The English Girl: A Novel

by Daniel Silva

  For nine days Gabriel had struggled to paint her face clearly in his mind. She was a charcoal sketch, a name in an impressive file, a favor for an old friend. And now at long last she sat before him, the captive for whom he had tortured and killed, posed as if for her own portrait. She wore a dark blue tracksuit and canvas shoes with no laces. She was thinner than she had been in the videotape—thinner even than in the last proof-of-life photo—and her hair had grown at least an inch in length since her disappearance. It was combed straight back from her forehead and hung limply down the center of her back. There was a hard edge to her cheekbones and dark patches like bruises beneath her blue-gray eyes. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her wrists were all bone and sinew; her nails were gnawed to the quick. Even so, she managed to convey a sense of dignity and command. It was clear why Jeremy Fallon had declared her destined for a seat in Parliament—and why Jonathan Lancaster had risked everything for her. Gabriel realized suddenly that he had, too.

  “I’m here to bring you out, Madeline,” he said, responding finally to her original question. “This is part of the endgame.”

  “You wanted to see whether I was still alive?”

  He hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

  “Well, I am alive,” she said. “At least, I think I am. Sometimes I’m not so certain. I don’t know the time, the day of the week, or the month. I don’t even know where I am.”

  “I think you’re in France,” said Gabriel. “Somewhere in the north.”

  “You think?”

  “I was brought here in the trunk of a car.”

  “I’ve spent a great deal of time in the trunk of a car,” she said sympathetically. “And I think I remember a boat ride a few hours after they kidnapped me, but I can’t be sure. They gave me a shot of something. After that, it was all a blur.”

  Gabriel assumed that their conversation was being monitored. Therefore, he did not tell Madeline that she had been brought from Corsica to the mainland aboard a thirty-six-foot motor yacht called Moondance, piloted by a smuggler named Marcel Lacroix, and accompanied by the man with whom she had lunched earlier that afternoon at Les Palmiers. Gabriel had many questions he wanted to ask her about the man he knew only as Paul. When did she meet him? What was the nature of their relationship? Instead, he asked if she could recall the circumstances of her kidnapping.

  “It happened on the road between Piana and Calvi.” She stopped herself. “Have you ever been?”

  “To Corsica?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never set foot there.”

  “It’s quite lovely, really,” she said, sounding very English. “In any case, I was riding a little faster than I should have been, the way I always ride. A car pulled in front of me after a blind turn. I managed to squeeze the brakes, but I still hit the side of the car quite hard. It took an eternity for all the scrapes and bruises to heal.” She rubbed the back of her hand. “How long has it been?” she asked. “How long have they been holding me?”

  “Five weeks.”

  “Is that all? It seems longer.”

  “Have they treated you well?”

  “Do I look as though I’ve been treated well?”

  He didn’t answer her.

  “I’ve eaten nothing but bread and cheese and canned vegetables. Once they gave me a few scraps of chicken,” she added, “but it made me sick, so they never gave it to me again. I asked for a radio but they refused. I asked for books to read or a newspaper so I could keep up with what’s going on in the world, but they refused that, too.”

  “They didn’t want you reading about yourself.”

  “What does the world know about me?”

  “You’re missing—that’s all.”

  “And what about that dreadful video they forced me to make?”

  “No one’s seen it,” he said. “No one but the prime minister and his closest aides.”

  “Jeremy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Simon?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “And what about you? You’ve seen it, too, I suppose.”

  Gabriel said nothing. Madeline was rubbing the back of her hand raw, as though she were trying to punish herself. Gabriel wanted to stop her but couldn’t—not with his hands pinned behind his back.

  “I had no choice but to make that video,” she said at last.

  “I know.”

  “They said they would kill me.”

  “I know.”

  “I tried to lie—you have to believe me. I tried to tell them there was nothing between Jonathan and me, but they knew everything. Times, dates, places—everything.”

  She stopped herself and looked at him quizzically.

  “You’re not English.”

  “Sorry,” said Gabriel.

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “I’m a friend of the prime minister.”

  “So you’re a spy, then?”

  “Something like that.”

  She actually smiled briefly. It had been a beautiful smile once, but now there was something faintly mad about it. She would be well again eventually, thought Gabriel, but it was going to take time.

  “Please stop, Madeline,” he said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Your hands.”

  She looked down at them. She had drawn blood.

  “Sorry.” Her voice was full of submission. She bunched her hands into a tight knot and squeezed until her knuckles were white. “Why did they do this to me?”

  “Money,” answered Gabriel.

  “They’re blackmailing Jonathan?”

  He nodded.

  “How much?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “How much?” she insisted.

  “Ten million.”

  “My God,” she whispered. “And he agreed to pay it?”

  “Without blinking.”

  “What happens now?”

  “We find some way to make an exchange that satisfies the needs of both parties.”

  “How long?”

  “We’re close.”

