With painful slowness, the hours went by. People came and went, but not the people they were interested in. The Peugeot, despite its place in the shade of a tree, became intolerably hot. Dave nearly got himself arrested when a resident saw him responding to a pressing call of nature up against a garden wall.
They quickly learned to recognize those who came and went on a regular basis: Nanou the maid on her Mobylette, Claudine the housekeeper in her Fiat 500, Olivier the chauffeur in the big black car-sometimes with passengers, sometimes without. But not once did they see the solitary figure they were hoping to see. Tedious hours turned into tedious days, broken up by shadowing Olivier from time to time as he went off to carry out some errand in the city.
Their patience was finally rewarded one bright afternoon by the arrival of a taxi that roused Dave from his afternoon doze by sounding its horn at the gate.
“It’s empty,” said Brian. “Come to pick someone up.”
Dave focused his binoculars on the gate a hundred yards away, saw the taxi appear and pull out onto the road with a single female passenger in the back. “Right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
At a safe distance, they followed the taxi back down the winding Chemin du Roucas Blanc, closing the gap when the traffic thickened as they reached the center of town. They went along the side of the Vieux Port, through a narrow side street, and emerged into the Rue Paradis. The taxi came to a halt outside a tinted glass facade, and they saw Elena Morales get out and go through the entrance marked “Studio Celine Coiffure.”
“Gone for a hairdo, it looks like,” said Dave. “This could do us nicely if we can find somewhere to park.”
After ten minutes of automotive infighting, Brian managed to shoehorn the Peugeot into a spot opposite the salon, provoking a barrage of shouts and horn-blowing from frustrated drivers backed up behind him. A young man in a battered Renault extended his hand in the classic single-digit salute as he passed. “And the same to you, mate,” said Brian. “No bleeding manners, these French.”
“Not long now,” said Dave. “Got your syringe?”
Brian nodded. “Got yours?”
They waited a few minutes more, then left the car, crossed the street, and appeared to find something that fascinated them in the window of a menswear boutique two doors away from the salon.
Elena came out into the bright sunshine of the street and was putting on her sunglasses when Brian, holding a map, went up to her. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Do you speak any English?”
“Sure.”
“I’m a bit lost.” He moved around to be beside her, holding the map so that she could see it. Dave came up behind her and jabbed the needle of his syringe into the bicep of her bare arm. The effect was instant. Her head slumped forward, her legs started to give way. They had to stop her from collapsing and almost had to carry her across the street before putting her into the back seat of the Peugeot. Passers-by took one look and hurried on. In Marseille one didn’t interfere in such situations.
Brian was grinning as he started the engine. “Works a treat, that stuff, doesn’t it?”
Sam checked his watch. Six-thirty, that time of day when stomachs all over Marseille start to rumble in anticipation. He and Elena had arranged to have dinner with Mimi and Philippe, but where was she? How long could a haircut take? Or had shopping caused her to lose track of the time?
He called her cell phone, but there was no answer. He called again twenty minutes later, and again ten minutes after that. Still no answer. By 7:30 he was worried enough to call Reboul. An hour later, Reboul called back. “My people have checked with the police, and with the hospitals and clinics. There have been no reports of any accidents or emergencies involving anyone of Elena’s description. I’m very sorry, my friend, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. We’ll keep trying.”
Sam passed a miserable evening with Philippe and Mimi. They made more unsuccessful calls to Elena’s number. Philippe called all his contacts-the informers, the night people, bar and club owners, a friend who owned a private ambulance service. Nothing. Evening stretched into what would prove to be a long, black, sleepless night for Sam.
Tired of pacing the bedroom, and more in desperation than hope, he tried Elena’s number. This time there was an answer.
“We were hoping you’d call.” The voice at the other end sounded tinny and slightly distorted, as if speaking through some kind of baffle, but it was distinct enough.
Sam made an effort to stay calm. “Where’s Elena?”
“Oh, she’s fine.”
“Let me speak to her.”
“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. She’s catching up on her sleep. It would be a shame to disturb her.”
“Where is she? Who are you?”
“That needn’t concern you. Now listen carefully. Miss Morales will be returned to you unharmed as soon as you withdraw your bid for the development on the Anse des Pecheurs, officially and unconditionally. You may give any excuse you want-apart, of course, from the real one. Is that clear? You can call me on this number when you’ve made the necessary arrangements. I’d advise you not to waste any time.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“What other options do you have?”
There was a click, and the line went dead.
Sixteen
Philippe was already in the kitchen, standing at the window and nursing his first espresso, when Sam came in-a haggard, unshaven, red-eyed Sam wearing his rumpled clothes from the day before and clutching his cell phone. He got himself a cup of coffee and sat down.
“Still no news?” asked Philippe. Sam shook his head. The night before, when Sam had told him about the phone call, Philippe had once again called the police, the hospitals, his underworld contacts, and the emergency services. As before, the result had been a series of blanks. It was time to acknowledge the ugly fact that last night’s caller had been serious; Elena had been kidnapped.
Philippe came and sat down. He put his arm around Sam’s shoulder, wincing as his cracked ribs complained. “I know it’s hard, but let’s try to be logical about this. D’accord?” Sam sighed and nodded. Philippe continued: “It’s not a normal ransom job, because nobody’s asked you for money. They’ve been very specific about what they want and how they want it done. Also, the guy spoke in English. Did he have any kind of accent?”
“Hard to tell. His voice was distorted.”
“That’s standard procedure.” Philippe shook his head. “Putain-I’m starting to talk like a cop. But did he sound English, or like a Frenchman speaking English?”
Despite the distortion, Sam remembered, the voice had sounded completely at home with English. “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure he was English. A Frenchman nearly always has difficulty pronouncing English words that begin with an h. This guy didn’t have a problem.”
“Right. So an Englishman calls you and wants you to pull out of the project. Now who’s going to do that? Who would gain from it? Who else could it be but Wapping or one of his entourage?” Philippe got up to make some more coffee. “It has to be him.” He looked at Sam and shrugged. “That’s the easy part. Now we have to work out where he’s holding Elena. Bear in mind that he doesn’t know Marseille very well, so he’s not going to hide her in some apartment. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t involve Patrimonio in something like this. That would make Patrimonio an accomplice to a criminal act-too risky. Now put yourself in Wapping’s shoes. He needs to keep Elena somewhere secure, somewhere discreet, somewhere he has total control. Where does that lead us?”