The Predators

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Americans’ Internet message read WHERE IS MARY, MARY QUITE CONTRARY? and was signed off with the embassy’s e-mail address.

It appeared a light-hearted, joking invitation except to those aware of the desperation of the plea. Claudine acknowledged the need for the nursery rhyme connotation but at the 1 a.m. conference for which she, Blake and Sanglier had to be awakened Volker, alerted by his computer-linked pager, warned the result would be chaotic on a never sleeping World Wide Web as user-crowded as Oxford Street or Fifth Avenue on Christmas Eve.

Volker had been proved right by 8 a.m. when they assembled again in Sanglier’s Metropole suite to discuss their pre-conference encounter with the ambassador. By then there were two hundred and twenty responses – with more arriving on average every five minutes – the majority mostly eager to participate in an imagined Internet mystery game predicated on children’s doggerel. Five were analysed – correctly as it subsequently turned out – by Claudine to be disguised paedophile approaches, although she decided none came from Mary’s captors, which also proved correct. Not one reply emanated from Brussels: the only Belgian response, from Charleroi, proved to be from a wheelchair-bound crippled twelve-year-old boy only able freely to wander the world from his bedroom computer.

To Blake’s unasked question at the breakfast strategy meeting Sanglier announced at once: ‘All right. They’re excluding us and now we’ve got proof we can confront them with. They’ve identified themselves with their e-mail address. So how do we do it?’ He was inwardly ecstatic at his escape from the problem of illegally entering the embassy system.

‘Hard,’ declared Claudine at once, knowing the question was directed at her. ‘We’ve got to establish our control officially.’

‘You really serious about Norris?’ asked Blake.

‘Absolutely.’

‘What do we do about him?’ said Sanglier, as Volker moved the coffee pot around the breakfast table.

‘The same. He’s guiding everyone at the moment. We’ve got to show he’s wrong.’

‘Then it’s got to be you, psychologist against psychologist,’ insisted Sanglier. He was supremely confident, knowing he couldn’t lose the forthcoming encounter. He hoped the woman realized his acceptance of her ability. Not an attempt at amends, he reminded himself: the proper establishment of a proper team arrangement. After personally challenging the ambassador he’d insist Europol officially protest direct to Washington, too. A disaster – which was the most likely outcome if the woman’s assessment was even half correct – could now be proved the result of unwarranted, technically illegal American interference, while a successful recovery could be manipulated into a brilliant example of Europol police work, personally headed by Commissioner Henri Sanglier. Either way, any condoned illegality on Kurt Volker’s part would be smothered.

Henri Sanglier was an extremely contented man.

James McBride clearly wasn’t. The American ambassador made the pretence of politeness when they entered his study, his attitude a mixture of his usual aggression tempered by a growing acceptance of defeat. His eyes were red-rimmed and bagged and he coughed frequently, to clear a throat that didn’t need clearing. Hillary McBride appeared far more controlled than her husband. She was smoking unusually long cigarettes. John Norris sat looking out into the room on the left of the desk, with Paul Harding and Lance Rampling alongside. Elliot Smith, the young legal adviser, was beside Burt Harrison, the chief of mission, to the ambassador’s right.

‘I want to say at once how much I appreciate the involvement of Europol. And your coming personally,’ said McBride, anxious to get the diplomatic niceties out of the way and conclude the meeting as soon as possible to get back to where Norris’s team were assessing the incoming Internet messages. ‘I hope, Commissioner, that when you and I appear publicly, later, we’ll be able to build upon what’s in this morning’s papers.’ The overnight press release dominated the front page of every newspaper, with the issued photograph of Mary Beth McBride. ‘I’m afraid-’

‘Mr Ambassador,’ Sanglier said quickly, discerning the imminent dismissal. ‘I think there is something extremely important for us to discuss before talking about today’s press conference.’

Immediate hope overrode McBride’s irritation at being interrupted, but before he could speak Hillary blurted: ‘You’ve found her!’

‘No,’ said Sanglier bluntly. Addressing Norris more than the parents, he went on: ‘And our chances of doing so are seriously endangered by the interference of your own law enforcement agencies, acting without any jurisdiction. I’m giving you notice, as the senior Europol representative in charge of this investigation, that as well as my protest here this morning there will be an official Europol complaint to both your State Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, in Washington.’

