by Rachel Lynch
The address was a large Georgian townhouse nestled between Corpus Sand Ltd, which was a shipping company, and Mayfair Executive Chauffeurs. Helen brought up Google Earth and looked at the street view. There was no sign on the door, wall or windows of the address in question. It looked more like a residential property. The company name was Rafik Mining and Minerals. It was the name of Fawaz’s eldest son who’d died in jail in Morocco. She googled it and came up with a page linking the small subsidiary to a pipeline being built in North Africa. So she googled that: the pipeline didn’t exist.
‘Angelo, why would large amounts of cash be sent to a company in London when they aren’t trading anything?’ she asked, already thinking she knew the answer, but seeking confirmation.
‘Laundering,’ he said.
She sighed. She found it hard to believe that Operation Lionfish hadn’t picked this trail up. Indeed, that no one had, but she knew that criminals had become more and more bold and clever in their need to hide and clean money.
‘Angelo, can you find out if any ships are landing in Marseilles this week listed under AlGaz?’
‘From Algiers?’ he asked. The company was well known and highly regarded. Khalil Dalmani’s name was associated heavily with French–North African diplomacy and had become even more famous since the abduction of his son here in France. Angelo smiled and Helen could see that he was delighted to be asked to delve into the world of such high-profile cases.
‘Have you found him yet?’ Angelo asked her.
‘Who?’ Helen asked.
‘His son? It’s all anyone is talking about, and I know you are working in yellow notices,’ he said. Angelo was clearly an astute young man and keen as a terrier.
‘No. But his father, as you know, is highly regarded and extremely rich. I want to rule out any bribery possibilities within AlGaz,’ she said.
‘I can do it for you right now,’ he said. He tapped a few keys and brought up the trade corridors between Algiers and Marseilles. There were hundreds of them, but most of them came under the umbrella of AlGaz, the richest company in North Africa, closely followed by Nabil Tradings. Her hairs stood on end as he pointed to a container ship expected to land in Marseilles tomorrow night.
‘Find out every single product on the manifest for me, and find the entry summary declaration filled out in Algiers,’ she said.
He nodded, charged with excitement at being included in something so important.
Helen thanked him and instructed him to carry on working on the data, contacting only her if he found something more substantive. She gave him her private mobile number.
‘Call me if you find anything else – I don’t care how irrelevant it might seem,’ she said.
Chapter 27
Madame Bisset sat on a comfortable sofa, sipping coffee. Opposite her sat Grant Tennyson, hands folded across his chest. He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.
‘How do I know you’re not with them?’ She jutted her chin to the window, indicating ‘them’ to be the police, presumably.
There was a knock at the door, and Madame Bisset almost dropped her coffee. She was nervous, and that’s the way Grant wanted it to be: they had to catch her off guard if they were going to garner any useful information from her. Grant already knew she was a tough nut; anyone who would follow the instructions he’d delivered to her hours earlier, when he’d extracted her from her safe house, had to have balls of steel.
‘Relax. It’s not the police.’ Grant walked towards the door and opened it, letting in Khalil. Madame Bisset’s face dropped. She got up and placed her coffee cup on the table. Grant noticed her hands shake.
‘What is this all about?’ she demanded.
Khalil had flown to Lyon by private jet from Paris, and they planned to make the onward journey together to Marseilles when they were done here. During one of his conversations with Khalil, his boss had happened to mention the name of the officer working on Hakim’s disappearance. Before now, Grant had listened to the details of Interpol’s progress (or lack of it) with nonchalance. That had now changed. His brief was to find Hakim, not get bogged down in an incompetent and slow official investigation. But the officer’s name had sent him into a quiet contemplation that went unnoticed by his boss. Khalil was a businessman and, as such, tapped in to the noises of money and trade, not emotions. And Grant was careful.
Major Helen Scott, UK Royal Military Police. It was an odd secondment, but that wasn’t the point. Whatever she was doing there, it was obvious that she’d got herself assigned to Hakim’s case. Maybe she was no longer RMP? A transfer to the Foreign Office would explain it, but he could never see Helen giving up her field-operative status for a desk job.
