What happened? She stared at the faces of Fawaz and Khalil, searching for answers.
She sat back, finished her coffee and took another look at the file on Fawaz, paying particular attention to the information on Nabil Tradings. It was mainly dry and technical, exacerbating Helen’s drowsiness, but she persevered. The pages covering pre-2013 detailed the investigations designed to ensnare Nabil Tradings in illegal goings-on, but never led to any indictments. However, the several cases filed by Interpol since 2013, when they’d begun Operation Lionfish, told a different story. To date, they’d seized over a billion dollars’ worth of illegal substances being transported by air, land and sea, mainly in Europe and South America. But not one shred of intelligence had led back to the big man himself: Fawaz bin Nabil. He was a local hero in Morocco, due to donating funds to various humanitarian agencies, schools and universities, and no doubt government departments, though there was no evidence of this. For Interpol to catch him, they needed him with blood, explosives or weed on his hands, and, so far, they’d got nothing. They continued picking off couriers, dealers and producers, but Fawaz remained elusive. Then there were the files on his arms trading, but all of it was legitimate. The guy was as clean as a whistle. Helen pondered the possibility of a ruse. A very intricate and complex trick to make the authorities believe that Hakim had been abducted, thus throwing them off the scent of something else? But what? And that would assume that the Nabils and Dalmanis never fell out in the first place. Her head hurt, and she needed a break. She’d been drawn into a labyrinth of intrigue and the task before her seemed more daunting than ever. However, what she did appreciate was that she was away from Paris and the politics of her job. Away from Colonel Palmer and his military dick-swinging, and on her own. It excited her.
This was her bread and butter: a bona fide police investigation. This was why she’d joined the military police. The army wasn’t cerebral enough for her and the civvie police wasn’t broad enough. This way, she got to step into both worlds, internationally, and once again, all thoughts of her handing her notice in because of some wobble of faith, because of what had happened to Luke, disappeared. If anything, she should never give up because of Luke. Giving up would be like saying it was her fault.
And she had someone else’s child to find.
She rarely looked inside her wallet at the tiny photograph of her son, but she did now. Fancies of Hakim’s disappearance being down to some kind of ploy or tactic melted away. She looked at her baby boy, swaddled in a white blanket, evidently asleep, and swore she’d return Khalil Dalmani’s son to him.
She was rudely awakened from her daydream by the announcement that they were an hour away from Lyon. She sat up, surprised that she’d been thinking about Luke for so long, and put away his photograph. A whiff of guilt settled on her: she was supposed to be at work, studying the files. Looking at her watch, she believed that she could get in a little more reading before she arrived in Lyon.
Fawaz was separated from seven wives and had fathered fifteen children, all of whom he supported financially. None of them worked in the family firm, which was unusual. One would think that he’d be grooming his sons to take over his empire, but he wasn’t. So who did he see as his heir? She saw that he hung out mainly at a famous hacienda on the outskirts of Marrakech. The same intel applied: Interpol had to have the grace of the Moroccan authorities to storm in, and they simply didn’t have the evidence. They didn’t even have a money trail, and no one knew how Fawaz laundered the millions of dollars he allegedly made from drugs and arms.
Her eyes focused on a date five years ago and the name of Fawaz’s eldest son: Rafik. He’d been apprehended in London on terror offences and deported back to Morocco by the Home Office. It wasn’t that unusual in itself; foreign nationals causing more trouble than they’re worth were regularly shipped back to their native states, quietly and without press coverage. It was well known that Morocco wanted to improve relations with Europe and be seen as a legitimate, modern state. She read on and saw that Rafik died shortly after returning home, in police custody.
So Fawaz had lost a child too.
Chapter 10
The Gulfstream G550 was cleared for take-off. Grant sipped pomegranate juice from a glass and peered out of the window. He looked around at the luxury and wondered how it might feel to travel like this all the time. The two little boys seemed nonplussed, clearly used to it. He’d driven them home from school and they’d asked the questions that any curious young boys might in their position: ‘Do you work for my dad?’ ‘Do you have a gun?’ Otherwise, they’d been unfazed by the European stranger trusted with their care. He was taken by their innocence and wondered if they’d been told that their brother was missing. Probably not.
The interior of the aircraft was upholstered in soft beige leather and the mahogany tables were polished so well that he could see the reflection of his hand every time he went to put his glass down. Khalil sat opposite him, busy as always, on his laptop. Taziri and the boys sat to the rear of the plane. All three of them were glued to their phones. It was a common sight; he rarely saw people off the damn things. Families on holiday at the Marriott, supposed to be enjoying the pool, having fun and messing around, often spent all their time gaping at the screens in front of them. He decided he’d make a terrible father; he’d be execrably dull in his approach,
