Felicite’s passport put her at thirty-nine, to within three years of Claudine’s estimate. The town house, the itemized jewellery, the money in copied deposit and current bank accounts – in total the Belgian franc equivalent of almost $200,000 – as well as the dark green Mercedes attested to substantial wealth, which Claudine had also guessed. She had been prepared for Marcel still to be alive and one of the paedophile group but she wasn’t surprised to read in one of the several preserved obituary notices that Felicite’s late husband had been a leading Brussels stockbroker, the head of his own firm and a trading member of the city’s bourse. The several retained newspaper and magazine references to Felicite’s interest in and support for local charities didn’t surprise her, either. Nor that two of them involved the protection of children.

Volker entered the briefing room as she was finishing comparing the computer reproductions with Felicite’s photographs.

‘I thought that was disappointing,’ said the German. ‘Those witnesses’ descriptions were remarkably good. And she’s reasonably well known, from the newspaper cuttings. Yet we didn’t get a single recognition.’

‘That’s human nature,’ said Claudine. ‘No one thought it could be Felicite because she’s far too respectable. They were frightened of making fools of themselves.’

‘Although it doesn’t show paedophilia there’s someone remarkably similar in one of the pornographic films that arrived yesterday through the Amsterdam outlet,’ said Volker. ‘Come and see what you think.’

Only five operators remained in the computer room, now that the e-mail flood had dried to a trickle. They had been concentrated at the far end of the room, separated by a line of dead screens from Volker’s three-machine command post. There were two television sets immediately adjacent, a cassette still in the gate of one VCR.

It was a lesbian orgy. Most of the participants were totally naked, several with dildoes strapped to their crotch as penises, others with manual vibrators. Without exception all the women wore grotesquely ornate animal or occult half-masks that left their mouths free. In almost every shot there were scenes of cunnilingus.

‘There!’ said Volker, freezing the frame to point to a heavily busted woman in a satyr’s headpiece. She was one of the performers wearing a dildo.

Claudine made herself look away from another participant, studying the figure that had attracted Volker’s attention. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Look: there’s dark hair – brunette – showing beneath the mask at the forehead and at the nape of the neck. And the pubis is black.’

‘You’re right,’ agreed the German. ‘I thought that was a shadow.’ He restarted the film. ‘Looks like quite a party.’

‘Yes,’ said Claudine, looking back to the other participant.

Henri Sanglier made a noisy entry and said: ‘I’ve been looking for everyone. What are you doing?’

‘I thought we had a connection but I was wrong,’ admitted Volker, as Claudine snapped the film off.

‘No need to waste time on it,’ Claudine said, leading the commissioner back out of the room.

The devil’s mask had done nothing to hide Sanglier’s wife from Claudine, quite apart from the setting of the film. She at once recognized Francoise from the languid model’s grace with which the woman moved and from the extraordinarily long-fingered hands that had tried so hard to explore her. She hadn’t known about Francoise’s tiny bird tattoo, which matched that on the thigh of the woman upon whom Francoise was using a vibrator. But then she’d never allowed herself to get into a situation in which Francoise was naked, despite the woman’s persistent efforts.

In addition to all of which it was the location of the film that was the easiest to identify. From the still unexplained dinner party to which Henri Sanglier had invited her and Rosetti, Claudine knew the panelled hallway and opulent, antique-crowded room beyond actually to be Sanglier’s manoir, on the road between The Hague and Delft. And so would anyone else who had been to the man’s home.

The first to arrive, together, were greeted as Gaston and Charles.

‘It’s the antique dealer and his relative,’ confirmed Harding, over his mobile link. ‘Our guys followed them from Antwerp. They’re on their way back to you.’

McBride, who’d made a help-yourself gesture towards the cocktail cabinet but been the only one to take a drink, Jack Daniel’s, sat hunched towards the huge speaker. Hillary was wearing her green safari suit.

Smet said: ‘Everyone’s coming.’

‘Felicite?’ queried a voice.

‘Everyone except Felicite.’

‘What’s happening?’ It was Gaston.

‘Let’s wait for the others,’ said Smet.

‘It’s a fat guy,’ warned Harding, before the sound of the doorbell.

Smet said: ‘You and I might have a lot of legal matters to talk about, Michel.’

‘A new name,’ Rampling told the watching FBI head. ‘Michel.’

‘We’ve got the car registration, for the full name,’ Harding assured him. Then: ‘Here’s another one!’

‘August,’ said Smet, at the door.

‘It’s the Belgacom executive,’ said Rampling, into his telephone.

‘From the back of the guy coming in now there’s a resemblance to the video-fit of the driver of the kidnap car,’ said Harding, as the sound of a bell echoed through the speaker. Smet opened and closed the door, without speaking. There was the sound of carpet-muffled footsteps.

‘It’s good that you all came,’ said Smet. ‘We’re at the very edge of disaster.’

‘They’re all there!’ declared Rampling.

‘Go!’ ordered Harding, not speaking to those listening in the ambassador’s study.

They didn’t need the hydraulic rams to smash the door off its hinges. Blake rang the bell and Harding shouted, through a bullhorn and in remarkably good French: ‘Let us in, Smet. We’re ready to take the door down.’

From the lounge window Dehane, his voice chipped by hysteria, said: ‘They’re everywhere! Swarming in!’

Smet said: ‘Don’t say anything. There’s nothing to connect us with the girl,’ and then there was the sound of a lot of people all moving at once.

Michel Blott was the first to flee through the rear door, outside which McCulloch and Ritchie were waiting with a squad. McCulloch said: ‘Thanks for opening the door,’ and pushed past the fat lawyer.

Henri Cool was cowering inside the rear hallway. When he saw the entering Americans he said: ‘Don’t hurt me! Please don’t hurt me!’ and began to cry.

The Mehre brothers were standing in the middle of the main room, with Dehane. Gaston was holding the hand of the trembling Charles. Dehane kept repeating: ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’

Smet was taking the pistol from his mouth when McCulloch entered the bedroom. McCulloch said: ‘We distorted the pin. It won’t fire. I’ll help you jam it down your throat if you like.’

By the time they were all brought back together in the lounge the still weeping Henri Cool had wet himself. So had Charles Mehre. He was also crying.

In the ambassador’s study they heard Harding say: ‘OK. Which one of you is going to tell me where Felicite is, with Mary Beth?’

‘No!’ moaned Claudine.

None of the men spoke.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Henri Sanglier accepted at once that it would mean sacrificing a lot of potential personal benefit: he could no longer, for instance, claim to have masterminded the entire operation, which had been an early intention. But speed, at last with official knowledge and authority, was the only consideration now: how quickly they could recover the child. Which made the inevitable Belgian outrage an irritating delay and Claudine’s suggestion how best to overcome it a godsend. It also made McBride an urgent accomplice.

It was the ambassador who pressed the Justice Minister (‘there is an absolutely essential political need that can’t be put off until tomorrow’) to meet them at the central police headquarters. Only when they arrived, within minutes of each other and ahead of anyone from the rue de Flandres, did Sanglier call Poncellet. The police

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