‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘It didn’t look like that tonight.’
‘We see each other. But we’re not sleeping together.’ Why was she defending herself: telling him that!
‘Oh.’
‘I really am tired.’
‘How about lonely?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But no.’
‘You sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ She hoped she hadn’t created an unnecessary problem for herself.
Rosetti and Volker were at the bar and both drunk when Henri Sanglier got back to the Metropole. The German, emboldened by whisky, invited him to join them but Sanglier said he had calls to make.
‘Things could really start to move tomorrow,’ forecast Volker, carefully enunciating each word.
‘I hope you’re right,’ said the Frenchman.
‘We’ve done our best,’ Volker assured him enigmatically.
‘I don’t want to know!’
In his suite Sanglier remained undecided for several moments before picking up the telephone to dial Françoise, to whom he hadn’t spoken since Paris and hardly expected to reach now. He was actually surprised when she answered almost immediately. She appeared as surprised to hear from him. There was noise – music and people – in the background.
Instead of talking about Paris, which he’d intended, he said: ‘What’s going on?’
‘Friends. A party.’
Sanglier felt his throat block. She was very bright, excited, chattering grown-up birdsong. It wasn’t alcohol. He didn’t want to think what it was. ‘I said never the house.’
‘You say lots of things.’
‘Get them out, Françoise.’
‘They’re my friends.’
‘How long has it been going on?’
‘Days. Who knows? Great fun.’
‘I’m coming home,’ lied Sanglier. ‘I want everyone out before I get there.’
‘Don’t be such a pompous shit! Why doesn’t everybody stay so you can join us when you get back?’
Sanglier put the phone down but remained sitting on the side of his bed, eyes tightly shut in despair. What was he going to do? Dear God, what was he going to do?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The effectiveness of Kurt Volker’s computer marauding enabled the enlarged FBI and CIA surveillance operation to be in place by 6 a.m.
Through Europol’s temporary incident room Volker was officially part of the police headquarters system, knowing its password, so it wasn’t even necessary to hack in from the US embassy to access its personnel files, which had no protecting firewall against unauthorized intrusion.
The full print-out of Police Commissioner André Poncellet included two photographs clearly taken some years previously but still sufficient for identification – a prime requirement – so Volker digitalized both. There were two listed addresses, one within the city on the rue des Commerçants and what was clearly a summer house by the lake at Auderghem. From their dates of birth one daughter was twenty-one, the other twenty-four, making it unlikely either still lived at home. Information about how many people were likely to occupy a property was another essential requirement.
Volker switched from police headquarter records to its computer directory, guessing the access code to the Justice Ministry would be registered, which it was. So he didn’t have to hack an entry there, either. As with police personnel, every ministry file held two subject photographs, full face and profile. Again he digitalized those of the six clerks, as well as those of Jean Smet.
The rue de Flandres was the only listed house for Smet, who was described as a bachelor with no dependants. Two of the Europol-assigned female clerks were married. So were two of the men. Each of the four had school-age children. Only the unmarried man lived outside the city, close to the Astrid park in Anderlecht.
To each of the eight targets Paul Harding assigned a six-man squad, with two ‘floating’ operatives for any unforeseen development or emergency. The necessary forty additional agents twenty from the FBI, twenty from the CIA – had been embarked at Washington’s Andrews Air Force base before Volker completed his computer searches. With them they brought the Bibles and literature to support the textbook CIA cover of overseas Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormon missionaries if they mistakenly approached a still occupied foreign household.
The 6 a.m. deployment of each team was designed to avoid that risk – which it did in every case – by recording each departure against the likely remaining occupancy of premises to be burgled and searched after the target left for work. At that exit, the watching team split, three detaching to maintain the physical surveillance, three remaining to enter the house or apartment after determining it was empty. Each of the forty-eight officers, fifteen of them women, were equipped with Volker’s computer-hijacked personnel print-outs with their essential recognitive photographs.
All the clerks left their homes roughly within fifteen minutes of each other, for their 9 a.m. ministry start. Three dropped their children off at school. The wife of the fourth male clerk left separately, in her own car, with their two children.
The apparently unoccupied houses of the bachelor male clerk who lived at Anderlecht and the unmarried female whose rented home was on the rue Pieremans were the first to be entered. Both were telephoned first, to ensure they were empty. The others were burgled as their occupants left during the course of the day, the last not until 2 p.m. All the burglaries were to an established pattern, two agents entering while the third, the spot man, remained outside to warn of any unexpected return.
Jean Smet’s house was broken into at 10 a.m., fifteen minutes after he left for the ministry and that morning’s meeting of the control group. The team assigned to André Poncellet had to wait until 1.30 p.m., an hour after his wife left for her luncheon club meeting; they had to wait an extra half an hour for the departure of the nonresident housekeeper whose earlier arrival they’d noted.
The police commissioner’s home was the only one equipped with a burglar alarm, although it was not set. No house had any dogs, although there were cats in three, one with a litter. There was only one hurried exit at an unexpected return, that of the wife of a clerk living on rue Brogniez. It was achieved without panic or discovery, through an already opened rear door and along an already reconnoitred side path.
