Jean Smet was the way to bring the woman back. Only if she failed to respond would Hillary McBride have caused a catastrophe by confronting her with something for which she hadn’t been prepared, and Claudine regretted her outburst against the ambassador’s wife.
Hillary and McBride were literally eyeball to eyeball after Claudine’s accusation, screaming abuse at each other. Claudine shouted: ‘Shut up! Shut up and start thinking properly about Mary Beth!’
The fresh outburst silenced both of them. Claudine said: ‘It’s recoverable. The important thing is that I’ve become the person she hates: the person towards whom all her hostility is directed now. And today I was coming very close to gaining control without her knowing it: making her do what I want. Which is seriously to attempt a ransom. I’ve challenged her: doubted that she’s capable.’
‘If today’s call didn’t start out to fix a ransom what was it for?’ demanded Hillary, wanting to recover from her mistake.
‘She wants Mary to hate me as much as she does. You heard what Mary said, about not liking me. And her reply when I asked her why.’ With perfect recall, Claudine quoted: ‘“Not letting me speak to dad… Not today. Before.” She’s transferring the blame in her own mind and trying to do the same in Mary’s for what’s happened to Mary. She’s trying to bond the child to her.’
‘Make Mary like her, you mean?’ asked McBride incredulously. ‘How the hell can she do that!’
‘I didn’t say she could do it. I said that’s what she’s trying to do.’ Paradoxical though it seemed it was psychologically possible, particularly with someone impressionable, for a victim to become emotionally dependent upon a captor.
‘What about the fingers and toes remark?’ persisted the father.
‘That’s to alienate you from me: continue the attack upon me,’ Claudine assured him. ‘She won’t maim someone she wants to like her.’
‘Why is she doing that? I don’t understand!’ protested Hillary.
She’d spare them by not talking about love. ‘It’s the way her mind works.’
Claudine was momentarily surprised to see Hugo Rosetti with everyone else in the briefing room when she reentered. He smiled, fleetingly, and just as quickly she smiled back. Blake, expressionless, watched the interchange.
‘What happened to the scanners?’ demanded Claudine at once.
‘The transmission was too far away: that’s why the volume fluctuated so much,’ said Volker. ‘They couldn’t get any sort of fix, although they don’t think she was moving around, the way she did yesterday.’
For Poncellet’s benefit Claudine summarized to its minimum but still accurately the complete profile she’d given to McBride. To get rid of the police chief, she said she needed to assess the woman’s mental state before they held another planning meeting, and the moment Poncellet left the embassy Peter Blake gave them his explanation for the mobile telephone number.
‘They didn’t have the telephone,’ he said. ‘Only the number, knowing it was stolen. So they had to get an instrument to programme it into.’
‘Jesus!’ said Harding.
‘The simplest answer is always the best,’ said Rampling, in immediate agreement. ‘It was too obvious for us to see!’
‘So who’d have access to stolen numbers?’ asked Harrison, anxious to contribute.
‘Too many people,’ said Blake. ‘Belgacom, the Brussels manual exchange, the mobile phone company…’
‘That’s not the way to find them,’ said Claudine. ‘We can make whoever it is come to us through Smet. All he’s got to believe is that we’ve got a lead to him. His own fear will do the rest.’
‘How?’ demanded Harrison.
‘We give Smet the same reason we gave Poncellet for not meeting again today, but add that there’s an even more important development with the phone, as well. He’ll immediately warn whoever it is.’
‘He’s waiting in his office,’ said Rampling. ‘He’ll do it from there and we don’t have it tapped.’
‘We force him home,’ said Blake at once. ‘When we speak to him in his office we say that there’s something important about the phone but that we’re not sure what it is: forensic haven’t yet spelled it out. And promise to call him at home tonight, if it’s really important. Which we’ll do-’
‘Smet’s telephones,’ interrupted Volker. ‘Do they have dials? Or are they push button?’
‘Push button,’ said McCulloch.
Volker gave a satisfied nod. ‘It’s not possible to trace the number of an incoming call on a bugged telephone. But it is when a number is rung out. Each number on a push button phone has a different electronic signal: that’s how the system works, tonally. And Smet will dial out to speak to whoever it is, won’t he?’
‘As soon as he does we’ll have him!’ Rampling said.
