Brian Freemantle - The Predators

‘We should talk about it with the others first,’ said Gaston.

‘Why?’ asked Cool. ‘Let’s get the whole damned thing over and done with.’

‘We’re a group. We rely on each other: protect each other,’ said Gaston. ‘They should all agree.’

‘You’re trying to avoid it,’ accused Cool.

‘You do it yourself then!’ demanded Gaston at once, seeing his escape. ‘I agree we have to get rid of her! But don’t use Charles. Or me, to make him do it. Kill her yourselves. Dispose of her yourselves, the way I’ve got to dispose of Stefan.’

There was another long silence. ‘Let’s talk to the others,’ agreed Smet finally.

‘They won’t do it either,’ Gaston said. ‘Not themselves. It’s always been Charles.’

‘Someone’s got to,’ insisted Cool.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Charles from his corner.

‘Nothing,’ said Gaston. ‘Don’t get upset: I’ll look after you.’

For the first time since they’d arrived in Brussels Kurt Volker ate with them – at the Comme Chez Soi on the Place Rouppe, another first – and proved to be an unusual dinner companion. He dominated the conversation with cyberspace through-the-keyhole anecdotes of peccadillos, foibles and downright carelessnesses of the rich and unrich, famous and infamous, ordinary and extraordinary. Mostly with the people he spoke about, it was extraordinary.

When Blake said so, actually using the word, Volker said: ‘Who’s to judge extraordinary?’ and Claudine, impressed, said: ‘He’s right. Psychologically – mentally – there are no criteria for ordinary. So no one can be extra ordinary, can they?’

‘What about the people we’re investigating?’ said Blake. ‘Aren’t they extraordinary?’

‘The point is that paedophiles convince themselves – actually believe – that they are ordinary. That it’s normal to have sex with children. And if I forget for a moment that we’re hunting people who think their sexual preferences are perfectly natural, we’re going to lose Mary.’

‘What if you get to them?’ demanded Blake urgently. ‘What will you be feeling and thinking if you get to negotiate one to one, in some way?’

Claudine was surprised by the question, disconcerted by it. ‘I’d suspend any personal judgement. Revulsion, contempt, would come through, and I can’t afford that. More importantly, Mary can’t afford that.’

‘You’ve never negotiated a kidnap before: certainly not a paedophile kidnap,’ Blake said solemnly. ‘Can you do it?’

‘I won’t know until I try,’ Claudine conceded, wishing she hadn’t been confronted by such a direct question. Peter’s attitude had, in fact, confused her from the very start of the evening. He’d appeared tense, unaccustomedly ill at ease, and for want of any other explanation she’d put it down to Volker’s unexpected presence, although that could scarcely be considered an intrusion. Peter, she suddenly thought: she’d obviously called him that, from the beginning, but until now had distanced him in her mind by using his surname. It was an unimportant reflection, she decided: like thinking that Blake’s attitude tonight was any different from what it had been on the previous nights.

Volker worked hard to restore some lightness with further stories of a marauding cyberspace Robin Hood (‘to benefit the good and defeat the bad’) and Claudine enjoyed the change from the Grande Place restaurant.

Volker turned out to have a low tolerance but great liking for alcohol and became heavy-eyed, thick-tongued when he retold two of his best stories. Blake had the restaurant order them a car, rather than hail a street taxi. Volker, between them in the back seat, fell almost immediately asleep. Blake sat supporting the man with his arm along the back seat exactly, Claudine realized, as the blond-haired woman had sat enticing Mary into the Mercedes. He stayed like that for most of the time, half facing Claudine. When, on two occasions, she looked pointedly across the car towards him, he turned away to stare through the rear window.

They both had to help the German to his feet on the Place de Brouckere. It brought Blake and Claudine close together and Blake said quietly: ‘Let me in when I come to your room.’

‘No!’

‘Do it!’

They ascended without speaking in the open-grilled elevator, the half-asleep German leaning amiably between them. Claudine stared fixedly at Blake, who looked back expressionlessly. Volker’s floor was below hers and as Blake helped the German out she again said: ‘No!’

Blake ignored her.

Inside her room Claudine put the dead bolt across the door as well as double locking it. She was confused. Offended, too. She wouldn’t let him in. What right did he think he had – what right did any of the bastards at Europol have – to think every woman was going to roll over on her back and open her legs, grateful to be fucked! Disappointment joined her other feelings. Peter – Blake, she corrected herself at once – was attractive: considerate, attentive, fun to be with. In other circumstances – a lot of other circumstances, chief of which had to be the exclusion of Hugo – she might have been drawn to the man. But not like this: not with the slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am cowboy approach.

The knock was soft. She ignored it. The next time was louder and when she still didn’t respond he said: ‘Claudine, don’t say anything. Just let me in.’

‘I don’t-’ she started but he repeated: ‘Don’t say anything.’

The urgency wasn’t sexual, she realized at once. She didn’t know what it was – didn’t know what was happening – but she was abruptly sure she’d misunderstood everything so far. She unbolted the door and tentatively opened it.

Blake was standing anxiously on the threshold. Loudly – too loudly – he said as he hurried in: ‘I’m sorry. I had to put him to bed: he’s completely gone,’ and made exaggerated rolling motions with his hands to indicate that she should respond. He went straight past her, to the bottom of the bed, orientating himself to the room.

Bewildered but obeying, Claudine said: ‘Will he be all right?’

‘He’ll probably feel like shit in the morning.’ Blake revolved both hands again, telling her to keep talking, nodding as well.

Claudine nodded back, comprehending at last. An absurd charade unfolded in which Claudine remained by the door, discussing the evening – apologizing even for not having anything to drink – while Blake swept the room, keeping up the empty conversation with her as he did so. She’d never seen it done before and occasionally faltered in what she was saying, distracted by his obvious expertise. He came back to where she remained standing to unscrew the light switch just inside the door. From there he moved on to every light fitting and socket and every electrical plug and connection, using a handkerchief pad to remove hot bulbs.

The bedside telephone was clean but there was a listening device in the extension phone on a table, in front of the curtained window. It was so minute, little more than a pinhead fitting snugly into one of the tiny diaphragm holes, that she had difficulty seeing it when he pointed it out to her and wouldn’t have suspected it even if she’d unscrewed the instrument herself.

Blake reassembled the telephone without removing the bug, moving some way away before saying: ‘As you haven’t got any booze here I guess we’ll have to go back to the bar.’

‘OK,’ Claudine accepted at once.

At that moment the telephone rang.

‘I left messages,’ said Hugo Rosetti accusingly.

‘It was too late to return them when I got back.’

‘What about today? Tonight?’

‘There are a lot of problems we didn’t expect.’ Go away! she thought, hating herself for thinking it.