The Predators

by Brian Freemantle

  Hurriedly she said: ‘Please remember what I said yesterday. No hate, no aggression. And don’t respond to any challenge. As soon as you can, switch the conversation to me. I’m the person she wants to confront.’

  ‘Are we talking about Mary? Or some private fight between you and the fucking woman?’ demanded Hillary.

  ‘A private fight between me and the fucking woman,’ responded Claudine. ‘I’ve got to be the person her anger’s directed against all the time: who she’s trying to humiliate. Not Mary.’

  McBride stood forlornly before her, gripping and ungripping his hands. ‘I feel so …’ he began.

  ‘… helpless,’ she finished. ‘I know. But we’re not, not any longer.’

  ‘Tell me you’re going to get her back!’

  She shouldn’t lie: couldn’t lie if she was going to retain her integrity. ‘I’m going to get her back.’

  ‘I’ll destroy you, if you don’t.’

  ‘You won’t have to. I will have destroyed myself. And threats don’t achieve anything, ambassador.’

  He didn’t apologize. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘She’ll definitely make us wait today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To prove all the things she needs to prove to herself: maintain her imagined control.’

  ‘Why late? Why not early? That would have the same effect of disorientating us,’ said Hillary.

  Claudine shook her head. ‘That would make her seem too anxious. She can’t ever let herself appear to be that.’

  ‘Nothing touches you,’ protested McBride abruptly.

  If only you knew, thought Claudine. She wasn’t surprised at his wanting to hit out at someone: find a focus for the impotent anger. She said: ‘I couldn’t do my job if I allowed myself to become personally involved. None of us could. The investigators, I mean.’

  ‘You ever doubt yourself?’ said Hillary.

  Stop it! Claudine thought. ‘I can’t allow that, either.’

  McBride looked at the large, second-sweep clock reestablished on his desk. ‘She’s almost thirty minutes past schedule.’

  ‘She has her own design, not a schedule.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much longer I can go on.’

  ‘You can go on as long as it takes to save your daughter!’ insisted Claudine forcefully.

  ‘If you can’t I will,’ challenged Hillary.

  ‘Nothing’s happening!’

  ‘This is reality. Not a movie with people and cars going round in circles.’ That hardly made sense, Claudine conceded: that was precisely what they’d done yesterday. But others, not McBride. He just had to sit and wait.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said McBride.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Saying I’d destroy you. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I know.’ She welcomed his uncertain smile. He’d stopped moving around the room: been able, for the briefest moment, to put out of his mind what was happening. What they were waiting for.

  ‘She’s an hour late.’

  ‘She’s making us suffer. She has to.’

  ‘How much is she making Mary suffer?’ said Hillary.

  Fuck, thought Claudine, angry at her carelessness. ‘We’re going to get her back.’

  ‘In what sort of physical condition?’

  She couldn’t allow the self-pity to go any further. ‘Alive!’

  It halted him. He began stop-starting around the room again, stretching his fingers as if they were cramped. ‘You haven’t written out any prompts.’

  ‘I can do it quickly enough when she calls.’

  ‘I forgot to ask you if you were all right now,’ said McBride, belatedly solicitous.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘It was terrible.’

  He wanted to transfer his anguish on to her. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you think you were going to die?’

  ‘I knew it was possible,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘What do you think about – feel like – imagining you’re going to die?’

  The wrong direction, Claudine quickly recognized. ‘Children as young as Mary don’t think they’re going to die. Death is beyond their imagination.’

  ‘I can’t begin to think what she’s suffering.’

  ‘Don’t try,’ urged Claudine. ‘She’s strong.’

  ‘You don’t know what she is by now. None of us do. We can’t.’ McBride’s wanderings had fortunately brought him close to the desk when the telephone sounded. Again the three of them jumped. Claudine held up a slowing hand as the man darted round the desk. He snatched his receiver up slightly ahead of her.

  There was momentary blankness. Then: ‘Dad?’

