Blake held up a halting hand. ‘We went in there today knowing that the Bureau were going to give us a load of runaround bullshit and empty promises and try to handle the entire show themselves. OK, so Norris is a supremely arrogant asshole who made it more obvious than we expected. But we’re equals: people to whom he didn’t have to prove any professional ability. He might be entirely different when he’s negotiating.’
‘Norris doesn’t for a moment consider us equals. He thinks we’re grossly inferior. He thinks everyone is inferior to him. John Norris is God in his own heaven. I’m frightened he could make Mary Beth McBride one of his angels.’
Blake regarded her doubtfully. ‘Can you be that positive, from just one meeting?’
‘Until he realized I’d picked up on it, virtually every sentence or opinion began with I. He’s got more victims back than he’s lost and probably been able to manoeuvre the failures into being someone else’s fault, never his. He’s become the Great Untouchable, the Great Unquestionable. It’s affected him.’
‘You’re the expert. But all I’ve heard since I’ve joined Europol is that it’s not just us against the villains but us against every national force and their dog as well.’
Claudine shook her head. ‘The attitude of national forces is resentment, pure and simple: no one wanting their territory encroached upon. That’s not what we’re talking about here. I think Norris is operationally dangerous. To the child, I mean – who’s probably in enough danger as it is.’
‘So what can we do about it?’
‘Nothing,’ conceded Claudine. ‘That’s what upsets me most.’
‘Recovering the child – if she can be recovered – is all that matters?’
Claudine frowned. ‘Yes?’
‘Why not feed the obsession: use it to our advantage? Say you need his help: can’t do it without him and let him believe he is in charge. Couldn’t you control him if you got in on the negotiations?’
‘Don’t give up the day job,’ said Claudine, smiling at the amateur psychology. ‘He doesn’t need to believe he’s in charge. He’s sure he is. He’d see that approach as me patronizing him.’
‘What about getting Sanglier to intervene?’
‘In what? About what? There’s no way we could make any official protest, based upon my impression.’ She hesitated again. ‘Incidentally, you took a lot upon yourself naming Sanglier as our representative before knowing he’d agree to a press conference.’
‘Appearing with ambassadors and commissioners is Sanglier’s level. He more or less said that, at the briefing.’
‘I think he might have liked prior consultation.’
Blake shrugged. ‘If he doesn’t want to do it he can refuse.’
More kamikaze disregard, thought Claudine. To go with a mentally disarranged man and a lost ten-year-old child and a controlling commissioner whom she didn’t trust. Her cup was being filled to overflowing, and they hadn’t even started yet. ‘We were right to argue for a press conference. It would have been a miracle if something hadn’t broken before tomorrow.’
‘Norris conceded on that,’ suggested Blake.
‘We gave him the time he wanted.’
‘I’m not arguing against you,’ said Blake, before making his point. ‘But wouldn’t it be great if in that time there was an approach and Norris managed to get her back?’
Claudine looked quizzically at the man, disappointed for the first time. ‘Great,’ she agreed. ‘But it won’t happen, even if there is an approach. Norris might have been able to do it once but I don’t think he’s capable of doing it any longer.’
Which was suffering the greater delusion of grandeur? wondered Blake. He checked his watch. ‘Time to go.’
Henriette Flahaur, the school principal, was an autocratic, grey-haired, stiffly upright woman trying hard to conceal a disaster behind aggression. The severe black suit reminded Claudine of how her mother customarily dressed to greet customers at the Lyon restaurant. She’d been autocratic, too.
The meeting was more for Claudine’s benefit than Blake’s but the detective led at the beginning, confronting the woman’s insistence that she had already told as much as she knew to both American and Belgian investigators with smiling, sympathetic politeness that impressed Claudine and coaxed a third account from the woman within minutes. It was a terrible, inexplicable misunderstanding, the first time anything like it had ever occurred at the school. A new system had already been introduced, with security guards individually checking pupils in and out of the school. The world seemed to have become a dreadful place. The whole school was praying for Mary Bern’s safe return. Blake said he was sorry but he didn’t think the school’s name could be withheld from the publicity.
