Brian Freemantle - The Predators

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.