The Rift Page 7

  This was her bread and butter: a bona fide police investigation. This was why she’d joined the military police. The army wasn’t cerebral enough for her and the civvie police wasn’t broad enough. This way, she got to step into both worlds, internationally, and once again, all thoughts of her handing her notice in because of some wobble of faith, because of what had happened to Luke, disappeared. If anything, she should never give up because of Luke. Giving up would be like saying it was her fault.

  And she had someone else’s child to find.

  She rarely looked inside her wallet at the tiny photograph of her son, but she did now. Fancies of Hakim’s disappearance being down to some kind of ploy or tactic melted away. She looked at her baby boy, swaddled in a white blanket, evidently asleep, and swore she’d return Khalil Dalmani’s son to him.

  She was rudely awakened from her daydream by the announcement that they were an hour away from Lyon. She sat up, surprised that she’d been thinking about Luke for so long, and put away his photograph. A whiff of guilt settled on her: she was supposed to be at work, studying the files. Looking at her watch, she believed that she could get in a little more reading before she arrived in Lyon.

  Fawaz was separated from seven wives and had fathered fifteen children, all of whom he supported financially. None of them worked in the family firm, which was unusual. One would think that he’d be grooming his sons to take over his empire, but he wasn’t. So who did he see as his heir? She saw that he hung out mainly at a famous hacienda on the outskirts of Marrakech. The same intel applied: Interpol had to have the grace of the Moroccan authorities to storm in, and they simply didn’t have the evidence. They didn’t even have a money trail, and no one knew how Fawaz laundered the millions of dollars he allegedly made from drugs and arms.

  Her eyes focused on a date five years ago and the name of Fawaz’s eldest son: Rafik. He’d been apprehended in London on terror offences and deported back to Morocco by the Home Office. It wasn’t that unusual in itself; foreign nationals causing more trouble than they’re worth were regularly shipped back to their native states, quietly and without press coverage. It was well known that Morocco wanted to improve relations with Europe and be seen as a legitimate, modern state. She read on and saw that Rafik died shortly after returning home, in police custody.

  So Fawaz had lost a child too.

  Chapter 10

  The Gulfstream G550 was cleared for take-off. Grant sipped pomegranate juice from a glass and peered out of the window. He looked around at the luxury and wondered how it might feel to travel like this all the time. The two little boys seemed nonplussed, clearly used to it. He’d driven them home from school and they’d asked the questions that any curious young boys might in their position: ‘Do you work for my dad?’ ‘Do you have a gun?’ Otherwise, they’d been unfazed by the European stranger trusted with their care. He was taken by their innocence and wondered if they’d been told that their brother was missing. Probably not.

  The interior of the aircraft was upholstered in soft beige leather and the mahogany tables were polished so well that he could see the reflection of his hand every time he went to put his glass down. Khalil sat opposite him, busy as always, on his laptop. Taziri and the boys sat to the rear of the plane. All three of them were glued to their phones. It was a common sight; he rarely saw people off the damn things. Families on holiday at the Marriott, supposed to be enjoying the pool, having fun and messing around, often spent all their time gaping at the screens in front of them. He decided he’d make a terrible father; he’d be execrably dull in his approach, expecting them to play games outside and interact with each other. Or that’s what he told himself.

  He and Khalil were sat far enough away from Taziri and the boys so they could discuss business without being overheard. Khalil’s theory was that Hakim had been taken in an act of revenge for Khalil turning down Fawaz Nabil. It was a fair enough assessment, but Grant wanted to get the measure of the man who’d once been held in high esteem by the Dalmani family.

  ‘How close were you?’ Grant asked.

  ‘We were like brothers. Our fathers fought together in the streets for the National Liberation Front, against the French. They were forced into the shadows, when the French wouldn’t tolerate our independence, and they became guerrillas. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think, that only twenty years earlier, the French themselves were doing exactly the same thing against the Gestapo? But they didn’t see it that way.’

  ‘One man’s guerrilla is another man’s freedom fighter,’ Grant said.

  Khalil was a proud man, but some, in Europe, might call his family terrorists. Grant had seen enough during his many tours of duty to know that perspective is irrelevant in war: it was only the winners who got to write about it afterwards. If the Algerians had lost, then Khalil’s father would have rotted in a French prison and Khalil would never have been born, but here he was: one of the wealthiest men in the world, flying his private jet into the city of love to stay at the Ritz. That was the thing with money: it always had a story.

  ‘So what made you go your separate ways and not speak for, what? Thirty years?’

  Khalil looked away and Grant noticed pain in his face. It was a sore point, but it had to be asked. Khalil sighed. ‘After his father died, Fawaz followed the money, no matter what the cost, but my father wouldn’t be a party to anything that challenged his ethical beliefs.’

