The Rift

by Rachel Lynch

  Until he’d had a gun pointed at him.

  He tried to concentrate on those images now as he lapsed between dozing and sentience. He’d been brought to an apartment, up some stairs, and he’d been in this room, on the small sparse bed, ever since, trying to replay everything in his head, just as he’d been taught during capture-and-interrogation training, never thinking that it might ever be useful and cursing his paranoid and overprotective father.

  It was the only thing that kept the fear at bay: the what-ifs, the doomsday scenarios and the possibility of his father never finding him. His father, the great Khalil Said al-Rashid ibn Dalmani. A man who, to Hakim, was forever in his study but still found time to fool around with his boys in the pool. Hakim’s younger brothers, Farid and Samir, jumped into his semi-conscious in vivid colour: throwing a ball, bothering the dogs to tumble and catch, whining to their mother about bath time and laying across Hakim’s outstretched body on a vast sofa watching movies in the basement cinema.

  Yesterday morning, on their way to drop off his younger brothers at school, his father’s demeanour was odd. After delivering his sons, his father remained silent and Hakim knew this meant that he was troubled. Usually, they would have talked about Paris, art or cars. But yesterday, Khalil was distracted. The journey to the airport had been tense, and Hakim reminded himself of his father’s pinched cheeks, the slight scowl above his brow, and the way he kept peering around. At the time, it had seemed merely the actions of a rich man who was vigilant in an unpredictable city, but now, in his half-dream, his father had looked pained.

  Earlier that morning, his father had called him to his study and presented to him information about Amélie: photographs, background checks, family history and notes about her occasional recreational drug use. He’d hung his head in shame, having disappointed his father, but he’d still fought his girlfriend’s corner. But, as it turned out, his father wasn’t angry, just saddened that his son hadn’t shared the fact that he’d found love in Paris. He wanted to know more about Amélie Laurent. What could Hakim say? She was beautiful, smart, funny and brave. She laughed with the kind of freedom he only saw in films.

  Hakim woke fully, startled by the vivid image of Amélie in danger, and he held his head in his hands. The room hadn’t changed. The locked door still taunted him, and the bed was still hard. He smelled tobacco smoke drift underneath the gap and heard the faint voices of jokes told in French with a North African accent.

  This wasn’t about Amélie.

  He started at the beginning. He was calm. He knew that his head was his best ally. The moment he allowed passion to surface, he was dead. He refused to accept emotion into his psyche. Only responding to each situation as it presented itself would give him the best chance of seeing his family again.

  His stomach rumbled. Hunger was just one process in the road to dehumanising a prisoner, and he prepared himself mentally for the effects that a lack of food would have on his body. As long as he was given water… He drifted off again. Thoughts of who might have taken him, or who wanted him, but more importantly, why, invaded his mind, and he opened his eyes. At a guess, he reckoned everything usually boiled down to money. His father was rich beyond most people’s imaginations and thus an unsurprising target. What Hakim couldn’t figure out, though, was how whoever had taken him had pulled off getting through the ironclad security paid for by his father. Betrayal? Bribery?

  And that led him back to Jean-Luc.

  Jean-Luc would never betray his father. From the moment the jet hit the tarmac to the doors opening and the two men boarding, he never heard Jean-Luc speak. Was this significant? All he could surmise was that he’d been overpowered. The vision of the gun pointed at him evoked a physical response even now in sleep, and he tumbled off the bed. Startled, he continued his trawling of his memory. The gun. That had been the moment that time stopped.

  He’d known then, with certainty, that he was to be taken. He sat next to the bed, head in hands, recollecting every detail.

  The men had cable-tied his hands behind his back and hooded him, before ushering him down some steps and into a waiting vehicle, which had sped off as soon as the door was slammed. In the seconds before the head cover blanked his vision, he’d committed their faces to memory, and one of them he recognised. That’s when he calmed himself and began tracking every sound, movement, smell, and any other sensory information he could grab. He’d felt around: there was no one in the back seat with him. He’d listened carefully to the engine. His father had introduced him to the world of motor vehicles when he was still a toddler and he could pinpoint most noises made by a wide variety of them. This one was a Range Rover. Thoughts of his father induced feelings of shame once more and he cursed himself for his trusting ways and the embarrassment he’d caused to his father and his good name. The appearance of a new bodyguard, about a month previous to him leaving Paris for the summer, was something that Hakim nonchalantly accepted, but now he knew that it was something that he should have questioned.

