Brian Freemantle - The Predators

The Predators

Brian Freemantle

writing as Harry Asher

To Valerie and Andrew, with love

CHAPTER ONE

N one of it should have happened but all of it did and the mounting coincidences and innocent errors fatally confused the initial search for Mary Beth McBride. And by the time that search evolved into anything like a proper investigation it was too late.

Mary was already a victim.

It began with something as ordinary as a puncture, which briefly caused a traffic jam on the rue du Chne along which the embassy driver, a local Belgian named Claude Luc, was taking a short cut to the school. The US security officer, William Boles, agreed that it was a bastard even as he was strictly following the well-rehearsed routine. Before allowing Luc to change the wheel he telephoned the embassy from the car phone for a back-up vehicle to collect Mary. And then he called the school to warn of the delay.

The confusion arose when the embassy duplicated that warning call: misunderstanding the second contact, the school secretary thought that the relief vehicle had already arrived and it was no longer necessary to keep the child on the premises.

The last of the stragglers were just being collected or driven away when Mary Beth McBride emerged on to the rue du Canal and realized there was no car waiting for her. Marys security briefing was as well rehearsed but far simpler than that of William Boles. She should have turned back into the building and asked someone to telephone the embassy to find out what had happened.

But Mary Beth McBride was a wilfully precocious, brace-toothed ten-year-old who welcomed the chance not only to prove she was quite capable of finding her own way, unescorted, around Brussels, but also to see her usual driver and escort, who she knew didnt like her, take the blame during the later telling-off. It was they who would be punished, not she. No one ever punished her.

To make sure she thoroughly worried everyone Mary decided to take the most roundabout route possible to get home. She would use the Mtro, and let her mother find the ticket in her pocket. Mary was absolutely forbidden to use the system had never in her life been on an underground train anywhere in the world but was sure she could work it out from the map at the street entrance. Theyd hardly be able to believe it in class tomorrow when she told them. She knew all the other girls admired her: she wasnt frightened of doing things, as they all were. Thats why she was the leader, the person they all copied. It would cause one of those fights between mom and dad, too.

Mary never reached the Mtro, although she could see a station at the next road junction. She frowned sideways at the car that suddenly drew up beside her, irritated at the disruption of her plans and by the shape of the Mercedes, different from the car that normally picked her up. Her escort wasnt normally a woman, either. Mary didnt recognize this one although she knew there were women among the embassys security detachment. A car behind them began sounding its horn impatiently.

Are you from my father? Mary demanded imperiously. Theyd already know they were in trouble for being late.

Yes, lied Flicit Galan, speaking in English because the child had. Get in.

Wheres Bill and Claude? asked Mary, demandingly offering her backpack for the woman to take before sliding into the rear beside Flicit. It was grown-up to address the men who normally came for her by their given names: would let these two know how they had to behave. The car behind hooted again.

They had to do something else, improvised Flicit. She was looking intently at the girl, smiling in anticipation. To Henri Cool, at the wheel, Flicit said in French: Shes lovely. Weve done well.

Mary couldnt remember any of her escorts talking French, which she knew well enough to interpret the remark although not understand it. Youre going to get into trouble for being late.

No were not, said Flicit. The driver laughed.

Mary knew Brussels sufficiently to identify the Cathdrale de St Michel. She said: This isnt the way to the embassy!

Momentarily Flicit hesitated, off balance, aware of Cools startled look in the rearview mirror. She said: Were not going to the embassy.

Where then? demanded the child.

Youre going on an adventure, promised the woman, prepared for the question.

The driver pressed the central locking system and the buttons on all the doors clicked down, even though the rear-door child-locks were already in place, disabling the handles.

What sort of adventure? demanded Mary. This woman wasnt as respectful to her as Bill was: shed tell dad.

Wait and see.

I dont want to.

You dont have a choice.

At that moment the second security man in the backup collection vehicle reported to the American embassy on the Boulevard du Rgent that Mary had vanished. And the panic began in the office suite of the United States ambassador to Belgium, James McBride.

CHAPTER TWO

T hey usually got frightened during a drive as long as this, crying, wetting themselves. Hysterical. But this one didnt. Rather, she was defiantly unafraid arrogantly unafraid and Flicit, a constant seeker for anything new, anything not tried before, was excited. Would the child fight, later? None of the others had ever tried, not seriously. Hysteria gave way to cowed, bewildered acceptance: submissive apathy. Boring. It really would be exciting if this one fought back. Defied them. She was small, maybe no older than eight, although that would have been very young to be walking by herself. The prime requirement, to be as young as possible: young but aware. Hair good, lustrous hair in plaits. Oscar Wildes hair: All her bright golden hair tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair fallen to dust. Flicit mouthed the creed, part of her article of faith. This childs hair was golden, tarnished by a suggestion of redness. Pity about all that metal clamped in her mouth. Proof, if it were needed, that Mary Beth McBride was an American. Why did all American children have to have the output of a steel mill in their mouths? Never had an American child before. Have to get rid of the brace.

Flicit reached out, to stroke Marys cheek, but the girl jerked away although still without fear: it was an impatient, irritated movement. Where are we going?

I told you, an adventure.

I want to go back to Brussels. Now!

If youre a naughty girl Ill slap you. Part of the fun, the control. The best part. Shed make her cry. Plead. But not now. Too soon now. When she chose to. Maybe just the slightest correction.

No one slaps me!

I might. Be careful. An idea was forming in Flicits mind, a new fantasy. It would give her the sort of absolute, supreme control shed never had before. Her very own marionette show: a jumping, contorting cast of dozens, if not hundreds, performing to her will as she pulled the strings.

I have already told you my name is Mary Beth McBride and that my father is the American ambassador to Belgium!

I heard you. So had Henri Cool. Flicit knew he wasnt excited, as she was, sufficiently aroused for her voice to be fragile. He was scared, very scared, driving erratically out of Brussels until shed warned him. He was driving erratically again now. Youre going too fast, she said sharply. What the hells wrong with you!

He slowed, but only just to within the limit. Weve made a mistake. Weve got to get to do something about it.

Shut up! snapped Flicit, wondering how good the American girls French was.