The Predators

CHAPTER SIX

John Norris and his squad swept through the American embassy with the Washington-backed force and disruption of a Force Nine hurricane. By 8 a.m. the following morning – less than twelve hours after their arrival in Brussels – the Boulevard du Regent legation as well as the official residence of James McBride was totally isolated, electronically as well as physically.

No telephone, fax or e-mail communication could be received or sent without passing through the specially installed, twenty-four-hour-manned communications centre complete with its own roof-mounted satellite dish.

All incoming letter mail, including the contents of the diplomatic bag, had first to be opened and examined in an adjoining room, transformed into a sorting office: Norris’s only concession was to agree to the demand from Burt Harrison, the chief of mission, for a member of his staff to be present when the supposedly inviolate diplomatic exchange was sifted.

Some of the thirty embassy staff whom Norris considered sufficiently senior to be blanket-monitored had been awakened overnight at their homes to agree to listening and recording devices being installed on their telephones and to their incoming personal packages and letters going through the embassy sorting procedure.

The assessment in the FBI’s much more comprehensive personal file upon Harry Becker, which was faxed in its entirety from Washington, was of a completely responsible and absolutely competent operative, but after only fifteen minutes’ interrogation by Norris the man broke down and confessed to lying about duplicating the call to Mary Beth McBride’s school. Upon Norris’s authority Becker was immediately suspended from duty but not as quickly repatriated, kept in Belgium – although virtually under embassy house arrest – to enable further investigation into his local associations and habits during his posting in the country. Norris personally briefed five of the agents who had arrived with him before assigning them to the task with the warning to forget Becker was – or had been – a colleague. ‘Whatever happens he’s finished. He isn’t any longer one of us: he doesn’t qualify.’

The full FBI evaluation of James Kilbright McBride was of a man fulfilling every requirement to be a United States’ ambassador, with nothing questionable in his prior personal or professional background. Norris responded with an ‘Action This Day’ priority demand for the armament-dealing background to be gone into again in greater depth.

Norris’s encounter with Lance Rampling, which the CIA station chief had entered believing it to be a meeting of equals, lasted precisely ten minutes. Rampling emerged, white-faced from a combination of fury and shocked bewilderment, to demand from Harding whether the sonofabitch was fucking real or not. Harding said he thought John Norris was a mutant alien from another planet, although he’d prefer not to be quoted.

The scene-of-crime forensic expert thought there was nothing whatsoever suspicious about how the nail was embedded in the tyre of the original collection car but Norris had wheel, tyre and nail shipped back in the returning military aircraft for detailed scientific examination in Washington DC.

Claudine and Blake were early for the coordinating meeting but Norris, flanked by Harding and Rampling, was already waiting in a hastily contrived incident room created from the largest unit of the normal FBI accommodation. Andre Poncellet was early, too, but from the way he hurried the introductions Norris managed to convey the impression that the perspiring, tightly uniformed Brussels police commissioner had kept them waiting. Neither Harding nor Rampling wore jackets and the CIA resident had his tie pulled loose. Norris sat with both buttons of his jacket fastened: he was facing the window and the light flared off his rimless glasses, making him appear sightless. It was Rampling, a fresh-faced man with an extremely short crewcut, who gestured to the Cona percolator steaming on its hotplate: when Claudine nodded acceptance he poured a cup for her.

A technician with recording apparatus sat by the door. Seeing Blake’s look Norris said: ‘I like keeping tight records. About everything. Anyone got any objection?’

Blake shook his head. Claudine didn’t make any response, intently studying the newly arrived American. Poncellet said: ‘No. Of course not. Very wise.’ He spoke too quickly, too nervously.

‘In answer to your obvious question,’ Norris began, ‘the embassy has heard nothing of or from Mary Beth since she was last seen by two of her classmates walking off, alone, up the rue du Canal. So she’s now been missing for thirty-six hours…’ He paused, looking towards the recording technician, who nodded at the adequate sound level. ‘I’ve satisfied myself that she has not run away of her own accord. The most obvious conclusion is that she has been grabbed and is being held against her will. I fully accept and recognize under whose authority this investigation has to be conducted…’ He stopped again, looking directly at Blake. ‘We greatly appreciate your involvement and want to work extremely closely with you. My government is committing whatever additional support might be necessary. I brought twenty-five men with me from Washington last night, to be part of whatever force you are assembling. Today we need to evolve a strategy-’

‘Won’t that be difficult until we know what we’re investigating?’ Claudine broke in. It could be worse than she’d feared: far worse.

