The Predators

CHAPTER TWELVE

Felicite recognized that she was right, as she usually was: there was a sexual excitement about danger. It was, perhaps, why she so much enjoyed cruising the streets, hunting. The pleasure had gone on now for more than half an hour, ever since Jean Smet had burst into the Anspach house babbling about pictures of her and Henri Cool to be shown on television.

‘You’ll be recognized! Identified!’ The man was unable to keep still, striding about the room as he had at the beach house, his mind butterflying from anxiety to anxiety, his words jumbled. He’d tried to smoke, too, but Felicite had forbidden it. She detested the smell of stale tobacco in her home.

‘Sit down!’ she ordered sharply. ‘How can they know about me?’

‘Two motorists saw you pick her up.’ Smet remained standing, shifting from foot to foot.

It was the first comprehensible sentence the man had uttered and Felicite felt another spurt of excitement. She rose and put both hands against Smet’s shoulders to press him into a chair on her way to the drinks tray, where she poured brandy for both of them. As she handed his glass to him she said: ‘From the beginning. Everything that was said, how it was said.’

Smet made a slurping sound with his first drink and the cognac caught his breath, making him cough. He tugged a tightly folded wad of paper from inside his jacket and said: ‘Read it yourself. That’s a copy of today’s report to the Minister.’

Felicite took her time, sipping her drink as she read, acknowledging that this investigation appeared much more thorough than the previous one. Which was why it was that much more satisfying. When she finished the account she remained looking down at it, turning several sheets over before looking up. ‘So where’s the computer graphic?’

‘I only heard there was going to be one in a telephone call from Poncellet on his way to the television studio! We’re not getting a copy until tomorrow, in time for our cooperation meeting. And that’s the problem I’m trying to make you understand. I don’t know everything they’re doing, not all the time! And not quickly enough.’

There was still ten minutes to go before the special newscast, Felicite saw. She waved the report. ‘You read this?’

‘Of course I’ve read it: I wrote most of it. And it’s you, isn’t it!’

‘It’s a very general description of a woman who is older than me and wears indeterminate blond hair in a chignon.’ Felicite ran her fingers exaggeratedly through the lightly waved hair that fell almost to her shoulders. ‘Which I never do except when I’m choosing someone new: precisely because it will be confusing, if I’m seen. My hair is more golden than blond. The estimate of how tall I am makes me almost into a giant. Cool too. It’s ridiculous. They haven’t even got the car right: it’s dark green, not blue or black. And it’s a 320.’ She cupped her breast with her free hand. ‘And I’m not at all flat-chested: I’ve got nice tits. You like them, don’t you?’

Smet shook his head, although not in answer to her question. ‘This isn’t anything to joke about.’

‘Nor is it anything to wet yourself about.’ She had imagined far more from the man’s garbled rambling and her excitement was going. ‘You told the others?’

‘I wanted to speak to you first.’

Too frightened to do anything by himself, Felicite thought. Or even to be trusted. There could never be any question of Smet going to the authorities. He was too deeply involved, as legally culpable as the rest of them. Which he well knew. But the risk – not a danger by which she was sexually aroused – was in his making a stupid mistake. Unlikely, she reassured herself. Not that he wouldn’t make a mistake – as nervous as he was Felicite didn’t doubt he’d do something wrong – but that it would in any way direct attention towards them. But Smet was still a weak link, useful only because of the position he occupied. Not just weak. Boring, too. Boring like them all: as Marcel had complained, just before he died. Maybe she should abandon them, after this. There’d be nothing they could do about it and she had other connections, through Lascelles and Lebron. Moving on, finding new people, was definitely something to think about.

‘It’s time,’ announced Smet, anxiously.

It wasn’t but Felicite turned the television on anyway and was glad because the introduction had already begun, with a clip from the earlier conference at which the ambassador had openly wept. The main newscast anchorman talked over the old footage, announcing a different format. Tonight was not going to be a media event. It was to be a personal appeal, by McBride and his wife, following important new evidence that the Brussels police commissioner would disclose. On that cue the previous conference faded, to be replaced by a screen-filling photograph of Mary Beth McBride which held for at least thirty seconds before cutting to the studio.

