Dead Line (20 page)

Trent must have fallen asleep because he was roused by the bleat of the telephone. It was shrill and tinny. The plastic casing vibrated against the desk.

He sat upright and cradled his forehead in his palm. He checked his watch. It was gone 4 a.m.

Alain was standing over by the telephone and the recording equipment. He was white-faced, staring at Trent, waiting for him to react.

The telephone pealed again.

‘Ready?’ Alain asked.

Trent waved a hand. He got to his feet and peered out at the room. His neck ached. He must have crushed it in his sleep.

‘Should I answer?’ Alain said.

The telephone rang some more.

Trent groaned and stretched his back. His spine popped. He winced. Staggered across the room.

The telephone rang once again.

Trent punched the speaker button.

‘We read your email,’ Xavier said. His mighty voice rumbled through the speaker. The bass hummed. The unit buzzed. He sounded curt. Aggressive. ‘We told you five million.’

Trent bent down towards the phone. Placed his hands on either side of it and bowed his head. ‘The family don’t have five million,’ he replied. ‘They’ve made you a good offer. You should accept. You won’t get more. I guarantee it.’

‘Where is the wife? I speak with her.’

‘You speak with me now,’ Trent told him. ‘You always did. Why pretend otherwise? That’s why you put the package in my car. That’s why I sent you the email.’

‘We can make you wait.’

‘You could. But you won’t. Waiting means more risk for you. More danger for your gang. And three million is a fair payment. You know it. I know it. Let’s cut the deal.’

There was a pause. A long one. The speaker droned very faintly, some kind of background resonance.

Finally, Xavier spoke again. ‘You have the money?’

Trent looked at Alain. He motioned towards the speaker.

Alain cleared his throat. ‘We just need to collect it.’

‘When?’

‘In the next couple of hours.’

‘Where from?’

‘Not something you need to know,’ Trent told him.

There was more silence. More consideration. Trent was done with giving Xavier time.

‘We need proof of life. Let us speak with Jérôme.’

‘I have the answer to the wife’s question. He told her he loved her at a villa he has, a place near Cassis. It was in a bedroom there. A special room. She danced for him. They were alone.’

Trent’s arms went weak. He felt his elbows give. His hands blurred in and out of focus, fingers bulging and swaying.

His temples were burning up. His tongue had bloated. It was fat and rubbery in his mouth.

He raised his head. It took a lot of effort. It felt like his head weighed more than it should have done.

Alain stared at him. He pouted and showed him his hands, palms out, like a guy emptying his pockets. He didn’t know. But then he leaned his head to one side and he winced a little and he waggled a hand in the air. As if it sounded likely to him. As if he didn’t know for sure but he knew enough about Jérôme – enough about his coastal villa and the customised room with the wall of mirrors and his particular sexual peccadilloes and preferences – to believe that Xavier’s response had a reasonable likelihood of being accurate.

Trent’s palms slipped on the desk, wet flesh squeaking against polished lacquer. He swallowed. Swallowed again.

‘That was yesterday,’ he mumbled, his tongue sluggish, like he’d taken an injection in his gum for some dental work. ‘This is today. For three million we get to hear his voice.’ Nothing. No response. Trent gathered himself. He focused hard. ‘You know why I ask this. We’re both professionals. Stop stalling. Put him on and—’

‘
Allo?
 ’

A puff of air escaped Trent’s lips. That voice, the one he’d been waiting to hear for too long now, the one he’d been imagining for so many tortured days and nights, sounded nothing like he’d expected. It wasn’t calm, collected or measured. It wasn’t formidable or imposing at all. It was high. It was timid. It was shaky.

‘
Allo?
 ’ The voice also sounded constricted in some way. As if someone was holding him by the throat. ‘Stephanie? Alain?’ The breathing was fast and shallow, more like a pant.

Trent raised his eyes to Alain again. They were hot and swollen in his head. The bodyguard nodded.

‘Please. Pay them the money.’ Jérôme was making a hurried nasal whine, like he was in pain. Maybe they were pulling his hair. Maybe they were holding a knife against his throat. ‘These men are serious. They will kill me. They—’

Trent heard a grunt. A moan, like Jérôme had been punched in the gut.

Then breathing on the line. It was measured. Patient.