Khalil was fresh, no doubt from a snack and hot shower at his suite in the InterContinental in downtown Lyon. Grant didn’t need a place to stay. His business was in the Le Croix-Rousse district, and they were to fly to Marseilles tonight.
‘Marie, it’s lovely to see you after all these years. Please sit. We have some catching up to do.’ Khalil tiptoed around the reason why she was here. Grant admired his poise. He was a good player.
Madame Bisset sat back down, folded her hands across her skirt and nodded tersely. She was acting as though she returned the sentiment of a happy reunion with the boss of her son but Grant could see she remained on her guard. Did she harbour the same resentment towards Khalil about the death of her husband?
But under the current circumstances, Marie Bisset had little choice but to comply with Khalil’s wishes. Grant’s assessment of the woman was that she was shrewd enough to know when she was out of alternatives. He saw that she was uncomfortable and desperately assessing her options. Grant knew exactly what Khalil wanted, and how far he’d go to get it. He watched as Khalil opened his jacket and sat down opposite Mme Bisset. There was no small talk, indicating that Madame Bisset had nothing to say to the man who’d been so generous to her family. Upon the death of Basem, Khalil had handed his widow two hundred thousand dollars in cash.
Khalil expected loyalty, and that’s why he was here: to ask the woman to her face if she was indeed trustworthy or treacherous. Grant fetched tea, and Madame Bisset remained seated, as she was told.
She was a small woman, petite in every way, but with keen hawk-like eyes. She reminded him of an old Italian nonna: ready to throw a plate of spaghetti over her wayward sons at any moment. Grant had spent many happy summers with his mother’s family in Naples, learning to cook pasta and rolling gnocchi with a fork to get the right curl and shape every time. He smiled and knew from the woman’s reaction that Khalil’s presence was getting under her skin. The air-conditioning unit whirred, and a fly landed on the coffee table. Grant poured a cup of hot tea for his boss, but Madame Bisset declined a top-up of coffee. He sat back in the easy chair to the left of Khalil, and they both stared at her.
‘Where is your son?’ Khalil asked her.
‘Je ne sais pas – I have no idea. He’s working for you, I thought.’ Marie Bisset sounded innocent enough. Her French was harsh, but Grant surmised that this was more to do with her personality than her education or upbringing. Her lips pursed when she enunciated vowels, giving her the aura of the thoroughly peeved.
‘Marie, have I not looked after your family all these years as I promised my father? To what grievance do I owe such disloyalty?’ Khalil opened the first salvo of the scrap. It was a serious accusation.
‘What disloyalty, enfant?’ She used the affectionately scolding term for a defiant child.
Khalil wasn’t moved. He sipped his tea, complimenting Grant on its level of sweetness. ‘I have plenty of time to sit with you and discuss why and with whom you have learned these mistrusting ways, but unfortunately, I don’t have the inclination.’ Khalil no longer hid his suspicion.
They spoke in French, and Grant followed almost every word. The tone was enough to finish off the sentences he couldn’t quite catch. He held his teacup, presenting himself as a mediator or friend.
; ‘Marie, the last time I saw Jean-Luc, he was helping my son load his luggage into a private plane – my private plane – heading for Paris. Since then, Hakim has disappeared, and so too has Jean-Luc. But I know he’s been to see you,’ Khalil said. It was the same contact at the British embassy in Algiers who’d fed Grant the recent discovery that recent DNA matching Jean-Luc’s was found in Madame Bisset’s flat. He imagined Helen Scott’s joy when she heard the news.
‘He has not! The last time I spoke to him he was in Algiers, waiting to hear if you would keep him as head of your private security.’
Khalil narrowed his eyes.
‘So, revenge? He colluded with and took money from Fawaz bin Nabil to hurt me? To teach me a lesson because I employed an Englishman?’