‘And it’ll be someone in Belgacom, not the mobile company,’ added the German. ‘A technical expert, with access and ability far beyond phones. That’s who set up the e-mail exchange in the beginning.’
‘This is coming together!’ enthused Rampling.
‘Who’s going to make the bastard dance?’ asked Harding.
Rampling looked at Sanglier. ‘You’re the task force head, the senior investigatory officer.’
‘He couldn’t argue against my decision to cancel,’ agreed Sanglier, alert to a safe advantage. He was already committed, as far as the illegality was concerned, so he’d hardly be enmeshing himself further. And later, when that illegality became acceptable, he would have done something positive, definitely involved himself, in the investigation. A lot of worthwhile publicity could be worked up for his political emergence. He’d be the only Justice Minister in the world personally to have headed the investigation into a famous crime. And the fame would be his, not inherited from his father.
Jean Smet responded at the first ring, the respectful tone discernible as soon as Sanglier identified himself. Sanglier spoke autocratically, a police commander complying with a liaison agreement but not inviting a protracted discussion. It had been his decision not to have another meeting. Dr Carter thought there was a lot to be gained from that afternoon’s exchange. And they’d just been warned by forensic officers of something potentially vital – he actually used the word breakthrough – about the telephone that had been abandoned the previous day.
‘Something that could lead to an arrest?’ asked Smet.
‘They haven’t been specific. We won’t know until later tonight: maybe not even then. We hope to have something definite by tomorrow.’ Sanglier was enjoying himself, knowing from the expression on the faces around him that he was doing well.
‘If it’s really important the minister would want to know immediately. Tonight.’
Sanglier’s pause, for apparent consideration, was perfect. ‘If it’s as vital as they think it is, I could have someone call you at home.’ He allowed another hesitation. ‘Do we have your home number?’
Harding and Rampling smiled, nodding in open approval as the lawyer hurriedly dictated it, repeated it, and then asked Sanglier if he was sure he’d noted it correctly.
‘The minister really will be most anxious to hear at once,’ emphasized Smet.
‘I’ll see you’re called, if there’s anything,’ said Sanglier dismissively, replacing the telephone ahead of the other man’s gabbled thanks.
‘Now what?’ said Harrison.
‘We wait,’ said Blake.
They didn’t have to for very long.
‘Anything?’ A man’s voice, strained, without any identifying greeting.
‘Nothing.’
Harding made a thumbs-up gesture to the other smiling American. It was only fifteen minutes after the first sounds of the homecoming Jean Smet. The front door had slammed, two more opened without being closed. There’d been the scuff of his moving from room to room, the tinkle of a decanter against a glass. A lot of coughing and throat clearing.
‘Maybe they called while you were on your way from the office. Call them back!’
‘I don’t even know where they’ll be.’
‘The hotel! Try the hotel!’
‘I can’t! I’ve got to wait for them!’
‘What in the name of God can it be!’ It was practically a whimper.
There was no movement in the communications room, almost everyone physically leaning towards the speaker. Claudine sat directly in front, cramped against the operator, making notes.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What can I do?’
‘There’s nothing: nothing either of us can do.’
‘It’s her fault. Everything’s her fault. We should have disposed of the kid the day she picked her up.’
‘You’re blocking the line if they’re trying to get through,’ Smet said.
‘Don’t call me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Antoinette’s here. It’s difficult.’
‘Then how can I…?’
‘I’ll keep calling you, when it’s convenient here.’
‘Damn!’ said Blake quietly. Rampling shook his head in frustration.
‘You heard from the others?’ asked Smet.
‘No. You?’
‘She called as usual after this morning’s conference. Said they hadn’t got a clue what they were doing. She wasn’t at home when I telephoned her later, about this.’
There was a snort of derision. Then: ‘I’ve got to go. Antoinette’s coming!’
No one spoke for several moments after the line went dead. Through the speaker came the noise of decanter against glass again. Claudine revolved her swivel chair, to face the half-circle of men.
Rampling said: ‘It’s so close I feel I could reach out and touch it!’
More practically, Blake said: ‘It could be the driver.’
‘Whoever the man is he’s not the one who’s holding Mary,’ said Claudine. ‘He’s got a wife or a partner – Antoinette – who doesn’t know what’s going on. And they have fallen out: it’s something to concentrate on.’
‘We’ve got to get a wire in that bloody office,’ said Harding.
