John Norris understood everything. He’d underestimated the woman, who was activated entirely by jealousy – envy of his reputation and ability – and had managed to mislead everybody. Only a temporary setback: a mistake of stupid people traumatized by the loss of a daughter. Have to put it right, of course. He had a child to save. The woman could even be part of it. The idea settled in his mind. That was brilliant, her being part of it. Deceiving everyone. Everyone except him. Because he was cleverer than any of them. Cleverer than her, certainly. This could be his best case, proving that she was involved. Wouldn’t be easy. Have to put a squad on her; strip her down to the bone. That was the way. Always was. Discover their secrets. Everyone broke down, confessed, when they were confronted with their secrets. Play it cleverly, though. Don’t let her know that he knew. Go along with everything while he had her checked out: got to the secrets. Then save Mary. He’d get her back. He knew all about kidnapping. Knew the way their minds worked. Knew the way everybody’s mind worked. That’s what he was. A mind-reader. Don’t worry, Mary. I’m coming. I’ll save you. No one else but me.
Norris sensed Claudine’s attention, switching from the closed circuit television upon which they’d watched the conference.
‘I thought that went very well, didn’t you?’ she said, attempting some rapport.
‘Let’s see what the next message is.’
Claudine turned to face him. ‘Let’s talk about what we’re going to do,’ she said urgently. ‘Talk to me about how you’re thinking: what you’re thinking. We both know she’ll die if we don’t. Let’s try to save her, together.’
‘You’re right,’ said Norris. ‘We’ve got to save her together.’ If he told her what he was thinking she’d know and then she could tell the others who had Mary. She might be able to fool everybody else but she couldn’t fool him.
The Justice Minister himself, Miet Ulieff, greeted the delegation. By unspoken agreement it was Peter Blake, not the weary Claudine, who for the benefit of the ten assembled Belgian officials repeated what they believed to have happened to Mary Beth McBride. He said nothing about the FBI dispute, which had also been kept from Andre Poncellet. The impression was that everything had come from the closest liaison between Europol and the Americans.
‘I want to be kept in the closest touch with every aspect of this investigation,’ announced Ulieff when Blake finished. ‘I’m therefore appointing a member of my legal staff to work permanently alongside Commissioner Poncellet until this poor child is recovered.’ He turned, gesturing a man forward. ‘Allow me to introduce Jean Smet.’
Thanks to the communication system he had introduced John Norris was able to read the messages the ambassador sent to both the State Department and Bureau headquarters, and from the cables that came in personally directed to him later that day he realized the Europol commissioner hadn’t been bluffing about making a direct complaint to Washington, either. He responded, as was required, with the assurance of total future cooperation with Europol, but with the reminder that by initially working independently he had been following not just his instructions before leaving Washington but the ambassador’s clearly expressed wishes, too.
It was late in the day when he detached Duncan McCulloch and Robert Ritchie, two of his best men, from the squad now sifting the responses to their Internet message and briefed them in detail on the investigation of Claudine Carter.
‘Keep it tight,’ he ordered. ‘Report back to me, no one else. This case is being allowed to go wrong. We’ve got to get it back on track.’
CHAPTER NINE
Mary cried, finally. Although not for herself. For her mother and father: for her father mostly. Mom had just sat there, saying nothing, her face not moving, like when they played statues at school with the person who moved first losing the game. Dad had looked so helpless, weeping as he had, not being able to talk properly when he’d asked whoever was holding her to tell him what they wanted so that he could do it and she could go home. She’d never known him like that. Not crying. Not knowing what to do. That wasn’t like dad. Grown-up men didn’t cry. Not dad, anyway. He always knew what to do. That’s why he was an ambassador, an important person. She didn’t like it, dad not knowing what to do. It wasn’t right. Made her feel funny, unsure of what was going to happen to her. She did know, of course. Dad would get her out: get her home. With lots of things to tell everyone at school.
It was the woman who made dad cry. Her and the stupid men in their stupid masks. But the woman’s fault most of all. They all did what she told them to do. So she hated the woman, for making dad cry. Couldn’t let her know, though. She might hit her again. Her bottom still hurt from the slapping in the bathroom. She hated the woman for slapping her, too. She ran her teeth over her brace, particularly the sharp bits. She wouldn’t take it out again. Not because the woman had slapped her for doing so: because she’d said she’d liked her without it. She wouldn’t do anything the woman liked, anything to please her.
Mary realized she didn’t have a handkerchief. She scrubbed her eyes and her nose with her fingers and tried to dry them on her skirt, only just preventing herself from jumping when the woman shouted.
‘Don’t be dirty! Get a tissue from the bathroom!’ Felicite was glad she’d come out to the house by the river to let the child watch the televised conference. It made her feel good, being able to reduce the man to tears. She hadn’t expected that. It was a bonus. Power. Much better than the satisfaction she got from making her group do what she wanted. Pity the wife hadn’t cried, too. That would have been wonderful, making them both dance when she pulled their strings. One was enough, though: enough for now.
She hoped Jean wouldn’t be too much longer. She wanted to hear what happened at the Justice Ministry. The rush hour in Antwerp might delay him. He’d sounded frightened on the telephone, but it only needed the smallest thing he didn’t expect to frighten Jean Smet.
Mary came back into the huge room with her face and nose dry, but uncertain what to do. Dad and mom weren’t on television any more, but there was a group of men talking about how kidnap victims were freed, and the strange giggling man who had felt her bottom had joined the woman to watch. The French being spoken on screen was very fast and Mary had difficulty following it. She thought she heard something about Belgium’s having a bad record for child crime – she wasn’t sure what rapports sexuels actually meant but it sounded like what they’d been told about in biology at school, how babies were made – and a succession of children’s photographs suddenly appeared on the screen.
‘Can you understand what they’re saying?’ demanded Felicite. By telephoning the school – another pleasure, speaking to the establishment whose pupil was hers now, to do with what she chose – pretending to be the parent of a potential student, she’d discovered the curriculum languages were German and English in addition to French.
‘I’m not very good. Something about children being taken away from their parents.’
To Mehre, in English, Felicite said: ‘The men on the television were talking about children getting punished if they’re bad, weren’t they?’
Mehre sniggered so hard it sounded like a cough. He said: ‘Yes! Are we going to do it!’
Mary was sure they hadn’t been speaking about punishment. ‘I haven’t done anything bad.’
‘You’re not going to, are you?’
‘Let me, please!’ said the man urgently.
‘Dad said he wanted to talk to you.’
‘Are you going to be naughty?’
‘No,’ Mary made herself say. The woman wanted to hurt her again. Why was the man snuffling?
‘I really want to be nice to you. We all do,’ said Felicite.
Mary couldn’t think what to say. She lowered herself very gently on to one of the big chairs, like a movie seat, in front of the giant screen. Her bottom still hurt. The men weren’t talking on television any more. Sesame Street was on, although it was in French. She could understand that easily enough. She tried to watch it but not so the woman would see and get angry.
‘I want to love you. Be kind to you.’
‘Take me home, then.’
‘I will.’
‘When?’
