by Rachel Lynch
The Rift
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgements
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by Rachel Lynch
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Chapter 1
Major Helen Scott made her way to the embassy on foot and took it slowly, not wanting to work up a sweat before she got there. The Paris summer was desperate to stick to her clothes, and she was grateful for the breeze that made her shirt billow and her hair waft. She wore large sunglasses and watched oblivious strangers from behind. She was fairly small of frame and, if asked, a passer-by would never guess her line of work. She dressed like all those who worked in any international police force: as Mr and Mrs Grey. Her wardrobe was made up of dark trousers and light shirts, as well as bland jackets, to conceal weapons when needed. Her hair was light brown from the summer sun, and she only tied it back when working in the field, which, thanks to her success, she hadn’t done for a while. She wore little make-up: a little mascara and lip gloss, and a few sprays of her favourite Jean Paul Gaultier. At thirty-five, she felt at the height of her employability and walked with easy confidence.
The district was a smart area of the city, full of young, upwardly mobile couples, cool families determined not to leave their fancy apartments for the suburbs once children arrived, and diplomats. The tall white sandstone Haussmann buildings provided shade, and she peered up to the balconies above, typical in their style and reminiscent of the upmarket Palermo district of Buenos Aires, where she’d stayed when she’d worked in close protection for the Defence Attaché there. Most, if not all, of the ornate iron-barred platforms were decorated lavishly with lush greenery and summer flowers, and a heady scent wafted down to the street. She wondered what it might be like to live here and lead a sedentary life for a while as she ambled past the trees planted every couple of yards, offering further shelter and cooler air under their canopies.
Always alert, she absorbed the lay of the streets – their corners, doorways, places to lurk undetected – and the cars driving too slowly. Few people walked the pavements, not only because those with any sense left the city in these hot summer months, but also, this wasn’t a tourist area and no one strolled about, taking pictures or seeking restaurants. It was a residential and business district. On streets such as this, Paris took herself seriously.
Upon arriving at the ambassador’s residence, next door to the embassy, she checked both directions flanking the mighty doorway, and buzzed the intercom. She waited, clocking a car approaching down the street. It passed. The outer door opened, and she stepped inside, where she was greeted by a security guard, who allowed her to enter into the initial security checking area. She handed over her belongings and passed through the body-screening stand, which showed up any metal objects hidden under her clothes, as well as if she had a colostomy bag or prosthetics. It was standard. A quick body search followed and then signing in, scanning of passport and retina login. Once through, she was handed back her possessions and was escorted to a large hallway to sit on a Chesterfield sofa to wait to be called into the ambassador’s private office. Officially he worked next door in the chancery, but in reality, he spent most of his time in here, at the Hôtel de Charost, surrounded by lavish rococo and baroque furniture and antiques.
Sir Conrad Temple-Cray was an officious man who kept time, and it wasn’t long before she heard doors opening and the swish of air created by a man with intent. The diplomat had a long and illustrious career with the Home and Foreign Offices, and Helen had come across him several times in a professional capacity. His reputation was well earned and despite finding him eccentric, she respected his office.
‘Major Scott,’ he boomed, his voice echoing off the marble interior. He extended his hand, and she stood to take it, matching his strength. He looked her in the eye and nodded. His skin was tanned, and the wrinkles etched deeply into the sides of his eyes and cheeks gave him the air of a smart grandad. He wore tweed – despite the weather outside – and corduroy trousers, together with a crisp white shirt and bright tie, no doubt bought by his wife. It was every civil servant’s nod to individuality: a few flowers and stripes here and there.
He led her into one of his no doubt numerous reception rooms, where there was a desk, filing cabinets and a vast bookcase covering one wall; she guessed this was where he worked. It was chilly inside the old chateau-style building but it was a welcome change to the temperature outdoors. She knew they’d take afternoon tea on the lawn, so she made the most of the cool air while she could.
‘Great job,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir.’ She wasn’t sure if he was referring to the report she’d submitted on his security set-up, or simply the fact that she’d turned up. One never knew with ambassadors: they didn’t have to divulge anything. She’d been sent by the Ministry of Defence to conduct a security review for the upcoming NATO summit that was being held at the Palace of Versailles the following week. As an officer in the Royal Military Police, she’d found herself between permanent placements, which came up every two years. It was up to her desk officer in Glasgow, who managed all the careers of majors in the army, to find her ever more challenging posts to match her skill set, with one eye on what might make her next annual report stand out. Reporting to ever-changing chiefs, depending upon her secondment, was part of the allure.