Claudine was astonished. This was a Sanglier she’d never seen before, although the persona fitted her impression of a man with a deeply rooted but well-concealed inferiority complex. She’d never intended Sanglier to be as direct, or indeed as undiplomatic. Totally confident of their strength, Sanglier was emerging a bully. And was, she decided, actually enjoying it, in fact, dropping all his pretension and for once actually being himself. It was oddly like curing a patient whose mental illness prevented his being the person he actually was, only in reverse.

McBride was also visibly astonished. He flushed and said: ‘I think, sir, that you need to remember who I am as well as giving me an explanation.’

The legal attache leaned sideways, whispering to Harrison. Claudine wondered if Blake was as surprised as she was.

‘I think we should both give each other explanations,’ said Sanglier. ‘Before Europol was given its operational convention it was a computerized centre collating criminal intelligence between member countries. As such its operators learned the Internet was extensively used by pornographers-’

‘Pornographers!’ exclaimed Hillary, her composure going. The two FBI men exchanged looks. Norris shook his head.

‘Dr Carter will explain that,’ Sanglier said. ‘Hear me out. As part of our investigation – an investigation we believed your government, your Central Intelligence Agency and your Federal Bureau of Investigation fully accepted to be under Europol’s operational jurisdiction – our experts accessed various Internet web sites…’

Claudine was intently watching the interaction among the Americans facing her. McBride’s face was beginning to burn. Hillary was expressionless but looking fixedly at Norris. The chief of mission, a professional diplomat, remained impassive, too, despite the legal attache’s frantic whispering. Norris was blinking rapidly and as she looked the man straightened in his chair and pulled his tightly buttoned jacket down, as if wanting to remove some creases. Harding was staring down at the floor and Rampling was suddenly engrossed in a manicure problem affecting his left hand. A gamut of guilt, Claudine thought.

‘Late last night we read what appears to be a message sent generally through a large number of browsers, from the e-mail address of this embassy,’ Sanglier bulldozed on. ‘It obviously referred to your missing daughter. There’d been no prior consultation with any of my officers about that, which contravenes our understanding. It was also curiously worded, almost in code, suggesting some earlier correspondence of which my officers were also unaware…’ He paused again, as if inviting an interruption, before finishing: ‘That’s my explanation, ambassador. I’d welcome hearing yours.’

Claudine calculated that Sanglier, the high priest of diplomatic correctness, was on the very edge of going too far. It was unlikely, with the fate of his daughter involved, but if McBride became offended enough to order them from the embassy the situation they were trying to correct would, in fact, become even more difficult.

But McBride wasn’t sufficiently offended. He said, lamely: ‘I’m trying to get my daughter back.’

Seemingly anxious to curb Sanglier, Blake said: ‘And this isn’t the way to do it. This is the way to lose her, permanently.’

‘Say something!’ Hillary demanded of Norris.

‘They’re wrong,’ he replied dogmatically. ‘I’ve promised I’ll get your daughter back and I will.’

The first person delivery again, Claudine thought. She was right about the man. And he was inviting his own confrontation.

‘For Christ’s sake, let’s sort this out!’ implored McBride. ‘A child – my child – is at stake here!’

‘Dr Carter?’ Sanglier said.

Claudine’s concentration was absolute upon John Norris. The only controlling authority to which the man would defer would be McBride here in Brussels or recognizably tided officials in Washington. She had to face the man down now, in front of the ambassador. It would destroy any possibility of a proper working relationship between them but the alternative was the destruction of Mary Beth McBride. And Claudine was unafraid – eager even – to make one enemy she didn’t doubt she could defeat to get to the far more threatening adversary she didn’t, at the moment, know how to challenge.

Norris was equally intent upon Claudine, isolating her as his opponent. He was smiling faintly. Claudine attacked. ‘The puncture was entirely accidental?’

‘There are still some tests to be carried out.’ Norris settled back comfortably, considering the encounter a further establishment of his position.

Claudine saw Harding’s eyes flicker sideways, towards his superior. Rampling was frowning at the man, too. ‘At this moment is there any evidence to suggest that the puncture was anything but accidental?’

‘I’m awaiting the results of the test.’

It wasn’t going to be difficult, thought Claudine. ‘Could the misunderstanding at the school have been anticipated?’

