by Rachel Lynch
Grant retrieved a photo from his jacket, the one he’d emailed Levi, and showed it to her. ‘This man?’ he said.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘The nightclub where Hakim took his girlfriend last month before he went home.’
‘Amélie Laurent? You were the Englishman who interviewed her. Of course you were,’ she said. ‘His code name is Sand Cat. Are you hoping he’ll show up here?’
‘That was my best guess,’ he replied.
‘He’s already here in France. It’s pretty certain that he was one of the drivers who originally took Hakim to Lyon.’
‘You are positive Hakim’s in Lyon?’ Grant asked.
Helen saw the earnestness behind his eyes and realised that he cared about the young man. It touched her. She nodded.
‘He’s been moved at least once. Quid pro quo, Grant – what have you got for me?’
He took a deep breath and looked around the cafe.
‘Fawaz contacted Khalil before we left Algeria.’
She fell back in her chair. ‘For fuck’s sake, Grant.’
‘His son’s life is on the line! He knows what this guy is capable of.’
‘We could have been working together on this the whole time.’
‘How did I know it’d be you leading the case? Khalil doesn’t trust the authorities in Europe to find a kid of African descent, no matter how rich his father.’
‘That’s a serious accusation.’
‘Oh, come on, Helen, don’t pretend to be naïve. Your turn.’
‘We found Hakim’s DNA in a flat in Lyon.’
‘What? And you haven’t told his father?’
‘Maybe if he accepted my calls and looked as though he was helping, then I might have had that conversation with him. Quid pro quo.’
‘I found equipment in a flat in Paris, and the same type of equipment in a flat in Lyon. In Le Croix-Rousse. The address of the Lyon flat was on a phone I retrieved from the Paris address. It was a tip-off from an oil worker from Morocco,’ he said.
‘And the equipment is relevant because?’ she asked.
‘It could make drones.’
Helen absorbed this.
‘Azzine was the driver of a black Range Rover that transported Hakim from Le Bourget airport. It was burned out near Lille. Where’s Madame Bisset?’ she asked.
‘Safe,’ he said.
‘In one piece?’
‘No missing digits,’ he confirmed.
They heard the continuous, piercing honk of a ship’s horn and both turned towards the window. A large ship was approaching Quay 91, and they looked at one another. Grant grabbed her arm as she went to get up. She stared at him.
‘Helen, if Fawaz finds out that Interpol is on to him – I mean seriously on to him from what you’ve told me – Hakim will die.’
Chapter 40
The bundle underneath the blanket groaned and rolled over. The lump was a man, and he’d urinated again. It drained from his body and soaked through the blanket. The smell was rancid, and the heat attracted flies to dance upon his motionless mass. The windows remained closed, as instructed. Despite the heat, wallpaper peeled away from the walls and the air was laden with misery.
‘Do you think he’s sick?’ one of the two sentries asked his colleague. He caressed his AK-47, which never left his side, unless he was out in the open; then he took a pistol off the flimsy temporary table and fingered it, shoving it into his pants. The weapons were integral to his make-up. Like a precious child in swaddling clothes strapped to his chest, they provided a reason to live. And a reason to die.
They’d come here in the middle of the night. It was an empty, anonymous dwelling, like the others, with the same smells: vegetables, chicken fat and tobacco. Their captive lay on his side and hadn’t moved, but they could see that he breathed. They weren’t given specific instructions on how to look after him, just to watch him. Were they supposed to buy him food? Were they supposed to make him comfortable? They hadn’t been given money for such things, only to buy their own cigarettes and the odd pizza, and that was barely enough. What they did know, however, was that if their ward got away, the punishment for such incompetence would be slow and painful.
It had all happened so quickly since the other two members of the cell had been arrested and detained by the police. There were several two-men units on standby dotted around the city. They rarely communicated, but the raid on the flat had been called in by one such squad, and it had rippled through the others. They were called to action by burner phones, and spent the interim waiting in flats, smoking, playing cards and existing, until a Nokia ringtone alerted them otherwise.
