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  A few moments later, agent Daniel Lescop, a short, trim balding man of forty-something entered Dulac’s office. Dulac pointed to a seat in front of his desk and Lescop sat down.

  “The Iron Lady wants me to head the Caravan Star investigation.” Dulac stood and looked distractedly out the window behind his desk.

  “But you said I’d be the lead agent…”

  Dulac turned back to Lescop. “She overrode my decision. I thought I’d let you know it wasn’t my doing.”

  “I.. well, thanks anyway,” said Lescop, a look of resignation on his thin face.

  “So I’m going to let you find another agent to do the digging work on the Bacarat case and bring you aboard the Caravan Star case. You’ll still remain lead agent on Bacarat of course.”

  Lescop looked confused. “I, I don’t understand. Isn’t that against her instructions?”

  “Not really. Just bending them a little. She didn’t say I couldn’t choose you to second me. Anyone you want to consider for Bacarat?”

  “I think Seegers is available. He’s just off the Alexia investigation. The Italians dropped all charges.”

  “I’ll send him a note. Brief him on the file, then you’re mine.”

  “Thanks. You won’t regret this.” Lescop rose and shook Dulac’s hand enthusiastically.

  “That remains to be seen. By the way, cancel any dates with wives and mistresses for the next few days.”

  Lescop looked quizzically at Dulac.

  “You’re going to Costa Rica tomorrow. I’ve arranged for you to be present when the San José police arrest Leon Binagro as accessory to the Star hijacking and for laundering the ransom money. If you have to reach me, I’ll be at Scotland Yard, with a certain inspector Harry Wade.”

  “Going to have it out with the Brits, eh?” said Lescop, with a look of mirthful sympathy on his face.

  “Something like that.”

  Chapter 41

  Heathrow airport, October 25th, 10.50 am.

  As the Airbus 330 descended through the clouds and hit a series of air pockets, Dulac instinctively grabbed the armrests of his seat. Ça commence bien! Moments later the plane bounced on touchdown, swayed slightly left, then right, before straightening out, slowing and taxiing to the tarmac. Dulac unclenched his sweaty hands from the armrests, his jarred nerves uncoiling gradually from around his chest, his misery coming to an end.

  Half-an-hour later, Dulac cleared customs and wove his way through the crowd of friends and relatives greeting passengers. He didn’t really believe someone would have been sent to pick him up, but he looked about just in case anyone was carrying a placard with his name. They weren’t. Overnight bag and laptop in hand, he went outside to the taxi stand and waited his turn in the bone-chilling sprinkle of rain.

  “Where to, guv?” The driver’s words were barely intelligible as he didn’t bother to turn towards Dulac.

  “10 Broadway.”

  “Going to play in the Yard, are we?”

  “Yep.” Dulac stared out the window.

  * * *

  The taxi joined the flow of morning traffic onto busy A 4, through Chiswick and along the Thames. Moments later, Dulac caught a glimpse of Royal Albert Hall to his left, soon followed by the posh mansions of the Belgravia district, one of the world’s priciest pieces of real-estate and London residences to more than a few sultans and emirs. When the taxi reached Duke of Wellington road, traffic had coalesced into gridlock, and the smell of diesel fumes slowly permeated the inside of the cab. Gradually the traffic started inching forward again and twenty minutes later, the cabbie stopped before an array of red vehicles parked in front of a tall rectangular building of glass, granite and steel.

  “Here you are, Guv. That’ll be fifty-one quid.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Pounds. Fifty-one pounds.”

  Dulac reached into his left pocket, opened his wallet and took out a wad of twenty pound notes. “What’s with the red police cars?” Dulac was unable to contain his curiosity.

  “The Diplomatic Protection Group Patrol. We call them DIPATS for short. They’re supposed to protect the policemen and diplomats from terrorists.”

  “Policemen protecting policemen. Interesting concept.”

  “And my taxes are paying for it.” The driver grunted his disapproval.