Grant not so much saw the anger bubbling up inside Khalil but felt it. It pervaded the small room and Grant could almost touch it. He’d never witnessed it before. Surely there was more to Jean-Luc’s betrayal than his own appointment?
‘I take it this is his replacement? An Englishman? Il parle comme une vache espagnole,’ she said scathingly, jutting her pointy chin again, this time at Grant.
It was a fine insult indeed, and Grant wished they had similar sayings in English. He didn’t think his French was as bad as a Spanish cow but she was entitled to her opinion. Her aspersions were simply designed to buy time.
Khalil smiled briefly, before his face set like stone again. Grant didn’t reply. He just stared at her.
Realising she wasn’t going to get a rise out of either of them, Mme Bisset sighed and changed tactics. ‘You hurt him, Khalil,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ Khalil asked.
‘You lost his trust.’
‘So, this is how he repays me? He hands over my son to that drug-dealing terrorist connard?’
‘Be careful, young Khalil – be mindful of who you are speaking to. My family gave you their lives, literally, and it was you who single-handedly ordered us away from the Nabils, for what? We would be rich indeed by now had we had the courage to defy you and your obsession with correctness and impressing the French.’
‘Is two hundred thousand dollars not rich enough for you, Marie?’ Khalil asked. She didn’t reply.
Grant saw great pain in the woman’s eyes, but from what he’d heard about his employer, he couldn’t help disbelieving the woman. Greed must have played a part, because he knew first-hand of Khalil’s benevolence. He kept way more staff on than he needed, he paid benefits to families camping in stone desert huts in the Sahara and had built three schools so far in remote dust bowls in Algeria. In his book, money was earned, not gifted, and it certainly wasn’t extorted.
‘Thank you for your clarity, Marie,’ Khalil said. He finished his tea and turned to Grant. The meeting was over.
‘These friends of yours, make sure they impress on the madame the importance of finding her son, so that I might have a chance of finding my own,’ Khalil said.
Grant opened his hands and nodded. ‘It’s already taken care of,’ Grant said in perfect French.
Madame Bisset shot Grant a seething look of defiance.
Grant had concentrated on his verb conjugations in his reply and got them spot on. It was a small detail but one that had the desired effect on Madame Bisset. His clean Parisian accent had been picked up courtesy of a posting years ago. He stood up and tapped a number into his phone.
Suddenly reverting back to English, which, Grant guessed correctly, wasn’t Marie Bisset’s strong point, she spoke. ‘Khalil, stop, don’t. I don’t know where he is, I swear. All I know is that he came to me terribly worried about something and I gave him money.’
Khalil didn’t move. The balance of power in the room shifted. Grant turned on her.
‘When?’ he demanded.
‘Last Sunday,’ she replied. Grant looked at Khalil who gave nothing away. It was the day Hakim had landed in Paris and, from there, disappeared.
‘What exactly did he want and why?’ Grant asked in French. ‘Think very carefully how you answer because you’ll pray he took you with him if you don’t.’ Grant towered over her.
Her eyes widened. ‘Khalil!’ she appealed to the young man who’d saved her family, who she’d betrayed.
‘This Englishman knows his security processes, Marie. Unlike Jean-Luc, who was stealing from me all his life. Thirty years ago, it was a fish, last week, it was my son. I cannot help the family to which I was born. I cannot help the fact that my father made something grow out of the shit left behind by the war. I cannot help that your husband became a servant not a master. He had as much opportunity as my own father. You want revenge? Take it and lie in your bed and wait for the roses to grow underneath you. But, be careful, their thorns might prick you and cause you to bleed.’ Khalil got up to put on his jacket.
‘Khalil!’ she wailed.
Grant walked towards her and sat next to her, close by, almost touching, and stared into her eyes. They were the eyes of disappointment and regret. Grant hoped he was never the possessor of such wells of despair.
‘What did he want?’ Grant repeated his question quietly in French as Khalil walked to the door.
Madame Bisset wrung her hands. She was a tough old hag, no doubt hardened by what she saw on the streets of Algiers. But Grant had seen tougher.