‘No. It should not have happened. The culprit has already been disciplined.’

‘Mary should not have been permitted to leave the school?’

‘No.’

‘Nor should she have walked off, alone? She should have returned to the building?’

There was a vague wariness. ‘Yes.’

‘Could it have been anticipated that she wouldn’t?’

Beside the FBI chief Harding was looking down hard at the floor again. McBride and his wife were moving their heads back and forth with each question and answer.

Norris said: ‘No.’

Claudine prolonged the silence until McBride shifted impatiently. She said: ‘You’ve just admitted totally misunderstanding the crime we are investigating. And by your refusal to listen to anyone’s voice or opinion other than your own you’re putting yourself – your reputation – before saving a child…’

There was an audible intake of breath from the legal attache. McBride swivelled to the FBI man but before the ambassador could speak Norris shook his head, the smile broadening, and said: ‘This is quite ridiculous. We’re wasting time here, sir-’

‘How could Mary have been targeted as a kidnap victim without its being known in advance that the car would have a puncture, the school would misunderstand a telephone message and she’d walk off up the rue du Canal when there was no one waiting to collect her?’ demanded Claudine.

The room was frozen by silence. She had little right to condemn Sanglier for bullying, Claudine accepted. But there was a very important difference. She was knowingly doing it to achieve an essential end result.

‘I really don’t think this should-’ Norris started, but McBride stretched sideways, stopping the man with a warding-off gesture. He leaned forward over his desk towards Claudine and said: ‘You’ve got an audience, doctor. I’m going to listen to everything you say but by Christ you’d better be right.’

Claudine’s attention hadn’t wavered from Norris. His mouth was moving, the words barely held back, and she decided that in his outrage the man was only just acknowledging the ambassador’s authority. Remembering their supposed ignorance of the incoming Mary, Mary message Claudine demanded: ‘Tell me what their approach was.’

For a moment the FBI chief remained motionless, until McBride made another gesture, a beckoning motion this time. Norris reached into the file propped against his chair, extracting a single sheet of paper.

‘Read it to us,’ Claudine insisted, forcing the imperious tone. It was a thin tightrope, trying to impose her will upon Norris at the same time as impressing the ambassador and his wife with her assessment to convince them that she should conduct any negotiation.

Norris did, his voice cracking in impotent fury.

‘That an original print-out?’ persisted Claudine, following the courtroom cross-examination principle of never asking a question to which the answer wasn’t known.

‘A copy. The screen cleared before we had time to get a print-out.’

‘Analyse it for us,’ insisted Claudine remorselessly. This was appalling, she knew. She didn’t have the slightest doubt that Norris was suffering the clinical mental impairment she’d earlier suspected. And by doing everything she could – as relentlessly as she could – to expose the professional inadequacy she was actually treating the man in a way diametrically opposed to the path she should have taken. Know thyself, she thought. Was her behaviour justified by the excuse of trying to rescue a child in every sort of physical and mortal danger? Or was it worse even than bullying? Wasn’t she guilty of her own impairment, the need always to show that Claudine Carter was the best and prepared to trample any opposition underfoot to prove it? More than that, even? Wasn’t she really performing, after all, to impress Peter Blake?

‘It’s the initial contact from people who have kidnapped Mary Beth McBride,’ said Norris formally, his confidence recovering.

‘From whom?’ she jabbed, refusing to let go.

Norris hesitated. ‘The people who’ve got her.’ Doggedly: ‘Her kidnappers.’

‘Tell us about them.’

Norris looked uncertain. ‘More than one. It would have had to be a car, to grab her off the street. At least one to drive, the other to subdue her when she realized what had happened. Enough money to own or gain access to a vehicle. Computer literate, with access to a modem. Money again-’

‘I meant from the message,’ Claudine interrupted. ‘That’s police reasoning, not psychological profiling. Tell me what you learn from the message itself. What it tells you about Mary, too.’

Norris broke his direct gaze, looking down to the paper as if he expected more than the message to be there. He became aware of McBride’s attention and briefly looked back before saying: ‘Beginning of a familiar kidnap pattern: abductors knowing they are in charge. The absence of any initial demand or how to respond is to impose pressure…’

Poor bastard, Claudine thought. Poor mentally confused, mentally blocked bastard. ‘You’re not properly interpreting a single indicator. Mary was abducted by chance, not design. The only intention of those who’re holding her was to get a child. They’re paedophiles.’