  McBride retched. ‘Honey!’ he managed, coughing.

  Claudine kept moving her hand, trying to slow him down.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Let me speak to her!’ demanded Hillary.

  ‘I know …! Oh, honey …’ said McBride.

  ‘I want to come home, dad.’

  The effort to get hold of himself shivered through the man. ‘I want that too, honey.’

  The volume was uneven and a blankness came after every exchange, Claudine noted. Two minutes had passed, according to the clock.

  ‘Why haven’t you fixed it, then?’ The petulance was immediate, angry. ‘Are you and mom fighting?’

  Hillary was in front of her husband, beckoning demands.

  ‘No, honey. We’re not fighting.’

  Claudine gestured the woman back. To McBride she mouthed ‘Let her tell me how’ and when the man repeated it, word for word, Mary said: ‘You must do everything she says.’

  Perspiration was streaming down McBride’s face now, soaking his shirt. ‘I will! I promise I will! How are you, honey? Tell me how you are.’

  ‘All right.’ A brief blankness. Then: ‘Is Claudine there?’

  Hillary actually tried to snatch McBride’s phone. He physically slapped her away.

  ‘Hello, Mary,’ said Claudine.

  ‘I don’t like you!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not letting me speak to dad.’

  ‘He’s here. You can speak to him now.’ Four minutes, she saw. What Mary had said was important.

  ‘Not today. Before.’

  Satisfaction surged through Claudine. ‘Do you want to speak to mummy? She’s here too.’

  ‘I’ve got to tell you something. It’s …’

  To the still demanding Hillary Claudine shook her head and mouthed ‘No.’

  Aloud she said: ‘I think you’re being a very brave girl.’

  ‘I …’ Silence. ‘Tiny fingers come after tiny toes,’ the child blurted.

  McBride squeezed his eyes shut in despair.

  Claudine felt perspiration prick out on her face. ‘You’re very pretty. I’ve seen lots of pictures of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mary and for the first time Claudine guessed the reply had been unprompted. There was a gap before Mary said: ‘I’ve got to go!’

  Claudine gestured against the frantic protest she saw McBride about to make. Anxious for a response she could identify from her hopeful manipulation of Smet, Claudine made the sigh, like the contempt, as obvious as she could in her voice. ‘So she isn’t going to talk herself: just through you? I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Oh yes I am going to talk!’ came the woman’s voice harshly. ‘Why shouldn’t I want to talk?’

  McBride surrendered the phone but Hillary didn’t speak.

  ‘I can think of a lot of reasons.’

  ‘You think I’m afraid of you!’

  Confirmation of the Smet conduit! thought Claudine, triumphantly. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘You know what you’ve just done? You’ve just cost McBride another two hundred and fifty thousand. That’s my new price. Half a million. And you’ll never guess the good use it’s going to be put to. Not much of a negotiator, are you?’

  ‘How do you want it paid?’ said Claudine evenly, refusing any reaction.

  ‘Arrang
ements are being made.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Claudine disbelievingly.

  ‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand!’ declared the woman. ‘You’d better watch your mouth. Every time you say something I don’t like I’m going to fine you.’

  ‘How much longer?’ said Claudine, with another sigh. Psychologically she had to press the woman as far as she could. And she was as confident as she could be that the woman had developed a bizarre love for Mary.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’m ready.’

  ‘It’s taking a long time.’ Like this conversation, Claudine thought: ten minutes without any indication from outside that the scanners had traced the signal.

  ‘The newspapers say McBride’s a friend of the President but I don’t believe it.’

  Claudine frowned, unsure of a response. Go with it, she decided. ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’d have sent someone better than you if he was really important.’

  The almost juvenile desperation was unsettling. ‘Maybe it’s you who aren’t sufficiently important,’ she said.

  ‘You really do have to watch your mouth. We’re up to a million now.’

  ‘Why not collect it?’

  ‘You haven’t suffered enough yet. Maybe Mary hasn’t, either.’