‘He said he was knocked clean out and driven to central Paris, where he was left to come round on a park bench in Jardin des Tuileries.’ She fired the words out. Her hands were emphatic and pleading.
Grant didn’t fall for it and he knew his boss wouldn’t either.
‘He made his way here, to my flat,’ she continued, ‘terrified that he would be seen as responsible for the disappearance of Hakim. He didn’t know what to do. I gave him money and told him to lie low. I don’t know where he went.’
‘Your son turns up out of the blue, terrified because Hakim Dalmani is missing, and you tell him to “lie low”?’ Grant’s tone was sarcastic. Khalil shook his head.
‘You’re running out of time, Marie – these aren’t the answers I want or need. Do you know what I might do should any harm come to Hakim?’ Khalil asked, standing by the door.
Madame Bisset went to get up. Grant stopped her. ‘Let me translate,’ Grant added. ‘He knows you’re lying.’
‘He’s my son,’ she said weakly.
‘And Hakim is mine.’ Khalil opened the door, nodding to Grant. ‘She’s all yours.’ He left.
Grant had never hurt an old lady, and he wasn’t about to start, but the point was that Madame Bisset thought him capable and that’s all he needed. He carried on, turning to her. Now she was trembling.
‘Maybe he went with the new security guard who AlGaz has no record of, and who was employed only a few months ago by your son?’ Grant suggested. This was a clear blow to the woman. Before leaving Paris, Grant had paid Hakim’s girlfriend, Amélie Laurent, a visit, and she’d told him about the new recruit who stood out to her because she didn’t like him. It was normal for them to be followed around Paris nightclubs by rough-looking bodyguards, and for most of the time, Hakim ignored them and let them do their jobs, but Amélie noticed the new face. It had been easy for Grant to access the CCTV footage of the last nightclub where Amélie had said they’d gone together, showing the man clearly talking to Jean-Luc. When Grant checked, Khalil confirmed he didn’t know him and certainly didn’t employ him. ‘This man,’ Grant said, showing Madame Bisset a photo from the CCTV reel. ‘There’s Jean-Luc, and who is this?’ he asked.
Marie Bisset was up and across the room like a whippet. Grant was quicker and managed to block her way. She was light as a bird, but strong. They struggled and she put up a good fight as she tried to get away from him. He might have laughed but for the seriousness of the situation, and he blocked her by holding her arms to overpower her. She cried out, but he’d lost any shred of sympathy he’d had for the small old lady, and held her tight until he could manoeuvre her knitted jumper over her head to make her stop. He didn’t
hurt her. He picked her up off her feet as though she were a sack of potatoes and hauled her over his shoulder, carrying her to a bedroom, where he placed her on the bed. He’d already deposited a length of rope, as well as other kit handy for holding tricky witnesses, in the drawers and used them to bind her. She tried to speak the whole time he worked, but he ignored her. Next she spat at him and he wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. As he gagged her, her voice was cut off, and he stood to assess his work. It wouldn’t take long to find an old contact willing to earn a few euros to keep an eye on a defenceless, but very spirited old lady.
He made the call. She listened to him and kept shaking her head and throwing expletives at him, no doubt condemning him to a purgatory of hell and damnation. He’d heard it all before.
‘Name?’ He held the photo close to her again. She shook her head.
Grant sighed. ‘My friend, Winston, will be here soon, and he likes old ladies. And no one knows where you are. Not even Jean-Luc, because he left you, didn’t he? He hasn’t got plans for you, has he? You’re sacrificing your own life for his, aren’t you? But did you imagine it would be so painful? And long? Winston – named after Churchill, of course – is a tenacious old dog, just like his namesake. And he doesn’t speak French. He did, however, serve with your countrymen in Bosnia, and he learned many unspeakable things. I think it changed him. You know what happened in Bosnia, don’t you? Neighbour against neighbour, sister against brother, children tortured, old ladies beaten and left for dead…’
Her face was purple and spittle soaked her gag.
‘All I need is a name,’ Grant said.
Chapter 28