Norris frowned, both at the interruption and because it came from a woman. He needed to know what her function was. ‘I think we should proceed on the assumption that she has been kidnapped.’

‘Why?’ demanded Claudine. ‘Thirty-six hours is a long time without a demand, isn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily, in my experience.’

Harding managed not to show any reaction, although Norris’s reply directly contradicted what he had said on the way in from the airport the previous night.

So Norris was the negotiator, Claudine thought. And clearly the man in charge of the FBI and CIA contingent. ‘She could have been attacked. Be lying injured somewhere. Had an accident and be – or need to be – in a hospital. I don’t see the point of maintaining the silence about her disappearance that I understand has been asked for.’

‘I don’t want to panic whoever’s got her,’ said Norris flatly.

‘We don’t know that anyone has got her,’ protested Claudine. ‘How long do you think we should sit around doing nothing?’

Norris’s face became tinged with pink at the unfamiliarity of being confronted so openly. Before he could speak Poncellet declared with triumphant eagerness: ‘The Brussels police force hasn’t sat around doing nothing. I have assigned squads to the rue du Canal at the precise time she walked along it. Everyone – and I mean everyone – will be stopped and questioned and shown a photograph of the child, in the hope they regularly use the road at that time and might have seen her. In addition there will be road blocks stopping all vehicles for their drivers to be questioned. Checks were started, within an hour of our being told of her disappearance, on every shop, business and private house along the entire length of the road, not just in the direction in which she was seen to walk but also the opposite way.’ He looked proudly around those assembled in the room, saddened at the lack of approval.

‘What’s come out of the premises check?’ demanded Blake.

In his disappointment Poncellet tried condescension. ‘If there had been anything I would have obviously told you.’

Unperturbed, Blake said: ‘How long’s it been going on?’

‘Since the opening of commercial business this morning,’ said Poncellet tightly.

Blake nodded, as if the reply confirmed something. ‘And this afternoon one of the city’s busiest thoroughfares is going to be virtually closed off. By this evening it will have leaked that the daughter of the American ambassador has vanished. It would be better to have a media release, with a photograph, than run the risk of speculation’s getting out of hand and having to be corrected.’

‘I do not consider that’s the right way to operate at this time,’ said Norris.

‘I thought our understanding – the only possible jurisdictional understanding – was that it was how we considered it right to operate,’ said Claudine. So much for diplomatic niceties. They were always bullshit anyway. She’d expected antagonism – come prepared to confront it, which she was doing – but not to be as worried as she was becoming.

Norris grew redder. ‘Kidnappers are frightened once they’ve got a victim. Premature publicity can panic them, as I’ve already tried to make clear. I don’t want…’ He stopped, in apparent awareness of the implications of talking in the first person. ‘It would be a mistake for anyone to be panicked. It’s better for negotiations to be conducted as quietly and as calmly as possible.’

‘Quantico text book,’ identified Claudine.

‘With which I am extremely familiar,’ said Norris, who’d contributed two of the manuals from which it had been created.

‘So am I. I’ve read it,’ said Claudine, who had, as part of her hostage negotiation lectures. Throwing the man’s condescension back at him she said: ‘We don’t yet know we’re investigating a kidnap. We’re looking for a missing child. Missing children are best and most often found through public appeal. And as Europol is the jurisdictional investigatory body into the disappearance of Mary Beth McBride this is the way we consider this investigation should begin. A lot of time has already been wasted: I hope not too much.’

Norris was astonished at the effrontery, and then furious. ‘Have you forgotten who the victim is?’

‘It’s because of who the victim is that we are here,’ Blake reminded him. ‘Lack of contact for thirty-six hours hardly indicates panic. It indicates the very opposite, if she has been snatched.’