  ‘Mary Beth!’ broke in Hillary at last but there was no response from the other end. Just before it went dead she and Claudine heard Mary’s distant, muffled shout. ‘Please, dad … please …!’

  McBride looked at Claudine, his face purple with rage. ‘You stupid bitch! You made her hang up!’

  ‘I hope it was because of me and not the sudden interruption from someone she didn’t expect!’ said Claudine. Furiously confronting the woman, she said: ‘Mrs McBride, you could have just killed your daughter.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jean Smet was the way to bring the woman back. Only if she failed to respond would Hillary McBride have caused a catastrophe by confronting her with something for which she hadn’t been prepared, and Claudine regretted her outburst against the ambassador’s wife.

  Hillary and McBride were literally eyeball to eyeball after Claudine’s accusation, screaming abuse at each other. Claudine shouted: ‘Shut up! Shut up and start thinking properly about Mary Beth!’

  The fresh outburst silenced both of them. Claudine said: ‘It’s recoverable. The important thing is that I’ve become the person she hates: the person towards whom all her hostility is directed now. And today I was coming very close to gaining control without her knowing it: making her do what I want. Which is seriously to attempt a ransom. I’ve challenged her: doubted that she’s capable.’

  ‘If today’s call didn’t start out to fix a ransom what was it for?’ demanded Hillary, wanting to recover from her mistake.

  ‘She wants Mary to hate me as much as she does. You heard what Mary said, about not liking me. And her reply when I asked her why.’ With perfect recall, Claudine quoted: ‘“Not letting me speak to dad … Not today. Before.” She’s transferring the blame in her own mind and trying to do the same in Mary’s for what’s happened to Mary. She’s trying to bond the child to her.’

  ‘Make Mary like her, you mean?’ asked McBride incredulously. ‘How the hell can she do that!’

  ‘I didn’t say she could do it. I said that’s what she’s trying to do.’ Paradoxical though it seemed it was psychologically possible, particularly with someone impressionable, for a victim to become emotionally dependent upon a captor.

  ‘What about the fingers and toes remark?’ persisted the father.

  ‘That’s to alienate you from me: continue the attack upon me,’ Claudine assured him. ‘She won’t maim someone she wants to like her.’

  ‘Why is she doing that? I don’t understand!’ protested Hillary.

  She’d spare them by not talking about love. ‘It’s the way her mind works.’

  Claudine was momentarily surprised to see Hugo Rosetti with everyone else in the briefing room when she reentered. He smiled, fleetingly, and just as quickly she smiled back. Blake, expressionless, watched the interchange.

  ‘What happened to the scanners?’ demanded Claudine at once.

  ‘The transmission was too far away: that’s why the volume fluctuated so much,’ said Volker. ‘They couldn’t get any sort of fix, although they don’t think she was moving around, the way she did yesterday.’

  For Poncellet’s benefit Claudine summarized to its minimum but still accurately the complete profile she’d given to McBride. To get rid of the police chief, she said she needed to assess the woman’s mental state before they held another planning meeting, and the moment Poncellet left the embassy Peter Blake gave them his explanation for the mobile telephone number.

  ‘They didn’t have the telephone,’ he said. ‘Only the number, knowing it was stolen. So they had to get an instrument to programme it into.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Harding.

  ‘The simplest answer is always the best,’ said Rampling, in immediate agreement. ‘It was too obvious for us to see!’

  ‘So who’d have access to stolen numbers?’ asked Harrison, anxious to contribute.

  ‘Too many people,’ said Blake. ‘Belgacom, the Brussels manual exchange, the mobile phone company …’

  ‘That’s not the way to find them,’ said Claudine. ‘We can make whoever it is come to us through Smet. All he’s got to believe is that we’ve got a lead to him. His own fear will do the rest.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Harrison.

  ‘We give Smet the same reason we gave Poncellet for not meeting again today, but add that there’s an even more important development with the phone, as well. He’ll immediately warn whoever it is.’