Trent said, ‘Do we have a deal?’ There was no response. Just the ragged inhalation and exhalation of air. The pop and hiss of the speaker. ‘What do you say?’ The quiet persisted. The breathing went on.

‘Relax, Negotiator.’ Xavier was smirking when he finally responded. Trent could tell. It was there in the amused, sonorous rumble of his voice. ‘You have your deal. And we have further instructions for you.’ He paused. Not to compose himself but to enjoy his triumph. To relish it. ‘You will find them inside your home. Your apartment in Marseilles.’

They left the Moreau estate in the high-powered BMW. Alain drove fast, speeding down the narrow escarpment with the confidence of a guy who knows a road intimately. Trent gripped the sides of his seat and had to fight the urge to stamp his foot on a phantom brake whenever Alain swooped into a looping curve. The BMW’s headlamps seemed always to be playing catch-up with his manoeuvres.

It was dark, the air chill and fresh. Not quite five in the morning and Trent could feel a gritty fatigue in his eyes. He freed one hand from his seat and readjusted the fit of his Beretta in his waistband. He’d fetched it from the Peugeot before climbing into the BMW. Alain hadn’t been comfortable with the move – he could tell from the disapproving grimace on his face – but he was in no position to argue the point. He was armed with his weighty Ruger, worn in his holster under the familiar grey jacket he had on.

‘Nervous, Englishman?’ he asked.

Hell, yes, Trent was nervous. Here he was, being driven to an unknown location to collect three million euros from what was likely a criminal source. Trent wasn’t aware of many banks that opened before dawn. Fewer still that carried cash for withdrawal in million-euro sums. And assuming he got through the pick-up unscathed, he had Xavier’s latest threat to contend with. First the gang had left a package in Trent’s car. Now he claimed that they’d accessed his home. If it was true, there was no telling what they may have seen.

So naturally, he was anxious. But more than that, he was preoccupied. He was thinking again about what exactly Alain might know. In particular, he was thinking about Alain’s response to the proof of life information Xavier had provided. There was no way Alain had been certain that Xavier’s answer was correct – he obviously hadn’t been told by Jérôme or Stephanie precisely when or where his employer had proclaimed his love – but he clearly knew enough to think it was plausible. That suggested he understood that Jérôme had a thing for ballerinas. It implied that he was aware that Jérôme liked them to dance for him in private. And it indicated that he was familiar with the room Jérôme had customised inside his villa for personal performances.

Plus, he was Jérôme’s bodyguard. His job was to shield his client wherever and whenever his protection might be required. Alain’s role was to be a permanent shadow. Discreet, where appropriate – such as when Jérôme was beating his wife – but close by whenever he might conceivably be vulnerable.

Like, for instance, at his place in Cassis. Like, for example, when a new and untested girl was due to dance for him, or when an attractive female exec was scheduled to drop by with some paperwork for signature. The dancer might not have seen Alain, but there was every chance that he’d been on the premises.

All of which suggested the following:

Alain was probably near by when Jérôme had attacked the dancer who refused to sleep with him.

Alain was probably close by when she ran away.

Alain was also probably there when Aimée showed up, just as Jérôme’s unsated lust and anger and aggression were bubbling over. Just as he would have been primed to vent his frustration.

Therefore, Alain probably knew what had happened to Aimée and Alain probably also suspected that Trent knew, or suspected, that Jérôme was somehow involved in whatever had been done to her.

So far as Trent was aware, Alain
didn’t
know that he was engaged to Aimée, though it wouldn’t be inconceivable that he could have found out. They’d always been a relatively private couple. Outside of their business and the dangerous world it required them to confront, they lived comparatively quiet lives. But a resourceful person like Alain could find people to speak to. There was always someone available. An unsuspecting friend. A neighbour. Plus there was the photograph in Trent’s wallet. The shot of Aimée in her bikini. True, she was wearing sunglasses in the picture, but Trent didn’t think he was the only guy in France likely to find his fiancée memorable, and he doubted the glasses would have been enough to disguise her from Alain.

So assuming Trent’s logic wasn’t flawed – something, regrettably, he felt increasingly confident about – the only possible conclusion was that Alain had been suspicious of him from the beginning because he knew what Trent was searching for, he knew Trent was a potential threat, and at some time, somewhere, once Trent’s present usefulness was outweighed by the latent danger he represented, Alain would probably act. He would seek to neutralise him. One way or another, sooner or later, there’d come a point down the line where the two men would clash.