Inwardly Harding and Rampling wished they could wave flags or punch the air. Poncellet could hardly believe either the dispute or his good fortune in being safely on the periphery.

Norris was momentarily dumbstruck. Struggling desperately, he said: ‘It’s an official diplomatic request that this situation is not made public for at least another twenty-four hours.’

‘What’s diplomacy got to do with it?’ challenged Claudine. ‘If it is a consideration – and I cannot imagine how it can be – then perhaps it would be better if my colleague and I discussed it personally with the ambassador. We’re not achieving a lot here.’

‘This is ridiculous!’ Norris was floundering.

‘I agree. Totally ridiculous,’ said Blake. ‘We came here today to arrange cooperation: a strategy, to use your word. This discussion so far isn’t doing that. If the child is in danger all we’re doing is furthering it.’

Norris looked sideways, suddenly reminded of the tape. He couldn’t retreat. It wasn’t his style. And certainly not on record. Compromising wasn’t retreating: compromising was an essential part of negotiation, give a little here to gain much more there. And what was the point of confrontation anyway? These two weren’t going to be actively involved: just given the impression that they were running things. And on the way in from the airport he’d put a time limit on what he considered might be the worst scenario and thought there was a way he could avoid losing face. Looking from the recording apparatus to the plump Belgian, Norris said: ‘The road block and street checks do create a risk of ill-informed speculation.’

‘Which should be avoided,’ reiterated Claudine. The man had to be given a way out in front of his own people. ‘The release could be timed for this evening: that would catch television and radio and ensure fuller cover in tomorrow morning’s newspapers. That, effectively, fits with the time scale you were thinking about, doesn’t it?’

‘I think so. Yes,’ said Norris. The bitch was patronizing him.

Claudine was conscious of Blake’s attention. She didn’t respond to it. Instead she said: ‘As we’re devising strategy, the Quantico guidelines favour paying ransom, don’t they?’

‘The prime consideration is a safe release,’ said Norris, seizing his escape. ‘The perpetrators can be pursued afterwards.’

‘What about the victim’s becoming disposable if a ransom is paid?’ asked Blake. ‘Once the kidnappers have got the money the consideration is minimizing their risk of being identified.’

‘It’s better to pay,’ insisted Norris.

‘You’re a negotiator?’ challenged Claudine.

‘The Bureau’s chief negotiator.’

‘You’ve always paid?’

‘Yes.’ Norris’s colour had been subsiding. It began to return at the obvious direction of the questioning. He looked again at the recording equipment.

‘How many victims have you lost?’

‘I’ve got six released, unharmed,’ declared the American. ‘All the kidnappers were arrested, in every case.’

‘That wasn’t the question,’ Claudine reminded him. Why did the silly bastard run head-on into every argument contrary to his own? Because, she reasoned, he was unaccustomed to having to argue in the first place. But this wasn’t negotiation! This was confrontation. Her unease deepened as her professional assessment of the man hardened.

‘Two died,’ admitted Norris.

‘What about the kidnappers?’

‘They weren’t caught.’ Norris looked between Claudine and Blake, positively settling on Claudine. ‘You’re Europol’s negotiator.’

‘I will be, if it comes to that.’ He should at least be allowed the appearance of revenge, she supposed. But only the appearance. He was the creator of his own problems. She didn’t want him to be the creator of hers. Or those of a missing child.

‘How many kidnap victims have you successfully freed?’ Norris pounced.

‘None,’ admitted Claudine at once. ‘I haven’t yet been called upon to do so.’

Norris stretched the silence, exaggerating his astonishment in his determination not just to recover but to crush this arrogant woman in the process. Spacing the words as he uttered them he said: ‘You haven’t operated in a kidnap situation until now?’

‘No,’ said Claudine easily. ‘But before joining Europol I freed a hundred and twenty people from an airliner hijacked by Islamic fundamentalists. And ended four separate sieges, one by a convicted murderer who took a hostage to avoid capture.’ She paused. ‘No one died.’ Touche, she thought. Mixing the metaphor, she added: Game, set and match.

Blake appeared to think so, too. Smiling, he said: ‘I think that covers the relevant CVs, don’t you?’

