The Rift Rachel Lynch (epub e ink reader .txt) 📖

hardly sweating and shifted in his seat from time to time to take his mind off the discomfort.

The driver fiddled with the radio and Hakim listened intently. A news channel came on but the driver flicked it off angrily and slapped the wheel. The man was clearly an amateur; Hakim could tell that much. He was too distracted and nervous. That might work to his advantage later, however it could also mean that he was erratic, and that was less promising. A music channel came on next but was interrupted by an advert. Hakim heard a click and smelled the familiar and homely smell of tobacco. It reminded him of his father, and the memory comforted him. The driver buzzed down the electric window, perhaps not wanting to stink the car out with cigarette smoke. It had been another opportunity for Hakim to listen to the outside world.

They pulled off the road soon after and Hakim had been aware that they were parking in a bay. The driver unclicked his seat belt and got out. The warm air settled in the car and Hakim tried to make out any noises outside. He heard the driver speaking to somebody else, still in French: another male, who was angry with the driver for stopping. So, there was an accomplice car behind too.

‘I need a piss!’ The other man’s French was also accented by another continent familiar to Hakim because it was his homeland.

‘I’ll wait here – be quick!’

The regional dialect confirmed what he’d already suspected: that his capture was something to do with his father’s enemies back home. Regret screamed into his brain as he admonished himself for not telling his father about the new bodyguard’s position. He hadn’t even asked Jean-Luc for the man’s name. It had been Amélie who was perturbed by the man, and he’d dismissed her.

Hakim was aware of the second man standing by the open door, and cigarette smoke wafted into the vehicle as he too lit up. He heard different voices, and Hakim’s ears prickled with alertness. He was acutely aware of a woman and a child approaching the vehicle and, without realising it, Hakim’s pulse rate elevated again. He stiffened and the man standing at the door slammed it shut, forgetting that the driver’s window was open. Hakim listened to their conversation.

‘Marie! Come away from the car! I’m sorry, she’s learning to walk and goes in all the wrong directions.’ The woman babbled, but the man ignored her. There was an awkward silence as the woman probably worked out that the stranger wasn’t interested in polite chatter. ‘Marie, this way! Good girl!’

‘Forêt!’ Hakim heard the little girl announce the word as if it was the most important word of all time, and he remembered his brothers, when they learned to speak, choosing random words to pronounce, expecting praise of the highest order.

‘Forêt! Yes, forest! Absolutely. Well done, Marie! We’re going to the forest.’

The voices faded. If they had passed Disneyland, the only forest they could be driving towards was Forêt de Fontainebleau.

When they’d left Paris, the sun had not shone on his side of the car – the right – but since Disneyland, and still now, it shone fully onto his side of the car.

They were heading south.

Chapter 8

Helen strolled through the garden with Sir Conrad, at his private residence, overlooked by the embassy. The lines mowed into the immaculate lawn could have hosted a Wimbledon tournament. They walked away from the house, and a pleasant breeze wafted through the trees lining the trail down to the ornate fountain. From there, one could imagine the Duke of Wellington surveying his wealth and congratulating himself on his victory over Napoleon. It was one of those residences where one simply couldn’t forget its history, and Sir Conrad was a perfect host. But they weren’t here to talk about the Battle of Waterloo.

‘I was satisfied with the plans shown to me by Special Agent White, Sir,’ Helen told the ambassador.

She’d accepted tea and they’d taken it on the terrace before heading down towards the fountain at the opposite end of the enormous garden. ‘What exactly did Special Agent White say about the abduction of Hakim Dalmani?’ he asked.

He seemed fixated on the topic. ‘Well, Sir, in fairness, he didn’t know much about it. His focus is the summit right now. It was my understanding that Interpol Algiers was dealing with it,’ she said.

‘Of course, well, you know these types of people, Major Scott,’ he replied. His hand waved about absentmindedly, as if to indicate that her experience with the Middle East somehow made her an expert on anyone with darker skin.

‘Sir, are you suggesting that the abduction of Khalil Dalmani’s son has something to do with security here in France, surrounding the summit?’

‘And that’s why you’re the man for the job, Scott!’

She ignored the glaring misogyny behind his choice of noun.

‘From what Agent White told me, I believe the Americans see the incident as non-mission specific, but the kidnapping is on their radar none the less,’ she replied.

Sir Conrad put his hands in his trouser pockets. Helen had already noticed that each time Sir Conrad was less than transparent with her, his hands sank deep into his pockets, as if he were physically hiding some information away. She’d already read in him that much. He did it when Khalil Dalmani was mentioned, and the same was true with Fawaz Nabil. She’d spotted it first when they’d been speaking together with Colonel Palmer.

‘Sir, do you think it strange that Fawaz Nabil’s increased activity in Europe coincides with the abduction of Khalil Dalmani’s son?’ she asked. His hands, briefly by his sides, once again disappeared into his trouser pockets. She watched, waiting for his answer.

‘Well, they are business rivals, and their families were connected for a long time. And they’re both African,’ he said. Helen forced herself to gloss over his final observation. Some of his more old-fashioned prejudices were grating. She trusted he was more subtle in public