  Stop. No emotion.

  He’d counted time. They’d travelled in that first vehicle through busy Paris streets. He heard shouting, car horns, cyclists’ bells and the driver cursing under his breath as they sat in traffic. Hakim memorised every detail.

  Then they’d come to some kind of queuing system, and Hakim had known that they were waiting to get through a péage. The familiar nosing forward, then the electric window coming down and the machinery accepting the driver’s cash and dispensing change told him this. Of course, his captors wouldn’t have an Emovis Tag, which allowed them to pass through the tolls automatically, as that would have been traceable.

  He knew he’d landed at two twenty in the afternoon, local time, having taken off from Algiers at eleven a.m. – Paris was an hour ahead – and he figured they’d travelled – allowing fifteen minutes to leave the airport – for forty minutes at an average Parisian inner-city speed, with stops and starts, of perhaps twenty kilometres per hour. That meant they hit a péage around ten kilometres away from Paris-Le Bourget. He believed they’d driven away from the city, and that was about the same distance to the Paris ring road, the A86. They’d left the city. Another ten minutes later, they hit another péage, and as the window rolled down, Hakim heard children’s chatter from a nearby car. They were talking about Disneyland. They were east of the city. Hakim figured that the vehicle in which he sat must have excellent black-out windows, else he’d be forced to lie down.

  His senses kicked in to full swing after the initial adrenalin rush, but he refused to feel the discomfort of sitting forward because his hands were bound, and he ignored the fear and the bumping around in the back seat, because he wasn’t strapped into a seat belt. He’d honed in on the physical processes happening inside and outside his body by concentrating on tiny details. He heard every stone under the tyres, every gust of wind knocking the car, and smelled the driver’s cologne. He was like a wolf on the plains tracking deer; moving stealthily and silently, out-smarting his enemy.

  After some time, though, he could no longer ignore his hands, which were turning numb behind his back, so he tried to wriggle his fingers to keep the circulation going, trying to control his heartbeat so he didn’t overheat. The last thing he needed was to lose a finger or two to lack of blood supply. The plastic binding was tight, but he could take it. He was hardly sweating and shifted in his seat from time to time to take his mind off the discomfort.

  The driver fiddled with the radio and Hakim listened intently. A news channel came on but the driver flicked it off angrily and slapped the wheel. The man was clearly an amateur; Hakim could tell that much. He was too distracted and nervous. That might work to his advantage later, however it could also mean that he was erratic, and that was less promising. A music channel came on next but was interrupted by an advert. Hakim heard a click and smelled the familiar and homely smell of tobacco. It reminded him of his father, and the memory comforted him. The driver buzzed down the electric window, perhaps not wanting t
o stink the car out with cigarette smoke. It had been another opportunity for Hakim to listen to the outside world.

  They pulled off the road soon after and Hakim had been aware that they were parking in a bay. The driver unclicked his seat belt and got out. The warm air settled in the car and Hakim tried to make out any noises outside. He heard the driver speaking to somebody else, still in French: another male, who was angry with the driver for stopping. So, there was an accomplice car behind too.

  ‘I need a piss!’ The other man’s French was also accented by another continent familiar to Hakim because it was his homeland.

  ‘I’ll wait here – be quick!’

  The regional dialect confirmed what he’d already suspected: that his capture was something to do with his father’s enemies back home. Regret screamed into his brain as he admonished himself for not telling his father about the new bodyguard’s position. He hadn’t even asked Jean-Luc for the man’s name. It had been Amélie who was perturbed by the man, and he’d dismissed her.

