The engine was cut. And he followed their instructions to get out of the vehicle. He did everything they asked of him. Up until just moments ago when they’d fled the apartment, the two men who’d held him had been anonymous to him. Now they weren’t, and he stared into their faces. That was not a good sign. He looked down at his feet, in a gesture of compliance.
They were parked at the rear of an apartment block, and the land around it was built up with tenements and other blocks. He listened intently and gazed around as much as he could without making it obvious that he was assessing his surroundings. He stood still, demonstrating that he had no plans to run. The men were too busy arguing to notice. One took his arm suddenly, his weapon now concealed. He was led to a stairwell and marched up three flights of stairs. On the second, they passed a woman hanging out washing on her balcony. Hakim caught her eye and lingered the length of half a breath. She looked away. He must be being moved between the areas of the city most populated by immigrants. Areas like this had, in recent years, become lawless, and the Lyonnais Gendarmerie were stretched to keep check on them. Hakim read the Paris press. On the third floor, they came to a door, and it was unlocked. Hakim was shoved inside but they needn’t have bothered: he still had no intentions of running. He didn’t know the area; he had no idea which direction to run and, as far as he could make out, he was surrounded by a potentially hostile population. Hakim knew only too well the undercurrent of France’s immigration troubles and it wasn’t as if he drew attention to himself for looking like a European: his skin was the same as theirs. Some said revolution wasn’t far off. Why should anyone give a damn about him?
He was in the bowels of Lyon and all he could do was pray that whoever had discovered their last hideout was hot on their trail.
Inside was much like the last flat, and he was escorted to a bare room, the door locked from the outside. He heard the men discussing what they should do and who they should call but they didn’t use names, just codes like they had in the last apartment. Names were changed to animals like Crocodile, Leopard and Sand Cat. The latter coming up the most.
Hakim realised that he missed the old man. He’d been a point of human contact that kept him hopeful. Now, it hit him how much he’d come to rely on that spurious and flimsy connection. He felt bereft, and heaviness sat under his rib cage. It took him by surprise and he felt his spirit waning. It was all part of the dehumanisation and reliance process used by captors – well, the clever ones anyway. It unnerved him that he’d disintegrated so far so quickly. His brain whirred as he tried to grasp reality and concentrate on what meant something important: his father’s face, his brothers’ laughter, and his mother’s embrace. Amélie’s kiss. It didn’t work. They appeared detached and cold in his mind, and he began to panic. He couldn’t breathe. He paced up and down the room, but as he did so, the images of his family blurred even further. Their faces disappeared, smudged and empty. Amélie’s face, bright with laughter, replaced the disappearing images and he snapped.
He banged on the door and shouted. ‘Let me out! I have to get out!’
Suddenly, the door flew open and the two men barged in, restraining him and forcing him onto the bed. They cursed at him in Arabic and French. One punched him in the gut, but still Hakim struggled. He felt like an animal might, caught in a cage, unable to free itself. All logic deserted him. He managed to land a punch on one of the men’s faces, but the reprisal was harsh. The man brought the butt of his automatic weapon down onto Hakim’s skull with full force, and it made his temples sing. Vibrations tore through his head and his eyesight faded.
He slumped onto the bed, and he felt more punches to his ribs and gut. He curled into a ball and retched. Finally, the men left, still cursing about the noise he’d made. Within seconds, they were back. He was gagged tightly and slapped in the face a few more times.
Exhausted, with his paranoia spent, Hakim lay down and closed his eyes, one of which was swelling, and calmed his breathing.
Chapter 20
‘Tracing two men of North African descent in Lyon is like finding a white Catholic in Dublin,’ Sylvia said.
Helen nodded. They sat in Sylvia’s office discussing the case. It was her second day in Lyon on the job, having arrived Monday night, and she felt settled in the office space. Sylvia was in and out, with other work taking her away from the office sporadically. For the most part, Helen was left alone, but she appreciated the interjections from a fresh pair of eyes. Helen didn’t know if the older woman was checking on her or being supportive and decided that it was a combination of the two. After all, Sylvia had admitted herself that she’d been through Helen’s work profile. It was slightly unnerving, as if she now had something to live up to.
‘But we do have the artist’s impressions from the old woman,’ Helen said. The drawings were detailed and had been distributed to the press and posted on the Interpol website, as well as given to all police departments in the 194 member states. It was standard for a yellow notice, but Helen suspected there was nothing conventional about this case.
‘We’ve got the full forensic report from Madame Bisset’s flat,’ Helen said.
Sylvia stood in front of