‘Have you – or any teacher or official – ever thought your school was being particularly watched?’ he asked.
‘By someone intending to snatch a pupil, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Madame Flahaur vigorously shook her head. ‘Anyone would have seen how careful …’ she began, trailing off in mid-sentence. ‘That doesn’t sound right now, does it?’
‘It wasn’t the answer to my question anyway,’ Blake said gently. ‘I’m talking about recent weeks or days: a car or a person hanging around that made you curious.’
She shook her head again, although less forcefully. ‘There’s a specific rule. If any member of staff notices anything like that, they have to tell me immediately. And I would have informed the police. There’s been nothing.’
‘That sounds as if such a situation has arisen in the past?’
‘Never,’ the principal insisted. ‘That’s the tragedy: I thought we’d anticipated everything to prevent something like this happening.’
‘Mary Beth would have known she should not have walked off, as she apparently did?’ suggested Claudine, choosing her moment. She needed to decide how well Mary Beth could face the terror of being seized. Upon the child’s behaviour – her strengths or weaknesses – depended the way she would be treated. Literally, perhaps, her survival.
‘Before she became a pupil someone from the embassy visited the school. Talked to me about security. He told me Mary had strict instructions never to leave the premises unless her transport was waiting. That’s our rule, too, with every child. I made sure Mary understood that when she arrived …’ Briefly the woman’s composure wavered, her lip trembling. ‘I know and accept she should not have been released in the first place but having found there was no car waiting she should have immediately returned inside.’
‘Why then do you think she didn’t?’ asked Claudine.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is she a disobedient child?’
The other woman hesitated. ‘She’s extremely self-confident.’
‘Walking away as she did, knowing it was forbidden, indicates wilfulness, doesn’t it?’
Madame Flahaur nodded reluctantly. ‘She liked being the centre of attention.’
‘To shock?’
‘To be the centre of attention,’ insisted the woman.
‘Was she a loud child? Exuberant?’
The woman frowned. ‘Loud? I don’t understand.’
Claudine gestured through the window to the road outside. ‘It’s a very busy street. It would have been crowded at the time she disappeared. If she was snatched – actually grabbed into a passing car – would she have tried to fight? Shouted? Or would she have been too terrified to resist?’
‘I think she would have resisted.’
‘So she’s not a nervous child? Sometimes wilful disobedience hides nervousness.’
‘No. She’s definitely not nervous.’
‘The photographs I have seen are facial portraits. Is she a well-developed girl?’
Madame Flahaur looked quickly at Blake. ‘She is beginning to form.’
‘Has she reached puberty yet?’
The woman flushed, very slightly. ‘Is this important?’
‘Everything I’m asking you is important,
Madame Flahaur. The shock of what’s happened to her could cause her to menstruate. If she isn’t familiar with it, even if her mother or a teacher here has told her about it, it would add to whatever difficulties she’s suffering. She’d most probably have to tell a man.’
‘I’m sorry. Of course. No, she is not yet menstruating but it is something about which we instruct our pupils very thoroughly, to take away any fear when it happens.’
‘Does she look her age?’
The principal considered the question. ‘No, I don’t think she does. She is developing, as I said, but only just. And she’s quite a small child, below average height for her age.’
‘Has she had any sex education?’
‘It began this semester.’
‘You know her, Madame Flahaur. And can answer my next question more objectively than perhaps her parents could. Would you say Mary Beth McBride was a well-balanced child?’
Again the woman hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, I think I would.’
‘There is no proof of it yet, but the Americans believe she has been kidnapped: is being held somewhere. If that is the case, how do you think she would respond? Behave?’
‘It would be terrifying for any child.’