  ‘He’s waiting in his office,’ said Rampling. ‘He’ll do it from there and we don’t have it tapped.’

  ‘We force him home,’ said Blake at once. ‘When we speak to him in his office we say that there’s something important about the phone but that we’re not sure what it is: forensic haven’t yet spelled it out. And promise to call him at home tonight, if it’s really important. Which we’ll do—’

  ‘Smet’s telephones,’ interrupted Volker. ‘Do they have dials? Or are they push button?’

  ‘Push button,’ said McCulloch.

  Volker gave a satisfied nod. ‘It’s not possible to trace the number of an incoming call on a bugged telephone. But it is when a number is rung out. Each number on a push button phone has a different electronic signal: that’s how the system works, tonally. And Smet will dial out to speak to whoever it is, won’t he?’

  ‘As soon as he does we’ll have him!’ Rampling said.

  ‘And it’ll be someone in Belgacom, not the mobile company,’ added the German. ‘A technical expert, with access and ability far beyond phones. That’s who set up the e-mail exchange in the beginning.’

  ‘This is coming together!’ enthused Rampling.

  ‘Who’s going to make the bastard dance?’ asked Harding.

  Rampling looked at Sanglier. ‘You’re the task force head, the senior investigatory officer.’

  ‘He couldn’t argue against my decision to cancel,’ agreed Sanglier, alert to a safe advantage. He was already committed, as far as the illegality was concerned, so he’d hardly be enmeshing himself further. And later, when that illegality became acceptable, he would have done something positive, definitely involved himself, in the investigation. A lot of worthwhile publicity could be worked up for his political emergence. He’d be the only Justice Minister in the world personally to have headed the investigation into a famous crime. And the fame would be his, not inherited from his father.

  Jean Smet responded at the first ring, the respectful tone discernible as soon as Sanglier identified himself. Sanglier spoke autocratically, a police commander complying with a liaison agreement but not inviting a protracted discussion. It had been his decision not to have another meeting. Dr Carter thought there was a lot to be gained from that afternoon’s exchange. And they’d just been
warned by forensic officers of something potentially vital – he actually used the word breakthrough – about the telephone that had been abandoned the previous day.

  ‘Something that could lead to an arrest?’ asked Smet.

  ‘They haven’t been specific. We won’t know until later tonight: maybe not even then. We hope to have something definite by tomorrow.’ Sanglier was enjoying himself, knowing from the expression on the faces around him that he was doing well.

  ‘If it’s really important the minister would want to know immediately. Tonight.’

  Sanglier’s pause, for apparent consideration, was perfect. ‘If it’s as vital as they think it is, I could have someone call you at home.’ He allowed another hesitation. ‘Do we have your home number?’

  Harding and Rampling smiled, nodding in open approval as the lawyer hurriedly dictated it, repeated it, and then asked Sanglier if he was sure he’d noted it correctly.

  ‘The minister really will be most anxious to hear at once,’ emphasized Smet.

  ‘I’ll see you’re called, if there’s anything,’ said Sanglier dismissively, replacing the telephone ahead of the other man’s gabbled thanks.

  ‘Now what?’ said Harrison.

  ‘We wait,’ said Blake.

  They didn’t have to for very long.

  ‘Anything?’ A man’s voice, strained, without any identifying greeting.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Harding made a thumbs-up gesture to the other smiling American. It was only fifteen minutes after the first sounds of the homecoming Jean Smet. The front door had slammed, two more opened without being closed. There’d been the scuff of his moving from room to room, the tinkle of a decanter against a glass. A lot of coughing and throat clearing.

  ‘Maybe they called while you were on your way from the office. Call them back!’

  ‘I don’t even know where they’ll be.’

  ‘The hotel! Try the hotel!’

  ‘I can’t! I’ve got to wait for them!’

  ‘What in the name of God can it be!’ It was practically a whimper.

  There was no movement in the communications room, almost everyone physically leaning towards the speaker. Claudine sat directly in front, cramped against the operator, making notes.