Dead Line (5 page)

Trent took up a position in the centre of the octagonal room and began, as he always did, by describing his background and experience. His delivery rarely changed. It was no different tonight.

He started with the usual oblique references to his formative years in the British military and his early work as an analyst for a secretive branch of the UK government, followed by his switch to a London-based corporate security outfit. He explained how his dual Anglo-French nationality had led him to move to the company’s Paris office, where he’d specialised in kidnap and ransom negotiation.

He talked of a demanding five-year period handling kidnap cases across France, Italy, the Balkans, Greece and Spain, where he’d honed his skills and developed his own particular techniques and tactics. Then he mentioned how he’d decided to relocate to Marseilles in the wake of a spate of kidnappings throughout the south of France to set up his own niche firm specialising in all varieties of K & R protection. He outlined the scope of services his firm provided, ranging from the insurance policy that Jérôme had acquired from his colleague and business partner, Aimée Paget, to the guidance he’d hoped to provide to Jérôme concerning anti-kidnap security measures, to the sort of assistance he could offer in the case of an actual kidnapping, such as the Moreaus were experiencing right now.

Twenty minutes’ fast talking and then he was done. One o’clock in the morning. Silence in the room. His audience had remained mute throughout. Trent had paid close attention to their reactions when he’d mentioned Aimée’s name. None of them had betrayed a thing. There was no indication of any concern or recognition.

Stephanie had hung on his every word, shuffling ever nearer to the edge of her chair. She looked pale and tired and just about ready to drop.

Philippe hadn’t strayed from the chesterfield, though now he was pivoted forwards from the waist, his bony elbows braced on his spread thighs, his gaze fixed on the fragments of pulverised glass between his feet. Trent was fairly sure he was suffering from a tide of nausea. He was swallowing audibly. Another mouthful of coffee and he’d likely pass out.

Alain was perched on the end of the desk next to the tray of coffee things, one foot touching the floor, his other leg bent at the knee. He’d shed his jacket and draped it over the chair alongside Stephanie, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his frayed collar. The Ruger was still in its holster. The holster was still fitted around his shoulder and chest. He looked a lot like a squad detective receiving a debrief.

One spot remained conspicuously unoccupied – the office chair behind the desk. It was the most comfortable seat in the room and it would have given one of his listeners the best possible view of what he had to say. But it appeared that nobody was prepared to claim it. Perhaps it was a subconscious decision to keep the spot open for Jérôme. Perhaps it signified something else. Trent was still weighing up the possible explanations when Philippe cleared his throat.

‘We should contact the police,’ he said, glancing up at Stephanie and Alain. ‘Men we trust there. Men my father can rely on.’ Beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead. His skin had a waxy texture and he was squinting myopically, as though the light in the room was too bright for him.

‘Not a good idea,’ Trent replied.

‘Why?’ His cheek was still livid. Looked like it might bruise. ‘They have the manpower and the resources to deal with situations like this.’

‘They also have a different agenda from us.’

‘
Us
?’

‘That’s right. Like it or not, we’re a team now.’

Philippe curled his lip. He shook his head at the others in the room. ‘He’s just looking to get paid for something the police will do better. And for free.’

‘Not true.’ Trent fixed his gaze on each of them in turn. He was very deliberate about it. ‘My fee is covered by Jérôme’s insurance policy.’

‘But you’re just one man,’ Philippe persisted. ‘I bet the police would assign some kind of specialist unit.’  

Trent bobbed his head. ‘You’re right. They would. But tell me, what would be their goal?’

‘To get my father back.’

‘Possibly. But they’d also want to try and apprehend the gang. They’d want to prevent the gang from doing this to someone else.’

‘Are you concerned they’ll put you out of business?’

‘I’m concerned they might bungle their investigation. I’m concerned they’d show their hand. When the men who snatched your father get in contact, the first thing they’ll tell you is not to talk to the police. And they’ll mean it, too. If they catch sight of the authorities anywhere near them, do you know what they’ll do?’

