The Rift

by Rachel Lynch

  Helen looked at the ambassador and to Palmer. She didn’t know what to say. How did she know that a bomber was about to blow up Ghani’s car and target the British ambassador? Instinct. But that was an insubstantial quantity and couldn’t be reported on or measured. She felt foolish.

  ‘Sir, I can only tell you that I’d been working with the ambassador in Kabul for some time. It was my sixth year in close observation and close protection. I’d made the usual connections on the ground with US personnel, embedded informers and the like. I noticed that the day Ghani was hit, his head of personal security went on holiday, which was highly irregular because he was due to attend the NATO talks in Kabul. She later turned up dead with her interpreter. My security brief for the day itself was rejected last minute by a Northern Alliance minister, who I knew had links with Pakistan in the past.’

  She paused.

  ‘You mean, you worked it out and nobody else did?’ Sir Conrad concluded.

  She was aware of Palmer shifting in his seat. It dawned on her why she might be here: Palmer had been overruled.

  ‘I was still too late, sir. Ghani nearly died of his wounds.’

  ‘But he didn’t. I want you to stay in Paris,’ the ambassador announced. ‘You’ll take over security for the summit, liaising with the US ambassador’s office here in Paris to check what they’ve done at Versailles. Meanwhile, it’s been arranged for you to have access to everything they share with Five Eyes directly. I don’t want anything missed. You did a good job here, Major Scott, and I’ve read about your background. It’s all agreed with the MOD, you’re to stay here until the summit is over.’

  ‘Clear, Major?’ Palmer asked.

  Helen stood up. ‘Sir,’ she replied to her senior officer before turning to the ambassador. ‘I’m happy to fulfil any role you see fit, sir.’ She nodded to Sir Conrad.

  ‘Superb. Now, let’s have tea in the garden.’

  Chapter 2

  Khalil drove in through the double iron gates to his home, which opened majestically onto a long driveway adorned with palm trees and exotic bushes and plants that were all quenched by a modern irrigation system, designed to keep them watered and voluptuous to the eye. The canopy provided shade and cooler air, and Khalil lowered his windows now he was in the safety of his own estate. He loved driving with the windows down but knew that out and about in the city of Algiers, it was inviting folly. Once stopped at traffic lights or waiting in a bottleneck, it took seconds for a gun to come through the window and demand watches and other saleable booty. It happened all the time, and with the cars Khalil drove, he was a four-wheeled advertisement for wealth.

  He loosened his shirt and smiled as he completed his journey and pulled up outside the main house. Its façade was bright white, with windows framed in a sandstone brick. The huge front door was made from mahogany, but Khalil didn’t go through it, but walked round the back instead to where he could slip in through one of the many rear entrances. His wife was likely out with her friends, either shopping or taking tea, and he thought he might jump in the pool before starting work. It was a joy to have it all to himself, and with the boys at school, and his eldest son, Hakim, safely back at university in Paris, Khalil was finally able to relax. He’d even sent his personal bodyguard to accompany Hakim for added peace of mind. He threw his jacket onto a chair and headed to the pool house, where he had a wardrobe full of swimming attire. He stripped off and folded his clothes neatly. He was aware of two or three of his household staff going about their daily business of tidying, washing, cleaning and laundering, but he had no cause to speak to them directly. If they crossed paths, he’d greet them politely and perhaps enquire after their families and their wellbeing, but that was it.

  He dived into the deep end and came up like a great sleek dolphin, resplendent upon resurfacing for air. The water was a tonic and he swam lengths underwater. His dark skin glistened as he moved effortlessly through the water. His breath was regular and strong, and he paused after five lengths, hanging on to the side and catching his breath. He leant on the stone, dangling his legs beneath him, and looked over the city below, beyond the magnificent infinity pool. The breeze up here was balmy, and he felt at peace as he stared over the Bay of Algiers.

