‘I can’t,’ Grant said. ‘Nor can I name one who survived past forty.’
Khalil sat back and turned his head, checking again that his wife wasn’t listening. Grant respected the man sat opposite him and he’d learned much about what made him tick. He couldn’t help thinking there was more to it though. What he wanted to know was why Fawaz wanted those shipping lanes.
‘We chose different paths and we can never be friends,’ Khalil said.
It was a resigned statement and full of tragedy. Grant knew that what he was really saying was that it wasn’t what Fawaz was asking for that was the issue here, but the very fact that he’d asked for anything. Hakim was a pawn. Grant reckoned that even if Khalil acquiesced, he might never see his son again. But was that a gamble worth taking?
‘What if you said yes?’
‘It might be my only choice now,’ Khalil acknowledged. ‘It would be the end of me and everything my father worked for. My containers are frequently opened by coastguard police and international shipping regulators, and so on. If I don’t stay clean, I’m finished.’
This was a change: a resignation almost. ‘But you can’t know what is in every container,’ Grant stated.
‘For sure, but I can know ninety per cent. Also, I can always chase the paperwork to see who owns the container, who packed it and who supplied the goods.’
‘But Fawaz didn’t want to do that?’ Grant asked.
‘Exactly. He refused to tell me what he wanted to transport, and he also refused to have it traceable and recorded.’
‘Fawaz doesn’t strike me as an unintelligent man, but surely he’d have known you’d say no?’
‘I don’t know. Fawaz was always arrogant. When I spoke to him over the phone, he was different to the man I knew. He was edgy, desperate – manic even.’
‘So, what happened next?’ Grant asked.
‘Until today, nothing. I never heard from him again until Hakim was taken.’
‘And you’re convinced it’s him who is behind it?’ Grant asked.
‘Yes. There is something else that I haven’t told you.’
‘Go on,’ Grant said.
‘I received a mobile phone by post, to my home, the day before Hakim was taken. That’s why I rushed him back to Paris. I saw it as a warning.’ Khalil pulled the phone out of his jacket and showed it to Grant.
‘Has anybody tried to contact you?’
‘Only today. I got a call telling me that I needed to authorise certain containers to be loaded at the Bay of Algiers, heading to Marseilles, otherwise I would never see my son again. It was while you were getting the boys from school.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I agreed to the authorisation.’
‘Have you informed Interpol?’ Grant asked.
‘No. If I do that, I’ll never see Hakim again. This is for you only.’
Chapter 11
Fawaz looked at the photo in his hand. In his other, he held a tumbler of American bourbon. The ice clinked around the glass when he held it to his mouth. His religion strictly banned alcoholic consumption, but he was not devout. For five years now, he’d renounced the Prophet and pursued his own agenda in the world and life therein. His cynicism had turned to bitterness, and that to hate and revenge.
He was alone, except for the usual servants keeping the place tended. Sometimes he dismissed them for days on end and that’s when things lost their lustre. Even matters of business did not hold his attention. On occasions such as these darker moments, outside, the pools turned green with algae, detritus blew across the courtyards and food rotted. The staff would be recalled when he felt the fog lift from his haunted brain, they were kept on full pay anyway, and they’d begin the clear up. He hadn’t dismissed them today though. They were to stay on for a few days to make sure the place was spotless for his return – if he returned.
His eyes burned with grief. The young man in the photo was only twenty years of age. He’d worked in the family firm; a move that Fawaz had seen as a natural progression for all of his sons. He’d shown him the business, from top to bottom, missing no detail. Out of all of his children, Rafik showed the most aptitude. He was the eldest son of his first wife, and he had her wit and resilience. Once he got into a task, he never gave up until it was completed to the highest standard. The mistake had been allowing him to travel to Britain. In Rafik’s unique way, he’d assuaged his father’s fears, always quick to point out his gift for avoiding trouble.
But not any more.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He took another swig of the liquor and got up to leave the office and go to his private rooms, still clutching the photo. Outside in the courtyard, the traditional riad was decked with balconies, silk curtains, tapestries and tropical plants, and richly adorned with beautiful bright-coloured tiles and mosaics. Had it only been yesterday when the place was full of leering old men, lusting after young flesh? Many of his rooms had been used last night, but not by him. Instead, he’d come to his office and got blind drunk. He wasn’t interested in women, or sex of any kind, any more.
He walked through the atrium,
