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

Madame Bisset thought him capable and that’s all he needed. He carried on, turning to her. Now she was trembling.

‘Maybe he went with the new security guard who AlGaz has no record of, and who was employed only a few months ago by your son?’ Grant suggested. This was a clear blow to the woman. Before leaving Paris, Grant had paid Hakim’s girlfriend, Amélie Laurent, a visit, and she’d told him about the new recruit who stood out to her because she didn’t like him. It was normal for them to be followed around Paris nightclubs by rough-looking bodyguards, and for most of the time, Hakim ignored them and let them do their jobs, but Amélie noticed the new face. It had been easy for Grant to access the CCTV footage of the last nightclub where Amélie had said they’d gone together, showing the man clearly talking to Jean-Luc. When Grant checked, Khalil confirmed he didn’t know him and certainly didn’t employ him. ‘This man,’ Grant said, showing Madame Bisset a photo from the CCTV reel. ‘There’s Jean-Luc, and who is this?’ he asked.

Marie Bisset was up and across the room like a whippet. Grant was quicker and managed to block her way. She was light as a bird, but strong. They struggled and she put up a good fight as she tried to get away from him. He might have laughed but for the seriousness of the situation, and he blocked her by holding her arms to overpower her. She cried out, but he’d lost any shred of sympathy he’d had for the small old lady, and held her tight until he could manoeuvre her knitted jumper over her head to make her stop. He didn’t hurt her. He picked her up off her feet as though she were a sack of potatoes and hauled her over his shoulder, carrying her to a bedroom, where he placed her on the bed. He’d already deposited a length of rope, as well as other kit handy for holding tricky witnesses, in the drawers and used them to bind her. She tried to speak the whole time he worked, but he ignored her. Next she spat at him and he wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. As he gagged her, her voice was cut off, and he stood to assess his work. It wouldn’t take long to find an old contact willing to earn a few euros to keep an eye on a defenceless, but very spirited old lady.

He made the call. She listened to him and kept shaking her head and throwing expletives at him, no doubt condemning him to a purgatory of hell and damnation. He’d heard it all before.

‘Name?’ He held the photo close to her again. She shook her head.

Grant sighed. ‘My friend, Winston, will be here soon, and he likes old ladies. And no one knows where you are. Not even Jean-Luc, because he left you, didn’t he? He hasn’t got plans for you, has he? You’re sacrificing your own life for his, aren’t you? But did you imagine it would be so painful? And long? Winston – named after Churchill, of course – is a tenacious old dog, just like his namesake. And he doesn’t speak French. He did, however, serve with your countrymen in Bosnia, and he learned many unspeakable things. I think it changed him. You know what happened in Bosnia, don’t you? Neighbour against neighbour, sister against brother, children tortured, old ladies beaten and left for dead…’

Her face was purple and spittle soaked her gag.

‘All I need is a name,’ Grant said.

Chapter 28

Abdul approached the reception desk at the Marriott Hotel in Algiers and peered upwards. The vast atrium overwhelmed him; he’d never been inside such a building before. The ceiling must have been three storeys above his head and the light spilling in around the golden bannisters, bouncing off glass and flower vases, made him heady with excitement, as if he were a child again. It reminded him of his mother’s baking dishes, warm out of the stone oven, full of couscous and lamb. The sweat, which had accumulated under his armpits from days on the road, and at his temples caused by nervous energy and doubt over whether the booking was a reality, dried in the air-conditioned foyer. Guests of all ages, creeds and nationalities milled about leisurely in their effortlessness and chic.

He felt a fraud.

The young woman behind the desk was beautiful, like his sister: dark eyes and with a silken scarf tight around her throat. She smiled, and he relaxed a little. He gave his name, and she looked at her keyboard, tapping on the keys and reducing his world to her hair and perfume. He stared at her and she was obviously used to the attention, because she did not blush or turn away. She caught his eye and smiled again. Repulsion at her brazenness and awe at her courage engulfed him, and he swallowed hard, trying to concentrate on her face, and if it would give anything away. Was it all a joke? Had he made some monumental error and he was in fact booked into a tiny hovel alongside the city’s vast slums?

‘Mr Mansouri?’ she asked.

He didn’t reply straight away. Her demeanour captivated him still, and she repeated her question.

‘Sorry, yes, that’s me. Abdul Mansouri,’ he said quickly, smiling nervously.

‘Long journey?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Is this your first time staying with us, sir?’ She moved on.

‘Yes, why?’ His nerves got the better of him once more, and tiny beads of sweat defied the cool interior air.

‘My apologies, sir. I was just wondering if you knew where you were going. If not, it’s not a problem at all, I’ll get the porter to take you.’

‘I don’t need that, thank you – I’ll find my way. Do I have a room or not?’ He was abrupt, but the situation was quickly threatening to force him to flee. He could feel adrenalin pouring into his abdomen and