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

the cell had been arrested and detained by the police. There were several two-men units on standby dotted around the city. They rarely communicated, but the raid on the flat had been called in by one such squad, and it had rippled through the others. They were called to action by burner phones, and spent the interim waiting in flats, smoking, playing cards and existing, until a Nokia ringtone alerted them otherwise.

The pair who now watched Hakim had been planted in France for eighteen months and this was their first major call to arms. Recruits didn’t just come from the homeland; they were second- and third-generation descendants from migrant families, born here in France, and drilled for several years before being relied upon to see a mission through, whatever that might be.

They didn’t care for their ward: they were indifferent to him and thus given to neglect. He was a commodity, and, as such a valuable asset to safeguard. But this didn’t mean keeping him pampered. The gossip around the streets of Le Croix-Rousse was of the ‘tifl ghaniun’ rich kid. But they were safe here, for now. They were surrounded by neighbourhoods not given to colluding with authorities. The smarter areas of the district went about their business oblivious to the network of nocturnal soldiers ready to mobilise. Anyone who was caught was feeble and deserved to be cut off like a traitor. There was no room for error.

But, as the clock ticked slowly, punishing them with its taunting that time was slipping by, boredom took over, and the men became restless.

‘Maybe we should get him some water?’ the other replied.

‘You go,’ said Fudail.

‘It’s your turn,’ replied Nizam.

Both were nervous about leaving the flat during daylight hours, and they were many, thanks to the summer sun. But they felt brave enough to venture out for food and water, and cigarettes, like now, when it was dark.

They’d moved three times in all, and so they’d used different shops. Le tabac on the street corner seemed quiet enough. Fudail shrugged and got up to leave. The TV was on constantly, and they watched it mindlessly, waiting for the next phone call. Fudail fondled his weapon as he laid it lovingly on the single table in the room. He took a pistol and checked its barrel. Two more automatic weapons leant against the table leg, loaded and ready. They’d fired arms since they were twelve years old, going into the desert to practise with older cousins, having been flown there by Air France. They shot Barbary sheep, jackals and the odd vulture, even a viper once. The metal felt homely to them, like perhaps a wallet or a newspaper might to a well-to-do Frenchman who worked in a government department. Fudail didn’t want to leave his trusty firearm, and he touched it once more, as if saying farewell to a wife. He handled the pistol like a professional soldier, checking the sight and pointing it at Nizam, who waved his arm generally in the direction of his partner.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ he said in Arabic.

Fudail smiled and left, pulling up his hood and popping on a pair of fake glasses. He’d stolen them from a market selling prescription lenses. His beard was full and he wore a cap. He left the flat and walked down the stairwell, skipping a few steps at a time. The street was quiet and he entered the store. The shopkeeper was of North African descent and so Fudail thought him unlikely to betray a brother. Both he and Nizam knew their way around the neighbourhood well; they’d lived amongst it, watching and learning for this moment. They fed information back to Morocco, when required to do so, about the best locations to set up cells and both agreed on the places they selected. They also agreed that if a nosy old hag got in their way, they’d solve the problem with a bullet and a bag of stones to weight the body down in the Rhône. The woman who was suspected of informing the authorities, leading to the arrests, wouldn’t survive should Fudail get hold of her, and he was ready and alert.

Neither man had expected such a high-profile mission as the boy, but their job wasn’t to reason with those who made the decisions, it was simply to do their duty. When they’d accepted the transfer of the goods, they’d known instantly who he was. The abduction of the rich kid was all over the news, but it didn’t feel as though they were doing anything wrong. How could their work be seen as a transgression when they were helping their families and friends? Funds had been sent home every week for the past eighteen months and Fudail’s brother had been sent to school.

He chose some large bottles of water, some packets of crackers and biscuits, a pie and a bottle of Coke. He also bought more cigarettes. The man behind the counter spoke to him in Arabic. It was a short exchange and Fudail thanked him and left.

Back in the flat, he found Nizam in a panicked state. Fudail put down his shopping and told Nizam to calm the fuck down.

‘He’s supposed to be well – they’re coming to check! I poked him and he whined like a diseased pig.’

‘Who’s coming?’ asked Fudail.

‘I don’t know. I got a call on this.’ He waved the mobile phone around. ‘He’s due to be transferred and he’s to be seen by a doctor.’

‘What? A doctor? When?’ Fudail asked. He was irked by Nizam, who was proving to be twitchy and weak of character.

‘Tonight. The ship docked. He’s being let go.’

‘Let’s clean him up,’ Fudail said. The function of their task was straightforward and nothing to get jumpy about. The boy was frail because of his cosseted nature, not because of anything they’d done.

They picked up their weapons and Fudail took a large bottle of water with him. They approached the body and blocked their nostrils from the smell of