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

off guard if they were going to garner any useful information from her. Grant already knew she was a tough nut; anyone who would follow the instructions he’d delivered to her hours earlier, when he’d extracted her from her safe house, had to have balls of steel.

‘Relax. It’s not the police.’ Grant walked towards the door and opened it, letting in Khalil. Madame Bisset’s face dropped. She got up and placed her coffee cup on the table. Grant noticed her hands shake.

‘What is this all about?’ she demanded.

Khalil had flown to Lyon by private jet from Paris, and they planned to make the onward journey together to Marseilles when they were done here. During one of his conversations with Khalil, his boss had happened to mention the name of the officer working on Hakim’s disappearance. Before now, Grant had listened to the details of Interpol’s progress (or lack of it) with nonchalance. That had now changed. His brief was to find Hakim, not get bogged down in an incompetent and slow official investigation. But the officer’s name had sent him into a quiet contemplation that went unnoticed by his boss. Khalil was a businessman and, as such, tapped in to the noises of money and trade, not emotions. And Grant was careful.

Major Helen Scott, UK Royal Military Police. It was an odd secondment, but that wasn’t the point. Whatever she was doing there, it was obvious that she’d got herself assigned to Hakim’s case. Maybe she was no longer RMP? A transfer to the Foreign Office would explain it, but he could never see Helen giving up her field-operative status for a desk job.

Khalil was fresh, no doubt from a snack and hot shower at his suite in the InterContinental in downtown Lyon. Grant didn’t need a place to stay. His business was in the Le Croix-Rousse district, and they were to fly to Marseilles tonight.

‘Marie, it’s lovely to see you after all these years. Please sit. We have some catching up to do.’ Khalil tiptoed around the reason why she was here. Grant admired his poise. He was a good player.

Madame Bisset sat back down, folded her hands across her skirt and nodded tersely. She was acting as though she returned the sentiment of a happy reunion with the boss of her son but Grant could see she remained on her guard. Did she harbour the same resentment towards Khalil about the death of her husband?

But under the current circumstances, Marie Bisset had little choice but to comply with Khalil’s wishes. Grant’s assessment of the woman was that she was shrewd enough to know when she was out of alternatives. He saw that she was uncomfortable and desperately assessing her options. Grant knew exactly what Khalil wanted, and how far he’d go to get it. He watched as Khalil opened his jacket and sat down opposite Mme Bisset. There was no small talk, indicating that Madame Bisset had nothing to say to the man who’d been so generous to her family. Upon the death of Basem, Khalil had handed his widow two hundred thousand dollars in cash.

Khalil expected loyalty, and that’s why he was here: to ask the woman to her face if she was indeed trustworthy or treacherous. Grant fetched tea, and Madame Bisset remained seated, as she was told.

She was a small woman, petite in every way, but with keen hawk-like eyes. She reminded him of an old Italian nonna: ready to throw a plate of spaghetti over her wayward sons at any moment. Grant had spent many happy summers with his mother’s family in Naples, learning to cook pasta and rolling gnocchi with a fork to get the right curl and shape every time. He smiled and knew from the woman’s reaction that Khalil’s presence was getting under her skin. The air-conditioning unit whirred, and a fly landed on the coffee table. Grant poured a cup of hot tea for his boss, but Madame Bisset declined a top-up of coffee. He sat back in the easy chair to the left of Khalil, and they both stared at her.

‘Where is your son?’ Khalil asked her.

‘Je ne sais pas – I have no idea. He’s working for you, I thought.’ Marie Bisset sounded innocent enough. Her French was harsh, but Grant surmised that this was more to do with her personality than her education or upbringing. Her lips pursed when she enunciated vowels, giving her the aura of the thoroughly peeved.

‘Marie, have I not looked after your family all these years as I promised my father? To what grievance do I owe such disloyalty?’ Khalil opened the first salvo of the scrap. It was a serious accusation.

‘What disloyalty, enfant?’ She used the affectionately scolding term for a defiant child.

Khalil wasn’t moved. He sipped his tea, complimenting Grant on its level of sweetness. ‘I have plenty of time to sit with you and discuss why and with whom you have learned these mistrusting ways, but unfortunately, I don’t have the inclination.’ Khalil no longer hid his suspicion.

They spoke in French, and Grant followed almost every word. The tone was enough to finish off the sentences he couldn’t quite catch. He held his teacup, presenting himself as a mediator or friend.

‘Marie, the last time I saw Jean-Luc, he was helping my son load his luggage into a private plane – my private plane – heading for Paris. Since then, Hakim has disappeared, and so too has Jean-Luc. But I know he’s been to see you,’ Khalil said. It was the same contact at the British embassy in Algiers who’d fed Grant the recent discovery that recent DNA matching Jean-Luc’s was found in Madame Bisset’s flat. He imagined Helen Scott’s joy when she heard the news.

‘He has not! The last time I spoke to him he was in Algiers, waiting to hear if you would keep him as head of your private security.’

Khalil narrowed his eyes.

‘So, revenge? He colluded with and took money from Fawaz bin Nabil to hurt me? To