‘I’m not asking about any child. I’m asking about Mary. But let’s make it general, if you like. Considering the terror of being held by total strangers and not knowing what was going to happen to her, would Mary stand up to it better or worse than most children of her age?’
There was yet another pause for consideration. ‘Better, I think.’
‘Sport activities are part of the curriculum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she enthusiastic? Or doesn’t she like it?’
‘She’s a very active participant in everything.’
‘Competitive?’
Madame Flahaur looked steadily back at Claudine, understanding the point. ‘Yes, she’s competitive.’
‘Someone who likes to win, in everything?’
‘Yes. Mary Beth likes very much to win.’
‘Well?’ demanded Blake, as they walked out on to the rue du Canal.
‘Good news and bad news,’ analysed Claudine. ‘She’s a wilfully disobedient child who doesn’t frighten easily. That’s good, if she’s being held. She’ll be able to stand up to the trauma. The bad news is that if she confronts too hard, too forcefully, anyone holding her will probably hurt her.’
‘Kill her?’
‘It would make it more likely.’
‘You’re supposed to make the forecasts,’ he reminded her.
‘She’ll try to do something,’ predicted Claudine.
‘There’s something we haven’t talked about yet,’ Blake pointed out. ‘What about her having been snatched for sex?’
‘It’s something we’re overdue considering,’ agreed Claudine. ‘I think it’s a far stronger possibility than a straight kidnap. Mary should have been taken home by a car waiting to collect her at the door. But it had a puncture. It was pure chance that she was walking up this road, which she shouldn’t have been doing. No one snatching her could have known who she was until after they got her. This isn’t a well-planned abduction of the daughter of a millionaire ambassador.’
‘I’d say that makes it even more likely they’ll kill her, if they haven’t already,’ said Blake.
‘I’d say the same,’ said Claudine.
James McBride was furious, red-faced, temple veins throbbing. Hillary, who insisted upon being part of every discussion about Mary in which her husband was involved, had actually leapt up from her seat, incensed.
‘Just two?’ demanded McBride.
‘And the woman’s never been involved in a kidnap before. She admitted it, openly,’ confirmed Norris. He sat primly on the chair, facing the ambassador across die desk, but inwardly he felt very relaxed, very satisfied. Everything was going precisely as he wanted, at the speed he wanted. He’d cleared his decks: got everything in place.
‘When I’ve finished kicking ass this fucking country – this fucking continent – is going to regret the day they didn’t take this seriously!’
‘Sir!’ said Norris quickly. ‘You made it quite clear in your first message to Washington how you wanted this handled. By the FBI. Which the Bureau and the President completely understood. That’s where we are now. I’ve made all the necessary gestures – at this morning’s meeting I even allowed them to think they’d out-argued me into having the media release, but they’re behind us now. Unimportant. I’m asking you, for the sake of Mary Beth, to let it be. Let’s wait for the approach, which I’ll personally deal with to get Mary Beth back. And we’ve got the perfect rejection when they complain about being kept out: they didn’t behave professionally enough to be included.’
‘I don’t need a perfect rejection!’ insisted Hillary.
‘But I need a clear field in which to operate, which I’ve got at the moment,’ said Norris. ‘And that’s exactly what I need to save your daughter.’
McBride was about to speak when the study door burst open. Paul Harding remained at the threshold, formality forgotten in his excitement. ‘Come! Quickly!’
He ran and automatically McBride, Hillary and Norris ran after him, not knowing where they were going. Six additional computers had been installed to supplement the embassy’s regular four in the emergency communications centre and they reached it in time to see every screen filled by the same message.
MARY, MARY
QUITE CONTRARY
WHERE DO THEY THINK YOU HIDE?
NOT IN SILVER BELLS OR COCKLE SHELLS
BE PATIENT, MR MCBRIDE.
Even as Norris yelled: ‘Who’s it from? What’s the sender address?’ the message flickered, just once, and disappeared from the screens.
The FBI man turned triumphantly to the ambassador. ‘Mary’s alive. And I was right. It’s a kidnap. We’re going to get her back, safe and well.’