‘Hey, pay attention.’ Alain was snapping his fingers in front of Trent’s face. ‘I said, do you still have your phone? The disposable one?’

Trent blinked. ‘In my pocket.’

‘Good.’ Alain reached into his jacket, same side as his Ruger, and Trent’s heartbeat lagged and stuttered. But Alain didn’t go for his revolver. He withdrew his black notebook and offered it across. ‘You look worried.’

Trent swallowed. He jerked his thumb towards the wing mirror. ‘I thought I saw someone following us. I was afraid it could be one of Xavier’s gang.’

Alain switched his gaze to the rear-view mirror. He frowned. ‘There’s no one there. I would have seen.’

‘Guess I’m a little jumpy. It might help if I knew where we were going.’

Alain ignored the suggestion. He freed a hand from the steering wheel and tapped the notebook. ‘There’s a number on the top page. Dial it.’

Trent’s palm was damp. The phone squirmed in his grip. He flipped his mobile open and punched in the number. Raised it to his burning ear.

‘It’s ringing,’ he said.

‘Pass it to me.’

Terrific. So now his own personal stunt driver was making a call while he slalomed down the asphalt slope.

If there was one consolation, it was that the call didn’t last long. Alain spoke only to let the person on the other end know that he was on his way and that he expected to arrive inside the hour. He made no apology for calling so early. He didn’t acknowledge the time at all. And he didn’t mention the location of their meeting.

‘So where are we headed?’ Trent tried again.

Alain tossed the phone back into Trent’s lap. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.’

‘We’re a team, remember?’

Alain grunted. ‘That didn’t stop you holding information back from me.’

Trent didn’t respond. There was no telling for sure what information he was referring to. It might be any number of things. It might be the fact that he’d faced off against Xavier previously or that he’d contacted Girard. Or it might be much more fundamental.

‘Open the glove box,’ Alain said. ‘Pass me what’s inside.’

Trent dropped his mobile back into his shirt pocket and tugged on a plastic catch moulded into the dash. The glove box hinged downwards and the interior bloomed with light.

There was only one item inside. A slim, unmarked white cardboard container. Trent lifted it out. It was heavy. Felt like it was lined with lead.

And in a way, it was. Trent loosened a flap on one end and tipped the box up over his palm. He allowed the first cartridge to roll out. A .44 Remington Magnum. It looked like a small missile. It was tapered and contoured and potentially deadly. This was a round that would kill instantly. Kill messily, too.

Trent fitted the cartridge back into the space at the top of the box. Looked like there were twelve or so rounds inside. And he was pretty sure the Ruger Alain was wearing was fully loaded with matching rounds. Was he being warned? Was this something Alain wanted him to see?

Trent resealed the box and handed it over. Alain stuffed it inside his jacket, on the right, opposite side to his Ruger.

‘Expecting trouble?’ Trent asked.

Alain didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Instinctively, Trent rested his hand on the grip of his Beretta. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t stuffed it down his trousers. He supposed he could take it out now. Make a show of checking it over. Drop the magazine. Palm it back in. But if he was right about Alain, it could be interpreted as a provocative gesture. It would raise the stakes. And Trent had no use for an early confrontation. He needed to question Jérôme. That couldn’t happen until after they’d secured the ransom cash.

‘You want to listen to the radio?’ Trent reached for the dial.

Alain grabbed his wrist. Squeezed it hard. ‘No radio.’

‘Then what? Should we take it in turns to sing?’

Alain’s head swivelled on his thick neck. His stubble was densely shaded, the plaster by his eye crinkled and dirtied. He stared meaningfully at Trent. Kept staring, even as the BMW ate up the unlit blacktop ahead of them, plunging on into the shimmering darkness.

‘No singing.’

‘Fine.’ Trent jerked his hand free. He rubbed the skin of his wrist through the material of his shirt. ‘We’ll just stick with the uncomfortable silence then.’

The young man stirred and knuckled his eyes. He peered round the grey-lit room, the air mattress bouncing beneath him. He squinted at his watch. Early. But there was a faint vibration outside. A disturbance of the air. The putter and burble of an engine.

He rolled out of bed and stumbled across to the window in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. He pulled back his chair and sat at his desk. There was a green Citroën delivery van parked opposite, rocking gently with the movement of the engine. Fumes pooled out of the exhaust. The driver’s door was open into the street. The cab was empty. The van was parked directly in front of Trent’s apartment, obscuring the young man’s view of the blue front door.