The pair who now watched Hakim had been planted in France for eighteen months and this was their first major call to arms. Recruits didn’t just come from the homeland; they were second- and third-generation descendants from migrant families, born here in France, and drilled for several years before being relied upon to see a mission through, whatever that might be.
They didn’t care for their ward: they were indifferent to him and thus given to neglect. He was a commodity, and, as such a valuable asset to safeguard. But this didn’t mean keeping him pampered. The gossip around the streets of Le Croix-Rousse was of the ‘tifl ghaniun’ rich kid. But they were safe here, for now. They were surrounded by neighbourhoods not given to colluding with authorities. The smarter areas of the district went about their business oblivious to the network of nocturnal soldiers ready to mobilise. Anyone who was caught was feeble and deserved to be cut off like a traitor. There was no room for error.
But, as the clock ticked slowly, punishing them with its taunting that time was slipping by, boredom took over, and the men became restless.
‘Maybe we should get him some water?’ the other replied.
‘You go,’ said Fudail.
‘It’s your turn,’ replied Nizam.
Both were nervous about leaving the flat during daylight hours, and they were many, thanks to the summer sun. But they felt brave enough to venture out for food and water, and cigarettes, like now, when it was dark.
They’d moved three times in all, and so they’d used different shops. Le tabac on the street corner seemed quiet enough. Fudail shrugged and got up to leave. The TV was on constantly, and they watched it mindlessly, waiting for the next phone call. Fudail fondled his weapon as he laid it lovingly on the single table in the room. He took a pistol and checked its barrel. Two more automatic weapons leant against the table leg, loaded and ready. They’d fired arms since they were twelve years old, going into the desert to practise with older cousins, having been flown there by Air France. They shot Barbary sheep, jackals and the odd vulture, even a viper once. The metal felt homely to them, like perhaps a wallet or a newspaper might to a well-to-do Frenchman who worked in a government department. Fudail didn’t want to leave his trusty firearm, and he touched it once more, as if saying farewell to a wife. He handled the pistol like a professional soldier, checking the sight and pointing it at Nizam, who waved his arm generally in the direction of his partner.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ he said in Arabic.
Fudail smiled and left, pulling up his hood and popping on a pair of fake glasses. He’d stolen them from a market selling prescription lenses. His beard was full and he wore a cap. He left the flat and walked down the stairwell, skipping a few steps at a time. The street was quiet and he entered the store. The shopkeeper was of North African descent and so Fudail thought him unlikely to betray a brother. Both he and Nizam knew their way around the neighbourhood well; they’d lived amongst it, watching and learning for this moment. They fed information back to Morocco, when required to do so, about the best locations to set up cells and both agreed on the places they selected. They also agreed that if a nosy old hag got in their way, they’d solve the problem with a bullet and a bag of stones to weight the body down in the Rhône. The woman who was suspected of informing the authorities, leading to the arrests, wouldn’t survive should Fudail get hol
d of her, and he was ready and alert.
Neither man had expected such a high-profile mission as the boy, but their job wasn’t to reason with those who made the decisions, it was simply to do their duty. When they’d accepted the transfer of the goods, they’d known instantly who he was. The abduction of the rich kid was all over the news, but it didn’t feel as though they were doing anything wrong. How could their work be seen as a transgression when they were helping their families and friends? Funds had been sent home every week for the past eighteen months and Fudail’s brother had been sent to school.
He chose some large bottles of water, some packets of crackers and biscuits, a pie and a bottle of Coke. He also bought more cigarettes. The man behind the counter spoke to him in Arabic. It was a short exchange and Fudail thanked him and left.
Back in the flat, he found Nizam in a panicked state. Fudail put down his shopping and told Nizam to calm the fuck down.
‘He’s supposed to be well – they’re coming to check! I poked him and he whined like a diseased pig.’
‘Who’s coming?’ asked Fudail.
