Brian Freemantle - The Predators

‘I don’t think so,’ said Rampling.

‘Let’s go,’ said the FBI chief.

For the first time it had been possible to hear most of the briefing verbatim in the Brussels embassy. At Harding’s final remark McBride said to Harrison: ‘You got a helicopter ready?’

‘Waiting,’ said the other man.

As the ambassador rose, Claudine said: ‘We don’t leave until we hear Mary Beth – all of them, I hope – are safe.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?’ demanded McBride.

Looking steadily at the ambassador, Claudine said: ‘I’m the person, if anything goes wrong, who’s going to tell the world that scoring points off each other was more important to you and your wife than getting your daughter back.’

McBride sat down again. It was nine forty-five.

Thirty minutes later no French-registered car had gone in either direction along the Namur to Gembloux road and the local police chief had radioed Namur for any French car to be seized there.

At ten thirty a Dutch-licensed Ford was stopped on the narrow feeder road to the chateau. The Amsterdam tanker pilot angrily maintained that he was a lost tourist until a Namur constable found a bag containing a devil’s costume, complete with mask and whip, and two child sex videos in the boot.

Ten minutes later the message came from Namur that two French cars, both Citroens, were on their way and Rampling said: ‘We’re going to miss Felicite’s deadline.’

‘They’ve still got to have their party,’ said Blake.

‘Maybe they’ve already started,’ said Harding.

‘She won’t have done, not until she’s spoken to McBride,’ said Blake.

At five past eleven the cars arrived. Neither police driver turned his engine off when he got out. There were two plainclothes Namur detectives in the four-man backup car.

The man at the gatehouse was small and hunched, with a profusion of dark hair worn long and falling over his face, a curtain through which he watched them drive up. He said: ‘You’re late.’

‘Traffic,’ said Harding.

‘It’s going to be a good party.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’

Felicite’s call came precisely on time.

‘Have you done what I told you to do?’

‘Yes,’ said McBride.

‘You got a pen?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want the money wired to account number 0392845 at the Credit Suisse bank on Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse. You got that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Read it back to me.’

While he was doing so Claudine pushed a prompt note sideways to McBride. ‘What about Mary Beth? How am I going to get her back?’

‘You’ll be told when the bank transfer goes through. Not before.’

‘But you-’ McBride started to protest but Felicite cut him off.

‘When I know the money has been sent! Is Claudine there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Put her on.’

‘What do you want?’ said Claudine.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Who won!’

‘You did,’ said Claudine.

‘Say it!’

‘You won. But we need to know how…’ But Claudine was talking into a dead phone.

‘You’ve got to send the money,’ insisted Claudine. ‘It’s the kidnap evidence. And she’ll probably check.’

‘We’ll do it on the way to the NATO base,’ said McBride, hurrying up from his desk.

‘There’s nothing for me to do here,’ Rosetti said, to Claudine. ‘I’ll go on back.’

‘To Brussels? Or Rome?’

‘Rome.’

Felicite had telephoned from the upstairs bedroom directly opposite that in which she’d locked Mary Beth. She remained there for several minutes, undecided whether to have the Luxembourg lawyer check the Swiss deposit before tossing the mobile telephone on to the bed beside a still closed cardboard box. They’d have made the deposit: been too frightened not to. It didn’t matter any more. She was still standing there, arms tight by her sides, hands clenched, when Lascelles came into the room.

‘You all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here.’ There were three pills in the palm of his offered hand.

‘She won’t feel anything?’

‘Nothing. Almost everyone’s arrived. I’m going down.’

‘Yes.’

There was only one small sob after he left. Quickly Felicite regained control, breathing in deeply and squaring her shoulders before picking up the box.

Mary Beth looked up at her entry. ‘Are we going now?’

‘When I’ve dressed.’

‘What are you going as?’

‘You’re the fairy, I’m the fairy godmother.’

Mary Beth sniggered.

‘What are you laughing at?’

It was the hard voice Mary Beth didn’t like. ‘Nothing.’

Briefly Felicite stood naked in front of the child before putting on the dress. ‘Zip me up, darling.’

Mary Beth did, awkwardly.

‘Do you think I’m pretty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You’re very pretty.’

Felicite put the pills in a tiny handbag, hesitating. ‘Look!’ she said, taking something from it. ‘The lucky stone you gave me by the river. I said I’d always keep it, didn’t I?’

‘Can we go to the party now?’

‘Yes,’ said Felicite.

‘You haven’t put any u.p.’s on.’

‘I’m not going to.’

The last message Harding got from the communications vehicle before disconnecting his earpiece outside the chateau was that the scanner had monitored the conversation between McBride and Felicite.

They carried overnight grips and bags that could have held masks or fantasy clothing and once away from the cars didn’t stay together. Instead they straggled towards the huge entrance, heads lowered, strangers about to meet strangers. The door opened to Harding’s knock and at once he pushed through, Blake and Rampling now tightly behind him.

The man just inside was small and thin, blinking behind thick-lensed spectacles. In French he said: ‘Who are you with?’

Harding continued walking, bringing the man further into the huge hallway guarded by two pedestalled sets of armour and frowned down upon by the mounted heads of stags and boar and antelope. Behind, those in the second car, including the two Belgian detectives, followed smoothly but didn’t come deeply into the hall. Instead they went immediately sideways, in both directions. Harding said: ‘I didn’t think we spoke of who we were with. You heard from the gatehouse, didn’t you?’

Blake said: ‘I’d like to change. Where can I do that?’ and before the man could answer Rampling said: ‘Yes. Where can we go?’

Both started moving away, in opposite directions. There was a lot of noise and music coming from a room at the end of the hall and two men, one dressed as a clown, the other as a harlequin and both masked by their make-up, turned from the bottom of the stairs towards the sound.

‘I took the call,’ said a voice.

Harding turned, guessing the figure to be Lascelles from the physical description they’d got at Eindhoven, although the man was wearing a tight, face-fitting mask.

‘And that’s why I was at the door,’ said Georges Lebron.

Harding started back towards the small man but saw a fairy-dressed Mary Beth descending the stairs, holding Felicite’s hand. The child immediately recognized him. She smiled and said: ‘Hello! Have you come to take me home?’

‘Yes,’ said Harding. He surged forward, spread-eagling Lebron as he pushed the French priest aside. Harding felt Lascelles’ groping hands on his back but jerked free, continuing on.

‘POLICE!’ screamed Lebron, still on the floor, and pandemonium erupted.

Blake and Rampling ran towards the noise further along the corridor. Shouts and screams burst from other rooms and from upstairs there was a gunshot. From outside came the sound of over-revved cars slewing across the gravelled forecourt to block in already parked vehicles. And then helicopters, deafening, thunderous helicopters descending so close to the house the gravel and grass and plants were hurled against the windows in a man-made hurricane. Men and women flooded into the house.