She looked around his office, at the paintings adorning the walls, the leather furnishings and the silverware – probably stolen from India. It was the same with any ancient government institution grounded upon the great British Empire: the trappings followed the victories. She scolded herself for her cynicism, something that she was slipping into more frequently. Not for the first time did she wonder if her time in the military was finished. She’d thought that the Royal Military Police might be different, somehow less accountable for the misery suffered around the globe, but lately, she’d realised that they all worked for the same people.
‘You’re confident that we’re back up to scratch?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. I was most concerned with the routines set by the drivers – they tend to stick to their favourite routes, and it’s easy, here in Paris, to forget the threat level.
Having said that, your personal bodyguard is excellent.’
‘Sit down.’ He motioned her towards a chair and he sat behind his desk.
She felt distinctly examined, and she shifted in her seat. Suddenly, the cool air brought no comfort. Her position at the MOD main building in Whitehall was liaising with MI5 and MI6 about intelligence received around the globe, most notably Five Eyes, a multilateral operation between the USA, UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. From there, they decided who to share information with. Recent intelligence had come out of Madrid and was on the radar of MI6; it detailed a potential threat from Morocco. It was a well-worn path: disgruntled nationals from the old French colony plotting the downfall of a Western power.
Sometimes she missed her role as a junior military police officer, investigating wayward soldiers who broke the law. But promotion brought desk jobs, and that’s how it worked. It had taken all of her time at the MOD to shake the misconception among other regimental staff that the Military Police were only out to expose everybody for sleeping with their secretary or being thrown out of a nightclub. It was a lonely world.
Trust was relative.
But Sir Conrad only wanted her expert opinion, and her time in Paris had at least, in that capacity, been a breath of fresh air. In many ways, she was forlorn at the prospect of returning to the UK. She was more comfortable when her unique abilities, learned through a wealth of courses offered to the Military Police, were exploited. That’s when she felt useful and worthy, if a little embarrassed, of her nickname, Wrench.
‘This intelligence from Five Eyes – it’s a good source. Did you discover any breach on our part? I believe that the focus was on drivers in Madrid, no?’ he asked.
Sir Conrad seemed jumpy. Perhaps it was the summit. It was a huge moment in his career. He was to personally host the group from Afghanistan. The summit itself would be attended by heads of state, but after the main event, Sir Conrad was to chair talks with the Afghans about their ongoing security needs.
‘No, sir. I don’t believe you have a problem with your locally employed staff here in Paris,’ she reassured him. ‘There’s an elevated threat level across the whole of Europe, and we’ve had no specific intelligence on Paris, just, I believe, an increase in activity across the sea border between Spain and Morocco. Traffic between the two continents is always on high alert, especially at that particular border point between Spain and Portugal because of the amount of cash and drugs that change hands. I believe it’s Interpol’s role to deal with drugs and trafficking?’ It was prudent for an ambassador of his calibre to take a wider interest in intelligence, but she wanted to know why he seemed so unnerved.
He waved his hand around and got to the point. ‘It’s more specifically the fact that one of the main players in arms and narcotics dealing from North Africa has been on the move lately, and it’s making the Americans nervous,’ he said.
Ahh, so this was the source of his concern.
‘Yes, Fawaz bin Nabil,’ she said. The CEO of Nabil Tradings Incorporated had been flying in and out of Madrid recently, raising more than a few eyebrows. Nabil was under surveillance by the Americans, but so far nothing had linked him personally to illegal arms dealing, which was, after all, made completely legitimate once one signed off the correct paperwork. The problem was that he was also suspected of being responsible for Morocco’s most lucrative export: the finest hashish in the world. Toing and froing between continents was an audacious move, but it was the job of Five Eyes to get to the bottom of why such a prominent player would risk travelling between Africa and Europe so brazenly.
Fawaz bin Nabil was the kind of player who kept his own hands clean and had several layers of foot soldiers carrying out his work on pretty much every continent. The guy was a billionaire oil and gas magnate and would go to bed with whatever countries offered him the best trade deal, no matter their track record. He also dealt in stocks, bonds, textiles, electrical goods, fertilisers and fruit. He was a slippery sucker who touched nothing personally that an international authority could do much about. Of course, the US wanted to wade in there regardless, getting rid of anyone who was worth more than they were and seemed to have more sway over the big boys of the Middle East, but they also knew that it could potentially spark a costly and highly damaging war. So, they kept him under close scrutiny. Fawaz upping his activity in Europe was something that made heads in London and Washington turn. Was he up to something? Not directly associated with terrorist links himself, the chance that he was at least arming them was something that Counter Terrorism was also aware of. Perhaps Sir Conrad was privy to information that she hadn’t seen. In her briefing the previous day with the Military Attaché here in Paris, Colonel Palmer, he hadn’t mentioned the ambassador’s heightened unease. But then her history with Palmer was messy and their relationship tense.