Philippe didn’t reply. He just stared at Trent, a bluish cast to his lips, a simmering loathing in his sleep-hooded eyes.

‘They’ll kill your father. Make no mistake. They don’t want to be caught. They don’t want to come close to risking it. And catching them isn’t your concern. Your only thought should be getting your father back alive. I can help you to achieve that, but you have to work with me and you have to work with the gang. This is a negotiation now.’ He glanced at Stephanie. She was blinking rapidly. ‘You’ll have to pay. I’m sorry, but that’s the reality. Hoping for any other outcome is like putting a loaded gun against your husband’s head and pulling the trigger.’

Stephanie winced but Trent didn’t back off. It was vital to get his point across. Not just for Jérôme. For other reasons, too. Reasons that had to do with his own concerns. With Aimée and the bigger objective he was working towards.

Trent turned back to Philippe. ‘What do you do for a living?’ he asked.

‘I’m a businessman,’ Philippe replied, though he looked far from it in his ridiculous shirt and his sagging jeans.

Alain snorted.

‘What kind of business?’ Trent asked.

‘A nightclub. In the Vieux Port.’

‘He has only a share,’ Stephanie explained. ‘His partners take their profits in cash. Philippe prefers to consume his in other ways.’

‘A lot you know,’ Philippe snarled back. ‘The way you make your living. On your back for my father.’

‘Hey!’ Trent snapped his fingers. ‘Enough.’

Stephanie’s head rolled loosely on her shoulders, like she was reeling from a physical blow. Her plump lips were pursed and moist, as if she were sucking on a straw. Great lips. Wonderful features. But right now her wan skin had pulled taut over her angular cheekbones, and she looked lost and alone and utterly abandoned. Trent could see that she was the kind of woman men would trample other men to protect. He could feel the temptation to go to her. It was a hard instinct to resist.

‘We don’t have time for this.’ He jabbed a finger at Philippe. ‘Let’s get back to your club. You must have all kinds of suppliers, correct? You need drinks. Snacks. A sound system. DJs. That kind of thing.’

Philippe nodded, an amused slant to his mouth, as if Trent was tragically unhip.

‘But you have something they need, too, don’t you? They survive because of your custom.’

He sniffed and lifted his shoulders. Maybe the club wasn’t doing too well. It wouldn’t surprise Trent to hear it. Philippe didn’t strike him as the dedicated type.

‘My point is, it’s the same with the men who’ve taken your father. You have to set your emotions aside and view this as a business transaction. Think of it like this: these men have a commodity you want. They have Jérôme. But the reverse is also true. You have something they need. You have money.’

‘My father has money.’

‘Same thing. That’s why they targeted him.’

‘Or because of the insurance policy,’ Alain put in, crossing his arms over his chest, squeezing the revolver with his biceps. ‘It’s possible they know it exists.’

‘Unlikely,’ Trent replied. ‘But either way, Jérôme is worth something to the gang. And to get him back, you need to barter a deal. And that’s where I come in.’

Before he continued, Trent finally did what he’d wanted to do since he’d first stepped into the room. He walked around the oversized desk, rolled back the giant leather chair and took a seat.

A simple process. A comfortable one, too. The chair was well sprung, the leather soft and warm. The backrest was supportive in all the right places. It didn’t even creak as he adjusted his weight.

But the effect was telling.

Stephanie gazed at him uncertainly. Philippe appeared stunned. Alain tensed and slipped off the side of the desk, as if sensing a threat.

‘This is Jérôme’s chair?’ Trent asked.

Stephanie nodded, mouth agape.

‘And nobody sits here except Jérôme?’

‘You should respect him,’ Alain said.

‘You think he’ll be mad at me?’ Trent leaned backwards. He smoothed his hands along the armrests. ‘Listen, I’m just keeping it warm for him until he returns. Believe me, I want him back alive every bit as much as all of you.’

He scanned the faces in front of him. Philippe and Stephanie averted their eyes. Only Alain held his gaze. His stare was unwavering.