  His thoughts turned again to his eldest son, and how he looked when he’d been told that he was returning to Paris early. Khalil’s men liaised with senior members of the Parisian police, who had their wages topped up solely for the purpose of looking out for his son. Khalil was confident that it was the right decision to send him back. Here in Algiers, one expected threats, bribery and corruption. In Europe, things were different, apart from the odd backhander. Most of the people he worked with over the other side of the Mediterranean had never seen bloodshed. They were like porcelain dolls: unsullied by pain. Here in Africa, history was pain. Struggle was blood. Progress was unjust. He didn’t want for Hakim what he, or more so his father, had endured as a young man. And he was in the fortunate position to make sure that was the case.

  The War of Independence, almost sixty years ago, had provided many Algerians with new opportunities, and his father had been a shrewd man. A chance meeting with an old friend informed him of a vast swathe of abandoned land – uninhabited for a decade since the French family who owned it had disappeared in the 1950s – and suggested a business deal. Khalil’s father, being a risk taker and a man of his curiosity, said yes.

  They literally struck oil. By the time his father had died, he’d left Khalil an empire worth billions of US dollars.

  Khalil pictured his father’s face: deep wrinkles pitting his face, dark brown skin under a traditional brightly coloured turban. He rarely saw his father out of his ancient Berber dress, even though he’d once been beaten in the street for it by a French soldier – a story his father never mentioned but his mother told him. He wore it till his dying day. Inside the house, a portrait hung, an oil of huge dimensions, depicting the great man sat underneath a palm, surrounded by indications of wealth and status. It was positioned so that anyone visiting or working inside the house had to walk past it and admire its power.

  Khalil swam for the ladder. He had an office in town, but worked mainly from his study in the house. It was as large as the main reception room overlooking the pool. The huge barbeque area dominated the outdoor space, and that’s where they ate mostly as a family, with their cook preparing various meats (except pork) marinated in spices and tomatoes and skewered on to metal spikes over charcoal, eaten with flatbread, the juices dripping onto vegetable couscous and cooled with yoghurt.

  He took his towel and dried off, wrapping it around his body, which was hard from training sessions with his personal trainer who came to his private gym every morning at six a.m. Taking care of his body had become more of a priority after a stroke stole his father away, as well as turning fifty this year. He took his clothes and walked towards the house, his head full of the meetings and phone calls he had to attend to today. He took his pile of clothes to the laundry room – he was the only member of the family who did this – and left them there, making his way to his private bedroom suite. After his shower, he changed into another pair of suit trousers, with a crisp white shirt, and finished his attire with cufflinks and expensive cologne. He didn’t wear a tie.

  His office was situated next door to his private rooms and was accessed by an adjoining door. One wall was entirely constructed of glass, enabling him to overlook the sea when he lacked inspiration or needed to take a deep breath. He had everything he needed to conduct his affairs, venturing into the sweltering city only when he had to. Not that climbing from an air-conditioned car out into a shaded parking lot underneath his headquarters was onerous or taxing, it was simply that he preferred the comfort of home. Meetings in the city were usually over a luxurious meal or a hospitality evening at the racecourse.

  The house was hushed – he preferred the maids not to talk – and he went to the vast kitchen to make a coffee in the machine. He’d only begun to drink it when his bu
siness took him to the United States and Europe decades ago, tasting the bitter liquid for the first time. He was attracted to the sophistication of the ritual and the way that Europeans spent time savouring the frothy milk, sugar and small biscuits that accompanied the dainty cups. He always took water with his, like the Italians. He looked at his watch: the drive to the airport had meant a late start and his stomach rumbled as he realised that it was gone lunchtime. He’d lingered at the airport, not to see off his eldest son but to check details for the shipping of some of his containers bound for the French port of Marseilles. The border police headquarters was at the port of Algiers, but they had offices at the airport as well. He met with customs officials and had been offered light morning snacks with tea.