‘Oh dear God, no,’ moaned Hillary softly. ‘Not that.’ Her composure left her completely, her face crumpling.

‘I don’t think using a child’s nursery rhyme was necessarily intended to identify their sexual predilection, although in my opinion it does,’ Claudine pressed on, her sympathy switching to parents who from the beginning would have feared what she’d just openly declared. ‘But the choice of that particular rhyme was most definitely intentional, far beyond the coincidence of the name. Mary’s disobedient – a contrary child. She might have got willingly into a car but she’s resisted – defied them – since.’

‘Is she alive?’ demanded Hillary. ‘What will they have done to her?’

Claudine didn’t want to create any false hope – it was difficult at that moment to imagine any other sort – but she believed there was a fragile straw at which the couple could clutch. ‘She has to be alive for them to know how contrary she is, doesn’t she?’

‘What about…?’ groped McBride, unable to say the words. ‘Would they have…?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Claudine. ‘The message does mean they’ve turned it into an abduction. As long as it remains that, there’s a possibility she’ll be safe… safe in every way.’ It wasn’t the absolute truth but it wasn’t an absolute lie, either. But there was no purpose in reducing to total despair people who had already lost their child, perhaps for ever. Destroying one man, as she feared she was destroying John Norris, was more than enough. The thin American had brought his head up to look at her again, his face fixed. Several times, as she talked, Harding and Rampling had nodded, as if in acceptance. So had the legal attache. She assessed Burt Harrison’s face-twisted frown to be both an acknowledgement of her judgement and disgust at what it meant. The ambassador was as crumpled as his wife, his whole body seeming to wither, a man – a father – brought face to face with the most unthinkable horror.

Desperately McBride said: ‘You could be wrong! You could be the one misunderstanding!’

‘It’s my job not to be,’ replied Claudine. ‘And I don’t think I am.’

‘We’ve got a kidnap situation, which has always been my opinion,’ persisted Norris. His voice was still cracked.

‘There are young sexual deviants – juveniles even – but the people holding Mary are adult,’ predicted Claudine, ignoring the other profiler. ‘There’s an intellectualism – almost a sophistication – in their message that young people wouldn’t have. And there is access to money, going beyond the obvious of a car’s being involved. There’s access to a house or somewhere where Mary can be held prisoner, without fear of discovery. And there’s a high degree of computer literacy…’ She hesitated, her throat jagged, the strain of what had become a virtual lecture beginning to pull at her. ‘The one message that’s been received isn’t an initial kidnap approach. It’s a challenge. How we balance that challenge – and I really do mean balance – entirely determines our chances of saving Mary.’

Claudine paused again, looking at Norris. She’d had to be brutal, she convinced herself. It was nothing personal: certainly nothing done to impress anyone. And definitely not Peter Blake. From the ambassador’s very obvious anguish Claudine was sure, quite apart from whatever censure might officially come from Washington, that it was time to attempt whatever flimsy bridge was possible with Norris. She said: ‘That’s why there can only be one finely focused negotiating stance. And one set of negotiators. Work independently and you’ll never get Mary back intact.’ She began looking among the Americans arrayed before her but abruptly stopped: that was performing! Uncomfortable with the realization, but sticking with her point, Claudine said: ‘Your decision, ambassador. I believe you’ve only got one, which is the one we’re asking you to make. Do you want to get Mary back, alive at least, horrifying as the implications of that question are? Or do you want your law enforcement agencies to go on working independently?’ She allowed a gap. ‘Our way, there’s a chance. Your way there isn’t.’

There was, momentarily, another chilled silence. Then Norris began to speak, but once again McBride quietened the man with an impatient gesture. It was Hillary who said: ‘For God’s sake, shut up!’

McBride said: ‘There’s been a bad misunderstanding. For which I apologize. Now it’s been corrected: nothing will again be attempted independently. You have my word. But I want yours. Can you get our daughter back, alive at least?’

‘Yes,’ blurted Norris at once.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Claudine.

‘I want you to lead the negotiations,’ McBride told Claudine. He turned to the FBI man beside him. ‘Do you understand?’