Trent asked himself if maybe the bodyguard sensed that he was lying? If he saw clean through his words?

Because the truth was he didn’t want Jérôme back as much as any of them.

He wanted it much, much more than that.

‘Let’s talk money,’ Trent said, pressing his fingertips together. ‘The insurance policy Jérôme took out with my firm covers him for a ransom payout of up to two and a half million euros.’

Philippe whistled.

‘Sounds a lot, doesn’t it? And I’m not here to try and save our brokers any cash. If that’s what it takes to free Jérôme, then that’s what we’ll pay.’

‘Do you really think they will ask for this much?’ Stephanie asked, as if she couldn’t quite conceive of the sum.

‘No,’ Trent told her. ‘I think they’ll ask for more. They’ll start with a high demand, hoping you’ll pay it. That way they leave themselves room to come down.’

‘How much higher?’ Alain asked.

‘Three million. Maybe even four. It depends if they know about the policy. It also depends how much Jérôme might be worth.’

‘Four million?’ Stephanie repeated, breathless now.

‘It’s a request. That’s all. We have to talk them down.’

‘But you risk aggravating them,’ Alain said. ‘They could react badly.’

‘Kill him, you mean?’ Trent shook his head. ‘Think about it: returning Jérôme to us safely is the only way they get paid. And trust me, the worst thing you could do would be to agree to their first demand. They don’t really expect to be paid three or four million or whatever it is they actually ask for. The going rate for ransoms of this kind in France right now is somewhere below two million. They’re a professional gang. They’ll know that. But suppose you consent to pay them four million, what do you think will happen?’

Nobody answered. Trent hitched an eyebrow at Philippe. Philippe shuffled restlessly, unwilling to speak up.

‘They’ll think you’re a soft touch, is what,’ Trent said. ‘They’ll collect your four million and then they’ll demand another instalment. This entire process is about squeezing you. Pay them early and they might try for two or more ransoms. I’ve heard of one family who paid as many as four times. And all the while, they keep hold of Jérôme. His ordeal is prolonged. So the best thing you can do is to engage with them. Negotiate a one-time-only fee. You have to pitch it right. You have to pay the smallest amount of money possible and still get Jérôme home safe. Understand?’

‘What if they’ve killed him already?’ Philippe asked.

Stephanie shied away, as if bracing for impact.

‘It’s simple,’ Trent replied. ‘Every time they call or contact us we demand proof that Jérôme is still alive. They’ll anticipate the request and there are various ways they can satisfy it. The easiest way is to put him on the phone. Next easiest is for us to ask a question that only he could answer. But it’s important to remember that they won’t kill him if we agree to pay a fair amount.’

‘Fair.’ Stephanie spat the word.

‘To them, yes,’ Trent insisted. ‘You don’t have to like it. You don’t even have to understand it. You just have to accept it.’

Stephanie shuddered. She clenched her cardigan around herself.

‘Remember, everything they do is designed to manipulate you into paying a better price. My job is to help you analyse the gang’s communications and expose their tactics for what they are. But you three have to make the decisions. You have to be comfortable with whatever is decided.’

It wasn’t entirely true. Trent was confident he could exert his influence on them when it mattered. He was relying on it, in fact. But it was a line he’d used often in the past and it had always tended to put his clients at ease.

‘Three is an ideal number,’ he continued. ‘You’ll each have a vote on team decisions and you’ll go with what the majority decide. Alain can be chairman. The two of you’, he said, indicating Stephanie and Philippe, ‘are more emotionally involved. So in the event that you can’t agree on a particular course of action, Alain will make the call. But you each need a different role beyond that, too.’

They looked at him, waiting for more. Nobody spoke. Nobody suggested an alternative arrangement. Trent wasn’t surprised. He was often confronted by a curious lethargy among the friends and families of kidnap victims. Plus they were exhausted. It was almost two-thirty in the morning. Before the attack, Stephanie, Jérôme and Alain had been on their way home to bed. And though Philippe might not have planned to end his night just yet, there was a reasonable chance he would have flaked out by now if his father’s abduction hadn’t altered his plans.

