The Rift

by Rachel Lynch

  But that was none of his business.

  Chapter 37

  Helen ran along the river. It had been quite a week and tomorrow was Saturday, but she didn’t expect a day off. The early-morning sky shone blue and pink over the city, and she tried to imagine what six days of captivity looked like for a young man of only twenty-one. The profile given to them by his family was one of strength and resourcefulness. Hakim’s university had similar praise to give; his chef de la faculté said that he was a top-grade student, who was diligent, talented and popular. A gregarious man, as well as an intelligent one, would find imprisonment challenging; not that it wasn’t hard enough for anyone, but an alert brain, used to absorbing and processing information, might be his saving or his undoing.

  Lots of studies had been done into the minds of captors and their hostages. It wasn’t rocket science, and Helen knew that Khalil had sent his eldest son on courses to learn about just those scenarios. At first, she’d thought it odd, though impressive, but then, when she’d thought about Khalil’s wealth, exposure and vulnerability, it made sense. Celebrities stalked by nutters did it all the time. As she ran, Helen went over in her head the content of the programmes that Hakim had followed. He’d been well instructed as far as she could tell. He would have been trying to find ways into his jailers’ hearts with human contact methods, patience and obedience. This only worked, of course, if one had a warder who cared, and, by its very nature, the business of keeping fellow human beings in degrading, difficult and terrifying isolation attracted a certain kind of person, normally without grace, compassion or capacity to feel much at all.

  She shuddered. The image of Hakim’s face she’d seen in numerous photographs burned into her head: his deep brown eyes, his soft skin and his open smile. How was he doing? Was he even still alive? She briefly tried to imagine his mother’s pain, when her mobile phone jolted her out of that agonising spectre. She stopped running and answered it, taking it hastily out of its pouch attached to her arm. The bridge was empty – the summer tourists weren’t awake yet. The number was from Interpol. A flutter of excitement made her rush to speak.

  The junior finishing her night shift gave her the news that the lab had come back as promised and the report was ready for Major Scott.

  ‘Can you open it, please?’ Helen asked, short of breath. ‘I’m looking for confirmation of DNA found at the address at the top of the report and if any of it matched our victim: Hakim ibn Khalil Said Dalmani. It should say his name on the report too.’ She waited and paced up and down, as her heart raced from exertion. A young man and woman could be seen in the distance pushing a pram. She looked away.

  ‘Right, I’m in the document now,’ said the junior officer. Helen looked across the river at the huge building that was Interpol Headquarters and willed the woman to scan carefully.

  ‘There’s a match.’

  ‘What?’ Helen almost didn’t believe what she was hearing. She stared at the river beneath her.

  ‘There’s a match. Hakim Dalmani was in that flat.’

  ‘Christ,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll be in the office in an hour.’ She hung up and sprinted towards her apartment building. She dashed past the couple with the pram, forcing herself to look away from the vision of domestic normality. The couple looked at her as if she was a madwoman. And that’s what she felt like: a madwoman on a mission to finally catch up with Hakim’s abductors. They were getting closer, but it tasted bittersweet. What if they were too late? When had he been moved and was he still in Lyon? She felt her hope wither away as her feet pelted the pavement.

  Her pace never faltered all the way back to her street, and when she reached the entrance, she bent over and held her knees, thinking she might throw up. It took her back to her training, when they’d march with heavy weights up near-vertical hills, past cadets bringing up their breakfasts in what was affectionately known as the tactical chunder. Her body shook, but she managed to gather herself together and take the lift to her floor. She raced into the apartment and stripped off her running gear as she walked to the bathroom, turning on the shower and ripping the last of her underwear off. The hot water soothed her, and she washed quickly, hoping that her body would cool down quick enough from her run to allow her to dress straight away and catch a cab to Interpol HQ.