  Dulac paid the cabbie, grabbed his computer and overnight bag and made his way up the granite steps. He showed his Interpol card to one of the DIPATS, who ran a scan through the card identifier. After a moment, he returned the card and nodded an OK to Dulac, who went through the revolving doors to the reception desk.

  “I’m here to see Inspector Harry Wade.” Dulac showed his ID card to a woman wearing glasses as thick as the bottom of a Tanqueray bottle.

  “Is he expecting you?” She peered closely at the card.

  “Hope so.”

  Dulac waited as the woman took a series of calls. Finally she called Wade’s office and announced Dulac. After a moment, a tall, slim brunette with an easy smile appeared at the front desk.

  “Mr. Dulac?”

  Dulac nodded.

  “Please follow me.”

  They took the elevator to the sixth floor. The doors opened and Dulac followed the woman to a small office amid an array of even smaller offices lining the windowed wall. A man with short-cut brown hair and a furrowed face rose from behind his desk to greet him. Looks older than his photo. As he entered Wade’s office, Dulac’s attention was immediately drawn to the framed certificates of varying sizes adorning the wall behind Wade.

  “Ah… Mr. Dulac.” Wade proffered a hand, “Sorry I couldn’t meet you at Heathrow. How was your flight?”

  Dulac doubted the sincerity of the apology. “Lumpy.”

  “Yes, well, these days, the weather doesn’t help. Please.” Wade sat down and offered Dulac one of the chairs in front of the desk. “So what can we do for you, Mr. Dulac?” said Wade perfunctorily.

  “For starters, I’d like you to bring me up to speed with everything you’ve got on P & W, its officers, personnel records, critical path analysis leading up to and including the hijacking, onboard video and voice transcripts of the Caravan Star , transcript—”

  Wade put up his right hand in protest. “Not so fast, Mr. Dulac. As far as we’re concerned, you’re support only. We’ll call you when—”

  And here we go. Hidalgo all over again. “Inspector, before we get started, let’s clear up any misunderstanding, shall we?” Dulac looked fixedly at Wade. “I don’t want to get all legalistic, but since you brought it up, Article 23 of the Interpol-Britain Cooperation Agreement gives me complete investigative powers on cross-border crimes. Since the Caravan Star was hijacked on the open seas and acts of piracy, sequestration and a number of murders were committed on that ship, Interpol has the right to all the information you have, including any data in HOLMES 3.”

  “You know about HOLMES 3?”

  “Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. It replaced obsolete and non-intuitive HOLMES 2 a month ago. Much more powerful.”

  Wade eyed Dulac with a curious wariness. “I see you’re well informed.”

  “I try. So when is your next Major Incident Room meeting?”

  “Out of the question. We don’t have enough—”

  “What about this afternoon?”

  “Impossible. We—”

  Dulac rested his right forearm on Wade’s desk and leaned toward him. “I need to get up to speed quickly, Inspector.”

  “I realize that, but there are certain internal protocols we need to observe before we can—”

  Dulac needed to block Wade’s evasiveness quickly. “Let me help you prioritize this, maybe with a call to Sir Terence Hays. I spoke with him while I was on the Caravan Star. I’m sure he’ll—”

  “Be my guest.” Wade pushed the phone in Dulac’s direction.

  Dulac picked up the phone and dialed Gina’s number. After three rings, she answered.

  “Yes, it’s me. Dulac. Please get
me Sir Terence Hay’s number. I’ll wait.”

  Wade reached over and cut off the connection. “Listen, let’s try not to get off on the wrong foot, shall we Dulac? I have a lunch meeting in 10 minutes. I’ll see who’s available this afternoon. Shall we say 1.30?”

  Chapter 42

  Centre de Rééducation Fonctionnelle, Paris, 12. 45 pm.

  The nurse brought the lunch tray on the small wheel board table and swung the table over Karen’s bed.

  “And how is Madame Karen this morning?”