‘Alain, you’ll be in charge of security. That makes sense given your current role. The house here looks very safe.’ Trent nodded towards the glow of halogen around the edge of the thickened curtains. ‘That’s why the gang attacked you before you reached the gate. But you need to be aware of the risk of follow-up kidnappings. You have to be responsible for the movements of Stephanie and Philippe. That’ll be much easier if you all stay inside the grounds.’

‘Wait.’ Philippe wagged a finger. ‘I don’t live
here
. I have an apartment in the city.’

‘Argue with Alain, not me. If he thinks you’re safe to leave, it’s his call. I’m pretty sure your father would agree.’

‘No way,’ Philippe muttered.

Stephanie rolled her eyes.

‘You can be the group’s liaison to the outside world,’ Trent told Philippe. ‘You say you’re a businessman, then act like it. If there comes a time when we need to contact the police, or if the press become involved, you’ll be the family’s conduit. Agreed?’

He threw up his hands, as if he couldn’t care either way.

‘And me?’ Stephanie asked.

Trent leaned forwards and placed his hands on the surface of the desk, fingers spread, knuckles raised.

‘You have the most important role of all,’ he told her. ‘You’re the one who talks to the gang.’

She leaned backwards, eyes like dark pools. A vein throbbed at her temple, a squiggle of blue ink beneath her skin.

‘It’s OK,’ Alain said. He rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘They can speak with me instead.’

‘No. That won’t work.’ Trent locked onto Stephanie. ‘Listen, we have to give them what they expect. Then we turn it to our advantage. If Alain speaks to them, they’ll be on their guard. They may become more aggressive. But if you answer, they’ll believe they’re applying pressure in just the way they anticipated. It’s good if you sound distressed. It’s good if you demand to know that your husband is alive. And most importantly, you can tell them that you can’t raise the sort of sums they’re demanding. You can tell them that only Jérôme has access to his assets and bank accounts. Forgive me, but you’re much younger than Jérôme and it’s likely they’ll believe you. That’s a good thing. They’ll begin to understand that you can only pay a reasonable sum.’

Stephanie was silent. She was turning over his explanation. Trent was pleased to see it. Even under duress, she was thinking things through. When the gang contacted them, there’d be times when she’d have to react to new information very rapidly. It was important that her responses were as considered as possible.

‘Why don’t you talk to them?’ she asked.

‘At this stage, it’s best if they don’t know that I’m involved. But don’t worry. I’ll prepare a script for you. Just a few simple points you should try to get across.’

‘You forget that they saw you,’ Alain said.

‘They saw a guy involved in a car crash on a dark road. That’s all.’

‘You shot at them.’

Trent shook his head. ‘They were fleeing at speed. Even supposing they saw that it was me, they might think I was some kind of back-up security.’

Alain’s face was knotted up. He wasn’t convinced. Neither was Trent. But he wasn’t about to dwell on something he couldn’t control.

He braced his hands against the edge of the desk and rolled backwards in Jérôme’s chair, then grappled with the central drawer just above his knees. It was locked. There were more drawers on the right and some on the left. They were locked, too.

‘I need paper and a pen,’ he said. ‘Is there some in this desk? Do you have a key?’

‘Alain has a key,’ Stephanie replied.

Trent turned to Alain but the bodyguard didn’t reach for the set of keys he’d used earlier. He simply gathered his jacket from the back of the chair, delved a hand into a front pocket and fetched a small notepad and pencil.

He opened the pad to the first page and passed it to Trent. The page wasn’t blank. It was half-filled with a rushed, uneven scrawl. Trent read over the information – a physical description of a man, plus a vehicle number plate. He recognised the description as his own. It was brief but accurate. Alain had recorded his height to within a centimetre and his weight to within a few pounds. The summary of his hair colour and his clothes was faultless. The sequence of numbers and letters printed below the description matched the fake plates he’d attached to the Peugeot exactly.