  “How long?” she pressed.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of here by morning.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “A few hours.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll take you somewhere safe to clean you up and let you rest. And then you’ll go home.”

  “To what?” she asked. “My life will be ruined, all because I made one silly mistake.”

  “No one will ever know about the ransom or the affair. It will be as if it never happened.”

  “Until the press finds out. And then they’ll tear me limb from limb. That’s what they do. That’s all they do.”

  Gabriel was about to respond, but just then there was a knock at the door, two sharp blows with a hammer fist. Madeline gave a start that made Gabriel’s stomach lurch sideways. She quickly covered his head with the black hood. He supposed she covered her own as well, but couldn’t be sure; his hood was entirely opaque.

  “You never told me your name,” she said.

  “It’s not important.”

  “I loved him, you know. I loved him very much.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t take much more of this.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to get me out of here.”

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “Soon,” he said.

  They removed the flex-cuffs before placing him in the trunk and driving him down the pitted dirt track. The car bottomed out at the same pothole and after that ran smooth and fast over paved roads. It must have been raining very hard because the road spray beat ceaselessly against the wheel wells. The sound lulled Gabriel briefly to sleep. He dreamed that Madeline had scratched the back of her hand down to the bone.

  “I can’t take much more of this.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to get me out of here.�
��

  “I will.”

  Ten minutes after he awoke, the car finally came to a stop. The engine died, a door opened, boots clattered over pavement and receded into nothing. After that, there was only the rain and the distant crash-and-hiss of the surf. For a moment Gabriel feared they had left him to die a death that was akin to being buried alive. Then the phone rang in his coat pocket.

  “We told you no backup,” said the voice.

  “You didn’t really think I was going to leave ten million euros in a hotel room, did you?”

  “From now on, do exactly as we say, or the girl dies.”

  “You have my word,” said Gabriel.

  There was silence, followed by a burst of typing.

  “The spare key is taped to the lid directly above your head. Go back to your room and wait for our call.”

  “How long?”

  The connection went dead. Gabriel reached up and tore loose the key. Then he pressed the trunk release and the rain fell benevolently upon his face.

  27

  GRAND-FORT-PHILIPPE, FRANCE

  When Gabriel entered his room at the Hotel de la Mer, he found Keller propped up in bed, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the television. It was a replay of an English Premier League match, Fulham versus Arsenal. The sound was muted.

  “Comfortable?” asked Gabriel.

  “I saw you drive up.” Keller aimed the remote at the screen and fired. “Well?”

  “She’s alive.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We wait for the phone to ring.”

  Keller switched on the television and lit a fresh cigarette.

  This time Gabriel’s natural forbearance abandoned him. He tried to distract himself with the football match, but the sight of grown men in shorts chasing a ball around a pitch seemed offensive to him. Finally, he brewed another evil cup of the double-strength Nescafé and drank it at his outpost in the window. The current of the tidal creek had changed directions; it was flowing in instead of out. He looked at his wristwatch. The time had not changed since he had checked it last: 3:22 a.m. It was a provable fact, he told himself, that nothing good ever happened at 3:22 in the morning.

  “They’re not going to call,” he said, more to himself than to Keller.

  “Of course they’re going to call.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because they’ve come too far. And keep one other thing in mind,” he added. “At this point, they want to get rid of Madeline as badly as you want her back.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Keller looked at him seriously. “When’s the last time you slept?”

  “September.”

  “Any chance you’d allow me to deliver the money?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “I had to ask.”

  “I appreciate the gesture.”

  Keller frowned at the television. Evidently, someone had scored a goal because the men in shorts were jumping up and down like children on a playground. But not Gabriel; he was staring at the waters of the tidal creek and thinking about Madeline clawing the skin from the back of her hand. Consequently, when the phone finally rang at 3:48 a.m., it startled him like the scream of a terrified woman. The voice spoke to him, thin, lifeless, and stressing all the wrong words. After a few seconds he looked at Keller and nodded once.

  It was time.

  The night clerk was nowhere to be found. Gabriel placed both room keys in the pigeonhole behind the desk and wheeled the two suitcases into the wet street. The engine block of the Passat was still ticking from the last journey. He loaded the suitcases into the trunk and climbed behind the wheel. The phone started ringing as he was closing the door. He immediately switched the device to SPEAKER mode, just as he had been instructed.

  “Go to the A16 and head toward Calais,” said the voice. “And whatever you do, don’t hang up. If the connection dies, the girl dies.”

  “What if I lose cell service?”

  “Don’t,” said the voice.

  It was a four-lane motorway with light towers down the center median and tabletop-flat farmland on either side. Gabriel kept to the posted speed limit of ninety kilometers per hour, despite the fact the road was nearly empty of any other traffic. He drove with one hand and held the phone with the other, watching the signal strength meter carefully. For the most part it remained at five bars, but for a few anxious seconds it fell to only three.

  “Where are you?” the voice asked finally.

  “Approaching the exit for the D219.”