McBride and his wife were seated at an oval table, with Andre Poncellet to their right. The three were facing the anchor, an eagerly talking, dark-haired man who spoke in sound bites. To his prompting Poncellet described the eye-witness information as dramatic, sensational, vital, a breakthrough, only just stopping short of predicting an early arrest.

The camera focused tight on the ambassador’s face for the man’s appeal. There were no tears but McBride was grave-faced, Hillary visibly strained beside him. They held hands, although listlessly. McBride’s plea was for private and immediate contact with Mary’s captors.

‘Come on! Come on,’ said Felicite impatiently. ‘Where am I?’

Smet broke away from the screen, frowning curiously at the woman.

‘We want to negotiate,’ McBride was insisting, keeping strictly to Claudine’s instructions, even using the words she’d suggested. ‘But that’s not possible on the Internet. Find another way. Tell us and we’ll follow it: we’ll obey every instruction. Please let us know that Mary Beth is unharmed.’

The camera pulled back again to include the anchorman who used a renewed selection of sound bites to reintroduce Poncellet and the digitalized computer images of Felicite Galan and Henri Cool.

Felicite stretched towards the screen, feeling the sensation return. It was a reasonable impression, she conceded. But not good enough for a positive identification. She’d been made too thin-faced and her nose was too pronounced and elongated, as if it dominated her face, which in reality it didn’t. And the graphic showed her hair pinned right to left, which was opposite to the way she wore it. Henri Cool was made to look much too heavy and again the nose was too pronounced. On the right hand side of each graphic the physical description was printed, making them both much too tall. Pedantically Poncellet recited every statistic.

‘It’s you!’ whispered Smet breathily. ‘It’s definitely you and Henri!’

‘No it’s not,’ snapped the woman brusquely. ‘There’s a resemblance, nothing more. Certainly insufficient to bring anyone knocking on my door. Henri’s either. You’re recognizing us because you know it’s us. That’s altogether different. And the printed description is too vague, as well.’ Abruptly she felt deflated, disappointed. Trying to bring back the feeling she said: ‘See the power we’ve got. How we’re making them beg and plead?’

‘What are we going to do now?’

‘You mean what am I going to do now?’

‘Yes,’ mumbled the lawyer. ‘You.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Felicite. ‘I like a worldwide stage. We’ll change our approach when I feel like it, not because James McBride wants us to.’

‘Let’s get it over with,’ the man implored.

Felicite ignored him. ‘You can write the next message,’ she decided. ‘Make it better than Michel’s: another rhyme, maybe.’

‘I’m doing too much as it is,’ Smet argued. ‘Let someone else do it.’

‘I want you to do it,’ insisted Felicite, ending the protest. She paused. ‘It was a pity there wasn’t time to get to Antwerp and watch the broadcast with Mary: let her see how desperately dependent her big important papa is upon us…’

The telephone jarred into the room, interrupting her. Smet, his nerves stretched, noticeably jumped. Felicite said: ‘It’ll be one of the others, shitting himself like you.’

The expectant smile with which she answered the telephone faded almost at once. It was a very short conversation, with Felicite constantly interrupting. As she replaced the receiver she said vehemently: ‘Damn Charles Mehre!’

‘What is it?’ demanded Smet, in fresh alarm.

‘He’s killed,’ said Felicite shortly.

A television had been installed in the largest of their allocated rooms and they watched McBride’s appeal in silence. When the programme finished Claudine said: ‘I wish I’d had time to brief Poncellet: he exaggerated far too much. But McBride was better than I expected: caught exactly the right note. Even Hillary saying nothing but looking like she did fitted what I wanted, a couple totally at the mercy of those who’ve got their child. They even held hands as I asked them, which they didn’t want to do.’

‘Can you imagine what it’s like!’ said Volker sympathetically.

‘Maybe it’s not enough to reassure them – I might be interpreting it wrongly – but I think Mary’s still alive,’ announced Blake quietly.

Claudine and Volker looked at him, waiting.

