by Rachel Lynch
‘Let me introduce myself properly,’ she said. ‘I’m a major in the British Royal Military Police and I’ve been asked to take on your son’s case—’
‘Why is the UK military investigating the disappearance of my son?’ He interrupted before she could continue. His voice was tinged with suspicion.
‘It’s not. I was brought in by Interpol as a close-protection expert, sir. The RMP is merely my cap badge. I believe you’re familiar with the battalions of the UK military?’ Khalil had been sent to the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst by his father thirty years ago, as was the tradition of wealthy families around the globe. He didn’t distinguish himself but that wasn’t the point.
He smiled. ‘And your credentials?’
She groaned inwardly. A damn sight better than Jean-Luc’s, she felt like saying, but didn’t. She reeled off some of her finer achievements and watched as his brow raised and creased. Her experience had the same effect on men from any country, rich or not. It surprised them. She managed to maintain her smile, waiting for the usual exclamations of astonishment.
‘Impressive… What would you like to ask me?’ Khalil asked.
‘Two things. I want to know why Hakim was travelling back to college early. He usually spends the whole summer with you. Secondly, why was Jean-Luc a one-man team?’
She waited. The room behind him was richly decorated, and she knew he was residing in the presidential suite at the Ritz in Paris. If only she’d visited him before she left, in person, to get a sneak peek.
‘Hakim has developed an infatuation with a French girl. He was lovesick, and I allowed him to travel back early, on the promise that he came back again before term began.’
Bullshit, she thought.
‘Name of the girl?’
‘Amélie Laurent.’ He gave her further details, such as her name and area of degree. It would be enough to trace her. If she existed.
‘And why a one-man team? I’ve never come across it in my line of work.’
‘Jean-Luc is a skilled professional, and I trusted him with my life.’
‘What about your son’s life?’
Khalil winced.
‘I know that you and Jean-Luc Bisset go way back and I’m aware that he’s worked for you for a long time, but we have reason to belief he intentionally switched his phone off somewhere between Algiers and Paris. It never went back on again, and there was no one else on the plane, except the pilots, and your son of course. There are a couple of calls he made at your place in Algiers before he left – we’re trying to trace them, but none of the numbers are registered. I’m assuming that you keep track of all of your security staff?’
‘Yes.’ Khalil nodded, clearly uncomfortable.
‘Have you appointed a replacement yet?’
‘I have, thank you,’ Khalil said.
‘Well, could I get in touch with them?’
‘Why?’
‘I need to liaise with him, about your current arrangements, and, for example, why you chose to travel to Paris and not stay in Algiers.’ She tried to remain balanced but what she wanted should be bloody obvious.
‘What if I appointed a woman, Major Scott?’
Shit, she thought.
He became serious again. His penchant for teasing wasn’t lost on her, something Grant was good at too. ‘I told your people that I want to be as close to my son as I can possibly be. I know he is still alive.’
‘I’m sure he is. Have you received any demands, or been approached in any way?’ she asked.
‘No.’
His response came quickly. Too quickly. She stared into his eyes, trying to read them, but she couldn’t, and it frustrated her. He stared back and remained steadfast.
‘Could I perhaps talk to your new head of security please?’
‘Major Scott, I have a meeting to go to. I’ll get back to you on that – I don’t want him compromised, like Jean-Luc was.’
‘So, it is a man. Wait a minute, what do you mean? You agree that Jean-Luc was compromised? How?’ she asked.
The screen went dead, and she banged her hand on the desk.
That hadn’t gone well.
Chapter 18
The journey had gone to plan, with only one major close call as they arrived in Portugal. The coastguard along the southern coast of Spain, from Gibraltar north to the Algarve, was always hot on movement in its waterways. Fawaz and his crew had anticipated it, but they’d still got lucky.
At one point, on the first night, they were approaching a small rocky cove near Praia da Rocha, the most westerly point in all of Europe. It jutted out into the Atlantic like the chin of a petulant child, though in reality it was a mere blip on the continent’s flank.