  “Fine.” Karen felt tingling in her left leg as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. She looked quizzically at the plate’s metal cover.

  “Quiche and potatoes.” The nurse smiled as she removed the cover.

  “Again?”

  The nurse shrugged and went to the window to adjust the blinds. “A little more light?”

  “No thanks. I’m quite tired actually.”

  “You must not sleep so much. Dr. Bouliva says it is not good for you.”

  “Easy for him to say. He’s not the one who can hardly walk.”

  “You must think positively, positive thoughts. Things will get better.” The nurse, opened the blinds. “You must have faith. Last week, Mr. Dompierre started to walk again with the crutches.”

  “And how long has he been here?”

  The nurse looked pensively upwards. “Oh, about a month. But you are much younger. You’ll see, you’ll walk better soon.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  The phone on the bedside table rang. Karen picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Just wanted to touch base. How are you doing?” said Dulac.

  “Thierry. Just a second.” Karen turned toward the nurse and smiled. “That’ll be all, merci.”

  The nurse turned quickly and walked out.

  “Apart from the tasteless meals, not bad. Where are you?”

  “At the Asquith Hotel, in London. I’m finishing a terrible lunch and about to return to the Yard.”

  “Can’t be worse than here.”

  “Sounds as if you’re getting better already.”

  “If tingling in my left leg can be considered getting better, yes.” She pushed the table away from the bed. “How goes your investigation?”

  “I’m about to find out what the Yard has. A certain Harry Wade is in charge. Not very cooperative.”

  “Try to be diplomatic, Thierry.”

  “That’s exactly what Arlberg said. Too late for that.”

  “So when can I see you?”

  “Hard to tell. Could be a few days, a week maybe. Depends on how many barriers they put up.”

  “I miss you.”

  “And I you. I’ve got to go. Call you soon.”

  * * *

  Scotland Yard headquarters, 1. 30 pm.

  Dulac stepped out of the elevator on the sixth floor and turned right towards Wade’s office. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air as Dulac made his way along the open cubicles, where constabulary personnel occasionally looked up from their computer screens and gave Dulac an inquisitive glance. For all the excitement, he could have been at the office of a mortician.

  “Mr. Dulac.” Dulac looked right. It was the tall brunette, Wade’s secretary, walking at a brisk pace along one of the side corridors. “They’re waiting for you in the Major Incident Room. Please follow me.”

  They went to the far end of the corridor, arriving in front of two wood panel doors. The young woman inserted a plastic key into the security slot next to the doors. A green light flashed and the left door opened. Dulac entered and the door closed automatically behind him. The room was lit in blue neon lights, and an array of large video screens adorned three walls. The fourth wall was reserved for pictures of Sherlock Holmes, as depicted by various actors in the celebrated detective’s filmography. Dulac immediately recognized Jeremy Brett, Peter Cushing and Basil Rathbone. With the high resolution of his photo, Benedict Cumberbatch was clearly the latest addition. In the center of the room, men and women were seated at small tables, some looking at their laptops, others in hushed discussions with their colleagues. Dulac spotted Wade, seated, talking to two men.

  “Ah, Inspector.” Wade rose from his chair. “Meet Jonathan Coe from Workflow Management, and Simon Potter from Task Management.” The two men rose and smiled mechanically. “Please.” Wade motioned Dulac to a chair next to him.

  “Gentlemen.” Dulac walked over and sat down next to Wade. “What about Document Management and Critical Path Analysis?”

  “I see you know Holmes well, Mr. Dulac,” Wade said. “It’s a little early for that input at this time.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got.” Dulac thrummed the fingers of his right hand on the table.

  “Jonathan?” said Wade.

  “Right,” said Coe. A tall man with hollow cheeks and wavy brown hair tapped keys on his computer’s keyboard. The first of the PowerPoint slides appeared on one of the large video screens on the far wall, captioned as Caravan Star. The explanatory text read “Events 36. DRE impression parameters.”

