James McBride was more composed than Claudine had previously seen him. So was Hillary. Norris was facing them across the desk, legs outstretched in easy relaxation. The chief of mission remained standing.
‘The ambassador-’ started Harrison, but McBride broke in at once.
‘-can talk for himself. I’m not sure this second television appearance is a good idea. John doesn’t think so, either.’
Norris smiled and nodded. He looked beyond Claudine, clearly searching for Harding. The smile disappeared.
Claudine realized at once that the ambassador respected her opinion. So she’d impressed the man at their earlier encounter. She didn’t think it would be difficult to do it again: inexplicably leaving, as he had, meant Norris was totally ignorant of what they’d achieved with the eye-witnesses. It wasn’t going to help the man’s mental condition but Claudine wasn’t sure anything short of hospitalization would.
She repeated her conviction that the abductors had to be drawn into contact upon Europol’s initiative (‘the first, unwitting, erosion of their control’) and that it should be achieved in the shortest possible time (‘it’s the fourth day now: Mary mustn’t be allowed to think no one is trying to help her and start trusting those who are holding her’). Throughout Norris sat complacently, shaking his head in dismissal to every point.
McBride provided the opportunity for which Claudine was waiting. ‘Won’t it simply be a repetition of the appeal I’ve already made?’
‘That would be sufficient by itself,’ said Claudine easily. ‘But we’ve got digitalized pictures of the man and woman who took Mary-’
‘You know who they are!’ Hillary interrupted.
‘We think we’ve got a fairly accurate picture of what they look like,’ qualified Claudine. ‘They’ll be ready by late afternoon, early evening. And their impact will be that much more if you appear, reiterating your appeal directly to them.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this, John?’ McBride demanded.
Norris was sitting primly upright now, his face fixed, knowing Claudine Carter was lying. She wouldn’t allow anything like an accurate picture of her accomplices to appear publicly. ‘I was waiting to hear from Paul,’ he said inadequately. ‘There’s a danger of getting a lot of bad leads if the pictures aren’t good.’
‘The witnesses are happy with them,’ Claudine assured him. To the ambassador she added: ‘I don’t want to expose you or your wife to any more distress than you’ve already suffered. But I really want these pictures to achieve the maximum impact. Your appearance would ensure that.’
‘I made a fool of myself last time,’ blurted McBride.
‘Not for the first time,’ said Hillary.
‘You couldn’t have done better if you’d been rehearsed,’ insisted Claudine, pleased to contradict the other woman.
‘You sure about that?’ asked McBride doubtfully.
Norris was shaking his head vigorously.
‘We’ve got to make the biggest possible impact, to get them to come to us,’ repeated Claudine. ‘Don’t stage a press conference, as such. Make it a television appeal, limited to yourselves and an interview…’ She hesitated, remembering the need for diplomatic correctness. ‘Include Poncellet, to talk about the importance of the computer graphics to the investigation.’
‘We’ll do it,’ decided Hillary.
McBride nodded, in agreement. ‘I’m to appeal-’
‘Plead,’ broke in Norris contemptuously.
‘Yes!’ said Claudine, eagerly again. ‘That’s what you’ve got to do. Plead. Do whatever it takes to bring them to us.’
McBride was silent for several moments before saying: ‘Will you prep us?’
‘Willingly,’ said Claudine, relieved. ‘We’ll rehearse it word for word.’
Turning to Harrison, McBride said: ‘Fix it through public affairs. And involve Poncellet.’
Norris stayed, listening disparagingly to Claudine’s advice but offering none himself. He realized the woman was extremely clever. His mistake had been in underestimating her. It was possible he’d have to take some very direct action. Detain her and interrogate her. Make her talk.
Norris was waiting in Paul Harding’s chair at Paul Harding’s desk when the local FBI man arrived back at the embassy. He didn’t make any effort to move.
‘You should have called me about the computer graphics. The woman wrong-footed me.’
‘I was still working!’ protested Harding.
‘You got print-outs of the pictures?’
Harding offered them across the desk.
‘I’m not impressed,’ Norris said dismissively. ‘Could be anyone.’
‘The two motorists who saw them are happy.’
‘I think it’s all very clever,’ said Norris solemnly.
‘Their German computer guy is a genius,’ agreed Harding, misunderstanding.
Norris frowned. ‘What do you know about her?’
Harding’s misunderstanding remained. He looked at the digitalized image on the table between them and said: ‘We don’t have a name, John.’
‘Dr Carter!’
Harding couldn’t speak for several moments. At last he managed: ‘You’re losing me here.’
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about her. I want her thoroughly checked out. I’ve assigned Ritchie and McCulloch but they’re drawing blanks. I want you to do better.’
On the scale of bad feelings Paul Harding’s score was eleven where the graph stopped at ten. What the fuck was he going to do! Remembering, he said: ‘We checked the school again. The principal had an odd phone call from a woman wanting to know the curriculum languages. The phone number she left was wrong.’
‘I’m interested in the Carter woman,’ said Norris, dismissive still. ‘Concentrate on her.’
Kurt Volker was waiting impatiently for Claudine when she re-entered their offices at the Belgian police HQ. ‘I think there’s something significant,’ he announced.
‘It’s time to declare yourself,’ said Lucien Bigot. He’d made the first approach, all those months ago.
‘I know that,’ agreed Sanglier.
‘So what’s it going to be?’ demanded the politician.
‘I’d like a final meeting.’ He had to have the commitment, even if only verbally.
‘We’d like that too.’
‘For positive undertakings,’ said Sanglier.
‘That’s what we all want,’ said the other man.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Felicite recognized that she was right, as she usually was: there was a sexual excitement about danger. It was, perhaps, why she so much enjoyed cruising the streets, hunting. The pleasure had gone on now for more than half an hour, ever since Jean Smet had burst into the Anspach house babbling about pictures of her and Henri Cool to be shown on television.
‘You’ll be recognized! Identified!’ The man was unable to keep still, striding about the room as he had at the beach house, his mind butterflying from anxiety to anxiety, his words jumbled. He’d tried to smoke, too, but Felicite had forbidden it. She detested the smell of stale tobacco in her home.
‘Sit down!’ she ordered sharply. ‘How can they know about me?’
‘Two motorists saw you pick her up.’ Smet remained standing, shifting from foot to foot.
It was the first comprehensible sentence the man had uttered and Felicite felt another spurt of excitement. She rose and put both hands against Smet’s shoulders to press him into a chair on her way to the drinks tray, where she poured brandy for both of them. As she handed his glass to him she said: ‘From the beginning. Everything that was said, how it was said.’
Smet made a slurping sound with his first drink and the cognac caught his breath, making him cough. He tugged a tightly folded wad of paper from inside his jacket and said: ‘Read it yourself. That’s a copy of today’s report to the Minister.’
Felicite took her time, sipping her drink as she read, acknowledging that this investigation appeared much more thorough than the previous one. Which was why it was that much more satisfying. When she finished the account she remained looking down at it, turning several sheets over before looking up. ‘So where’s the computer graphic?’