The Predators

by Brian Freemantle

  Mary frowned up from her beachcoming. ‘How long’s that going to be?’

  ‘I’m not sure, not yet. A while.’ She couldn’t conceive what it would be like, when it had to end: refused to think about it. All she wanted was for them to be together. Something beautiful. She wouldn’t let there be any pain. She’d have Lascelles do it. Just a pin prick.

  Mary suddenly swooped, crying out, coming up triumphantly with her hand above her head. ‘A stone with a hole in it! That’s lucky.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Back home.’ Solemnly the child held out her hand. The stone was white, water-bleached. ‘A present, for you. Your own lucky stone.’

  Félicité swallowed heavily. ‘Thank you, my darling. I’ll treasure it.’ She would. For ever. Mary was so beautiful: so utterly, adorably beautiful.

  ‘Can I go to see what’s on the other side of the bank?’

  ‘There’s nothing. Just marsh.’

  ‘Can I go and look anyway?’

  ‘There are mosquitoes.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Stay down here.’

  Mary detected the change in the woman’s voice, knowing she had to stop. ‘It is nice, being able to come outside.’

  ‘I knew you’d like it.’

  ‘Can we go somewhere else?’ Mary could see a house, a long way off. It looked dark, shuttered. The sun should have been shining off the windows but it wasn’t.

  ‘What?’

  ‘As well as here, by the river. Go somewhere else for a walk?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ repeated Félicité. ‘I think we should go back now. We’ve walked a long way.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’

  ‘We’ll still go back.’

  ‘Just a little further?’

  ‘No!’

  There was that sound in her voice again. ‘I don’t want to look for shells or stones any more.’

  ‘We’re going back,’ insisted Félicité.

  Mary reached out for the woman’s hand. ‘When will I go home?’

  ‘Don’t you like me?’ Mary’s hand was velvet soft, pudgy fingers searching for hers.

  ‘Yes, now that you don’t hit me.’

  ‘I won’t ever hit you again. I promise.’

  She broke her promises when she felt like it, remembered Mary. ‘Why did you before?’

  ‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’

  Mary liked making her feel sorry. There definitely wasn’t any car noise from the other side of the bank so perhaps it was just marsh. ‘So when will I go home?’

  Félicité walked for several moments without talking. ‘Would you like to talk to your papa?’ It was a new idea. The bitch who thought she knew so much wouldn’t expect that: wouldn’t expect a lot of what was going to happen. She was a piss-poor psychologist, believing she was frightened of her. Soon prove that was ridiculous.

  ‘Can I! Can I!’ said Mary urgently.

  ‘What would you say about me?’

  Now Mary remained silent, although not for as long as Félicité. ‘I don’t know. Nothing. Can I speak to him? Please!’

  ‘Why don’t you want to stay with me?’

  Mary flinched at the sudden harshness. ‘I can’t stay with you for ever. You know I can’t.’

  ‘Would you, if you could?’ said Félicité, allowing the fantasy.

  Mary knew the answer was important. ‘Yes, if I didn’t already have a mom and dad.’

  The simplistic logic blunted Félicité’s irritation. She wouldn’t be giving in, letting Mary speak to her father: she’d be increasing the pressure. An additional idea began to form. ‘They might try to stop you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘People who are with your papa. A woman. Her name’s Claudine. That’s why it’s taken so long: sometimes when I call she won’t let me talk to him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She won’t believe it’s about you. A lot of people are playing jokes on your papa: calling and pretending to be you.’

  ‘We’re not pretending!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Tell her she must let me!’

  ‘I’ll try. If I do, will you promise to tell her something for me?’

  ‘What?’ asked Mary doubtfully.

  ‘Something that might sound silly but she’ll understand.’

  ‘All right.’

  They were close to the house now. Hopeful gulls swooped and called overhead. A ship so laden with containers it seemed to have a city skyline was making its way slowly from the port towards the open sea. It was still too far away for anyone to be visible but Mary waved.

