicated on children’s doggerel. Five were analysed – correctly as it subsequently turned out – by Claudine to be disguised paedophile approaches, although she decided none came from Mary’s captors, which also proved correct. Not one reply emanated from Brussels: the only Belgian response, from Charleroi, proved to be from a wheelchair-bound crippled twelve-year-old boy only able freely to wander the world from his bedroom computer.
To Blake’s unasked question at the breakfast strategy meeting Sanglier announced at once: ‘All right. They’re excluding us and now we’ve got proof we can confront them with. They’ve identified themselves with their e-mail address. So how do we do it?’ He was inwardly ecstatic at his escape from the problem of illegally entering the embassy system.
‘Hard,’ declared Claudine at once, knowing the question was directed at her. ‘We’ve got to establish our control officially.’
‘You really serious about Norris?’ asked Blake.
‘Absolutely.’
‘What do we do about him?’ said Sanglier, as Volker moved the coffee pot around the breakfast table.
‘The same. He’s guiding everyone at the moment. We’ve got to show he’s wrong.’
‘Then it’s got to be you, psychologist against psychologist,’ insisted Sanglier. He was supremely confident, knowing he couldn’t lose the forthcoming encounter. He hoped the woman realized his acceptance of her ability. Not an attempt at amends, he reminded himself: the proper establishment of a proper team arrangement. After personally challenging the ambassador he’d insist Europol officially protest direct to Washington, too. A disaster – which was the most likely outcome if the woman’s assessment was even half correct – could now be proved the result of unwarranted, technically illegal American interference, while a successful recovery could be manipulated into a brilliant example of Europol police work, personally headed by Commissioner Henri Sanglier. Either way, any condoned illegality on Kurt Volker’s part would be smothered.
Henri Sanglier was an extremely contented man.
James McBride clearly wasn’t. The American ambassador made the pretence of politeness when they entered his study, his attitude a mixture of his usual aggression tempered by a growing acceptance of defeat. His eyes were red-rimmed and bagged and he coughed frequently, to clear a throat that didn’t need clearing. Hillary McBride appeared far more controlled than her husband. She was smoking unusually long cigarettes. John Norris sat looking out into the room on the left of the desk, with Paul Harding and Lance Rampling alongside. Elliot Smith, the young legal adviser, was beside Burt Harrison, the chief of mission, to the ambassador’s right.
‘I want to say at once how much I appreciate the involvement of Europol. And your coming personally,’ said McBride, anxious to get the diplomatic niceties out of the way and conclude the meeting as soon as possible to get back to where Norris’s team were assessing the incoming Internet messages. ‘I hope, Commissioner, that when you and I appear publicly, later, we’ll be able to build upon what’s in this morning’s papers.’ The overnight press release dominated the front page of every newspaper, with the issued photograph of Mary Beth McBride. ‘I’m afraid—’
‘Mr Ambassador,’ Sanglier said quickly, discerning the imminent dismissal. ‘I think there is something extremely important for us to discuss before talking about today’s press conference.’
Immediate hope overrode McBride’s irritation at being interrupted, but before he could speak Hillary blurted: ‘You’ve found her!’
‘No,’ said Sanglier bluntly. Addressing Norris more than the parents, he went on: ‘And our chances of doing so are seriously endangered by the interference of your own law enforcement agencies, acting without any jurisdiction. I’m giving you notice, as the senior Europol representative in charge of this investigation, that as well as my protest here this morning there will be an official Europol complaint to both your State Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, in Washington.’
Claudine was astonished. This was a Sanglier she’d never seen before, although the persona fitted her impression of a man with a deeply rooted but well-concealed inferiority complex. She’d never intended Sanglier to be as direct, or indeed as undiplomatic. Totally confident of their strength, Sanglier was emerging a bully. And was, she decided, actually enjoying it, in fact, dropping all his pretension and for once actually being himself. It was oddly like curing a patient whose mental illness prevented his being the person he actually was, only in reverse.
McBride was also visibly astonished. He flushed and said: ‘I think, sir, that you need to remember who I am as well as giving me an explanation.’
The legal attaché leaned sideways, whispering to Harrison. Claudine wondered if Blake was as surprised as she was.
‘I think we should both give each other explanations,’ said Sanglier. ‘Before Europol was given its operational convention it was a computerized centre collating criminal intelligence between member countries. As such its operators learned the Internet was extensively used by pornographers—’
‘Pornographers!’ exclaimed Hillary, her composure going. The two FBI men exchanged looks. Norris shook his head.
‘Dr Carter will explain that,’ Sanglier said. ‘Hear me out. As part of our investigation – an investigation we believed your government, your Central Intelligence Agency and your Federal Bureau of Investigation fully accepted to be under Europol’s operational jurisdiction – our experts accessed various Internet web sites …’
Claudine was intently watching the interaction among the Americans facing her. McBride’s face was beginning to burn. Hillary was expressionless but looking fixedly at Norris. The chief of mission, a professional diplomat, remained impassive, too, despite the legal attaché’s frantic whispering. Norris was blinking rapidly and as she looked the man straightened in his chair and pulled his tightly buttoned jacket down, as if wanting to remove some creases. Harding was staring down at the floor and Rampling was suddenly engrossed in a manicure problem affecting his left hand. A gamut of guilt, Claudine thought.
‘Late last night we read what appears to be a message sent generally through a large number of browsers, from the e-mail address of this embassy,’ Sanglier bulldozed on. ‘It obviously referred to your missing daughter. There’d been no prior consultation with any of my officers about that, which contravenes our understanding. It was also curiously worded, almost in code, suggesting some earlier correspondence of which my officers were also unaware …’ He paused again, as if inviting an interruption, before finishing: ‘Th
at’s my explanation, ambassador. I’d welcome hearing yours.’
Claudine calculated that Sanglier, the high priest of diplomatic correctness, was on the very edge of going too far. It was unlikely, with the fate of his daughter involved, but if McBride became offended enough to order them from the embassy the situation they were trying to correct would, in fact, become even more difficult.
But McBride wasn’t sufficiently offended. He said, lamely: ‘I’m trying to get my daughter back.’
Seemingly anxious to curb Sanglier, Blake said: ‘And this isn’t the way to do it. This is the way to lose her, permanently.’
‘Say something!’ Hillary demanded of Norris.
‘They’re wrong,’ he replied dogmatically. ‘I’ve promised I’ll get your daughter back and I will.’
The first person delivery again, Claudine thought. She was right about the man. And he was inviting his own confrontation.
‘For Christ’s sake, let’s sort this out!’ implored McBride. ‘A child – my child – is at stake here!’
‘Dr Carter?’ Sanglier said.
Claudine’s concentration was absolute upon John Norris. The only controlling authority to which the man would defer would be McBride here in Brussels or recognizably tided officials in Washington. She had to face the man down now, in front of the ambassador. It would destroy any possibility of a proper working relationship between them but the alternative was the destruction of Mary Beth McBride. And Claudine was unafraid – eager even – to make one enemy she didn’t doubt she could defeat to get to the far more threatening adversary she didn’t, at the moment, know how to challenge.
Norris was equally intent upon Claudine, isolating her as his opponent. He was smiling faintly. Claudine attacked. ‘The puncture was entirely accidental?’
‘There are still some tests to be carried out.’ Norris settled back comfortably, considering the encounter a further establishment of his position.
Claudine saw Harding’s eyes flicker sideways, towards his superior. Rampling was frowning at the man, too. ‘At this moment is there any evidence to suggest that the puncture was anything but accidental?’
The Predators Page 9
