‘Major Scott, I expected a man. I do apologise for my assumption, though I expect it’s happened before?’
‘Not really, no,’ Helen replied.
Their call began, and Helen took in the image of the man in front of her. She’d seen his photograph several times now, but the man in person was warm, charming and alluring somehow. His skin was mahogany brown and his face was immaculately groomed: she’d grown accustomed to such good looks when she worked in close protection in Afghanistan. In the Middle East, a man’s skin was the sure-fire way of distinguishing class. His was pure silk. She could almost smell his success through the computer screen. He stank of it.
‘Let me introduce myself properly,’ she said. ‘I’m a major in the British Royal Military Police and I’ve been asked to take on your son’s case—’
‘Why is the UK military investigating the disappearance of my son?’ He interrupted before she could continue. His voice was tinged with suspicion.
‘It’s not. I was brought in by Interpol as a close-protection expert, sir. The RMP is merely my cap badge. I believe you’re familiar with the battalions of the UK military?’ Khalil had been sent to the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst by his father thirty years ago, as was the tradition of wealthy families around the globe. He didn’t distinguish himself but that wasn’t the point.
He smiled. ‘And your credentials?’
She groaned inwardly. A damn sight better than Jean-Luc’s, she felt like saying, but didn’t. She reeled off some of her finer achievements and watched as his brow raised and creased. Her experience had the same effect on men from any country, rich or not. It surprised them. She managed to maintain her smile, waiting for the usual exclamations of astonishment.
‘Impressive… What would you like to ask me?’ Khalil asked.
‘Two things. I want to know why Hakim was travelling back to college early. He usually spends the whole summer with you. Secondly, why was Jean-Luc a one-man team?’
She waited. The room behind him was richly decorated, and she knew he was residing in the presidential suite at the Ritz in Paris. If only she’d visited him before she left, in person, to get a sneak peek.
‘Hakim has developed an infatuation with a French girl. He was lovesick, and I allowed him to travel back early, on the promise that he came back again before term began.’
Bullshit, she thought.
‘Name of the girl?’
‘Amélie Laurent.’ He gave her further details, such as her name and area of degree. It would be enough to trace her. If she existed.
‘And why a one-man team? I’ve never come across it in my line of work.’
‘Jean-Luc is a skilled professional, and I trusted him with my life.’
‘What about your son’s life?’
Khalil winced.
‘I know that you and Jean-Luc Bisset go way back and I’m aware that he’s worked for you for a long time, but we have reason to belief he intentionally switched his phone off somewhere between Algiers and Paris. It never went back on again, and there was no one else on the plane, except the pilots, and your son of course. There are a couple of calls he made at your place in Algiers before he left – we’re trying to trace them, but none of the numbers are registered. I’m assuming that you keep track of all of your security staff?’
‘Yes.’ Khalil nodded, clearly uncomfortable.
‘Have you appointed a replacement yet?’
‘I have, thank you,’ Khalil said.
‘Well, could I get in touch with them?’
‘Why?’
‘I need to liaise with him, about your current arrangements, and, for example, why you chose to travel to Paris and not stay in Algiers.’ She tried to remain balanced but what she wanted should be bloody obvious.
‘What if I appointed a woman, Major Scott?’
Shit, she thought.
He became serious again. His penchant for teasing wasn’t lost on her, something Grant was good at too. ‘I told your people that I want to be as close to my son as I can possibly be. I know he is still alive.’
‘I’m sure he is. Have you received any demands, or been approached in any way?’ she asked.
‘No.’
His response came quickly. Too quickly. She stared into his eyes, trying to read them, but she couldn’t, and it frustrated her. He stared back and remained steadfast.
‘Could I perhaps talk to your new head of security please?’
‘Major Scott, I have a meeting to go to. I’ll get back to you on that – I don’t want him compromised, like Jean-Luc was.’
‘So, it is a man. Wait a minute, what do you mean? You agree that Jean-Luc was compromised? How?’ she asked.
The screen went dead, and she banged her hand on the desk.
That hadn’t gone well.
Chapter 18
The journey had gone to plan, with only one major close call as they arrived in Portugal. The coastguard along the southern coast of Spain, from Gibraltar north to the Algarve, was always hot on movement in its waterways. Fawaz and his crew had anticipated it, but they’d still got lucky.
At one point, on the first night, they were approaching a small rocky cove near Praia da Rocha, the most westerly point in all of Europe. It jutted out into the Atlantic like the chin of a petulant child, though in reality it was a mere blip on the continent’s flank.
Lights had flashed suddenly and taken them by surprise. They heard the rumble of a vessel larger than their own, and Fawaz prepared himself to dive over the side, should it come to it. After all, he could see the coast from the blacked-out rig. However, after a few tense moments, the lights had passed and the boat accelerated away. They heard the arguments of a Portuguese couple on board and realised that they were squabbling over a game of cards. It wasn’t the coastguard after all.
They’d had to climb a ladder from the beach near Praia da Rocha, as the cliff was steep and tall, which is why it was the perfect beach to land. Fawaz gave silent thanks to the