Rampling couldn’t avoid the brief smirk, although not at Claudine, and was glad they were sitting in a way that prevented Norris from seeing it. Claudine was unconcerned that the thin American could see her brief sideways smile, which wasn’t in any case an intended sneer at the man.

Norris took it as such, but more than matched it when Blake disclosed that the Europol force at the moment consisted of just himself and the woman. ‘I can’t believe what you’re telling me. Europol isn’t taking this seriously! This isn’t an investigation on Europol’s part: it’s a joke.’

‘It’ll be an investigation within an hour of its becoming clear what there is to investigate,’ promised Blake, unimpressed by the other man’s obviously overstrained amazement.

Norris shook his head. The woman had irritated him into pointless argument, but it didn’t matter any more. His only annoyance now was at himself, for allowing it to happen. These two – their entire cockamamy organization – were of no importance. They had just made themselves irrelevant by admitting – casually admitting! – they considered that the disappearance of an American ambassador’s child could be handled by just two people, with the further incredible admission that the appointed negotiator had never conducted a kidnap release in her life! McBride – probably the President himself – would hit the roof when they were told: not just hit it, go right through it!

It all came down to giving him a clear, unimpeded run. All he needed to do was go through the barest of motions – which, he reflected, was all he’d intended from the start – and get them out of the way. Out of his way.

It took them thirty minutes to agree the wording of the proposed media release and that the greatest impact would come from the ambassador’s personal appearance at any requested press conference. Norris promised to put the idea to McBride, and Poncellet brightened visibly at Blake’s suggestion that the Belgian police commissioner should also appear. Commissioner Henri Sanglier would be Europol’s representative, added Blake, to Claudine’s well-disguised surprise. Norris’s contempt grew as he inferred that neither Blake nor Claudine was permitted to represent their organization. It perfectly summed up their inadequacy.

It was as they decided upon daily morning and afternoon conferences that Norris apologized that there was not enough space at the embassy’s FBI facility for Blake and Claudine to work from there. Andre Poncellet at once offered whatever facility and accommodation Europol might need at Brussels’ central police headquarters.

The entire charade lasted five minutes short of an hour and ended with an exchange of emergency contact numbers and smiling assurances that they had made a good beginning for whatever they were going to face in the immediate future.

Claudine held back until she was safely halfway across the open embassy forecourt before exploding: ‘What a fucking pantomime!’

Blake showed no surprise at the outburst. ‘I’ve seen better,’ he agreed mildly.

‘It was frightening,’ insisted Claudine. She turned, looking directly at the man. ‘And I really mean that. Frightening.’

Although the road checks hadn’t started the rue du Canal was already congested. They were still early for their meeting so they abandoned the taxi and found a pavement cafe some way from the school, in the direction in which Mary was known to have walked. As they sat there two detectives, one a woman visibly carrying a photograph of Mary Beth McBride, were escorted from inside by a shoulder-shrugging manager. Blake shook his head against making contact and Claudine held back as well.

‘So what’s so frightening?’ demanded Blake.

‘In my professional opinion, Norris is very close to being mentally ill,’ declared Claudine starkly. ‘I believe he’s severely obsessional, which is a clinical condition that needs treatment.’

Blake stared at her, coffee cup half raised. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That would be something to be very frightened about. You sure?’

‘He’s beyond challenge: won’t consider any argument contrary to his own. Because he doesn’t believe there is any opinion other than his own. You saw it yourself, if you examine it hard enough. He won’t countenance any possibility beyond kidnap. That’s not the rationale of a psychological investigator: it’s the very antithesis of it. Everything is possible at this moment: at the beginning. I don’t think he’s capable of being either objective or subjective…’ She paused. ‘Most worrying of all, I think John Norris is on the edge of losing control. And if he loses control during any negotiation for Mary’s freedom, then she’ll die, if she hasn’t already been killed.’

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 Felicite, 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 Felicite 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 Felicite.

‘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?’

Felicite 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 Felicite. ‘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 Felicite 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 Felicite 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 Felicite 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.