  Hakim was aware of the second man standing by the open door, and cigarette smoke wafted into the vehicle as he too lit up. He heard different voices, and Hakim’s ears prickled with alertness. He was acutely aware of a woman and a child approaching the vehicle and, without realising it, Hakim’s pulse rate elevated again. He stiffened and the man standing at the door slammed it shut, forgetting that the driver’s window was open. Hakim listened to their conversation.

  ‘Marie! Come away from the car! I’m sorry, she’s learning to walk and goes in all the wrong directions.’ The woman babbled, but the man ignored her. There was an awkward silence as the woman probably worked out that the stranger wasn’t interested in polite chatter. ‘Marie, this way! Good girl!’

  ‘Forêt!’ Hakim heard the little girl announce the word as if it was the most important word of all time, and he remembered his brothers, when they learned to speak, choosing random words to pronounce, expecting praise of the highest order.

  ‘Forêt! Yes, forest! Absolutely. Well done, Marie! We’re going to the forest.’

  The voices faded. If they had passed Disneyland, the only forest they could be driving towards was Forêt de Fontainebleau.

  When they’d left Paris, the sun had not shone on his side of the car – the right – but since Disneyland, and still now, it shone fully onto his side of the car.

  They were heading south.

  Chapter 8

  Helen strolled through the garden with Sir Conrad, at his private residence, overlooked by the embassy. The lines mowed into the immaculate lawn could have hosted a Wimbledon tournament. They walked away from the house, and a pleasant breeze wafted through the trees lining the trail down to the ornate fountain. From there, one could imagine the Duke of Wellington surveying his wealth and congratulating himself on his victory over Napoleon. It was one of those residences where one simply couldn’t forget its history, and Sir Conrad was a perfect host. But they weren’t here to talk about the Battle of Waterloo.

  ‘I was satisfied with the plans shown to me by Special Agent White, Sir,’ Helen told the ambassador.

  She’d accepted tea and they’d taken it on the terrace before heading down towards the fountain at the opposite end of the enormous garden. ‘What exactly did Special Agent White say about the abduction of Hakim Dalmani?’ he asked.

  He seemed fixated on the topic. ‘Well, Sir, in fairness, he didn’t know much about it. His focus is the summit right now. It was my understanding that Interpol Algiers was dealing with it,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, well, you know these types of people, Major Scott,’ he replied. His hand waved about absentmindedly, as if to indicate that her experience with the Middle East somehow made her an expert on anyone with darker skin.

  ‘Sir, are you suggesting that the abduction of Khalil Dalmani’s son has something to do with security here in France, surrounding the summit?’

  ‘And that’s why you’re the man for the job, Scott!’

  She ignored the glaring misogyny behind his choice of noun.

  ‘From what Agent White told me, I believe the Americans see the incident as non-mission specific, but the kidnapping is on their radar none the less,’ she replied.

  Sir Conrad put his hands in his trouser pockets. Helen had already noticed that each time Sir Conrad was less than transparent with her, his hands sank deep into his pockets, as if he were physically hiding some information away. She’d already read in him that much. He did it when Khalil Dalmani was mentioned, and the same was true with Fawaz Nabil. She’d spotted it first when they’d been speaking together with Colonel Palmer.

  ‘Sir, do you think it strange that Fawaz Nabil’s increased activity in Europe coincides with the abduction of Khalil Dalmani’s son?’ she asked. His hands, briefly by his sides, once again disappeared into his trouser pockets. She watched, waiting for his answer.

  ‘Well, they are business rivals, and their families were connected for a long time. And they’re both African,’ he said. Helen forced herself to gloss over his final observation. Some of his more old-fashioned prejudices were grating. She trusted he was more subtle in public where his role as ambassador carried the reputation of the country with it. But he did have a point.

  She knew that both Fawaz and Khalil had holdings in oil and gas, but there was plenty of room in North Africa for both of them. One was based in Morocco and the other in Algeria. Both, as far as she could work out, from what she’d simply heard about in the news, had enough profits, year on year, to be unaffected by the other.

  ‘I don’t like coincidences, Major Scott.’

  ‘Neither do I, sir.’