‘How long would it take?’ asked Claudine. ‘Minimum, maximum?’
McCulloch shrugged. ‘Seconds to stick a microphone with an adhesive base where he hopefully wouldn’t find it. Five minutes, tops, to put something inside the phone like we’ve done at his house.’
‘We’d put pressure on her if we broke the routine of his always being available in his office when she calls,’ said Claudine reflectively. From behind her there were short bursts of noise as Smet clicked his way through television channels, and then the crackle of static as he roamed radio frequencies in an equally unsuccessful search for a news programme.
‘That’s tomorrow. What about tonight?’ demanded Sanglier.
‘You did warn there might not be anything until tomorrow,’ Harrison reminded him.
‘They’d be frantic by then,’ said Rampling.
‘Smet tried to call her from the office,’ Claudine pointed out. ‘He’s almost bound to try again as soon as he hears from us.’
‘We shouldn’t wait,’ decided Sanglier.
Blake made the call. Smet actually dropped the receiver in his anxiety to pick it up, repeating ‘Yes?’ every few seconds to urge the explanation on.
‘You think you can trace who it is?’ he demanded.
‘It’ll be time-consuming but we’ve got the manpower,’ Blake said. ‘It’s our first direct and positive line. We’re going to get him. And through him everyone else.’
‘The minister will want to know how soon,’ Smet pressed.
Blake said: ‘We could have it all wrapped up in days. By this time tomorrow we could be well on our way.’
Claudine made cutting-off gestures and Blake said: ‘We’re setting things up now. Speak to you tomorrow.’
They waited tensely, silently. At once Smet’s telephone was lifted. A digit – within minutes isolated as 2, the first number of the Brussels code – was punched before the handset was replaced. It was lifted within seconds and 2 pressed again before once more being put down.
‘Come on! Come on!’ hissed Rampling. ‘Make the fucking call!’
Everyone jumped when Smet’s telephone rang, the over-amplified sound echoing into the room.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed Blake.
‘Anything?’ The same voice as before.
‘They’ve worked it out.’
‘What?’ shouted the man, his voice breaking.
Smet even used some of Blake’s exaggerated words and phrases. The other man never once interrupted. Not until the end did he say: ‘That’s it? All of it?’
‘Blake said it was a simple process of elimination.’
‘I’ve got access to the numbers, sure. But I’m much too senior ever to bother to look at them. There are dozens – hundreds – more likely man me. And the phones aren’t traceable to me, either.’
‘You think you’re safe?’
The laugh was genuine, unforced. ‘I am now that I know what to expect.’
Smet gave a loud sigh. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘You told Felicite?’
‘I was going to. I decided to talk to you first. Don’t you think I should bother?’
‘I’d like to frighten the bitch but this wouldn’t. She had me explain everything when I gave her the phones. She knows the only danger is being picked up by a scanner. And she’s only going to use a number once.’
‘How many has she got?’
‘Six.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘Gaston called.’
‘You tell him?’
‘I said I’d call him back, if it was serious.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He said he doesn’t give a shit what Felicite says. He’s going to get rid of the other thing. It’s beginning to stink.’
‘Let’s talk tomorrow.’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘That didn’t work out at all as it should have done,’ said Harrison, as the call disconnected.
‘I would have liked more,’ agreed Claudine. ‘But we have her name now: Felicite. And the number Smet began to ring puts her within the city, not outside. We’ve got two more given names, Antoinette and Gaston. We know we’re looking for someone at the top – a senior executive – at Belgacom. That hugely narrows down our search there. And if Felicite is only using a stolen number once, she’s got three left. That gives me a time frame for the dialogue.’
‘And he’ll call out,’ Volker said. ‘It’s just bad luck that he hasn’t already. He still might.’
They made arrangements to be immediately alerted if he did, and returned to the Metropole. At dinner Sanglier, anxious at the lack of convenience and freedom to keep in touch with Paris, announced that he intended returning to Europol headquarters the following day and Hugo Rosetti wondered, looking very directly at Claudine, if there was any practical reason for his remaining, either.
‘I’ve got an idea how to get a listening device into Smet’s office but we’ll need your help to achieve it,’ Claudine told the commissioner. To the pathologist she said: ‘The stinking “other thing” that Gaston is going to get rid of will be missing a toe. There might be a lot to learn from that body.’