Lights had flashed suddenly and taken them by surprise. They heard the rumble of a vessel larger than their own, and Fawaz prepared himself to dive over the side, should it come to it. After all, he could see the coast from the blacked-out rig. However, after a few tense moments, the lights had passed and the boat accelerated away. They heard the arguments of a Portuguese couple on board and realised that they were squabbling over a game of cards. It wasn’t the coastguard after all.
They’d had to climb a ladder from the beach near Praia da Rocha, as the cliff was steep and tall, which is why it was the perfect beach to land. Fawaz gave silent thanks to the strength of his body as he pulled himself up onto each rung; despite the alcohol and cigarettes, for the most part, he kept himself physically powerful with boxing and weights. Finally, he reached the top and was hauled over the cliff edge by a man dressed in black. He didn’t look back towards the people who’d helped him thus far: they’d been paid well enough. A vehicle waited, and he concealed himself by lying down across the back seat, even though it was still dark. He braced his body as the Toyota Hilux pickup lurched from side to side across scrubland and sand dunes. A couple of times he fell off and banged his head, but he never made a sound.
The driver – the man who’d pulled him over the cliff edge – said nothing, but listened to terrible Europop on the radio. They’d taken the coastal road across into Spain and on to Seville, where he was dropped off at a farmhouse outside the city. For the first time since leaving his mansion in Marrakech, he was alone, but he had a bed, fresh water and a shower. He slept for two hours before the courier for the next leg of his journey arrived. Fortified with Spanish tortilla and sweet tea, he sat in the passenger seat of a one-litre Peugeot that whined all the way to Madrid, around the city and on to Pamplona, where he rested in a small hotel for a few hours.
Now, Fawaz held on to the ceiling handle of another truck. He was unshaven, sweaty, fatigued and bored. This leg of his journey was over the Pyrenees, and he stared out of the window at the panorama of the mountains and valleys. The scene took his breath away. He was used to the colour of heat; Saharan blasts that forced eyes closed, but not technicolour like this. Africa was a medley of golds, browns and beiges. Europe – or parts of it like this – were pockets and explosions of colour. If it weren’t for his discomfort, he might have felt at peace taking in the vista.
It wouldn’t be long before his beard took real shape, rather than the higgledy-piggledy shadow it was at that moment. He could pass as a Spaniard, rugged from the mountain air, skin dark from the clear altitude, and eyes darker still from perhaps Moorish heritage. They approached a shack selling cold drinks and offering tapas and tortilla. All the people who had helped his journey to this point had done their jobs silently and without question; that’s what money bought. His current driver turned to him, but Fawaz shook his head. It was too risky. All it took was for an international notice to be put out for him and some farmer to make a phone call. It was treacherous enough travelling in the light.
Despite there being plenty of other easier ways on offer to him, he’d chosen this long and arduous entry route into Europe for just that reason: no one would look for him out here on the road. Not a man who had private jets, power boats and helicopters available to him. And not a man wh
o surveillance showed was still at home in Morocco.
Back at the riad, he’d arranged for a body double to stand in for him. It wasn’t uncommon for figures of such wealth to do so; even the Queen of England had one. He’d known for many years that the Americans used their drones to track those under surveillance when they could no longer follow the money trail. His dealings were watertight, and his bankers all over the world stayed three steps ahead of any investigative institution wanting to get to the heart of Nabil Tradings. The money was the only way they could catch any criminal today. It was the only proof of illegal profit, but if it slipped away and disappeared, then nothing was left, and he stayed out of court. His father had taught him how to hide money. Movement. That’s all it ever boiled down to.
They were almost at the French border and, thanks to the European Union, they should be across in minutes. At the San Sebastián border crossing, it was mainly wanderers and tourists who passed there. The truck passed several cyclists, and Fawaz marvelled at how that might be, to live with such freedom and abandon, and experience the world with only the sound of the rushing wind and the exhilaration of downhill speed. He watched as one particular athlete dressed in bright Lycra reached the top of the hill just ahead of them.