*
As usual Mary was alerted by the sound of the key in the lock, but wasn’t prepared for it to be the woman standing outside when the door swung open. There was a jump, in her stomach, but she didn’t think anything showed on her face. She hoped not.
‘Come on out!’ said Félicité, hard-voiced, beckoning the child into the outer room.
Mary obeyed because to have held back might have indicated she was frightened: she didn’t want the woman to think that because she wasn’t. But she didn’t want to get slapped again. Behind the woman was the man who always seemed to be there, not giggling now, and another man. The woman’s face, thin and sharp and deeply tanned with brownish blond hair tightly pinned to her head, was uncovered. The two men were masked.
‘Are you taking me back?’
Instead of answering Félicité raised her head, animal-like, and sniffed the air. ‘Smelly child. Nasty, smelly child.’
There was nothing to say. Mary stood legs slightly apart, showing no uncertainty, looking back at the woman.
‘If you won’t wash yourself you’ll have to be washed,’ announced Félicité.
‘I’ll shower myself,’ said Mary hurriedly. ‘Then are you taking me home?’
‘Your father knows that we’ve got you: that you’re safe.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He hasn’t been able to say anything yet.’
‘I don’t understand. Hasn’t he given you any money?’
‘Not yet. We haven’t asked for any.’
‘Isn’t that what you want?’
Félicité laughed. ‘We want lots of things.’
‘Why’s it taking so long?’
‘Because I want it to.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Mary repeated.
‘You don’t have to understand. You just have to do as you’re told. I keep telling you that. You’ll be punished if you don’t listen.’
Unthinkingly Mary’s tongue strayed to her healing lip. She stopped the gesture, hoping her mouth hadn’t bulged to show the woman what she’d done. �
�I’ll shower myself,’ she said again.
‘And I’ll watch to make sure you do it properly,’ said Félicité. ‘We all will.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
‘Are you asking me to slap you again? Harder than I did before?’
It wasn’t right for the men to see her with no clothes on. Not even dad saw her like that. She didn’t want the woman to see, either. But she didn’t want to be slapped. ‘I’ll do it by myself.’
Mary flinched back when Félicité started towards her, unable to stop herself, and backed towards the door the giggling man had pointed to the previous day. She moved abruptly, suddenly quick, trying to get inside and close the door behind her, but Félicité caught its edge and jerked it back open. She hit out with her other hand, catching the unsuspecting child fully in the chest, thrusting her further into the bathroom, which was much bigger than Mary had imagined. There was a bath, against one wall, and three glass-fronted shower stalls arranged along the far wall. There were three separate handbasins and a toilet open to the room, not enclosed by a cubicle, and two stools, side by side.
Mary stood in the middle of the bathroom, staring back at the open door. The woman was in the middle, with the two men close behind her. For the first time there was a snigger from the man who normally guarded her.
‘Do you want me to undress you?’
‘No.’
‘Undress yourself then.’
Mary turned her back. She dropped her skirt and her shirt on the floor, as she usually did, and behind her Félicité said: ‘Fold your things up, neatly!’
Mary stooped, doing what she was told. It wasn’t going to be as bad as she’d thought. With her back to them all they’d see was her bottom, nothing else. That wasn’t so bad, although she wished they weren’t able to. She’d tell dad. He’d be very angry. Angrier than he got sometimes with mom when they were fighting. As she half ran to the shower stalls she heard them laughing behind her. She stood with her back to them inside the stall, aware they’d be able at least to see her outline through the glass door. There was shampoo as well as soap so she washed her hair, even though she hadn’t seen a dryer outside. She could use a towel to get most of the wet out and leave it to dry by itself. She hadn’t seen a towel, either! And when she got out of the shower she’d have to face them. She stopped soaping herself, arms limply to her sides as the water poured over her, not knowing what to do. She wanted to cry, tears burning into her eyes.
The Predators Page 7