  Ordinarily, he would have tasked the job to somebody else but recent developments spurred him to take control of the arrangements himself. A former associate had made contact with him recently, expecting him to offer his services for old times’ sake. He’d been wrong. Khalil’s operations might have dabbled in the grey world between international law at various points over the last few decades, but he’d found that adhering to multinational boundaries and agreements was better for the future of his company, than other, less transparent methods. This is where he broke the mould in African commercial circles: he had moved his company away from the shackles of warlords and corrupt politicians trying to shape him into something they could use and play with as a puppet. And that is why he actively encouraged Hakim to spread his wings, even if it was in the capital of the country that had tortured his father. Success was constructed not grabbed. He hadn’t come this far, securing deals with Europe and the United States, to lose it all because he was found to be in bed with the last straggling factions of revenge politics.

  This is precisely what made him vigilant and nervous at the same time.

  Putting his coffee on the counter, he went to nose about in the fridge. Each one of their maids was also trained as a splendid cook and they prepared all meals, leaving in the fridge a veritable gold mine of carefully wrapped leftovers. He tucked in to crispy spring rolls and a chilli dip.

  One of the maids entered the room and apologised. ‘Sir, you are hungry? Why didn’t you say? I’ll make you some tortilla.’

  The problem with good cooks was that they wanted you to eat their food. It was why he needed a personal trainer to keep him in shape, otherwise he’d roll about his office, eating all day long if he allowed them to indulge him. The problem with trained cooks is that they want to feed you every minute of every day. His wife, Taziri, was on the hefty side, but Khalil liked it that way: he had no desire for skinny European women who played with their food rather than ate it. And, of course, the boys burned off every calorie they consumed playing sport at school, frolicking in the pool or cycling with their friends (closely observed by security teams, of course).

  He thanked the maid and went back to his office, but he’d only been in there for a few minutes before he heard voices and looked up. A different maid walked towards him with a member of security behind her. They both looked perturbed and Khalil wondered what might be upsetting them. Perhaps a beggar had tried to breach the wall again.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Khalil wasn’t one to mess around or circumvent news that might not be to his taste. He dealt with problems every day of his life. Khalil read the guard’s face: it was grave. Khalil faced him squarely and waited. The man fiddled with his earpiece and avoided direct eye contact.

  ‘What is it? Tell me now.’ Khalil was commanding and didn’t like to waste time. If someone had something to say, they’d better just come out and say it.

  ‘Sir, it’s your son, Hakim. He’s been taken. He disappeared from the airport, shortly after landing in Paris.’

  Khalil’s legs went weak and his heart began to race. He felt sweat above his eyes, but the room was cool. His head became a giant, heavy bubble and the security guard’s voice sounded as if he was underwater. Khalil tried to speak but found opening his mouth and moving his lips difficult. The sensation of hot searing fear lasted mere seconds and all the details of the room and what the guard was saying assaulted him like some awesome awakening. He stood in front of his desk, his hands shaking, trying to take in what he was being told.

  ‘Jean-Luc?’ He gasped.

  ‘Jean-Luc is nowhere to be found.’

  Chapter 3

  Ten miles outside the city of Marrakech, away from the crazy souks, the peddlers shouting in the street, the sweltering heat, exacerbated by the endless huddle of bodies pressing against one another as shopkeepers tried to steer tourists to spend their dirhams, life was more peaceful. The isolated little oasis in the desert offered succour to those who visited, in the form of grand empty spaces, luxurious pools, lavish decor and warm hospitality – if one was invited, of course. Armed guards patrolled the walls and roofs of the property, and below, specially selected officers vetted anyone hoping to get an invitation to stay. As the sun gave her last rays of the day, the temperature began to fall and an orange glow was cast across the estate. Everybody present was there upon request, though perhaps some of them might not have wanted it that way.

  Fawaz bin Nabil was not in a good mood.

  He sat on a low sofa next to one of the pools, leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees and his hands supporting his chin. It was a contemplative stance, but also one of displeasure. Those present had seen it before. The cleverly engineered walls and gaps afforded freedom to the breeze, but didn’t serve to soften the ambience, and the orange glow of the setting sun reflecting off pillars hand decorated with pieces of coloured glass, twinkling cheekily, did nothing to soothe him. They all waited.