  They walked further towards the perimeter wall, and Helen was wondering how long it would take them to get back to the main house. It was a beautiful walk, but she wasn’t there to enjoy the scenery.

  ‘Why don’t the Americans think there’s something suspect about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir, isn’t that a question for MI6?’

  ‘Of course, of course. But what do you think? Like I said, you know these people.’

  This time Helen couldn’t help but become frustrated with his appalling racial stereotypes. Why do dinosaurs like him still represent British interests abroad? she asked herself.

  ‘Sir, I worked extensively in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and India. I’ve never worked in Africa, only coming across attached regiments through NATO and the UN. I’m no expert.’

  He stopped to face her.

  ‘Khalil Dalmani’s son has been abducted. Can you imagine how that feels?’ he asked. His passion startled her.

  She stared at him, and all the sounds of the birds, the wind in the trees, and the faint hum of traffic ceased, as she thought about Luke, and what she would do to get him back.

  ‘Of course, sir, but… but my job is to make you safe at the summit, and there isn’t—’

  ‘Major Scott. Fawaz Nabil has never forgiven Khalil Dalmani for not joining forces with him in his filthy drugs trade. Their relationship has been acrimonious for years,’ he said.

  ‘Which is why he wouldn’t think twice about abducting his rival’s son,’ she offered. It was barely a whisper.

  ‘But for what benefit? Why now? And how will Khalil Dalmani retaliate? That’s what I want to know,’ he said. ‘And that’s why I’m sending you to Interpol,’ he added.

  ‘Excuse me, sir? You’re taking me off the security for the summit?’

  ‘Quite the contrary, actually. See it as part of the bigger picture. I’ve spoken to MI6 and they’ve recommended, along with the Americans and Five Eyes, that the security threat level surrounding the summit – given the timing of the abduction, along with Fawaz’s recent activities – should be escalated. Now, you said yourself that you’re satisfied that everything that can be done around Versailles is being done. I want no surprises.’ He stopped, and she paused alongside him. Special Agent Roy White can’t have been privy to the latest decisions regarding this, either that or she’d le
ft Versailles before he’d been informed. Either way, things were moving fast, and the summit was next week. A tingle of excitement, combined with apprehension, washed over her.

  ‘Am I to join their search for Hakim Dalmani, sir?’

  ‘You got it. Get to the bottom of that, and we find out what his father and associates are up to,’ he said.

  ‘You think this might be a business deal gone wrong?’ she asked.

  Somewhere in the distance, beyond the garden wall topped with barbed wire and CCTV cameras, she heard a loud bang. Her body jumped with a startle reflex, but it was so quick that Sir Conrad didn’t notice. The symptoms of PTSD she’d suffered after the incident in another garden, many years before, came back to her.

  She was suddenly acutely aware of the birds twittering and cheeping, as they had been when she’d been twenty metres from a car bomb, the other side of a wall, in the middle of a garden in Riyadh. The principal had been a British military attaché working at the embassy, but the target that day was his wife. An extremist group took offence to her westernised dress and planted a bomb under her car. Wives no longer accompanied their husbands on postings to Riyadh.

  She was brought abruptly back to the moment by Sir Conrad.

  ‘Interpol have a team working on the abduction of Hakim Dalmani. They think a plot was hatched in North Africa and carried out in Paris. They requested a specialist in close protection because they think that a leak must have come from Khalil Dalmani’s personal security. I suggested you to the head of Counter Terrorism at Interpol, an old friend of mine. You’re to go down to Lyon and lend your expertise. Of course, while you’re there, you can snoop about a bit inside their initiative to tackle the movement of drugs out of Afghanistan and into Europe. Despite what NATO likes to say on their website, we all know it’s mainly the US pouring billions of dollars into the Afghan government. Yet every spring, the heroin trade refills the Taliban’s coffers and they grow arrogant enough to give NATO the finger. This is the first year that the Afghan government has formally invited the Taliban to discuss terms, and the elephant in the room is a little pink flower. I don’t want to be caught by surprise when I come face to face with the first members of the Taliban ever to accept peace talks.’