  Once she was dry and dressed, she applied some make-up and ordered an Uber. In the taxi, she opened the document in her emails and read carefully, scouring for the details. The DNA had been matched to that discovered on both the bed and the excreta inside the bucket. He’d been held there for sure. He was alive. She could feel it. She read on that Hakim’s stool was hard and lumpy, indicative of constipation, which might be caused by stress. It also confirmed that he was in all probability, dehydrated. A high presence of prealbumin also suggested protein-calorie malnutrition. She was always taken by how quickly this could happen. It took about three days for the human body to shift its metabolism to emergency mode, once depleted of energy-giving glycogen. It meant that Hakim was being starved.

  The cab pulled up, and she got out, slamming the door and heading to the entrance, where she’d have to clear security, like she did every morning.

  Upstairs, Sylvia’s office was quiet and Helen examined the case file before her, spread out on a board set up for all notices actively being worked at Interpol. There were so many of them it was too depressing if one dwelled upon it. Lately, they’d got wind of a child sex ring, set up in Germany, and fifty-seven children under yellow notices had been found in an apartment block just outside Berlin. It should have been a triumph, but it was a worst nightmare for the children and their parents. Yes, they’d been found, but some of them had been missing for years. What they’d suffered wasn’t something Helen could bring herself to think about. It wasn’t her department. Catching terrorists, assassins and snipers was cleaner, safer and morally more palatable. She wouldn’t work sex cases for all the money in the world. No wonder Sylvia took a keen interest in what she was doing: it was a welcome break.

  Helen moved to her desk and tapped her fingers on the table top, deciding whether she needed a coffee. She went to the De’Longhi machine outside her office and watched as it created a wonderful aroma of freshly ground beans. It was a far cry from what the MOD in Whitehall offered.

  Her mobile phone buzzed, and she checked her notifications. It was an email from Lyon-Saint Exupéry Airport. Helen already knew that Khalil was in the city, though she hadn’t been able to arrange to meet him at the InterContinental due to business clashes. He was remaining suspiciously unavailable. Ricard, who was running surveillance at the Ritz in Paris, hadn’t anything to report back to her. There’d been no irregular conversations picked up from Taziri Dalmani either, who still resided in the hotel suite in Paris. Khalil had extensive trading links in Europe and she appreciated he was busy, but he was supposed to be showing an active interest in looking for his son.

  What she read in the email frustrated her further. It was another passenger list, but this time from Lyon to Marseilles, by private jet. But it was Khalil’s travelling companion that made her stop dead. Grant Tennyson was on the flight, which landed in Marseilles last night. Grant wasn’t stupid. He knew she’d have this kind of information to hand. He knew.

  Jesus. It had been years since she’d seen him, and now he was jumping back into her life as the spectre sitting behind a major case: one that she had to see through to the end. The coffee tasted bitter now. She threw it away and went back to her desk. Her computer was open on her emails and she went to close the page, not wanting to even look at Grant’s name.

  But what overshadowed her anxiety at bumping into an old flame – drowned it out completely, really – was the now indisputable fact that she needed to go to Marseilles. The information from Angelo now made sense. And if that’s where Grant and Khalil had gone, then that’s where she needed to go too.

  Chapter 38

  Grant left Khalil at his private apartments overlooking the vast old port of Marseilles. He w
as amazed by the collection of residences, rented and owned, that Khalil used abroad. Everything was prepared: laundry, linen, attending staff and timings. He was always expected and ushered through seamlessly. Grant afforded himself the luxury of a quick shower and change in his own room, two floors below, as well as a couple of hours of sleep.

  He wanted Khalil as far away as possible from the unloading ship once it docked and cleared customs. He argued that the goods coming into the country would be met with somebody representing Fawaz, who was already responsible for taking his son. What was to stop him taking Khalil too?

  ‘He wouldn’t dare – he has too much to lose. If he takes me or harms me, he makes himself a target and makes it obvious who’s responsible,’ Khalil argued.

  ‘You’ve got a point, but I don’t trust a man who captures somebody’s child to get what they want,’ Grant argued.