  “Keep going.”

  He did. It was more of the same: farmland and lights, a bit of traffic, a power transmission line that stepped on the cell service. The next time the voice spoke, it was through a hailstorm of static.

  “Where are you?”

  “Coming up on the D940.”

  “Keep going.”

  The transmission lines fell away, the signal cleared.

  “Where are you?”

  “Approaching the A216 interchange.”

  “Keep going.”

  When the lights of Calais appeared, Gabriel stopped waiting for questions. Instead, he offered a running commentary of his whereabouts, if only to break the monotony of the call-and-response rhythm of the instructions. There was silence at the other end until Gabriel announced he was nearing the turnoff for the D243.

  “Take it,” said the voice, though it sounded more like a question than an order.

  “Which direction?”

  The answer came a few seconds later. They wanted him to head north, toward the sea.

  The next town was Sangatte, a wind-whipped cluster of flint cottages that looked as though they had been plucked from the English countryside and plopped down in France. From there, they sent him farther west along the Channel coast, through the villages of Escalles, Wissant, and Tardinghen. There were periods lasting several minutes when there were no instructions. Gabriel could hear nothing at the other end of the call, but he had a sense he was nearing the end. He decided it was time to force the issue.

  “How much farther?” he asked.

  “You’re getting close.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s safe.”

  “This has gone on long enough,” Gabriel snapped. “You’ve seen the money, you know I’m not being followed. Let’s get this over with so she can come home.”

  There was silence on the line. Then the voice asked, “Where are you?”

  “I’m passing through Audinghen.”

  “Can you see the traffic circle yet?”

  “Wait,” said Gabriel as he rounded a bend in the road. “Yes, I can see it now.”

  “Enter the circle, take the second exit, and go fifty meters.”

  “What then?”

  “Stop.”

  “Is that where she is?”

  “Just do as we say.”

  Gabriel obeyed the instructions. There was no shoulder along the road, leaving him no choice but to drive over a low concrete curb and park on the asphalt pedestrian walkway. Directly before him stood a commercial building of some sort, long and low, with chimneys at either end of the red tile roof. On his right a field of grain swirled in the wind and rain. And beyond the field was the sea.

  “Where are you?” asked the voice.

  “Fifty meters past the traffic circle.”

  “Very good. Now turn off the engine and listen carefully.”

  The instructions had obviously been preloaded into the computer, for they spewed forth in a disjointed but steady stream. Gabriel was to open the trunk of the car and throw the key into the field on his right. Madeline was approximately three kilometers down the road, in the rear storage compartment of a dark blue Citroën C4. The key to the Citroën was hidden in a magnetic box in the left-front wheel well. Gabriel was to keep the phone in his hand until he arrived at the car, with the connection left op
en so they could hear him. No police, no backup, no traps.

  “It’s not good enough,” he said.

  “You have fifteen minutes.”

  “Or what?”

  “You’re wasting time.”

  An image flashed in Gabriel’s mind. Madeline in her cell, clawing herself bloody.

  “I can’t take much more of this.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to get me out of here.”

  “I will.”

  Gabriel climbed out of the car and hurled the key so hard that, for all he knew, it splashed into the Channel. Then he marked the time on the mobile phone and started running.

  “Are we on?” asked the voice.

  “We’re on,” said Gabriel.

  “Hurry,” said the voice. “Fifteen minutes, or the girl dies.”

  28

  PAS-DE-CALAIS, FRANCE

  Three kilometers was slightly less than two miles, or seven and a half laps on a four-hundred-meter oval track. A world-class distance runner could be expected to complete the distance in under eight minutes; a fit athlete who jogged regularly, in about twelve. But for a middle-aged man who was wearing jeans and street shoes, and who had twice been shot in the chest, fifteen minutes was more than a fair test. And that was if the distance was truly three kilometers, he thought. If it was a few hundred meters longer, the time limit might be beyond his physical limits.

  Mercifully, the road was flat. In fact, because Gabriel was moving toward the sea, it had a slight downhill pitch in places, though the wind blew hard and steady into his face. Fueled by a rush of adrenaline and anger, he set off at a maniacal sprint, but after a hundred meters or so he settled into what he assumed to be roughly a seven-minute-mile pace. He clutched the phone in his right hand but kept his left hand loose and relaxed. His breath was smooth at first, but it soon grew ragged and the back of his throat tasted like rust. It was Shamron’s fault, he thought resentfully, as he pounded along the pavement with the rain stinging his face. Shamron and his damn cigarettes.

  Beyond the commercial building there was nothing at all—no cottages or streetlamps, only black fields and hedgerows and the broken white line at the edge of the road that guided Gabriel through the dark. The gaps between the lengths of white line were equidistant to the lines themselves, two strides per line, two strides per gap. Gabriel used the lines to keep his motion rhythmic and even. Two strides per line, two strides per gap. Fifteen minutes to cover three kilometers.