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

had said her son came to her disorientated, scared for his life and confused, and had staggered off to go into hiding. It was an unlikely story, but all they had. Only his interrogation, due to start any minute in La Rochelle, would give them the answers they needed, but they might not have time to wait. Mustafa was turning out to be a wily old foot soldier, unwilling to give anything away. She had no idea what sort of interviewee Jean-Luc would turn out to be.

She rewound footage of Mustafa being asked directly about drones and watched his body language. Over and over again, he remained true to his lines, but his body told a different story. Basic deception causes disruption in the brain, which displays as discomfort in the body. End of. Mustafa looked awkward when he answered certain questions about what he thought Fawaz was building, if he’d been asked to help and where he thought the goods were being used. Mustafa was clearly no liar: the more distress lying caused a person, the more honest they were. In other words, the more relaxed a person was with lying, the more likely it was that they’d learned to become expert liars as children.

Mustafa was a decent man. And that’s why he was struggling.

She turned to the inventory of his workshop and shook her head. It was like reading ancient Greek. She’d never understood science that much at school, and the equations, gadgetry, circuits and scribbled numbers on bits of paper frazzled her brain. But one thing caught her eye. It was a newspaper. A French newspaper dated yesterday and it was open on a page which ran an article on the upcoming summit. Three colour photographs adorned the article: three beaming statesmen, wearing similar suits, sporting thinning hairstyles and identical paunches. The president of France, the president of the United States and the UK prime minister. To a forensic officer not familiar with the intricacies of the case, it was another item to be bagged and tagged and sent to Interpol. To Helen, it struck her as interesting, especially when she zoomed in and spotted the doodles.

But they weren’t doodles, they were dots. Dots arranged in a pattern.

Chapter 54

She found Roy and Peter poring over the electronic map of the estate in the control room. They both stopped what they were doing and greeted her.

‘Look,’ she said. She showed them the photograph of the newspaper, taken by forensics inside the workshop of Mustafa ibn Tafila.

‘Facial recognition,’ she said.

‘Blow me,’ Peter said. Roy looked at him curiously. Helen didn’t bother explaining the nuances between American and British English.

‘He won’t break – I’m telling you that now,’ she added.

‘Tafila?’ Peter asked.

She nodded. ‘We need to work on Jean-Luc. I was curious as to why he was so easily caught leaving the country. Clumsy? Stupid, or double-crossed perhaps. Either way, he knows where Fawaz is,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if his ticket out of here was Jean-Luc’s reward for his part in the abduction of Hakim, which enabled Fawaz to ship the C4 here in the first place.’

‘If it’s C4,’ Peter reminded her.

‘Sir, I think the lady’s right. If you’re going to arm a facial-recognition-enabled drone, arming it with anything other than C4 would be stupid and inefficient. That’s what I’d do,’ Roy said.

‘But where is it?’ he asked. Peter explained that the industrial estate where the van had been stopped was being searched thoroughly, but nothing had been found yet. There were twenty-two depots to search, and the place had to be emptied first due to the threat to life, should explosives be used in any capacity against them.

Helen received a text and looked at her phone.

I’m in Paris, it read. It was from Grant.

JL arrested. La Rochelle. B of Biscay.

Interviewed?

Not yet. You hanging around?

Prince de Galles Hotel – perks of the job.

They’d stayed there together for an anniversary.

Room 525.

She looked up as the debate between Peter and Roy raged on about how possible it was to fly drones into the estate of Versailles.

‘I still can’t fathom how anyone could get drones close to the palace,’ Roy said.

‘Unless they’re already here,’ Helen said. It was a theory she’d flagged up yesterday at the US embassy, and one that had garnered cynicism from the military men present.

They walked to the window as information came through to Peter that the first VIPs were entering the estate. Helen looked at her watch: the dinner was in eight hours. The heads of state would assemble in the Hall of Mirrors and the US president, the president of France and the UK prime minister would arrive last.

‘Do we have exit routes secured?’ Helen asked.

Roy nodded his head and read through the plans submitted by each member state.

‘Final walk-through?’ Peter suggested.

The next couple of hours were pivotal in affecting potential outcome. They had time for one more run-through of their systems. An unmanned aerial vehicle was checking the perimeter for abandoned or parked vehicles near the boundary. Final checks were to be done on the backgrounds of auxiliary staff such as drivers, catering staff and bodyguards. ETAs of VIPs were to be finalised and entrance points double-checked. Sniper positions and any reports of unusual activity on the surrounding horizon were expected every fifteen minutes. The VPNs of all vehicles expected to enter the estate were checked and double-checked.

Anxiety affected all three of them, regardless of their combined experience. Roy White had served the US president’s office directly for ten years; Helen had given fourteen years to her country; and Peter Knowles had racked up twenty-two, most of that in Counter Terrorism.

They’d each drunk three coffees, and counting.

‘ETA of the US president?’ Peter asked Roy.

‘Two p.m. sharp.’

‘Right, let’s get moving. The UK PM is having lunch with Sir Conrad, and they will travel here together. Helen, you take a walk through the catering facilities. I’ll stay here with Roy and collate information from the perimeter,’ Peter said.

‘Has anyone explained to