  ‘His ethical beliefs?’ Grant didn’t think ethics had much to do with money.

  ‘He’d worked his way up in the business world through straight and honest commerce. He was old school – he didn’t believe in the new opportunities that the drugs and arms trade offered.’

  ‘But the arms trade is legitimate,’ Grant said.

  ‘Yes, it is, but, to my father that was another glaring irony, that a man can sell a bomb to a country who pays in dollars but doesn’t take responsibility for where that bomb lands. Of course, the arms trade is legitimate, but what of the moral cost?’

  ‘So, he refused to touch arms. Didn’t he lose out on a lot of cash?’

  ‘I’m sure he did, but he slept well at night knowing that his product wasn’t vaporising women and children.’

  ‘He sounds like a very noble man, your father,’ Grant said.

  ‘He was,’ Khalil smiled.

  ‘And same for the drugs trade?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Exactly. He cut the business away from the Nabil family, and that was the end of that.’

  ‘But Jean-Luc’s family remained loyal to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sure?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Well, that’s what we’re going to Paris to find out.’

  Khalil looked away again and Grant studied him. He couldn’t dismiss the glaring fact that Jean-Luc was one of the most incompetent heads of security he’d ever met. Losing a principal just didn’t happen – unless it’s meant to. Grant had yet to make up his mind.

  ‘So, Fawaz made contact out of the blue by telephone? You must have been surprised after all this time,’ Grant asked. ‘Did he think that, with your father dead, you’d be more open to the business that your father found distasteful?’

  ‘I doubt it. He knew me well enough. He said he missed our friendship, and that’s when I knew he was lying,’ Khalil said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Fawaz is the kind of man who never does anything without personal gain. Even as a child he would give you sweets, then days later expect to be repaid in some way. It’s a character trait that defines him and his business.’

  ‘So, he wanted your ships between Algiers and Marseilles – did he offer anything in return? It seems to me that this would be a favour from you to him, not the other way around,’ Grant said.

  ‘Like I said, he was offering friendship, reunion, a chance to forget the past, but Fawaz forgets nothing. This is the man he is. He once took a woman away from me. She meant everything to me,’ Khalil said. He looked over his shoulder to check that Taziri wasn’t l
istening. It was a touching gesture from such a powerful man who could sleep with who he wanted, whether Taziri liked it or not. He carried on. ‘He used her for one night, making sure I knew, and then discarded her. He humiliated her. I asked him why he did it. Do you know what he said?’

  Grant waited.

  ‘He said that when we were five, or thereabouts, a girl in our kindergarten favoured me over him, and I’d never acknowledged how much it hurt him. Apparently I used to hold hands with this girl. I can’t even remember her name. He said that he vowed to himself that he would take a girl from me, and he did.’ Khalil smiled and spread his hands. ‘I have harmed him, and this is his revenge, taking my son. I have thought long and hard over what I might have done to provoke such a response in him, but I can find none, though he did lose his eldest son five years ago.’

  ‘What did that have to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything, perhaps? I have thought about it. I was trading with the UK, like I do today, and they were the ones who sent Rafik back to Morocco to be tortured to death.’

  Grant shook his head. They were dealing with a very damaged man, and a very powerful one.

  ‘His son was running drugs into the UK and was found living with suspected terrorists. This is what happens to sons who work for their fathers: they follow their lead. That is the nature of business. I have three sons to raise and I won’t have them exposed to that world. Sons of that realm are reared and groomed to become criminals. It’s the nature of their work: it’s not only the product that is illegal, but everything that goes with it. Your job is to ferry substances around the globe undetected, so your whole model is built upon mistrust and danger. It matters not if it is arms dealing, people trafficking, money laundering or drug dealing, the list goes on. All of it is muddled up together and you can’t avoid one single part of it. Name me a drug lord’s son who grew up clean?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Grant said. ‘Nor can I name one who survived past forty.’

  Khalil sat back and turned his head, checking again that his wife wasn’t listening. Grant respected the man sat opposite him and he’d learned much about what made him tick. He couldn’t help thinking there was more to it though. What he wanted to know was why Fawaz wanted those shipping lanes.

  ‘We chose different paths and we can never be friends,’ Khalil said.

  It was a resigned statement and full of tragedy. Grant knew that what he was really saying was that it wasn’t what Fawaz was asking for that was the issue here, but the very fact that he’d asked for anything. Hakim was a pawn. Grant reckoned that even if Khalil acquiesced, he might never see his son again. But was that a gamble worth taking?

  ‘What if you said yes?’

  ‘It might be my only choice now,’ Khalil acknowledged. ‘It would be the end of me and everything my father worked for. My containers are frequently opened by coastguard police and international shipping regulators, and so on. If I don’t stay clean, I’m finished.’