He reached for his pad and pencil. He yawned as he scribbled a note.
5.07 a.m.
There was no sign of Trent but the young man was awake now. He gripped his head in his hands and braced his elbows on the table, and then he settled in to watch and to wait.

The awkward silence between Trent and Alain persisted for close to fifty minutes. The autoroute to Marseilles was as quiet and undisturbed as the atmosphere inside the car. The BMW hummed along in the fast lane, rocking and swaying beneath a steadily lightening sky. By the time Alain pulled off the raised flyover that wove between the high-rise office buildings and hotels to the west of the city, and turned towards the dark waters and industrial docks of Joliette, the eastern sky had splintered into pale pinks and misty yellows and warm copper tones. It was just bright enough for him to kill his headlamps.

Alain clearly knew where he was going. The cracked and potholed roads were unsigned and largely unfamiliar to Trent, but Alain negotiated each junction and turn with calm assurance.

They passed metal-sided warehouses and enormous haulage depots and oversized petrol stations with raised, brightly lit canopies fitted out with specialist pumps designed for lorries and trucks. They drove by a fish market teeming with men and women in white jumpsuits and blue plastic boots, carrying trays of fish and ice. They zipped by endless cargo trains and loading cranes, beneath the towering, rust-streaked hulls of dated passenger ferries bound for Sardinia, Corsica and Tunisia. They kept moving, kept weaving, the BMW bumping and thumping over potholes and troughs, until Alain finally pulled off into a gravel parking lot running alongside a derelict storage facility.

He eased the BMW slowly across the yard. Crushed aggregate snapped and popped beneath the tyres. They crawled on and then emerged next to a small harbour inlet. The sluggish water was stained with rainbow streaks of boat diesel. It smelled of fish and salt.

A magnificent yacht was moored right in front of them. It looked to be at least fifty feet in length. It was sleek and white, fitted out with three tiered decks, multiple sun loungers and ample white leather seats, plus a generous amount of smoked glass. Two jet skis were secured to the lowest deck at the rear, close to where a sloping walkway extended from the yacht onto the quay.

The moment Alain brought the BMW to a halt, a thin guy with dusty skin and curly black hair appeared on the middle deck, high above them. He didn’t wave. Didn’t make any kind of gesture. He just watched.

‘Is he Moroccan?’ Trent asked.

‘Algerian.’

Trent glanced sideways at Alain, who was busy checking his Ruger under cover of his jacket.

‘He looks sort of mean,’ Trent said.

No response.

‘Should I join you?’

‘Better you stay here. He knows me.’

Trent wasn’t about to argue.
He knows me
. There’d been no suggestion that the man liked or trusted Alain.

Up on the yacht, the Algerian had raised a large black holdall into the air. The holdall was weighted with something. The guy was having trouble lifting it.

Alain unclipped his seat belt and reached towards the ignition. Trent rested a hand on his arm.

‘Why don’t we leave the engine running?’

Alain looked between him and the Algerian up on the yacht. He held Trent’s eye, then nodded and stepped out of the car, head down, holding his jacket closed in front of his chest with one hand, as if to contend with the limp coastal breeze. His gun hand. Smart guy. He’d be able to reach for his Ruger in a hurry.

The Algerian lowered the holdall and watched Alain mount the ramp at the base of the yacht. The ramp bounced and flexed with his weight. Then the Algerian backed up out of view as Alain climbed the curving staircase to join him on the lofty middle deck.

Trent could no longer see either of them. He was left with just the hum and vibration of the BMW’s engine for company. He shuffled down in his seat and gazed up through the top of the windscreen at the towering white yacht. He cracked his window. Loosened his seat belt. Freed his Beretta from his waistband and looped his finger through the trigger guard.

Time passed.

A minute, then two.

Trent tapped his feet in a nervous quick time.

Three minutes.

Four.

He was just turning in his seat to check the yard and the warehouse through the rear window, concerned all of a sudden by his vulnerability to an attack from behind, when Alain came hurrying down the steps towards the bottom deck. He had the holdall in his arms. He was cradling it to his chest, grimacing and leaning back a little to compensate for its mass. He was moving very fast. The ramp compressed and sprang up like a driving board as he bounded across it.