  Finally Khalil backed down and Grant had made his way to the port alone, carrying two illegal firearms. Technically, the bodyguard of a high-profile VIP could carry a weapon in France, but only when in active service for that end. Grant wasn’t protecting anyone tonight, only himself. He carried a Glock 9mm pistol and a Heckler & Koch MP5, a nice compact semi-automatic that could be hidden inside his jacket. Both weapons were perfect for confined spaces, should he find himself in a pickle.

  He’d organised another vehicle for himself that was anonymous, unregistered and common. Grant left the luxurious waterfront apartment where Khalil would base himself for a few days and attend countless business meetings, trying to take his mind off why they were really there. He took the lift down to the underground private garage in the basement and found a Fiat 500 waiting for him. He drove to the port and headed to Quay 91, where Khalil’s shipment from Algiers was due to dock at seven p.m.

  The Grand Port Maritime de Marseilles saw traffic of almost one hundred thousand tonnes go through it in a single year. It was vast. It was the main seaport for the whole of France and pivotal to European trade going back over two thousand years.

  Grant drove through the ancient port, which was now a gentrified tourist hub with fancy seafood restaurants, lavish hotels and apartments. Expensive yachts docked there and he could see hundreds of vessels twinkling and bobbing in the early-evening light. He headed north to the working port, a huge expanse of terminals, quays and warehouses: the beating heart of the city. It smelled functional and his open windows took in the aroma of the sea mixed with the fumes of colossal vessels arriving from all over the Mediterranean. Cargo from Algeria docked in the Quai de la Joliette area. The landing stages along the quay were separated from the street by white metal barriers, and to get inside, Grant had to enter through Gate 7 and show his ID, arranged by Khalil. He turned into the gate and waited at the barrier, showing the guard his photo card. He was ushered through and told that he could use the carpark to the right. After leaving his car, he headed to the dockside and waited inside a cafe frequented by dock workers and security guards. It served onion soup, terrines, croque-monsieurs and casseroles. Grant took a table at the window and ordered an espresso.

  He watched the towering concrete structures overlooking the quayside and looked for anyone entering Quay 91. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes came and went from the carpark and he looked at his watch. It was half past six, and he gazed towards the entrance to the mighty port in the distance, seeing if any vessels were making their way to the terminal. Several working ships were either approaching or leaving the dock, and others were sat idle or being loaded or unloaded. He heard shouts, horns and announcements as he sipped his sweetened coffee.

  The door opened, and a woman walked in and looked around.

  Grant froze. She spotted him and smiled. She walked to the counter and ordered something and pointed to Grant’s table. Then she walked towards him and sat opposite him. Her hair was free and her face was open and friendly. She hadn’t changed. He felt his pulse elevate: she was gorgeous.

  ‘Hi Grant,’ she said.

  ‘Hi Helen,’ he replied.

  Chapter 39

  In the small cafe, on Quai de la Joliette, Grant stared at Helen.

  Neither knew what to say.

  The ambience of the place could have filled in the gaps for them, should they have wished, but Helen spoke first.

  ‘You look well, Grant. Congratulations on the job. You deserve it,’ she said.

  He held out his hands, with upturned palms. It was more than a gesture: it was an offering of solace, want, need, apology and something else, guilt?

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said.

  She leant on the plastic tablecloth, coming closer to him, and put her hands in his. They locked eyes and seconds passed as each ex-lover read the other, deeply and fluently, like forgotten favourite stories.

  ‘Are you following me?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch to tell you,’ he offered.

  ‘About what?’ she asked.

  ‘The job, how close I am to Khalil. I didn’t know you were the lead investigator until a few days ago,’ he said.

  ‘Hakim has only been missing since Sunday,’ she admonished him. She slipped her hands out of his.

  ‘So, is that your brief? Missing person?’ he asked.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ she said. She sat back.

  ‘What’s it like?’ she asked.

  He looked at her.

  ‘I mean, working for him?’ she added.