Why hadn’t dad paid: shouted at them and told them to let her go and given them the money and got her back! Why? It wasn’t fair. Would mom and dad be shouting at each other? This shouldn’t be happening. It was rude. Nasty. They were nasty. Nasty rude people in scary masks. She wanted to make pee pee. She did, knowing they wouldn’t be able to see what she was doing with the shower gushing over her. The woman would probably hit her, if she knew. But she didn’t. It was good, doing something they didn’t know about. Defying them. That’s what she had to do, defy them but not let them know, so the woman didn’t hit her any more. She didn’t feel like crying now. But she still had to get out, so they’d see her. Maybe there would be a towel, just outside. That’s where towels were, just outside a shower stall. She wished she could remember.

Determinedly Mary switched off the water, turning to the door: she could vaguely make out the grown-ups through the clouded glass. She hesitated, pushing her wet hair back off her face, and then reached out with her left hand to slide the door open. She put the other hand in front of her penny box. She kept it there as she stepped out, immediately bringing her left hand and arm up across herself, although it didn’t cover everything.

The woman was standing in the middle of the bathroom, holding the towel out. ‘Poor little bedraggled Mary. Come and get your towel!’

It meant uncovering herself to reach out but if she got the towel they wouldn’t be able to see anything. She put out her left hand but at the last minute the woman snatched the towel away and unthinkingly Mary tried to grab with her other hand and they all laughed at her when she realized her penny box was uncovered and jerked her hand back to hide it.

Mary and Felicite were dancing awkwardly round the bathroom now, the woman always lifting the towel just out of Mary’s reach. The woman said: ‘Dance, Mary. Dance for us,’ and the masked men laughed and one said: ‘This is good.’ Suddenly the woman flicked the towel to the left but lowered it, so that Mary had to twist to get it. As she did so the woman released it, making her stumble further, and then Mary felt herself grabbed from the side and bent over, as the woman slumped down on the bathroom stool to bring her across her lap, with her bottom exposed. And then the woman began to hit her, chanting with each slap. They were very hard, and stung.

‘This is for being a naughty girl and not washing. And this is for trying to run up into the hall when you were allowed out yesterday. And this is for thinking you could trick the nice man who is looking after you into letting you go. And this is for thinking you can get away from us. And this is to show you what will happen if you try to do it again…’ Felicite stopped, breathless. She brought her hand down hard, once more, and said: ‘And that’s for taking your brace out, although I like you much better without it.’

It hurt worse than when she was slapped in the face and the men were looking at her and still laughing but Mary didn’t cry. She hoped the pee pee hadn’t all washed away and the woman got some on her hand.

The message from Kurt Volker was waiting when Claudine and Blake returned to the Metropole.

‘It’s started, then!’ said the German enthusiastically, when Claudine returned the call.

‘What?’

There was a brief silence from the other end. ‘Didn’t you know? The people who’ve got the girl have made contact with the embassy.’

‘No,’ admitted Claudine. ‘How did you find out?’

‘I hacked into the embassy home pages as soon as you told me I was involved. It was the obvious thing to do, wasn’t it?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Claudine, feeling a sweep of euphoria. ‘That’s how the approach was made, by computer?’

‘Anonymous e-mail,’ confirmed Volker. ‘A kidnap first, as far as I’m aware. Isn’t that fantastic?’

‘Fantastic,’ she agreed.

‘You want me to come down?’

‘Yes,’ said Claudine. ‘And transfer me to Sanglier. He needs to come, too.’

It was Marcel who had taught Felicite his own definition of hedonism, the pursuit of ultimate pleasure in all things, without bounds. And Felicite accepted she’d been an eager pupil. There’d been a sexual excitement – still was – in working the stock markets of Europe, which he’d been so adept at plundering, rarely losing as she rarely lost. But most of all in laughing at other people’s naivety, even those in their special sex group who imagined they were bound by a common bond, when all the time she and Marcel had laughed at their inadequacies, mocking them.

Laughing at everyone else, too. It was still amusing to serve on the charities, two of which Marcel had actually founded for tax reasons, and hearing herself described as a good person.

She had deeply and genuinely loved Marcel. She knew she could never love anyone else.