Brian Freemantle - The Predators

‘What about you, Mrs McBride?’

Hillary gave no outward, surprised reaction to the question. She said: ‘I may have offended a few people in the past but none that would have done a thing as unspeakable as this.’

‘You sure about that?’ demanded the emotionless man.

‘I’m talking secretaries or staff I’ve had to let go, for inefficiency. I don’t like inefficiency.’

‘Secretaries and staff have kidnapped in the past. You got names?’

Hillary frowned. ‘I suppose there’ll be records somewhere: not here, home in Virginia.’

‘Can you arrange for them to be made available to the Bureau there?’ said Norris.

‘I suppose so, if you consider it important.’

‘Everything’s important to get your daughter back.’

‘I don’t need to be told that!’ snapped the woman. ‘I’ll arrange it.’

McBride discovered his glass was empty and offered it sideways to Harding, who hesitated and then took it. Yes’m boss, thought the FBI man. Fuck it, he thought again, filling his own glass while he was about it. He didn’t bother with as much ice this time: the last one had become very watered down at the end.

‘We’ll need to filter everything coming into the embassy, certainly to you or Mrs McBride personally,’ said Norris. ‘That includes everything in the diplomatic bag, in the event that this might be a conspiracy starting out in Washington. The Director’s arranging for State to confirm my level of security clearance. Some of the people with me are communication experts. There’ll be a tap on every landline in and out of the embassy. Scanners will monitor mobiles. We’ll get a daily telephone printout from Belgacom. Those precautions will, of course, cover the ambassadorial residence and extend to the homes of every senior official in the embassy. I’ll need a list. I accept it’s an invasion of individual privacy but I want it made clear that has to be secondary to recovering your daughter. My sole interest – the sole interest of everyone with me – is the whereabouts of Mary Beth…’ He paused to emphasize the importance of what he was going to say. ‘Everything that comes to our attention during the investigation will be considered with the utmost discretion: nothing that isn’t part of this case is of any interest to us whatsoever. I’d like that assurance circulated throughout the embassy, along with my request for absolute cooperation from everyone.’

‘Give me an honest answer, Mr Norris,’ demanded Hillary. ‘How bad does it look?’

‘Bad.’

‘You think she’d dead?’ The woman’s voice was quite firm.

‘I think we need to hear something very soon.’

‘How long?’ said the ambassador.

‘Twenty-four hours.’

McBride closed his eyes, the despair genuine. ‘I keep thinking, trying to imagine, what she’s going through.’

‘Don’t,’ urged Norris. ‘It doesn’t help. Doesn’t achieve anything.’

‘What does?’ asked Hillary.

‘Nothing, in the position we’re in at the moment.’

As they walked towards the Bureau offices Norris checked, turning fully behind him to ensure no one was within hearing, before saying: ‘Shaking a lot at the beginning, wasn’t he?’

‘He’s lost a daughter, for Christ’s sake!’ said Harding, emboldened by the whisky.

‘So’s Mrs McBride. She was holding herself OK.’

‘What did you expect from McBride?’ asked Harding.

‘More outrage: exaggerated threats about what he’d like to do to whoever’s got her.’

‘That happen always?’

‘It’s a common reaction.’

‘You’re the psychologist.’

‘Add a request to what you’re going to ask Washington for, on Harry Becker. I want everything that came out of the vetting procedure on McBride before his ambassadorial appointment was confirmed. And get that stuff on Mrs McBride picked up. I’ll message the Bureau myself, authorizing every single person she’s ever fired to be traced and interviewed.’

‘Did you mean it, about not being interested in anything other than what might apply to this specific investigation?’ queried Harding.

‘I told you how I operate on the way in from the airport,’ Norris reminded him. ‘There’s no such thing as a half-right or a half-wrong. We wouldn’t be doing our duty if we looked the other way when we discovered a wrongdoing, would we?’

‘No,’ Harding managed. Holy shit, he thought.

Claudine liked the vaguely faded, turn-of-the-century ambience of the Metropole, complete with its over-furnished art deco lobby, exuberantly potted foliage and rattling, open-grilled elevator. Peter Blake was already waiting, wedged into the corner of the inappropriately small bar for a complete view of the lounge, the lobby beyond and the hotel entrance to the sidewalk cafe. His beer glass was half empty. She chose white wine. They touched glasses.

‘More guidance for a new boy,’ demanded Blake. ‘What’s Europol like for expenses?’

Claudine frowned. ‘OK, I guess. I never got a query the last time. But they like receipts. Why?’

‘The concierge recommends La Maison du Cygne, which is just around the corner on the Grande Place,’ said the man. ‘But says it’s expensive. Chez Francois is good for fish and is slightly cheaper but it’s not so close, on the Quai au Brigues. Your choice.’

Getting-to-know-each-other time, realized Claudine. That slightly surprised her, too: on the train from Holland Blake hadn’t made much of an effort, engrossed for most of the journey in a book by Elmore Leonard, whom he’d called the best detective writer in the world. The name of the fish restaurant was an unfortunate reminder of Sanglier’s marauding wife, Francoise. ‘Let’s walk around to the Grande Place.’

La Maison du Cygne was old, with a lot of dark wood and an air of being sure of itself without conceit. It reminded her of the Michelin-starred restaurant her mother had run in Lyon until her death, eight months earlier. Claudine had the lobster, which was superb, Blake had moules and chose the wine without consulting her, which is what Hugo Rosetti had done during their first outings.

Claudine was curious, although not apprehensive, about this initial encounter. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that sex and the pursuit of it was the only way Europol’s ghetto barriers were breached, the majority of the polyglot male detectives and crime staff appearing automatically to consider the majority of the polyglot female contingent available prey to be hunted, with no closed season. There was an irony, she recognized, in the fact that after becoming so adept at rejection it was Hugo Rosetti, the one man she wouldn’t have rebuffed, whose principles prevented his attempting what most other men in the organization tried all the time.

Careful not to be obvious – determined against any irritating misunderstanding – she studied the man, as intent upon any signs she might professionally isolate as she was upon his physical appearance. He didn’t have the awkwardness of a lot of big men and on balance she decided the always direct look from those oddly blue eyes was polite, unstraying attention, not appraisal. She liked, too, the fact that he hadn’t invaded her space escorting her from the hotel: there had been no physical contact, cupping her elbow or putting his hand at her back to guide her. Extremely confident, she thought again, without the need for gap-filling gestures or movement. She guessed the barely discernible Irish accent had been exaggerated on the assignment that preceded Europol.

‘Who’s going to go first?’ he demanded openly.

‘I didn’t think you liked talking about yourself?’

‘The observant psychologist!’

‘You made it pretty obvious whenever anyone tried to make you.’