Sweeps of the residential areas surrounding the flat had yielded nothing of significance. No one had reported seeing a van, or at least one that was memorable. It seemed like the woman was the only resident in the neighbourhood willing to risk handing over details of the comings and goings surrounding the garage. It was a common stumbling block to investigations: human reticence. Helen had yet to go to the press with finer details than simply persons of interest but was considering making this suggestion. Khalil expressly communicated that he wanted the case kept low profile, lest it harm the chances of finding Hakim alive. It was a fair point and one that she was taking on board, and indeed, given what the man was worth, the chances of fake information bogging them down was high, but she doubted he was sharing everything. To her, a man who was spending every waking moment trying to find his son, travelling to Paris to do so, would be harassing them daily at Interpol HQ, waiting for every shred of news. Khalil Dalmani wasn’t doing this and it raised her suspicions further. She couldn’t ignore her niggling worry that he was conducting his own inquiry, with the help of Grant Tennyson, flexing private muscle and exploiting private contacts. It was true that the man had resources at his disposal that made Interpol look like an amateur racket. However, what these billionaires failed to appreciate was that legal channels took time, but that didn’t mean they were less effective. If this was indeed the case, there was little she or anyone could do, unless he crossed the line of legality, for example by using strong-arm tactics of interrogation or carrying illegal weapons. It was a precarious balance and one that Helen didn’t fancy facing, but she knew that she might have to.
It made her think even more that whoever had Hakim must have made contact with Khalil in some way. Why else would he be so cagey? Surely a man desperate to find his son, with the assistance of the biggest international law enforcement agency on Earth, would be virtually camping on their doorstep, demanding progress daily? It verged on arrogance. He was keeping something from them, of this she was sure. She’d memorised his face from their brief electronic meeting. It wasn’t lost on her that he expected a man to head the inquiry, and that had put them on an unequal footing. Would he trust her?
She couldn’t help feeling that whichever way this investigation twisted and turned, she’d have to face the fact that, at some point, sooner rather than later, she’d have to make contact with Grant.
Chapter 23
Khalil watched his boys charge around the suite, and he smiled. Never again would he take them for granted. He wanted to witness their every whine, crash, bang, fight and annoyance. He felt physical pain when he thought of his eldest son; it had been his most important job to protect him, and he felt as though he’d led him directly into danger. The policewoman from Britain was right: he should never have put his whole personal security programme into the hands of one man. It shamed him to think that he’d entrusted his flesh and blood to a man who essentially he knew little about. He’d thought he’d known Jean-Luc, but he realised that apart from paying him, gifting him bonuses and benefits, he hadn’t really got under the skin of the employee he’d inherited off his father. Now, he remembered his face and his eyes narrowing when Khalil added another jet to his fleet, or took delivery of a new Bentley.
Did it all boil down to money? If Fawaz had lured Jean-Luc to his side with a simple promise of wealth, then Khalil had been a fool indeed.
Taziri felt cooped up like a prisoner, he could tell. It was in the way she sighed and her grimace that overtook her face where once a light smile resided. Grant Tennyson had pulled together a team of British ex-special forces to guard them, but Taziri wasn’t intimidated by them and that warmed his heart. She was as tough as the first day he’d seen her, arguing in the street about the weight of a fish she’d been sold. She was all indignation and female strength. Khalil had offered to help, to which she’d replied, ‘Why would I need your help?’ That’s why he was shocked – delighted – to see a woman in charge of his son’s case. He hadn’t quite communicated his joy, and he feared he’d got off on the wrong foot with Miss Scott. Strong women impressed him but they were few and far between in his world. He toyed with the idea of being transparent with Miss Scott, but he mistrusted large institutions that were constrained by certain laws he disagreed with. And she was a cog in their wheel, not his.
But she intrigued him. There was an earnestness in her face that he recognised in his wife. She too had fire behind her eyes, and Khalil knew when to concede. It had taken him three months of visiting the market and trying to speak to the young Taziri before she finally relented and allowed him to contact her family. Three months later they were married, and nine months after that he held his firstborn child. It was a moment he would never forget. ‘Hakim’ in Arabic meant ‘learned and wise’, or more specifically, ‘ruler’; it was a hefty expectation to live up to, but Khalil never doubted that he’d be proud of his son, no matter what path he chose. Thinking about Hakim now caused a stone-weight of dread to settle in the pit of his stomach. It had been five days. He turned away from the boys and went into a separate room that had been set up as his office. Affairs in Algeria and the running of AlGaz didn’t stop because he was out
