Jean Smet’s house was broken into at 10 a.m., fifteen minutes after he left for the ministry and that morning’s meeting of the control group. The team assigned to Andre Poncellet had to wait until 1.30 p.m., an hour after his wife left for her luncheon club meeting; they had to wait an extra half an hour for the departure of the nonresident housekeeper whose earlier arrival they’d noted.
The police commissioner’s home was the only one equipped with a burglar alarm, although it was not set. No house had any dogs, although there were cats in three, one with a litter. There was only one hurried exit at an unexpected return, that of the wife of a clerk living on rue Brogniez. It was achieved without panic or discovery, through an already opened rear door and along an already reconnoitred side path.
The establishment of an escape route was always the first step in the strictly regimented and well-rehearsed entry routine. The sweep was conducted from the very top – the loft, if there was one – and descended to the basement. Before the search of any room began it was photographed from four different angles by Polaroid with one operator checking the other at the completion of the examination to ensure every article, piece of furniture, picture, drawer, ornament, vase, book, magazine or newspaper was replaced precisely in the position in which it had been before they started. Any letter or document they thought might have the slightest relevance was photographed with a more sophisticated camera fitted with a proxile copying lens. So were all bank and financial records and every address book. All pictures, photographs, bureaux and furniture that might have concealed hiding places were moved, particularly in lofts and basements. Listening devices were installed in every telephone and in the light fittings and skirting boards of every room. The primary objective was obviously anything sexual, of any nature whatsoever. All videos were run for their first five minutes on the available television screens. There were two soft porn videos at the home of one of the married male clerks and three, more hard core, at the Anderlecht house of the unmarried man. There were also twelve sex magazines. All the videos and the magazines portrayed heterosexual sex. In every case the ‘floating’ agent on standby outside each house ferried the videos back to the US embassy and waited while Kurt Volker made instant copies.
The unmarried female clerk had two vibrators, one black, in her bedside cabinet and a selection of soft porn male magazines.
Duncan McCulloch and Robert Ritchie carried out the search of Jean Smet’s house. It was immaculately kept, every shirt folded in its drawer, every shoe on its tree, no dust or fallen flower petal anywhere. They took particular care with their Polaroid record and with the loaded Hochner pistol they briefly removed from the bedside table.
So cleverly was it concealed that McCulloch almost missed the safe, only at the last minute lifting the corner of the bedroom carpet that had been extended to cover the bottom of the wardrobe to see its edge, sunk into the floor. He shouted the find to Ritchie, who continued his search while McCulloch hunched over the safe, stethoscope microphone against the combination box. It was hardly necessary. Like nine out of ten people Smet had used the date, month and year of his birth – all of which McCulloch had from Volker’s print-out – for his security. The safe was empty apart from a selection of pornographic photographs, all featuring children – predominantly boys – and two videos. One of the videos was the acquisition from Amsterdam that Smet had shown Felicite three days earlier. It was only after he’d hurried it off to the rue du Regent that McCulloch located his partner in the basement.
‘I got two paedophile films and a lot of stills,’ announced McCulloch.
Ritchie didn’t turn, too intent on the photographs he was taking. ‘And this original coal cellar has been converted into a cell with a metal-grilled door…’ He turned. ‘But Mary Beth isn’t in it.’
That morning’s gathering was the last at which the identity of the informer remained unknown. There had been a brief, preliminary meeting at the American embassy at which Claudine had argued that neither Poncellet nor Smet – and certainly none of that day’s clerks – would know she was twisting her assessment of the previous evening’s telephone conversation. The others also agreed not to question the unexpected result of the overnight forensic and number check on the mobile telephone unless Poncellet drew attention to it.
At police headquarters, Smet again asked for the actual conversation to be played, following it from the prepared transcript, coming up to Claudine enquiringly the moment it finished.
‘She’s panicking,’ responded Claudine easily. ‘Dumping the telephone as she did clearly indicates that. And she’s frightened of me, personally. The whole conversation is directed against me, not the ambassador. And she hasn’t got a clue how to arrange a ransom.’
‘I didn’t think you believed there was ever any serious intention of getting a ransom?’ pressed Smet.
‘What I doubted was her intention of giving Mary back,’ corrected Claudine. ‘To have got away, undetected, with a ransom would have been her ultimate victory. She won’t get that now. She’ll abandon the ransom idea.’
‘If she doesn’t go ahead with the ransom there’s no reason to maintain contact, is there?’ said Poncellet.
Claudine wished the policeman hadn’t asked the question, although there was an opening to continue the goading. ‘It was always the most worrying possibility. I never imagined she would collapse so quickly or so easily.’
‘You don’t know that she has,’ persisted Poncellet.
‘I do,’ said Claudine. She was uncomfortable, offering wrong assessments. More immaturity, she recognized. It wasn’t a wrong assessment. It was an absolutely correct procedure to achieve a very necessary objective. The doubt was whether she would succeed in doing so.
‘Was there anything in the scientific examination of the telephone?’ asked Smet.
Blake said: ‘Nothing. It was stolen in Ghent seven days ago.’
‘A blank there, then?’ said Poncellet.
For a further five hours that single remark focused the suspicion upon the police chief, in front of whom were set out the findings – including the one obvious but seemingly unnoticed inconsistency – of the mobile telephone company, who had cooperated fully from the first moment of their being contacted, once the number had been identified.
‘Nothing that I can see to help us along,’ said Harding, setting a fresh snare for the policeman who immediately appeared to fall into it by saying nothing.
‘So everything revolves around another telephone call?’ said Smet.
‘Which she’ll be too frightened to make,’ declared Claudine.
*
There was nothing from the surveillance when they got back to the embassy. Although the hope of a possible discovery within six hours had been unrealistic, the disappointment was nevertheless intense.
‘I’ve changed the entire strategy,’ Claudine explained to the doubtful Burt Harrison. ‘Directly challenged her with being scared: behaving like someone mentally unstable. She won’t be able to stop herself from responding.’
‘I couldn’t do your job,’ said the diplomat.
I know you couldn’t, thought Claudine. Aloud she said: ‘Most times I don’t enjoy doing it myself.’ Had that morning been another confidence-building public performance? She certainly hadn’t thought so until now. And with no professional reason for him to attend, Hugo Rosetti hadn’t been there to witness it. He hadn’t come down for breakfast before she’d left the hotel, either.
It was four thirty before the courier hurried in with Jean Smet’s two tapes and a selection of the stills to be copied. Both were hard core paedophilia pornography.
Harrison became visibly distressed halfway through the first film and openly protested at the need to watch the second in its entirety. ‘Why?’ he demanded.