‘I don’t know. I got a call on this.’ He waved the mobile phone around. ‘He’s due to be transferred and he’s to be seen by a doctor.’
‘What? A doctor? When?’ Fudail asked. He was irked by Nizam, who was proving to be twitchy and weak of character.
‘Tonight. The ship docked. He’s being let go.’
‘Let’s clean him up,’ Fudail said. The function of their task was straightforward and nothing to get jumpy about. The boy was frail because of his cosseted nature, not because of anything they’d done.
They picked up their weapons and Fudail took a large bottle of water with him. They approached the body and blocked their nostrils from the smell of faeces.
Fudail cursed. ‘Hayawan qadhar.’ Filthy animal. Their predecessors should have taken better care of him. Fudail poked the lump. He still looked strong and moneyed.
‘He can handle it.’
They’d inherited him in this shit state. Besides, they’d been warned that the boy might try to form bonds with them, as he had apparently done with an old man who’d fed him. An old man who had outlived his uses.
‘What should we do?’ Nizam asked. His agitation was verging on hysteria, and Fudail threw him a threatening look.
‘We give him a shower,’ he said.
Fudail poked Hakim again, and he stirred a little.
‘Get up, you need a shower. We have water and some new clothes.’
Hakim’s eyes flickered open, but they were stuck half-shut with mucus, oil and skin cells, accumulated due to the lack of care. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the light coming in from a lamp. Fudail strode across the room and flicked it off. He cocked his weapon towards the boy.
Hakim strained his eyes and lifted his head. Fudail instructed Nizam to offer him water. He baulked but did so, cautiously.
The boy gulped greedily and spilt much of it, attracting curses from the men. Hakim stared at them with fresh strength, and Nizam panicked.
‘Calm the fuck down,’ Fudail told him.
Fudail knew that Hakim sensed the inequality between his captors and he was incensed further. He felt like bashing his rifle butt into his head, but talked himself out of it. That wasn’t the brief. Oh, how he wished it was though.
‘Thank you,’ Hakim said. Fudail tightened his grip on his weapon. The lad knew what he was doing, and Nizam fell for it by nodding his acknowledgement of the sentiment.
They watched as their hostage gulped and coughed through another drink. Nizam took the bottle away and offered him a bar of chocolate. He cooperated and took a bite. Fudail watched closely as the sugary treat rushed through his blood vessels and alerted his senses further. Chewing was clearly hard work. It was repulsive watching him masticate.
The boy was able to sit up.
‘Come on, you need to wash,’ Nizam said.
‘Your name is Fudail,’ Hakim looked at the man who seemed the more in charge of the two.
‘No, it’s Princess Leia. Shut the fuck up and stand up so you can take a shower,’ Fudail said. Nizam helped him, but gagged at the smell as the blankets were pulled aside.
Finally, he was up, and they both had to help him walk to the bathroom in the next room. Hakim was given a bar of soap and told to wash himself. Fudail pulled a curtain around him, but made it clear that the door was to remain open.
Long minutes passed as the two men stood in the doorway.
They heard prayer.
Fudail banged angrily on the open door and told Hakim that his time was up. Nizam brought fresh clothes from a bag in the other room and threw them on the floor, alongside a towel. Minutes later, Hakim emerged from the bathroom, clean and semi-human.
‘Could I have more of the chocolate bar, please? I feel as though I might fall down.’
Fudail nodded and instructed Nizam to get the chocolate, but the boy’s manner wasn’t lost on him: he was trying to provoke empathy.
‘Go and wash the floor and get rid of the bed,’ Fudail said to Nizam, never taking his eyes off Hakim.
‘Where do I put it?’ asked Nizam.
‘I don’t care. Be imaginative,’ Fudail answered. He motioned for Hakim to go back to the living area. Fudail slung his AK-47 over his shoulder and followed him. He found new blankets and gave Hakim a fresh bottle of water. Nizam tutted as he rolled up the soiled bedding and gagged as he put it into bags. A thin mattress was laid down and Hakim instructed to sit. He did so.