  This was a change: a resignation almost. ‘But you can’t know what is in every container,’ Grant stated.

  ‘For sure, but I can know ninety per cent. Also, I can always chase the paperwork to see who owns the container, who packed it and who supplied the goods.’

  ‘But Fawaz didn’t want to do that?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Exactly. He refused to tell me what he wanted to transport, and he also refused to have it traceable and recorded.’

  ‘Fawaz doesn’t strike me as an unintelligent man, but surely he’d have known you’d say no?’

  ‘I don’t know. Fawaz was always arrogant. When I spoke to him over the phone, he was different to the man I knew. He was edgy, desperate – manic even.’

  ‘So, what happened next?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Until today, nothing. I never heard from him again until Hakim was taken.’

  ‘And you’re convinced it’s him who is behind it?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Yes. There is something else that I haven’t told you.’

  ‘Go on,’ Grant said.

  ‘I received a mobile phone by post, to my home, the day before Hakim was taken. That’s why I rushed him back to Paris. I saw it as a warning.’ Khalil pulled the phone out of his jacket and showed it to Grant.

  ‘Has anybody tried to contact you?’

  ‘Only today. I got a call telling me that I needed to authorise certain containers to be loaded at the Bay of Algiers, heading to Marseilles, otherwise I would never see my son again. It was while you were getting the boys from school.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I agreed to the authorisation.’

  ‘Have you informed Interpol?’ Grant asked.

  ‘No. If I do that, I’ll never see Hakim again. This is for you only.’

  Chapter 11

  Fawaz looked at the photo in his hand. In his other, he held a tumbler of American bourbon. The ice clinked around the glass when he held it to his mouth. His religion strictly banned alcoholic consumption, but he was not devout. For five years now, he’d renounced the Prophet and pursued his own agenda in the world and life therein. His cynicism had turned to bitterness, and that to hate and revenge.

  He was alone, except for the usual servants keeping the place tended. Sometimes he dismissed them for days on end and that’s when things lost their lustre. Even matters of business did not hold his attention. On occasions such as these darker moments, outside, the pools turned green with algae, detritus blew across the courtyards and food rotted. The staff would be recalled when he felt the fog lift from his haunted brain, they were kept on full pay anyway, and they’d begin the clear up. He hadn’t dismissed them today though. They were to stay on for a few days to make sure the place was spotless for his return – if he returned.

  His eyes burned with grief. The young man in the photo was only twenty years of age. He’d worked in the family firm; a move that Fawaz had seen as a natural progression for all of his sons. He’d shown him the business, from top to bottom, missing no detail. Out of all of his children, Rafik showed the most aptitude. He was the eldest son of his first wife, and he had her wit and resilience. Once he got into a task, he never gave up until it was completed to the highest standard. The mistake had been allowing him to travel to Britain. In Rafik’s unique way, he’d assuaged his father’s fears, always quick to point out his gift for avoiding trouble.

  But not any more.

  He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He took another swig of the liquor and got up to leave the office and go to his private rooms, still clutching the photo. Outside in the courtyard, the traditional riad was decked with balconies, silk curtains, tapestries and tropical plants, and richly adorned with beautiful bright-coloured tiles and mosaics. Had it only been yesterday when the place was full of leering old men, lusting after young flesh? Many of his rooms had been used last night, but not by him. Instead, he’d come to his office and got blind drunk. He wasn’t interested in women, or sex of any kind, any more.

  He walked through the atrium, around the fountain, free from bothersome visitors. He answered to no one. It was time to be alone and lose oneself in a stupor, so the memories couldn’t sting like the spines of a lionfish. If he stayed sober too long, when moods of melancholy caught him unprepared, the pain seared his blood and made his head spin. The helplessness and the injustice turned him murderous, and there was no telling what he might do.

  He’d learned, over time, that the only safe thing to do was to retire to his chamber, get drunk and fall asleep. He had to be up early; tomorrow would be a new day, and he had plenty to keep him busy. Everything was almost in place, and it wouldn’t be long before he wrought his revenge. The scent of flowers cheered him a little, and he smiled, at least secure in the knowledge that shortly Rafik’s memory would be avenged. He checked his several mobile phones before going to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a fresh glass of booze. He lay on his bed and opened his shirt, revealing hot, sweaty skin. He was not fat and soft like some men of his age; his body wa
s hard and tight. He lit another cigarette and clicked a switch by his bed, which turned on his music system. He always listened to the same music when he was in this mood: Moroccan soul. It fused the traditional instrumental sounds of the lute, other string instruments and flutes, with a modern, cool Ibiza-type twist that relaxed his body and soothed his overstimulated brain. It also reminded him of Rafik, as it was on one of his trips to Europe that he’d discovered it and brought it back for his father. Fawaz would do anything to get close to him.