The establishment of an escape route was always the first step in the strictly regimented and well-rehearsed entry routine. The sweep was conducted from the very top – the loft, if there was one – and descended to the basement. Before the search of any room began it was photographed from four different angles by Polaroid with one operator checking the other at the completion of the examination to ensure every article, piece of furniture, picture, drawer, ornament, vase, book, magazine or newspaper was replaced precisely in the position in which it had been before they started. Any letter or document they thought might have the slightest relevance was photographed with a more sophisticated camera fitted with a proxile copying lens. So were all bank and financial records and every address book. All pictures, photographs, bureaux and furniture that might have concealed hiding places were moved, particularly in lofts and basements. Listening devices were installed in every telephone and in the light fittings and skirting boards of every room. The primary objective was obviously anything sexual, of any nature whatsoever. All videos were run for their first five minutes on the available television screens. There were two soft porn videos at the home of one of the married male clerks and three, more hard core, at the Anderlecht house of the unmarried man. There were also twelve sex magazines. All the videos and the magazines portrayed heterosexual sex. In every case the ‘floating’ agent on standby outside each house ferried the videos back to the US embassy and waited while Kurt Volker made instant copies.
The unmarried female clerk had two vibrators, one black, in her bedside cabinet and a selection of soft porn male magazines.
Duncan McCulloch and Robert Ritchie carried out the search of J
ean Smet’s house. It was immaculately kept, every shirt folded in its drawer, every shoe on its tree, no dust or fallen flower petal anywhere. They took particular care with their Polaroid record and with the loaded Hochner pistol they briefly removed from the bedside table.
So cleverly was it concealed that McCulloch almost missed the safe, only at the last minute lifting the corner of the bedroom carpet that had been extended to cover the bottom of the wardrobe to see its edge, sunk into the floor. He shouted the find to Ritchie, who continued his search while McCulloch hunched over the safe, stethoscope microphone against the combination box. It was hardly necessary. Like nine out of ten people Smet had used the date, month and year of his birth – all of which McCulloch had from Volker’s print-out – for his security. The safe was empty apart from a selection of pornographic photographs, all featuring children – predominantly boys – and two videos. One of the videos was the acquisition from Amsterdam that Smet had shown Félicité three days earlier. It was only after he’d hurried it off to the rue du Régent that McCulloch located his partner in the basement.
‘I got two paedophile films and a lot of stills,’ announced McCulloch.
Ritchie didn’t turn, too intent on the photographs he was taking. ‘And this original coal cellar has been converted into a cell with a metal-grilled door …’ He turned. ‘But Mary Beth isn’t in it.’
That morning’s gathering was the last at which the identity of the informer remained unknown. There had been a brief, preliminary meeting at the American embassy at which Claudine had argued that neither Poncellet nor Smet – and certainly none of that day’s clerks – would know she was twisting her assessment of the previous evening’s telephone conversation. The others also agreed not to question the unexpected result of the overnight forensic and number check on the mobile telephone unless Poncellet drew attention to it.
At police headquarters, Smet again asked for the actual conversation to be played, following it from the prepared transcript, coming up to Claudine enquiringly the moment it finished.
‘She’s panicking,’ responded Claudine easily. ‘Dumping the telephone as she did clearly indicates that. And she’s frightened of me, personally. The whole conversation is directed against me, not the ambassador. And she hasn’t got a clue how to arrange a ransom.’
‘I didn’t think you believed there was ever any serious intention of getting a ransom?’ pressed Smet.
‘What I doubted was her intention of giving Mary back,’ corrected Claudine. ‘To have got away, undetected, with a ransom would have been her ultimate victory. She won’t get that now. She’ll abandon the ransom idea.’
‘If she doesn’t go ahead with the ransom there’s no reason to maintain contact, is there?’ said Poncellet.
Claudine wished the policeman hadn’t asked the question, although there was an opening to continue the goading. ‘It was always the most worrying possibility. I never imagined she would collapse so quickly or so easily.’
‘You don’t know that she has,’ persisted Poncellet.
‘I do,’ said Claudine. She was uncomfortable, offering wrong assessments. More immaturity, she recognized. It wasn’t a wrong assessment. It was an absolutely correct procedure to achieve a very necessary objective. The doubt was whether she would succeed in doing so.
‘Was there anything in the scientific examination of the telephone?’ asked Smet.
Blake said: ‘Nothing. It was stolen in Ghent seven days ago.’
‘A blank there, then?’ said Poncellet.
For a further five hours that single remark focused the suspicion upon the police chief, in front of whom were set out the findings – including the one obvious but seemingly unnoticed inconsistency – of the mobile telephone company, who had cooperated fully from the first moment of their being contacted, once the number had been identified.
‘Nothing that I can see to help us along,’ said Harding, setting a fresh snare for the policeman who immediately appeared to fall into it by saying nothing.
‘So everything revolves around another telephone call?’ said Smet.
‘Which she’ll be too frightened to make,’ declared Claudine.