But something was wrong. The back wheel of the man’s bike was off centre, and it began to wobble. They’d only just navigated the highest point on the route and were travelling down a narrow pass. It all happened so quickly, and Fawaz watched in horror as the cyclist lost control and hit a rocky outcrop jutting over the edge.
Fawaz couldn’t help himself as instinct took over. ‘Stop!’ he shouted to his driver. The truck halted roughly and Fawaz jumped out. He rushed to the cliff edge and peered over. The man hung on with his bare hands and Fawaz reached down to grab him. He could see that the man’s leg was mangled but the fear in his eyes was not to do with his leg: it was the prospect of falling two thousand feet to his death. Fawaz looked him in the eye and said in French: ‘Hold on!’
He pulled with every fibre in his body and was thankful that cyclists were featherweights. Fawaz heaved the man’s body over the edge, and they both collapsed on the road. By then, the other cyclists had stopped and surrounded them. A barrage of noise began: questions about the man’s state, thanks for the stranger who saved him, debates about whom to call. Fawaz stood up, panting. He looked to where the truck was parked and the driver stared at him, expressionless. He gave his apologies, in French once more, and backed away.
Protestations followed. He couldn’t leave. The emergency services would want to talk to him. The man’s family would want to thank him. At least leave a contact number? Fawaz shouted a made-up number and said he was sorry but the last thing he wanted was to cause a fuss. He didn’t need thanks.
‘You saved his life – I saw the whole thing.’ The man was American.
Fawaz turned and jumped into the truck, which sped off, hopefully creating enough dust to mask the number plate.
Chapter 19
Hakim heard squabbling, and he listened intently to what the men were saying. He was to be moved. The door opened suddenly, and it wasn’t the old man who came in, but a much younger one and he carried an automatic weapon. Hakim tensed. He’d tried to prepare himself for this moment. His father had taught him how to use a gun from the age of thirteen, and he was familiar with most models. He eyed the deadly firearm and prayed the man knew how to handle it properly.
The man standing before him, insisting he hurry to put on his shoes and sweater, held a crude AK-47 – not a sophisticated model at all. It was a far cry from the weapons Hakim used. The man pointed it towards him, and Hakim cringed. He knew how sensitive they could be in the wrong hands, and he hoped the guy had some form of training, else he was dead. It wasn’t like in the movies where one bullet to the chest signalled the end. It was an agonising death, unless it was a head shot. The damage done to flesh by one single round could rip apart vital organs but keep the host intact, living long enough to contemplate what had brought them to this end. Then there was the blood.
Hakim nervously did as he was told, all the while watching the man’s trigger finger. He spoke now in French.
‘Hurry up. We’re leaving now.’ He was emphatic and nervous.
Hakim didn’t say a word; he wanted to cause as little fuss as possible when faced with a bullet. When he was ready, he walked in front of the man calmly, holding up his hands. Another waited in the next room. The old man was gone. He felt a twinge of sadness because the old man had been some kind of lifeline. Hakim had worked tirelessly on him, using all the techniques taught him, and he felt as though he was getting somewhere. The old man had smiled once or twice when Hakim said thank you for his water and lunch. He’d placed towels gently and lingered a little while, checking that Hakim was comfortable.
He took in the adjoining room, noticing as many details as he could and consigning them to memory. He did as he was told and walked quickly out of the scruffy apartment into the sunlight, down two flights of stairs, into a waiting battered Peugeot P4. The tarpaulin was up over the back and Hakim was told to climb under it, reserving the only two seats for his captors. He followed the instructions immediately and without question, loath to attract any unwanted attention from the piece of metal pointed at him. The weapon was held low, giving Hakim the perfect opportunity, should he wish to take it, to jump out of the vehicle and run. This time he wasn’t hooded. They were in a heavily populated area where a man wearing a hood, being escorted by two North African-looking men, sweaty with nerves, clumsily hiding weapons, would raise suspicion. Hakim took this as a positive: they were panicked.