‘I thought I’d check the school again: see if anyone had remembered anything, after all the publicity,’ said Blake. ‘It probably wouldn’t have meant anything to Madame Flahaur if it hadn’t been the only call like it she’s had, since Mary disappeared. A woman telephoned two days ago, asking about the curriculum, particularly about the languages that are taught. That’s all she appeared interested in, according to Madame Flahaur. The prospectus she sent out was returned this morning: the address doesn’t exist. Neither does the phone number the woman left: I checked both with Belgacom on my way back.’

‘What language did the woman speak?’ demanded Claudine, immediately understanding.

‘French.’

‘Mary learning it?’

Blake nodded. ‘She started it late, behind all the other pupils. It’s her second semester.’

‘Comprehension?’

‘Below average for her age, because of the late start.’

‘It’s got the arrogance of our blond in the Mercedes,’ judged Claudine slowly. ‘Arrogance coupled with clever caution. If you’re right – and I think you might well be – we now know whoever have Mary are French-speaking. But don’t want Mary to understand what they’re saying in front of her.’

Volker nodded, also understanding now. ‘It could be a crank call. A lot of the e-mail stuff so far has been, particularly after the press conference identification.’

‘It’s feasible,’ agreed Claudine. ‘I don’t think it’s sufficient to reassure the parents that Mary’s still alive – and risk their agony if we’re wrong – but I think it’s something we can add to the profile as a possibility.’

‘It was two day ago,’ reminded Blake. ‘She could be dead by now.’

‘If they were going to kill her that quickly they wouldn’t have bothered to call the school in the first place,’ said Claudine. ‘It could also indicate they haven’t touched her sexually, either.’

John Norris was mortified by McBride’s television appeal, practically unable to believe an ambassador of his great and wonderful country could have been reduced to begging like a bum on a street corner by the manipulation of just one woman. He’d even used some of the words and expressions that she’d suggested. They’d have laughed at that, all of them: known just how successful they were being, infiltrating the very investigation the way they had. Fooled everyone except him.

But he was getting his own profile together. It was still very disjointed, a lot of threads hanging loose and needing to be tied together, but the unanswered discrepancies were there, like he’d known they would be.

He still couldn’t find the fit for the Carter woman. Just knew that she was part of it because that was his job, to see things other investigators didn’t see and point the way for them to go. Which he would, when the other indicators slid into place. It wouldn’t take long.

He’d already sent a priority demand for the full details upon which a Grand Jury arms embargo indictment had been issued against Italian arms dealer Luigi della Sialvo, in whose name two End User certificates had been issued for multi-million-dollar purchases from McBride’s corporation, before the man came on to the political scene. And another ‘what’s happening’ chase-up on all the possible disgruntled employees who’d been dismissed by Mrs McBride.

Norris was becoming suspicious of Harding’s working relationship with the English detective: by not alerting him about the eye-witnesses to the kidnap ahead of the ambassador’s preparation for that humiliating TV appeal Harding had exposed him to ridicule. The man couldn’t be trusted. Neither could McCulloch or Ritchie. If anything was going to be done properly, he’d have to do it himself. And as quickly as possible.

God knows what that poor child was going through. And there was only him to save her.

Harding had his usual table at the rue Guimard bar and got the drinks in, as the in-country host. There was a lot of noise from other tables where other agents were determinedly enjoying the unexpected pleasure of an overseas assignment but Harding’s table was quiet. He said: ‘You want to know the truth? The truth is I’m scared shitless. I knew it was going to be bad, before I even heard he was involved. But I never imagined it could be like this. He’s totally fucking paranoid.’

‘I’m not arguing with that,’ agreed McCulloch, propping his feet on the only unoccupied chair to prevent anyone’s joining them. ‘The question is: what are we going to do about it? It’s our asses in a sling.’

The Texan actually wore cowboy boots, Harding saw. He said: ‘The Europol guys know it, too. Virtually spelled it out.’

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Ritchie. ‘They’re the only people who can stop him.’

‘The sonofabitch is only getting a check run on the ambassador himself!’ McCulloch disclosed.