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

mountains. His French was excellent and, after all, he’d likely saved the man’s life. The poor cyclist’s memory of the gentleman in the truck would be a positive one that would not conjure anything sinister in the men’s minds to make them suspicious, even when Fawaz’s profile was inevitably spread across the European media. And if it was, it would be too late.

‘How is the boy?’ asked the guest.

Fawaz turned to him, beckoning him to sit and eat. They’d get around to specifics in good time. The luxury of a clean bed, a shower and fine French food had been a shock to his system at first. He’d become used to the grime and dirt of the road. The table was laden with simple peasant fare: local cheese, artisan bread, charcuterie, pâté and jams and chutneys made from local Anjou pears and greengages. The butter was pale and salty, and Fawaz felt at home, in a way. He found the French at once the most despicable invaders, but also the most civilised and cultured nation on Earth and their gastronomy was testament to that.

‘Let’s eat. Pour some wine,’ Fawaz said.

They sat and filled their plates.

‘He’s unharmed.’ Fawaz finally answered the question. ‘Mustafa has delivered the merchandise we need,’ he added.

‘Can you trust him?’

‘Who, Mustafa? Of course.’ Fawaz laughed. ‘You are jumpy, my friend. You don’t trust anyone, do you?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Good question. No, you shouldn’t, except for me. Your father trusted everyone and look what happened to him.’

Fawaz noticed Jean-Luc wince at the mention of his baba. Fawaz knew that it was a painful subject. Jean-Luc’s father had grafted all of his adult life, after fighting for the city of Algiers in 1957, which had ended with thousands disappearing to be executed or tortured and never seen again. Basem had been lucky to survive but independence would take another five years. Two million Algerians fled the country, but those who chose to stay won their freedom and set about rebuilding their homes, and their lives. That was what his own father had done, along with Khalil Dalmani’s.

In little more than two decades, the Dalmani family rose to prominence in government, commerce and law. And all of this on the back of people like Jean-Luc’s father.

‘Your father should have been respected more,’ Fawaz said.

‘He would have been had he worked for your family and not the Dalmanis,’ Jean-Luc said.

‘He made his choice in good faith,’ Fawaz said. ‘You’ve proven your loyalty and everything is arranged for you to leave.’

‘And my mother?’ Jean-Luc asked.

‘We still don’t know where she is. Relax, she’ll be unharmed, you’ll see. To my knowledge, she was interviewed by the police and they had her under house arrest, but she isn’t there now. This was released yesterday.’ Fawaz showed Jean-Luc the appeal for the public by Interpol to report the whereabouts of Marie Bisset to authorities.

‘If they don’t know where she is, and she hasn’t contacted me, then where is she?’ Jean-Luc was becoming irritable and his emotions bubbled to the surface.

‘Calm, now. There is only one explanation. This Englishman, who Khalil so trusts, you think he would be the obvious choice for your job?’

Jean-Luc nodded. The mention of Grant Tennyson, a foreigner, heightened his anxiety. The fact that Khalil bestowed such honour on him was shameful and only strengthened his resolve that his betrayal was justified.

‘I have knowledge of his history,’ Fawaz said. ‘He’s ex-military and there’s only one reason that Khalil would employ somebody with such a background: to pretend that he is clever enough to outsmart me. He’ll have your mother, but he’s playing a desperate game. He thinks he’s being shrewd, to get leverage for his son, but the opposite is true. I will tell him to release your mother, or his son dies.’ Fawaz popped a large chunk of crusty bread topped with cheese into his mouth.

Jean-Luc looked away.

‘Don’t be weak, Jean-Luc. Hakim was your ward and nothing more. A spoilt brat who took you for granted. My son died at the hands of the enemy and so will Khalil’s.’

Jean-Luc nodded and half-heartedly spread pâté onto a slice of bread.

‘I can’t leave without her,’ Jean-Luc said.

‘Ridiculous. You leave tomorrow. Your mother didn’t raise you to be weak. You can’t be found in France when things get ugly. You’ve done your job, and now it’s time for you to start a new life, the one you deserve. You’ll go by road to the Bay of Biscay, then by boat, from La Rochelle, to one of my ships off the coast of Spain. It will dock in Tangier in a week. Arrangements have been made to meet you and to transport you to your new home.’

Fawaz finished his food and sipped red wine. He stood again, taking his glass, and went to the window once more. The sight, smell and noise of water soothed him and he wondered why he hadn’t settled near the coast. But when Rafik died, all thoughts of his own pleasure were lost. It had taken him three years to find out who’d interrogated him in Marrakech. Every man present in that cell had met with a terrible accident since and expired prematurely. Then it had taken another year to find out who signed the extradition order in the UK. He was tired. His body was drained from self-abuse, and his mind was primed for the end.

‘Don’t worry, my friend, you’ll see your mother again. She never really loved France, did she? She’ll be happier in Morocco. How forward-thinking of her to bless you with a French name – it’ll make the transition easier. You need to go and pack. Here’s your new passport should anything go wrong, which it won’t. Don’t worry, it’s just a precaution. The beard suits you.’

Jean-Luc took the document and smiled. He left the room and Fawaz watched him. Jean-Luc would never make it to Morocco. He’d served his purpose. He was just like his father: a dead weight.

He ran his fingers through his hair, which