‘It’ll be an investigation within an hour of its becoming clear what there is to investigate,’ promised Blake, unimpressed by the other man’s obviously overstrained amazement.
Norris shook his head. The woman had irritated him into pointless argument, but it didn’t matter any more. His only annoyance now was at himself, for allowing it to happen. These two – their entire cockamamy organization – were of no importance. They had just made themselves irrelevant by admitting – casually admitting! – they considered that the disappearance of an American ambassador’s child could be handled by just two people, with the further incredible admission that the appointed negotiator had never conducted a kidnap release in her life! McBride – probably the President himself – would hit the roof when they were told: not just hit it, go right through it!
It all came down to giving him a clear, unimpeded run. All he needed to do was go through the barest of motions – which, he reflected, was all he’d intended from the start – and get them out of the way. Out of his way.
It took them thirty minutes to agree the wording of the proposed media release and that the greatest impact would come from the ambassador’s personal appearance at any requested press conference. Norris promised to put the idea to McBride, and Poncellet brightened visibly at Blake’s suggestion that the Belgian police commissioner should also appear. Commissioner Henri Sanglier would be Europol’s representative, added Blake, to Claudine’s well-disguised surprise. Norris’s contempt grew as he inferred that neither Blake nor Claudine was permitted to represent their organization. It perfectly summed up their inadequacy.
It was as they decided upon daily morning and afternoon conferences that Norris apologized that there was not enough space at the embassy’s FBI facility for Blake and Claudine to work from there. Andre Poncellet at once offered whatever facility and accommodation Europol might need at Brussels’ central police headquarters.
The entire charade lasted five minutes short of an hour and ended with an exchange of emergency contact numbers and smiling assurances that they had made a good beginning for whatever they were going to face in the immediate future.
Claudine held back until she was safely halfway across the open embassy forecourt before exploding: ‘What a fucking pantomime!’
Blake showed no surprise at the outburst. ‘I’ve seen better,’ he agreed mildly.
‘It was frightening,’ insisted Claudine. She turned, looking directly at the man. ‘And I really mean that. Frightening.’
Although the road checks hadn’t started the rue du Canal was already congested. They were still early for their meeting so they abandoned the taxi and found a pavement cafe some way from the school, in the direction in which Mary was known to have walked. As they sat there two detectives, one a woman visibly carrying a photograph of Mary Beth McBride, were escorted from inside by a shoulder-shrugging manager. Blake shook his head against making contact and Claudine held back as well.
‘So what’s so frightening?’ demanded Blake.
‘In my professional opinion, Norris is very close to being mentally ill,’ declared Claudine starkly. ‘I believe he’s severely obsessional, which is a clinical condition that needs treatment.’
Blake stared at her, coffee cup half raised. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That would be something to be very frightened about. You sure?’
‘He’s beyond challenge: won’t consider any argument contrary to his own. Because he doesn’t believe there is any opinion other than his own. You saw it yourself, if you examine it hard enough. He won’t countenance any possibility beyond kidnap. That’s not the rationale of a psychological investigator: it’s the very antithesis of it. Everything is possible at this moment: at the beginning. I don’t think he’s capable of being either objective or subjective…’ She paused. ‘Most worrying of all, I think John Norris is on the edge of losing control. And if he loses control during any negotiation for Mary’s freedom, then she’ll die, if she hasn’t already been killed.’
Blake held up a halting hand. ‘We went in there today knowing that the Bureau were going to give us a load of runaround bullshit and empty promises and try to handle the entire show themselves. OK, so Norris is a supremely arrogant asshole who made it more obvious than we expected. But we’re equals: people to whom he didn’t have to prove any professional ability. He might be entirely different when he’s negotiating.’
‘Norris doesn’t for a moment consider us equals. He thinks we’re grossly inferior. He thinks everyone is inferior to him. John Norris is God in his own heaven. I’m frightened he could make Mary Beth McBride one of his angels.’
Blake regarded her doubtfully. ‘Can you be that positive, from just one meeting?’
‘Until he realized I’d picked up on it, virtually every sentence or opinion began with I. He’s got more victims back than he’s lost and probably been able to manoeuvre the failures into being someone else’s fault, never his. He’s become the Great Untouchable, the Great Unquestionable. It’s affected him.’
‘You’re the expert. But all I’ve heard since I’ve joined Europol is that it’s not just us against the villains but us against every national force and their dog as well.’
Claudine shook her head. ‘The attitude of national forces is resentment, pure and simple: no one wanting their territory encroached upon. That’s not what we’re talking about here. I think Norris is operationally dangerous. To the child, I mean – who’s probably in enough danger as it is.’
‘So what can we do about it?’
‘Nothing,’ conceded Claudine. ‘That’s what upsets me most.’
‘Recovering the child – if she can be recovered – is all that matters?’
Claudine frowned. ‘Yes?’
‘Why not feed the obsession: use it to our advantage? Say you need his help: can’t do it without him and let him believe he is in charge. Couldn’t you control him if you got in on the negotiations?’
‘Don’t give up the day job,’ said Claudine, smiling at the amateur psychology. ‘He doesn’t need to believe he’s in charge. He’s sure he is. He’d see that approach as me patronizing him.’
‘What about getting Sanglier to intervene?’
‘In what? About what? There’s no way we could make any official protest, based upon my impression.’ She hesitated again. ‘Incidentally, you took a lot upon yourself naming Sanglier as our representative before knowing he’d agree to a press conference.’
‘Appearing with ambassadors and commissioners is Sanglier’s level. He more or less said that, at the briefing.’
‘I think he might have liked prior consultation.’
Blake shrugged. ‘If he doesn’t want to do it he can refuse.’
More kamikaze disregard, thought Claudine. To go with a mentally disarranged man and a lost ten-year-old child and a controlling commissioner whom she didn’t trust. Her cup was being filled to overflowing, and they hadn’t even started yet. ‘We were right to argue for a press conference. It would have been a miracle if something hadn’t broken before tomorrow.’
‘Norris conceded on that,’ suggested Blake.
‘We gave him the time he wanted.’
‘I’m not arguing against you,’ said Blake, before making his point. ‘But wouldn’t it be great if in that time there was an approach and Norris managed to get her back?’
Claudine looked quizzically at the man, disappointed for the first time. ‘Great,’ she agreed. ‘But it won’t happen, even if there is an approach. Norris might have been able to do it once but I don’t think he’s capable of doing it any longer.’
Which was suffering the greater delusion of grandeur? wondered Blake. He checked his watch. ‘Time to go.’
Henriette Flahaur, the school principal, was an autocratic, grey-haired, stiffly upright woman trying hard to conceal a disaster behind aggression. The severe black suit reminded Claudine of how her mother customarily dressed to greet customers at the Lyon restaurant. She’d been autocratic, too.