  ‘Did you see anyone?’ demanded Félicité sharply.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you wave?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘Because.’ She stood in the middle of the pattern-floored entrance hall, watching Félicité carefully lock, bolt and test the huge front door. ‘Are any of the others coming?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When will they?’

  ‘Never.’ Félicité smiled. Of all the decisions she’d made in the last twenty-four hours, the one to abandon Smet and all the others satisfied her the most.

  ‘I don’t want to go back downstairs,’ announced Mary, risking the defiance.

  The telephone conversations would be in French: there was no way the child would be able to understand. Félicité said: ‘If you stay upstairs you’ve got to be a good girl.’

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘You know what I mean by being a good girl, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not try to get away.’ She was glad she hadn’t run to the top of the bank. She’d intended to, at first.

  ‘If you do try I’ll bring back the man I stopped hurting you to look after you again. And I’ll leave.’ Félicité felt almost physical pain at the fear that registered at once on Mary’s face. ‘So you will be good, won’t you?’ she added hurriedly.

  ‘Yes,’ said the child quietly. She tensed when Félicité put her arm round her to take her into the huge room with the panoramic windows. Inside Mary curled up in a large chair, staring out over the river with her back to the room and Félicité.

  Hans Doorn said he was glad she’d called to rearrange the postponed booking. It was fortunate the house was still available. He’d arrange for it to be prepared before the arrival of her and her party and understood they’d be bringing their own staff. If there was a change of plan he could fix local cooking and cleaning people. Félicité said there wouldn’t be any change.

  The Luxembourg lawyer whom she’d continued to use after Marcel’s death and had briefed that morning said he’d already started the chain in Andorra and Liechtenstein and hoped to complete with the confirmation in Switzerland within three days. He remained unsure whether the expense was justified but accepted it was her money and she could do what she wanted with it. In the meantime, now that she’d confirmed the rental, he’d release the money transfer she’d authorized and hoped she’d have a good vacation. Félicité said she was sure she would.

  Pieter Lascelles admitted being surprised by her moving into the Antwerp house but didn’t question it, more immediately interested in the arrangements for what was going to happen.

  ‘What do you think about the identification?’

  He smiled quizzically. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An English nursery rhyme I learned at school.’

  ‘Very appropriate.’

  ‘You still bringing the same number of people?’

  ‘Yes. You?’

  ‘Just me.’

  The surgeon didn’t speak for several moments. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m simply not including anyone.’

  ‘Your decision,’ Lascelles conceded.

  ‘I’ll probably be seeing a lot more of you in the future,’ said Félicité.

  ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

  In Lille G
eorges Lebron responded as excitedly as Lascelles. ‘I was becoming impatient,’ he complained.

  ‘How many of you will there be?’

  ‘Ten, as arranged,’ said the man. ‘And a special guest, of course.’

  Throughout the conversations Mary hadn’t turned from the window. Félicité said: ‘I’ve got hamburgers.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said the child sullenly, her back to the woman.

  ‘Hamburgers and then we’ll telephone papa,’ said Félicité.

  Mary turned, finally. ‘All right.’

  *

  The outraged head of mission insisted upon summoning the young embassy lawyer, Elliot Smith, and that McBride be told, so they’d all transferred yet again to the ambassador’s study, taking McCulloch and Ritchie with them. McBride’s reaction was mixed. Like Harrison he showed incredulous disbelief, but he was quicker to recognize the restrictions of the discovery. ‘The bastard!’

  ‘He’s got to be arrested! Made to talk,’ exclaimed Hillary.

  The reluctant Elliot Smith was once more thrust into the forefront, as he had been during the original jurisdictional problem and again when Norris had committed suicide. It seemed, he thought, as if events had come full circle. Nervously – apologetically – he said: ‘In my opinion there is no official action that can be brought against Smet. There’s probably a Belgian law against possessing pornography featuring children: there is in most EU countries. But that information was gained illegally. It can’t form the basis for any formal investigation. He’s a lawyer. He’d know that.’

