The Rift, Rachel Lynch [books recommended by bts .txt] 📗

Ahmad Azzine, Moroccan national. Known by several aliases and code names, most notably ‘Sand Cat’. The photo was black-and-white and grainy, but there was no doubt of the match. Helen noticed the hauntingly familiar deadness behind his eyes, so prevalent in criminals.

‘Do we have DNA?’ Helen asked.

‘Nope,’ Sylvia replied. ‘I’ll reissue the original notice, marking it urgent, and release his photo to the French national press.’

‘What about these two? Are they connected in any way as far as you know?’ Helen brought up the artist’s impressions, aware that things had happened so quickly that Sylvia wasn’t a party to their release. Sylvia studied them.

‘Nope, they’re new to us.’

‘You sure?’ Helen asked.

‘If there’s one thing this job will forever burn into my skull, it’s the ability to memorise faces, Helen.’

‘So, they’re new recruits – it happens all the time. But it’s more evidence of a wider operation, and what will Peter Knowles have to say about the connection to Fawaz?’ Helen asked rhetorically, knowing the answer.

It was a curveball that neither of them had expected. It wasn’t proven, obviously, and criminals work for lots of different people, but it set alarm bells ringing. Sylvia stared back at her, tapping her teeth with a pen.

‘He’ll want to know this – he’s in his office until four. Any news on the cafe?’ Sylvia finally asked.

Helen flicked her screen to the live reconnaissance. ‘Nothing yet,’ she said, moments before the radio feed crackled to life.

‘Suspects spotted approaching the cafe, ma’am,’ one of the officers at the scene said over the airwaves.

Sylvia drew up a chair and sat alongside Helen.

‘Observe suspects,’ Helen ordered. ‘We want to know where they’re based – I do not want them apprehended here. Repeat: observe, monitor and follow.’

The team acknowledged her request. The ideal scenario would be that the two men would lead them to wherever they were hiding here in Lyon. Helen held her breath as she watched body-cam footage of the two men. The likeness from the old woman’s memory was startling. Helen worked quickly on her keyboard to capture still photos of them. They were chatting intensely, and Helen was struck by how relaxed they were in their body language.

‘Is Azzine a pro?’ Helen asked Sylvia after switching her mic to silent.

‘Pristine and slippery, one of the best. We couldn’t catch him,’ Sylvia said.

‘What’s he doing working with these jerks?’ Helen asked, watching the two suspects saunter to their table like old friends catching up after a fishing trip. The waitress brought them coffee, and they sat at separate internet ports and logged on. Everything was captured by the Interpol officer at a table close by. At no point did either of the men look around, check their surroundings or look less than supremely confident. They were amateurs.

Sylvia had the same reaction as Helen. ‘Jesus, talk about holding your cock and not giving a damn.’

‘Let’s hope they’re as stupid as they look and lead us to Hakim,’ Helen said.

‘Well, he was in that Peugeot with two other people, so the very least we want is their DNA to match it,’ Sylvia said.

The vehicles outside of the cafe remained on standby. Three officers would follow on foot, should the men leave that way. If they used a vehicle, then that option was also covered. The uniformed squad would await instructions depending on where the men led them. If they were drawn into the heart of Le Croix-Rousse, for example, then more foot personnel would be needed.

It was a tense few minutes, and Helen and Sylvia continued to watch the men chat and swap information, seemingly amused by titbits from the internet.

‘What the hell are they doing? Passing time? Contacting somebody? Watching cat videos?’

Sylvia’s impatience was mirrored by Helen clenching her computer mouse.

‘We’ll have the premises closed and the computers they used searched as soon as they’re clear of the area,’ Helen said.

Suddenly, the two men got up and paid for their coffees, leaving through the front and walking east towards the Rhône. The officers on foot did what they did best and took it in turns crossing roads, stopping in doorways and reading newspapers, while the vehicles hung back and tried to predict the route planned by the two men. The suspects didn’t even attempt to separate, and it was clear to both Helen and Sylvia, and all those watching, that these men had no idea that they were wanted.

‘Don’t they check the papers?’ Helen asked.

They walked towards the church of St Bernard and Helen looked at Sylvia. ‘If they disappear into the traboules…’

‘I know,’ replied Sylvia.

They continued to listen to the live commentary from the officers on the ground and the uniformed response team wasn’t far away, ready to move when they were needed. Luckily for them, the two men entered an apartment block close to the church, and Helen instructed the team to secure the exit points, as well as sending two officers up the stairwell behind them to see which apartment they entered. Tense minutes passed as Helen and Sylvia waited patiently for news.

‘Here we go,’ said Sylvia.

They had an address. Now, the operation would take on new life: it was to become a raid on an active location and more squads were called in to seal off the area. The district was well known to police, and the action was swift. It took twenty minutes more before they were ready to move in. Helen and Sylvia watched as pairs of gendarmes advanced with weapons ready. A battering kit was deployed to smash the front door. They heard shouts and warnings as the flat was put into a stranglehold. Helen gave the order. Crashing and the splintering of wood could be heard, followed by boots on the concrete as two teams entered the flat. It didn’t take long to declare that the two men were in police custody, on the floor of the lounge, cuffed and ready to be brought in for questioning. Meanwhile, Helen ordered an emergency forensic team to search the residence and