The ambassador was clearly angling for her ear, and Helen just wished he’d come out and say what he wanted. The rumble of the air-conditioning unit caught her attention, and she watched as Sir Conrad clasped his hands together in a bridge and glanced at the window deep in thought.
She was thirsty and wondered when she’d be offered a drink. His prevarication distracted her and her mind turned to her parents and the last time they’d seen each other. Things hadn’t been the same since she’d told them the news about Luke.
Of course they’d been sympathetic – she still remembered her mother’s cries – but it was more the fact that Helen couldn’t face them for weeks afterwards. It had driven her away again as she looked for roles as far away from the UK as she could, to avoid the constant barrage of questions about her health and state of mind. In their opinion, the best thing for her to have done was leave the military and seek a more ‘domestic situation’ as her mother put it. After all, what sane, healthy woman chooses to join regiments of soldiers around the globe, putting herself in harm’s way, just because every regiment on active service needs a Military Police attachment that any qualified man could fulfil? In fact, her career was the only thing keeping her going. Perhaps she was hiding behind it. The air-conditioning whirred, and she waited. She became aware of the pulse in her wrist; the blue bulbous snake throbbed and she realised that she was anxious. Any thought of that period in her life, when everything had stopped and settled for a while, resulted in the same flow of adrenalin. It was a glaring irony that she’d rather face hostiles than her past.
She knew one thing: ambassadors were political beasts, and Sir Conrad’s motives would always be driven by self-preservation. The door opened behind them and she turned her head to see Colonel Palmer enter.
Here we go, she thought. ‘Sir,’ she greeted him and stood up. Her anxiety raged anew; she figured that she’d made some terrible mistake in her reporting and she’d missed a huge security breach, somehow related to Fawaz bin Nabil. She tried to conceal her elevated breathing.
Palmer nodded to her, and the ambassador beckoned him to take the seat beside Helen. They all sat and Helen crossed her legs, wishing for her own desk in the MOD, rueing the day she’d decided to throw herself into all that the Military Police offered a career-minded officer. Her head craved something simple, like investigating an infantry squaddie stealing Yorkshire stone from graves: a straightforward case attracting the wrath of a platoon of simple soldiers. The worse that could happen was you’d be called a ‘monkey’: a slur that might be confused as racist, but it wasn’t, it was because the RMP were always on your back.
It was no secret to those who knew both of them that she and Palmer held each other in utter disdain, but the ambassador didn’t know that. However, it was the colonel who had the ambassador’s ear here in Paris, and while she was here, it was Palmer who she reported to, as her military senior. She braced herself for a brushing down. She was convinced that she’d missed something. Her eye had been off the ball since Luke. She cursed herself and resettled her sights on early retirement.
It was the ambassador who spoke. His stance more relaxed, she noticed. He had a
fellow dick-swinger here, that’s why.
‘Everyone knows what you did for Ashraf Ghani, Helen.’ He let that gem sink in.
Helen swallowed. This wasn’t what she was expecting.
‘Let me explain,’ he carried on. She no longer heard the whir of the air-conditioning, just the blood rushing past her carotid artery in her neck.
‘One of the objectives of the NATO summit is inviting members of the Afghan government to attend to discuss the Resolute Support Mission.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘At the summit, Ghani and four senior figures in the Afghan government are meeting with NATO and the American special envoy at the Palace of Versailles for three days to discuss further US funding of the RSM in Afghanistan. As you know, the mission aims to transfer Afghanistan’s national security back into its own hands. The UK, NATO, and of course, the hosts, France, will all be represented. Yours truly is the chosen candidate for the UK. After the cameras have stopped flashing and the prime minister and the US president have gone home, I’m in charge of these sensitive negotiations. The poppy harvest has been increasing steadily for years, despite the best efforts of the United States to curtail it, and Fawaz bin Nabil benefits immensely from instability in the region. His recent increased activity at the Spanish–Moroccan crossing could be linked to making sure the talks run the way he wants them to.’
‘In other words, derail the Afghan government’s efforts to curtail Taliban profits?’ she asked.
‘Exactly,’ Palmer spoke, taking her by surprise. Was he on her side?
She gathered her thoughts. ‘With respect, sir, the Americans have been at Versailles for the last six months. Security around the summit is second to none. Have they shared any intelligence relating to Fawaz? Has he any historical links with anyone attending the talks? Is MI6 sending a team, sir? Or the Foreign Office?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, we know that. But I want my own reassurances. The Americans have their eye on their president – rightly so – and we commend that. There was no intel when you led Ghani away from his vehicle along with the UK’s ambassador. How did you know?’ he asked her.