  ‘What about the basement cell, for Christ’s sake!’ demanded McBride.

  ‘It’s a coal bunker, with a strengthened door,’ said Blake. ‘It could be for burglar prevention from the street outside.’

  ‘You absolutely sure he’s in contact with who’s got Mary?’ demanded Hillary.

  ‘Yes. But I can’t prove it,’ said Claudine.

  Ignoring her qualification McBride said: ‘You telling me we couldn’t sweat it out of the bastard?’

  ‘That’s exactly what we’re telling you,’ said Claudine pityingly. ‘He’d have to be arrested to be interrogated. We’ve got no legally obtained evidence for his arrest. And he’d know more than that: he’d know the only way he could face prosecution would be by admitting knowledge of Mary’s captors. So there’s no way he’d do that. At this moment we’ve got a way through to them, whoever and wherever they are. We’d lose all that even if we could persuade the Belgians to pick him up.’

  McBride thrust up from his desk, stomping to the window overlooking the formal grounds and the avenue beyond. No one spoke. After several minutes, without turning back into the room, he said: ‘My kid’s out there somewhere with a bunch of perverts who could be doing God knows what to her. We know who one of them is. And we can’t do a goddamned thing about it?’

  ‘I just don’t believe it!’ said Hillary, in rare agreement with her husband.

  No one wanted to reply. Claudine looked to Sanglier. Uncomfortably the Europol commissioner said: ‘I know it sounds absurd. But we can’t do anything. Not if we want to save her. It is absurd. But that’s precisely what the situation is.’

  McBride turned back into the room, but he did not go immediately behind his desk. Instead he came to Claudine. ‘Which brings it all back to you, Dr Carter. To how well you can mislead him into showing her a direction and how well you can manoeuvre the woman without her realizing it’s being done.’

  ‘Not totally,’ said Harding. ‘Every telephone and every room in Smet’s house is wired. He can’t make or receive a call, talk to anyone who comes there, without our hearing every word. And we know there’s more than just Smet and me woman. He’s bound to speak to the others. When he does he’ll take us with him.’

  ‘What’s come from the house since the devices were installed?’ challenged McBride.

  Rampling shook his head. ‘Not even an incoming call.’ Bitterly he added: ‘Obviously a guy with a very limited circle of particular friends.’

  ‘There’s a point about that,’ said McCulloch, nodding sideways to his partner. ‘We combed that house. Gave it a second shake after we’d found the pictures and the cell. I’m sure we didn’t miss anything. There wasn’t an address book. Not one he left lying around in the house, anyway. Nor any personal letter. Just business stuff.’

  ‘He’ll carry it with him,’ guessed Harding. ‘There’s a damned great briefcase in all this morning’s surveillance pictures.’

  ‘The entire ring – the woman herself – are most likely in it,’ said Ritchie. ‘So how do we get it?’

  ‘Not easily,’ said Rampling.

  ‘But we’ve got to,’ said Blake.

  The American looked sourly at him. ‘That so?’

  McBride had gone back behind his desk and was listening intently, gaunt-faced, to the operational discussion. For once Hillary was silent.

  ‘And there’s his office,’ added Blake, unembarrassed. ‘We don’t have any wires there.’

  ‘The Justice Ministry is an official government building!’ protested Harrison. ‘You’re not suggesting—’

  ‘You know damned well what he’s suggesting and it sounds good to me,’ snapped McBride impatiently. ‘If anyone wants superior authority, I’ve just given it. And if that’s not enough I’ll get it from the fucking President. You got any problem with that?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Harrison.

  For the record Sanglier supposed he should voice an official caution but this was a meeting where records were not being taken. He’d have to be very careful of the Americans when he took up office in Paris. But then, he reflected, he’d been careful about everything and everyone ever since he could remember. It would be a relief, just once, to be able to relax: a relief but impossible. He said: ‘What are we going to tell Poncellet?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Harding shortly, totally confident now as the overall American supervisor. ‘I don’t imagine he’d have a problem but he is the police commissioner and we are acting illegally. We can’t take the risk he wouldn’t try to intervene in some way: screw everything.’