  Fawaz was an unassuming man by sight, shy even. He spoke quietly. Every move was deliberate. And yet he commanded the respect of those far senior in age who accompanied him, and in that capacity, he left his mark on anyone who met him. He also had a generous smile, when it suited him. At the moment, it did not.

  A maid brought freshly squeezed juices, bowls of sweets, breads, dips made from aubergine and spiced with cumin, aromatic tea and pomegranate sorbet. The liquor was already out on the glass table by the pool, and the guests had been partaking now for four hours. Despite the heat of the day and the proximity of the Sahara, the shade afforded by the huge canopies alongside the gentle music wafting from the speakers – designed to calm one’s guests – was not working on Fawaz himself. The northern edge of the Sahara burned into the white walls, and during the day, the incessant heat was enough to drive a man crazy. But not here in the riad. Curtains made of silk and muslin bellowed gently, adding to the illusion of the coming night being refreshingly breezy. It wasn’t, but in surroundings such as these, one might dare to believe. Repose was easier when surrounded by luxury.

  Not that Fawaz noticed it anymore. He’d grown used to the profits of his business. There was only so many houses, cars, women and gold one could buy before one became anaesthetised to its allure. For most of the time, unless there was a party and guests attending from neighbouring Marrakech, the empty pools didn’t ripple, the kitchens didn’t grill, the outside ovens stood cold, the petals in the fountains rotted and the incense in the lamps went rancid. He’d become a vessel, travelling for the sake of the movement rather than the journey. He’d always found it hard to sit still, and he stood up suddenly, compelled to move about, bringing confusion and even fear to his guests. They were all men. Sometimes, Fawaz provided girls from town, or willing tourists picked up in bars – and there were plenty of them eager to see the inside of a rich man’s palace and partake of free hospitality and drugs all night.

  He visited his children elsewhere. Fawaz had got rid of his wives years ago. He’d had seven. They all lived with his various children in decent enough apartments of their choosing across Marrakech, and that was where he arranged his visits with them. Here was his own space; private and away from the prying eyes of those who wished to ensnare him. Here, he could hide away, safe in the knowledge that hi
s nightmares went unheard, and his escape into the world of regret and revenge remained a secret. It was also where he conducted his business. But in recent years, his focus had taken a different turn, and he would never again embroil one of his children in the true nature of his commerce.

  So apart from the staff, and the odd stream of girls looking for a good time, paid or not, the residence was a man’s world. They spoke in turn, discussing the problems they faced moving their products around Europe. It was an intricate process, but one that had developed over years of staying one step ahead of Interpol, who’d taken it upon themselves to wage full scale war on drug trafficking since 2013. The mission was called Operation Lionfish, and it was clear to see on the Interpol website. Their aim was ceaselessly seeking out traffickers on land, air and sea. Staying ahead of Lionfish was a major concern for anyone using the porosity of international borders to grow, manufacture, courier, supply and deal anything deemed illegal in the eyes of international authorities.

  ‘Why is the Tangier route so hot right now?’ one guest asked.

  ‘So is Algiers to Marseilles off the table?’ another added. They were serious questions and Fawaz acknowledged them by gesturing his hand, indicating that everything was under control.

  ‘Brothers, you all worry too much,’ he said.

  Crossing the Mediterranean was a fundamental part of supplying into Europe, and they had to come up with more and more ingenious ways to evade the authorities. Fawaz had started out in cannabis, as it was the preferred drug of choice in Europe, but later, as he found routes out of Pakistan and Afghanistan, he was able to tap into the larger heroin market in the US. He also discovered new trading partners. Logistically, as soon as they found one reliable method of transportation, they were caught up fairly quickly by their pursuers, and so they found another, and another way around, and so it went, never quite slowing enough to be caught by the international authorities so keen to see his empire fall.