Norris was unable to reply for several moments. ‘Yes,’ he managed at last.

As Claudine had anticipated, the press conference was frenetic. She had also anticipated, correctly, that by the time it began the e-mail appeal would have been discovered by the already alerted media, and advised McBride and Sanglier to respond to every question in the apparent belief that Mary’s disappearance was a ransom-motivated kidnap, with no sexual implication. There was fractionally more time for her to prepare them than Andre Poncellet, who ascended the light-whitened platform more relieved than confused by her urging, which he accepted without argument, that he should let the other two men take the majority of the questions, restricting himself to agreeing with whatever undertaking they gave.

He wanted to hear from those who held his daughter, declared a choke-voiced McBride, his wife rigid-faced beside him. He was prepared to negotiate. He pleaded for Mary not to be harmed in any way. Towards the end he cried, openly and unashamedly, accepting Hillary’s offered hand. Claudine was delighted because the helplessness was so genuine and conveyed exactly the impression she wanted: that whoever held Mary was in total control, able at a finger snap – or rather a keyboard tap – to manipulate not just the nations of the European Union but America as well.

John Norris understood everything. He’d underestimated the woman, who was activated entirely by jealousy – envy of his reputation and ability – and had managed to mislead everybody. Only a temporary setback: a mistake of stupid people traumatized by the loss of a daughter. Have to put it right, of course. He had a child to save. The woman could even be part of it. The idea settled in his mind. That was brilliant, her being part of it. Deceiving everyone. Everyone except him. Because he was cleverer than any of them. Cleverer than her, certainly. This could be his best case, proving that she was involved. Wouldn’t be easy. Have to put a squad on her; strip her down to the bone. That was the way. Always was. Discover their secrets. Everyone broke down, confessed, when they were confronted with their secrets. Play it cleverly, though. Don’t let her know that he knew. Go along with everything while he had her checked out: got to the secrets. Then save Mary. He’d get her back. He knew all about kidnapping. Knew the way their minds worked. Knew the way everybody’s mind worked. That’s what he was. A mind-reader. Don’t worry, Mary. I’m coming. I’ll save you. No one else but me.

Norris sensed Claudine’s attention, switching from the closed circuit television upon which they’d watched the conference.

‘I thought that went very well, didn’t you?’ she said, attempting some rapport.

‘Let’s see what the next message is.’

Claudine turned to face him. ‘Let’s talk about what we’re going to do,’ she said urgently. ‘Talk to me about how you’re thinking: what you’re thinking. We both know she’ll die if we don’t. Let’s try to save her, together.’

‘You’re right,’ said Norris. ‘We’ve got to save her together.’ If he told her what he was thinking she’d know and then she could tell the others who had Mary. She might be able to fool everybody else but she couldn’t fool him.

The Justice Minister himself, Miet Ulieff, greeted the delegation. By unspoken agreement it was Peter Blake, not the weary Claudine, who for the benefit of the ten assembled Belgian officials repeated what they believed to have happened to Mary Beth McBride. He said nothing about the FBI dispute, which had also been kept from Andre Poncellet. The impression was that everything had come from the closest liaison between Europol and the Americans.

‘I want to be kept in the closest touch with every aspect of this investigation,’ announced Ulieff when Blake finished. ‘I’m therefore appointing a member of my legal staff to work permanently alongside Commissioner Poncellet until this poor child is recovered.’ He turned, gesturing a man forward. ‘Allow me to introduce Jean Smet.’

Thanks to the communication system he had introduced John Norris was able to read the messages the ambassador sent to both the State Department and Bureau headquarters, and from the cables that came in personally directed to him later that day he realized the Europol commissioner hadn’t been bluffing about making a direct complaint to Washington, either. He responded, as was required, with the assurance of total future cooperation with Europol, but with the reminder that by initially working independently he had been following not just his instructions before leaving Washington but the ambassador’s clearly expressed wishes, too.

It was late in the day when he detached Duncan McCulloch and Robert Ritchie, two of his best men, from the squad now sifting the responses to their Internet message and briefed them in detail on the investigation of Claudine Carter.

‘Keep it tight,’ he ordered. ‘Report back to me, no one else. This case is being allowed to go wrong. We’ve got to get it back on track.’