  ‘His house is bugged!’ reminded Sanglier.

  ‘We won’t listen,’ said Harding.

  Still with two hours to go before the earliest the woman might call, even if she kept to her roughly established schedule, Sanglier remained with McBride and the chastened Harrison when everyone else left.

  With time to kill, the rest moved without any positive decision back to the room made available to the Europol group now that the embassy had become the focal point for the investigation. The accommodation was actually a rarely used briefing room for both the CIA and the FBI and slightly bigger although less comfortable than Rampling’s suite, which they’d used previously. It was also, considerately, at the furthest end of the corridor from where Norris had killed himself: the area remained behind canvas screens but cleaners, workmen and decorators had moved in.

  ‘I guess we’ve just been given the carte blanche to stage a second Watergate,’ said McCulloch.

  ‘Let’s hope we do it better this time,’ said Harding. ‘Anyone got any ideas?’

  ‘We haven’t talked about the mobile telephone,’ suggested Claudine, who didn’t like moving on to new problems with others unsolved.

  ‘What about it?’ asked McCulloch, a newcomer to the inner circle.

  ‘The number belonged to the mobile of an accountant in Ghent. It was stolen six days ago: the stop had only just gone through.’

  ‘So?’ queried Ritchie.

  ‘It wasn’t the same telephone dumped in the back of the Ford,’ said Harding. ‘It’s a mass-produced, medium-priced instrument. Used by Belgacom as well as a couple of independent mobile companies.’

  ‘Why bother to transfer the number to another phone?’ questioned McCulloch. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It must do, to someone,’ said Rampling. ‘But who? And why?’

  There was a flurry of movement at the do
orway as a beaming Volker hurried in from the adjoining computer room. ‘I’ve accessed the cryptograph entry code on the two paedophile videos,’ he announced. ‘The company is trading out of Amsterdam, offering a whole range of pornographic specialities. Even animals.’

  ‘Can we get the paedophilia?’ asked Rampling.

  ‘Already ordered,’ Volker assured him. ‘We thought there was a sex element in the serial killings: there was, but not what we thought. But we established a home page, supposedly of a subscriber in Copenhagen, through several illegal bulletin boards specializing in sex. Used it to close down quite a few outlets since. I’ve ordered through there. Asked for anything new in the past fortnight.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have made anything featuring Mary as quickly as this,’ said Blake.

  ‘One of the videos found in Smet’s safe was issued seven days ago,’ said Volker. ‘It’s dated.’

  ‘Normally I don’t have a problem with dirty movies but I guess this time I will,’ said Ritchie. He became abruptly aware of Claudine and blushed.

  ‘We all will if Mary’s featured,’ said Rampling.

  All the car, motorcycle and helicopter intercepts were reestablished according to the previous day’s pattern. Claudine left the systems check just after it started, less than an hour before the time of the previous day’s call, and made her way to McBride’s study. The ambassador was in shirt sleeves, his tie loosened, away from his desk.

  Hillary had changed from what she’d been wearing earlier, into a tailored safari suit. Action Woman, thought Claudine.

  McBride’s impatient shifting around the room was now stoked as much – if not more so – by the frustration of not being able to move against Jean Smet as by the obvious nervousness. At least he was ignoring the cocktail cabinet and the Jack Daniel’s bottle.

  Claudine sat at once as she had before, trying to quieten the man by her own calmness. Which she didn’t have to force. It had to be frustrating for McBride: double torture. But it couldn’t be much longer now. Disaster was still only one misplaced word away but Claudine didn’t think there was a risk of her uttering it. The pendulum swung abruptly, worryingly. She wouldn’t say the wrong thing but McBride had sat in on a lot – too much – of their operational discussion. And he knew about Jean Smet. It was possible – likely even – that unconsciously he’d blurt something.