‘You fought, and we struggled,’ said Fudail, his face not moving.
‘What?’ Hakim replied, puzzled.
But before he was able to say any more, the rifle butt was rammed into the side of his head and he fell sideways.
Chapter 41
‘What’s on that ship?’ Helen asked Grant. She stood still, with his arm remaining on hers. His grip was tight enough to hold her there if that’s what he wanted, but Helen could have pulled away if she wanted to.
She didn’t.
‘I have no idea, and neither does Khalil,’ he replied.
A few people looked their way. Dock workers weren’t the type of people to allow the rough handling of a woman on their watch.
‘We’re causing a scene,’ she whispered. Helen gestured to onlookers that she was all right and leant over the table. Their faces almost touched.
‘I have to call the port authority to get the ship seized,’ she said.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid, Helen. That boy will die, I guarantee it.’ He looked into her eyes, and they lingered there, motionless. Finally she sat back down. He held on to her wrist and she laid her hand flat on the plastic top. His touch turned to a caress, his hand on hers.
‘I’m begging you. Give me time. Let’s find out what’s in it together. The minute you bring the authorities descending down on something imported by Fawaz Nabil, the boy dies. Think about it, Helen.’
‘And what if the cargo of that ship is to make drones? Armed drones? How many people might die then?’
She looked into his eyes and recognised the familiar manner of his face when he was thinking about a solution. He was a problem solver and that had been part of their break-up: he always wanted to fix everything. But some things couldn’t be fixed.
‘So, let’s follow the cargo and find out where the target is,’ he said.
His eyes beguiled her. It was too much and she looked away. She acquiesced.
The labourers went back to their conversations.
‘Let’s get some air,’ she said. Grant agreed and went to settle the bill.
When they were outside, they walked towards the quay slowly, and they talked about Sir Conrad.
‘I tried to phone his private line this afternoon on my way here, you know, just to brief him on me coming here, and why, and I got diverted to Ben Palmer’s office. He told me that I need to run everything through him, but I’m not comfortable doing that. It was Sir Conrad who generated this post fo
r me,’ Helen said.
‘Does Sir Conrad know that Palmer is interjecting?’ Grant asked.
‘I don’t know because I can’t bloody get through to him,’ she replied.
‘Did you tell him anything?’ Grant asked.
‘Only that I wanted to speak to the ambassador to tell him I was travelling to Marseilles.’
‘Did you mention me?’
‘No. No one knows my connection to you, or indeed the significance of you working for Khalil,’ she said.
‘Which is what?’
‘Oh, come on, Grant, an ex-army officer in charge of the security of a North African billionaire, currently a person of considerable interest in an Interpol case, not to mention an ex-close associate to Fawaz Nabil.’
‘His son is missing – why is he a person of interest?’ Grant asked.
‘It’s basic investigative statistical knowledge that ninety per cent of the time, family members are usually found to be the culprit of harming a close relative.’
‘Don’t throw statistics at me, Helen. You know he didn’t plan this,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Which is why I wanted to speak to you first. But I have so many questions for him.’
‘They’ll be answered, but my priority is finding Hakim.’
‘Listen.’ They stopped to face one another. The lights of a vehicle approached, and they receded into a corner in the shadows, away from sight. He reached his arm around her and she let him hold her. She could smell him, and memories of his naked body flooded her mind.
He turned to her, and she thought he might kiss her. Part of her wanted him to, part of her didn’t.
‘Can you give me twenty-four hours?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply immediately, instead watching the blood vessels near his temple. He touched her hand, but she withdrew it, putting it into her pocket. Grant spoke softly.
‘I never wanted to leave. After Luke…’
She felt the warmth of his body next to hers.
‘Don’t mention Luke.’ Her voice was a whisper. Why did he have to do this now? Luke was their son who’d lived for three hours. He was born prematurely, and his death was due to anencephaly, a rare neural defect. Helen and Grant simply fell apart afterwards.