‘I noted it down after we left the Opéra,’ Alain told him. ‘The number plate I added when you followed us into the tunnel.’

Trent was impressed. He supposed that was the point.

He turned to a fresh page, clutched the pencil tight and began to write.

‘Here.’ Trent tore the page free and slid it across the surface of the desk towards Stephanie. ‘Don’t worry, there’s a strong likelihood they won’t give you much chance to speak. The call won’t last long. Thirty, maybe forty-five seconds. They’ll be concerned about the possibility of a trace. They’ll tell you not to contact the authorities and they’ll mention a ransom. They may specify a figure. They may not. If they do, you can’t possibly pay it. Understand?’

The paper shook in her hand. She was nervous but he sensed a resolve in her, too. He’d witnessed the reaction many times. Give someone a responsibility. Make them believe they’re the right individual to fulfil an important role. Focus their attention on that one particular task. Then sit back and watch them adapt to it. Marvel at the way they’re able to concentrate on their mission to the exclusion of whatever emotions might be swirling through their mind.

‘But there is a problem,’ she said.

‘Go on.’

‘This.’ She’d flattened the piece of paper on the desk, turning it so that it was facing Trent. Her fingernail was resting just beneath point two on his list:
Money.
‘It’s true. I don’t have access to Jérôme’s accounts. He controls all our funds.’

‘All of it?’

She flinched. ‘I have a small allowance.’

‘How small?’

She glanced at Alain. ‘Maybe twenty thousand euros?’

Alain nodded. Trent supposed that he oversaw her spending in some way.

‘How about you?’ Trent asked Philippe.

‘The same,’ he mumbled. ‘An allowance. No bigger.’

Trent vented air through his lips. It was a hitch he hadn’t anticipated.

‘But we’re insured.’ Alain opened his hands. He showed his square palms to the three of them.

‘That’s right,’ Trent replied. ‘But normally the policy reimburses a client once a ransom payment has been made.’

‘And in a situation like this?’

Trent sighed. ‘I should be able to authorise a cash advance. But it’s not ideal. It can take as long as a week. And the payment can’t exceed the two-point-five million limit.’

There were other problems, too. Problems he wasn’t inclined to share. Aimée had always handled the paperwork for any claim. Trent could do it himself – he’d be able to figure out the procedures if he really had to – but both their signatures were necessary to process a payment. He guessed he could forge Aimée’s signature. He’d seen it often enough. But there remained the issue of the extra time the process would take.

And Trent had no idea how much time he might have.

He wanted everything resolved as soon as possible. He couldn’t afford for any more complications to arise.

‘What about you?’ Trent asked Alain.

He smirked. ‘You think I’m a millionaire?’

‘Maybe not. But I think you’re smart. I think if you applied yourself you could come up with a fast way to get your hands on some cash. You’ve worked alongside Jérôme for some time. You must have a few ideas.’

Trent watched Alain carefully. He didn’t say anything more. Didn’t elaborate. But he saw a flicker of light deep inside the bodyguard’s eyes. The slightest contraction of his pupils, as if he were reassessing the situation.

Trent swivelled in his chair. Stephanie was reading back over his prompt sheet. She swallowed hard. Looked from the sheet to the telephone. Stared at it with a mixture of fear and fascination.

‘Look, it has a speaker,’ Trent said. He tapped a button towards the bottom of the keypad. ‘We’ll be able to listen to everything they say. We’ll be right here with you.’

She nodded. Wet her lip with her tongue. Pushed the script alongside the telephone.

‘But don’t keep watching it,’ he told her. ‘You’ll drive yourself crazy. Silence is one of the most powerful weapons the gang have at their disposal. Making you anxious is a key move for them. Be aware of that and see it for what it is. A negotiating tactic. Nothing more.’

She nodded again and summoned a brave smile. It made her appear more scared and more out of her depth than anything he’d seen so far.

‘So what happens now?’ Philippe asked, fighting a yawn.

‘The hardest part,’ Trent told him. ‘We wait.’