  “Presumably you know about the DRE, Mr. Dulac?” said Coe.

  “Dynamic Reasoning Engine. The so-called computer with a mind. You’re going to tell me that…”

  “I’m only here to let you know we will be using it down the road,” said Coe. “We don’t have enough relevant facts or data quite yet.”

  “I’m anxious to find out if it can handle paradox,” said Dulac.

  “What do you mean?” said Coe.

  “Simple. Paradox: a statement seemingly self-contradictory or absurd, but possibly well-founded or essentially true. Or, if you wish, a conflict of preconceived notions of what is reasonable or possible.”

  Coe stood mute. He looked at Dulac, then the others.

  “Yes, well, I guess it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?” said Wade, in an effort to rescue Coe from his momentary paralysis.

  “My point exactly,” said Dulac. “Thank you, Mr. Wade.”

  Wade turned to Potter. “Simon?”

  Potter turned on his computer. The slide changed to another image, also captioned Caravan Star. . The explanatory text for this one read “Task Management” followed by a detailed chart with boxes and names.

  “How many investigators have you assigned?” Dulac asked Wade.

  “Two. And three assistants.”

  “I don’t see my name in any of the boxes. Dulac looked pointedly at the screen.

  “This is primary functionality, Mr. Dulac,” said Potter. “We will of course call upon you when we feel there is an Interpol parameter and…”

  “No, you will not. Because I—and Interpol—will already be in control of this operation. Every aspect of it.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Potter.

  Dulac noted the frowns of disapproval and could not have cared less. “Again, read your Interpol cooperation agreement. Quote: ‘Article 23 (c), (ii). Whenever a major crime becomes trans-border, Interpol shall coordinate all investigation activities and take whatever action is necessary to take control of the investigation.’”

  “But that’s—”

  Dulac continued: “…and subsection (e) (i): ‘The investigative forces of Great Britain shall provide assistance deemed necessary by the Interpol agent in his investigation’. I assume that’s clear enough for you gentlemen?”

  “Well, that’s all fine and dandy Mr. Dulac,” said Wade,” but we have already begun and as you can see, tasks have already been attributed and the investigation is well under way.”

  “I haven’t seen anything tangible yet.”

  “That’s because you haven’t let us show you.” Potter regained his composure. “Perhaps the next few pages will help.”

  “Fair enough. Go ahead,” said Dulac.

  Potter tapped on his computer keyboard. “Here we have the result of background checks on all security personnel on board Caravan Star. Seven people ha
ve false identities. All were hired through the previous security officer aboard the Caravan Star.”

  “Previous?” asked Dulac.

  Potter continued. “David Winston replaced a certain Tajar Singh, two weeks before the Caravan Star sailed out of Southampton. Singh was on sick leave.”

  “And obviously you haven’t been able to locate him.”

  “He’s vanished,” said Potter. “He and his family have been living in Southampton for the past seven years. Two kids in school. During his four years at P & W, good track record. Sixteen days before the hijack, he didn’t report in. Family and friends haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Any leads?” said Dulac.

  “None. We put out an all points on him. We suggest you do the same at Interpol.”

  “How did these guys get their guns past the metal detectors?” said Dulac.

  “Still baffled by that,” said Wade.

  “We had our people check all cameras and screening devices for entry aboard the ship,” said Potter. “They are at present one hundred percent operational. We checked the security logs and there was no interruption from the time the Caravan Star set sail from Southampton. To our knowledge no one boarded her in transit, so we must presume the hijackers boarded at Southampton. We’re still waiting for the results of the onboard video cameras.”

  “What about the people at P & W? What’s the intel on them?” said Dulac.

  “It’s a rather delicate matter.” Wade looked uncomfortable. “You see, there is a… call it a connection… in this matter between P & W and Home Office.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s not up to me to elaborate. Let’s just say we can’t walk into their offices and start asking questions without reasonable cause,” said Wade.