  ‘He’s a good man. Hard, but authentic. He loves his son more than anything in the world. What’s happened, it’s cut deep.’

  ‘Losing a child always cuts deep.’ It was out before she could stop herself. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It’s all right, Helen, you can talk about it any way you like.’ He put his hands in his pockets and looked around. ‘What about you? I heard you are working for the ambassador in Paris. How did that happen?’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m not working for him, he just recommended me to Interpol. I report to Colonel Palmer.’

  ‘Palmer? Jesus, how the hell can you stomach that?’

  ‘It’s bearable, just. He knows not to cross the line with me, but he’s still an arsehole. Besides, I’m a pretty free agent back in Lyon. I don’t have much to report at the moment, and Palmer hasn’t asked. He did insult me, though, before I left Paris for Lyon.’

  ‘What?’ Grant bristled.

  ‘He implied that the ambassador’s faith in me was misplaced.’

  ‘So you’ve got to prove him wrong?’ he asked.

  She smiled in answer to the question. He knew her well.

  ‘He’s a proper bellend,’ Grant added.

  ‘Why? Because he stuck his tongue down my throat and tried to cop a feel?’

  Grant knew all about the incident, because he’d been there. He’d wanted to punch him in the face at the time and rip his balls off, but Helen had argued that it would end his career, and Palmer would still be a cock anyway, whatever he did.

  ‘You look beautiful, Helen.’

  She shifted uncomfortably, uneasy with the compliment, and he continued to stare at her.

  ‘Come and work for me – you’re wasted on these buffoons,’ Grant said.

  ‘Tempting, but I couldn’t take your orders,’ she replied.

  ‘I’d work for you,’ he said.

  ‘No you wouldn’t,’ she replied before she changed the subject to why she had come all the way from Lyon to find him. ‘Why is Khalil being so obtuse? He won’t meet me.’

  ‘He’s distracted, his son’s missing.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed. Don’t be vague with me, Grant. You’re both hiding something.’ She paused. ‘Why are you packing metal?’ She knew from the way he was sitting that he carried at least one weapon.

  ‘I’m a private bodyguard.’

  ‘But your principal isn’t here.’

  They looked at one another. Their eyes never drifted, and she carri
ed on her questioning as he took his time to study her, drinking her in after all this time apart.

  ‘I’m surmising that you’re here waiting for a shipment arriving in one of Khalil’s containers from Algiers at seven p.m., docking in Quay 91. It should be carrying rugs, canned goods, leather, fertilisers and citrus fruit, but I doubt that it is. What might really be in it do you think?’ she asked.

  No answer. She held his gaze.

  ‘Why the secrecy from Khalil? Why send his new head of security, and the man tasked with finding his son, to meet a random container ship? Or are you here sightseeing?’ she asked.

  Grant tapped his fingers on the table.

  ‘We’re working for the same side,’ she said.

  ‘No we’re not,’ he said.

  ‘What? That’s the first I’ve heard. Khalil has launched his own investigation, thanks to you, and we both want the same thing, so why don’t we work together?’ she said.

  Grant continued tapping his fingers on the plastic.

  ‘Quid pro quo?’ she asked.

  ‘What can you give me?’ Grant asked.

  Helen opened her mouth in shock. ‘You want me to go first? You’re no further along than I am, are you?’ she asked.

  He broke first. ‘All right, let’s stop this game. I still love you, Helen. I’ve been trying to forget you and when I heard your name I’ve been trying to put you to the back of my mind. That’s what’s on my mind right now, not what’s in the fucking container?’

  They both sat forward again.

  She offered information first. ‘A scumbag, known to Interpol, started working for Jean-Luc Bisset inside Khalil’s security detail last month. He’s called Ahmad Azzine, and he’s been linked to Fawaz for decades.’

  She watched him closely.

  ‘You didn’t know that, did you?’ she said. She’d looked into his eyes so many times that she knew that she was correct. ‘Quid pro quo.’