Her stroll over the Pont Morand was pleasant, and she could see the colossal cube-like structure of Interpol HQ. As she neared the main entrance, she took a few deep breaths and reminded herself of her new assignment. Essentially, Sir Conrad wanted one thing: reassurance that the summit would go ahead without event. How she came to offer him such assurance was down to her. One thing was certain though: so far she’d uncovered not one shred of evidence to link Fawaz to the Afghan poppy fields. She hoped that this would prove Sir Conrad overcautious. In her book, prudence was preferable to dead bodies any day of the week, and she was here to offer solid assurances to the ambassador in that regard.
She entered the vast air-conditioned foyer, which reached three storeys up, and was surrounded by escalators and more glass on all sides. A whole line of security scanners awaited her, and she approached, showing her ID and signing in to see Commander Peter Knowles, Head of Counter Terrorism. She’d looked him up before her visit; Peter Knowles, whom Sir Conrad had said was a personal pal, had a respected and acclaimed career in police work, mainly at the Met. He had an excellent track record, and Interpol had arrested seventy-two criminals associated with terror plots across Europe since his appointment in Lyon as part of the international force. If anyone was to know about Fawaz Nabil and his connections – perhaps even the circumstances of his son’s death – then it was him.
She was searched and allowed to proceed to the fourth floor, where Peter’s office was. She was slightly apprehensive because she didn’t know what to expect, but she generally found that the civilians working at the HQ were all after the same goal: to stop the shitheads hell bent on destroying the social and civil liberties of member states.
Peter Knowles was busy but his secretary made Helen a great coffee. Her accent was French. The language of Interpol was first and foremost English, closely followed by Spanish, French and Arabic. There was a lot to be ashamed of as a result of the British Empire, but people speaking your language in every corner of the globe was something that Helen was grateful for, though her French was excellent. She stood in front of the glass windows and watched Lyon below, unable to divert her mind from what might be going on down there in the streets. It was this instinctive pull towards rooting out criminality, and wanting to expose it, that had landed her in the RMP in the first place.
‘He’s ready for you now,’ the secretary told her. Helen followed her into the spacious office.
A large man in a smart suit walked towards her, holding out his hand. He had a warm face and clean hands. She imagined him starting out as a police constable in Hackney, thirty years ago, cutting his teeth on the street. It was difficult to imagine him as Sir Conrad’s personal friend though. The two couldn’t be more different, and she wondered how they’d met.
‘Major Scott. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your CV makes for entertaining reading indeed,’ he said. ‘Peter Knowles.’
Peter’s voice was the kind that demanded attention without shouting, and she met his stare. He was sizing her up.
‘Hello, Peter – good to meet you.’
‘Sit down, please. I trust you’ve been reading up on your homework from Sir Conrad?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘A yellow notice has gone out to all member states about the abduction of Hakim Dalmani.’
‘Not a red notice then?’ So, he was being treated as a missing person and not a fugitive. It was an important distinction and one that told her they’d weighed up the options. A red notice was issued for an international fugitive, while a yellow one was released for an international missing person where any border had been crossed – in this case, Algeria–France.
‘The investigation with our office in Algiers is not my department, of course, but I’ll introduce you to the woman in charge in a minute – she can fill you in on the details. So, Sir Conrad is worried about the summit?’
‘Yes. I’ve been working on his personal security for two weeks, and yesterday I met with Special Agent Roy White, who’s heading up the US operation at Versailles. I’m happy with everything from that perspective.’
‘But now, Fawaz bin Nabil poking his head above the parapet has everybody jumpy?’
‘Exactly.’
‘That is my department,’ he said. ‘I’ll be taking a keen interest in his movements over the next week. It’s poor timing, I grant you that, and we’ve got eyes on him – as you must know, we’ve been watching him for years – but in all honesty, the most likely attack on a summit like Paris would come from Da’esh. Fawaz isn’t, and never has been, affiliated in any way. He chases the money, billions of it. He’s not a political animal, and as far as we know, he’s not a religious nut either.’
‘Coincidences mean you’re on the right path…’ she said.
He looked at her. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Your detective nose?’
‘Actually I can’t take the credit, it’s from a short story by Simon Van Booy.’
‘I like it. That’s your police head talking,’ he said. ‘As long as you’re here, you may as well use your time to satisfy yourself that all ducks are in their respective rows and report back to Sir Conrad.’
‘That’s the idea. Thank you for allowing me to get involved – it’s a pleasure to be back in Lyon. I hope I can contribute. Great coffee, by the way,’ Helen said.
‘It is good, isn’t it? I love this city. My wife is happy here and the kids are at university back in England. Mind you, I wish I wasn’t quite so busy, the statistics on increasing terrorist cells and how sophisticated they have become don’t make for happy reading.’
He escorted her out of his office, along the corridor to the elevator and up one