*
There was nothing from the surveillance when they got back to the embassy. Although the hope of a possible discovery within six hours had been unrealistic, the disappointment was nevertheless intense.
‘I’ve changed the entire strategy,’ Claudine explained to the doubtful Burt Harrison. ‘Directly challenged her with being scared: behaving like someone mentally unstable. She won’t be able to stop herself from responding.’
‘I couldn’t do your job,’ said the diplomat.
I know you couldn’t, thought Claudine. Aloud she said: ‘Most times I don’t enjoy doing it myself.’ Had that morning been another confidence-building public performance? She certainly hadn’t thought so until now. And with no professional reason for him to attend, Hugo Rosetti hadn’t been there to witness it. He hadn’t come down for breakfast before she’d left the hotel, either.
It was four thirty before the courier hurried in with Jean Smet’s two tapes and a selection of the stills to be copied. Both were hard core paedophilia pornography.
Harrison became visibly distressed halfway through the first film and openly protested at the need to watch the second in its entirety. ‘Why?’ he demanded.
‘To see if Mary Beth is featured,’ said Blake bluntly.
The man objected again when Volker rewound both to replay them simultaneously. The German ignored him, exclaiming in satisfied triumph when he freeze-framed both at the meaningless strip of letters and figures that preceded both performances.
‘What?’ demanded Claudine expectantly.
‘They’re identical.’ Volker traced his finger along each matching set of symbols. ‘It’s cryptography: encoding data against unauthorized entry. In this case it’ll be the details of the distributors. It’s the newest and safest way for paedophiles to hide: the current anti-hacking firewall.’
‘Where’s this going to take us?’ asked Harding.
‘To who they are and where they operate from. To all the pornography they’ve got on offer, to see if Mary is among those already featured …’ Volker hesitated, nodding in renewed satisfaction. ‘And hopefully to their subscriber list to see who else in Belgium, particularly in Brussels, is on it as well as Jean Smet.’
The illegal burglaries had been totally justified, decided Henri Sanglier. And all except that of Smet’s house could remain undisclosed. So he was in no career-obstructing personal danger. In fact, as the acknowledged head of the investigating force, there would at the end of the case be a great deal of public recognition. He said: ‘We’ve done extremely well. I’m very pleased.’
Briskly, actually moving towards the door, Harrison said: ‘We could have Mary back by tonight! I’ll tell the ambassador.’
‘You won’t!’ snapped Blake. ‘This is the beginning, not the end. And that could still be a long way off.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At first, when they left the house, Félicité held tightly to Mary’s hand, but it was difficult for the girl to throw the bread to the screeching gulls hovering against the warm wind so Félicité let her go. The gulls swarmed very close and Mary screamed and laughed, although nervously, finally hurling the remainder of the broken-up loaf in one shower, to send the birds from her. The sun was silvering the water and after so long in the basement Mary still had her eyes screwed up against the brightness: already there was some faint colour coming back to her cheeks.
‘Isn’t this nice?’ said Félicité. She was completely recovered, quite calm: content even. Certainly much better than she had been after talking to Smet. Then she’d been so furious she hadn’t even been able to think properly, her mind jumping from one half-thought to another, nothing in its proper order. It was now; as it always was. Everything worked out, all the uncertainties resolved. There was a lot to do, despite all that she’d already done since the
previous day, but there was no longer any hurry.
‘Can I collect shells and things?’ asked Mary, as the disappointed gulls at last left them alone.
‘Don’t go too far ahead.’ There was nowhere Mary could go but Félicité was watchful. Two barges were passing each other in the centre channel of the Schelde but Félicité wasn’t worried. Both were too far away to see any crew so she and Mary would be just as distant: tiny unrecognizable figures.
‘I like my new things. And the u.p.’s,’ said Mary. She was glad she could throw the old, stained pair away. And that the pain in her tummy had gone and there weren’t any more blood spots. She wasn’t sure the woman was telling the truth about her becoming a big girl. The woman told lies.
‘You look beautiful.’ The clothes had been the last things Félicité had bought before leaving Brussels. The red sweater, roll-necked with reindeer in a blue line across the front, fitted perfectly but she’d had to take the jeans up by one turn.
‘Why didn’t you let me come out here before?’ Mary was scurrying by the waterline, turning over debris with a stick. She wondered if mere was a road beyond the rising bank to her right. She couldn’t hear any traffic.
‘There was never time.’ Félicité could only just pick out the closest house, nothing more than a dark shape on the horizon far ahead. There was even less danger from that than from the barges, but they’d still turn back soon. She didn’t want to tire Mary. And she was tired herself: it had been late by the time she’d got to Luxembourg the previous night and she’d had to drive hard to get back to Brussels and do everything necessary there before coming to Antwerp. But it was all going to be worth it.
‘Why is there time now?’
‘I’m going to stay with you: not leave you alone any more. Would you like that?’ How wonderful – magical – to be with her for ever. To travel, just the two of them. A fantasy, Félicité knew. But one she could indulge in, during the next few days. A fantasy that would become her personal Greek tragedy.
The Predators Page 28