He’d been kept alive for a purpose. To run now – even though hitting a moving target with an AK-47 was virtually impossible – he could jeopardise everything and end up dead. It was too risky. There would be other chances.
The men climbed in and the vehicle wobbled with the momentum. The engine started and Hakim had enough energy and humour left in him to smirk; the antiquated French army utility vehicle sounded like an underpowered Land Rover; a beast without guts. He hid his face and imagined himself telling his father of this moment and the image gave him strength.
They set off, jerking and stuttering through the streets. He kept his head down and again memorised every turn, every noise and smell from the outside world. From the few seconds he’d been free in the open air, he’d looked around briefly, trying to find a clue: a landmark or poster, or street sign that would help him work out where he was.
Then, in a microsecond, before he’d jumped into the vehicle and lay down, he’d spotted it: a street sign, covered in graffiti. It was white with an arrow pointing in the direction of something important, something that a tourist might look for. A landmark. It was a sign showing the way to the Notre-Dame de Fourvière, and he knew for sure that he was in Lyon.
The men were still jumpy and Hakim believed that only one thing would make them so hurried: their hideout was compromised. He’d read of captives being moved from location to location for lots of different reasons, such as to confuse the victims, but the body language and urgency of these men told Hakim that they were scared and in a hurry. That was a good sign. Whoever his father was paying to search for him had come close. The vehicle lurched and turned sharply around corners, and he lost orientation in the back seat, lying down, unable to calculate left and right.
After ten minutes of erratic driving, the vehicle stopped and Hakim heard a heated exchange between his two captors about how best to get him upstairs. He daren’t move. One of them turned to the back and spat a threat to him.
‘Run and you die,’ one said to him. Hakim nodded nervously. At close range, there was no way he’d outrun an automatic weapon, especially one with a short barrel. His plan was to comply. He replied in French.
The engine was cut. And he followed their instructions to get out of the vehicle. He did everything they asked of him. Up until just moments ago when they’d fled the apartment, the two men who’d h
eld him had been anonymous to him. Now they weren’t, and he stared into their faces. That was not a good sign. He looked down at his feet, in a gesture of compliance.
They were parked at the rear of an apartment block, and the land around it was built up with tenements and other blocks. He listened intently and gazed around as much as he could without making it obvious that he was assessing his surroundings. He stood still, demonstrating that he had no plans to run. The men were too busy arguing to notice. One took his arm suddenly, his weapon now concealed. He was led to a stairwell and marched up three flights of stairs. On the second, they passed a woman hanging out washing on her balcony. Hakim caught her eye and lingered the length of half a breath. She looked away. He must be being moved between the areas of the city most populated by immigrants. Areas like this had, in recent years, become lawless, and the Lyonnais Gendarmerie were stretched to keep check on them. Hakim read the Paris press. On the third floor, they came to a door, and it was unlocked. Hakim was shoved inside but they needn’t have bothered: he still had no intentions of running. He didn’t know the area; he had no idea which direction to run and, as far as he could make out, he was surrounded by a potentially hostile population. Hakim knew only too well the undercurrent of France’s immigration troubles and it wasn’t as if he drew attention to himself for looking like a European: his skin was the same as theirs. Some said revolution wasn’t far off. Why should anyone give a damn about him?
He was in the bowels of Lyon and all he could do was pray that whoever had discovered their last hideout was hot on their trail.
Inside was much like the last flat, and he was escorted to a bare room, the door locked from the outside. He heard the men discussing what they should do and who they should call but they didn’t use names, just codes like they had in the last apartment. Names were changed to animals like Crocodile, Leopard and Sand Cat. The latter coming up the most.