Dance With the Enemy (4 page)

Frank Modena opened his eyes. His vision was blurred from the last beating he’d taken. His left eye was virtually closed up. It made it even harder to see in the windowless room, which was only sparsely lit by a single overhead bulb. Modena couldn’t see behind him, but the room in front of him was completely empty. The poured concrete floor had pockmarks and chips taken out of it, suggesting the room had seen heavy use at some point. On the exposed brick walls were large patches of mould and mildew which, in the dim light, seemed to take on a sinister appearance, and there was an odour of damp and decay in the room.

Modena’s hands were tied behind him, fixed to the chair that he was sitting on, and each of his ankles was tied to a chair leg. He couldn’t move. Though it didn’t really matter, because he didn’t have the strength to try.

He’d been tied to the chair since he arrived at this place. They hadn’t yet fed him, or moved him at all. He had lost his one last dignity a number of hours ago when he had been unable to hold his bladder any longer, much to the amusement of one of his captors.

When they had put the sack over his head and thrown him into the vehicle, Modena had used the movements to try to keep track of where they were going, seeking some comfort in at least knowing in which direction they had headed. But it was harder than it seemed. Within minutes, he no longer had any idea of direction. At a guess, he thought they’d driven for close to two hours before they’d finally come to a stop and dragged him into this hellhole. He had been taken down some steps, so
he assumed he was in the basement of a building, but he had no idea what kind of building it might be. It could have been a barn or a city-centre skyscraper for all he knew. But there was so little noise, so little indication of the outside world, that he had no way of determining which it was. After arriving here it had been several more hours before the captors had taken the sack off Modena’s head. And then the beatings had started.

None of them had yet shown their faces, always wearing their balaclavas. And they hadn’t used any names for each other. He’d seen four attackers when they’d taken him, but he guessed there must have been at least two others involved: one driving the ambulance and another to drive the panel van that he’d been hauled into. But since he’d been in this room, only three different people had been in. Even though he hadn’t seen any faces, he’d used their sizes and shapes as a guide. Though given their identical clothing, he supposed there could have been more than three if two or more of them were of a similar build.

One of them definitely seemed to be the leader, or at least was the most senior of those who had been in the room with him. The same one who had spoken to him before they had taken him. It was quite easy to tell him apart from the others. He was big in all directions, like a heavyweight boxer or a wrestler, and he had a deep, bass voice. A real thug.

Modena was straining to see through his swollen eyes. But with the sparse light he could tell he was alone in the room. For now.

Minutes later, though, the door opened and in walked a figure carrying a small object up to his chest. Modena winced, initially mistaking the object for a gun, but as the figure came closer he realised it was a plate. In the other hand was a glass of what looked like water. This man wasn’t the leader. He was too short. Too thin. Modena felt the slightest twinge of relief.

‘It’s time for you to eat,’ the man said. He spoke in English, though it was heavily accented. Modena would have guessed he was Arab, Middle Eastern, but he really couldn’t be sure. It was the first time he’d heard this voice, but he thought he recognised the shape of the man. So that would still make it only three who had been into this room with him.

‘Please. Why are you doing this?’ Modena asked, though he wasn’t really sure that he expected an answer.

The man put down the plate and held out the glass of water to Modena’s lips. He began to tip it up, most of the water splashing down Modena’s front as he frantically lapped at the cool liquid. When the glass was empty the man put it down and picked up the plate.

‘You need to eat,’ the man said.

He thrust a spoon towards Modena, who initially resisted, but then parted his lips and let the spoon be pushed into his mouth.

‘There you go. Not so bad, is it? Ha! I could be feeding you your own shit and you probably wouldn’t care right now.’

Modena had no idea what the food was. It didn’t seem to taste of anything at all and he swallowed it without chewing. He stared into the man’s dark eyes as he ate, not sure what he was hoping to see. He saw nothing.

After six mouthfuls he began to feel his stomach heaving. He closed his lips tightly when the spoon came back towards him.

‘Last chance,’ the man said. ‘You don’t want any more then I’m out of here. Your next visitor might not be so friendly, though. You ask me, I’m better company than some of those guys.’

He wasn’t wrong there. He was the only one of the three so far to have not used Modena as a human punchbag. Modena opened his mouth and took one more spoonful. He dry-heaved as soon as he swallowed the food, struggling to keep it down.

‘Whoa there,’ the man said, laughing. ‘Looks like you’ve had enough then. Don’t want to make a mess of that nice suit you’re wearing.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Modena asked, trying to keep his mind off the pain in his body from the beatings and the sickness in his stomach from the food.

‘Not for me to say. Just do as you’re told and you’ll get out of this. If you don’t then things are going to get a whole lot worse for you. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I just want to go home.’

‘You want to go home?’ exclaimed a booming voice, followed by fake laughter.

Modena hadn’t heard him come into the room. It was the leader: the foghorn voice and his size were unmistakeable.

‘You’ll go home when we get what we want from you,’ he said.

‘Just do what he says. You’ll get out of here if you do,’ the thin
man said to Modena, almost in a whisper, before he got up and made for the door.

Modena was actually sad to see him go. He had been the only one to show any form of kindness. All the others had done so far was cause him pain.

The foghorn man strode up and laid a fist into Modena’s stomach. He bowed his head and exhaled deeply. He knew the guy hadn’t put his all into it, but the blow was still enough to send Modena’s head into a spin. The food sloshed in his stomach, pushing up his gullet towards his mouth. He managed to hold it down – just.

‘You do what we ask and you’ll be going home,’ the man said. ‘You don’t, and … well, you know the rest.’

A punch was thrown into Modena’s chest. The pressure sent his heart into a panic. It felt like it was about to explode.

All they had done so far was beat him and say the same thing to him: ‘Do what we ask and you’ll go home.’ The only problem was, they hadn’t yet asked him anything.

‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ Modena said through jolted breaths. ‘I have money. Is that what this is about? I have lots of money. I’ll do whatever you want.’

The man leant down to Modena and whispered into his ear. He was so close that Modena could feel the warmth of his foul coffee breath against his cheek. Modena struggled not to gag at the smell.

His swollen eyes opened as wide as they would go as he listened to what the man had to say. Listened to what it was that they had kidnapped him for.

‘That’s what you want?’ Modena said.

The big man stood up again, a wicked smile visible beneath the black balaclava. ‘That’s what we want. You give us that and you’re on your way home to wifey.’

Modena shook his head and opened and closed his mouth a few times before the words finally came out. ‘
That’s what this is all about!
’ he hissed. Anger rose up inside him and a strength returned to him from somewhere within.

But as quickly as the feeling had come, it was taken away from him again when a right hook from the big man landed on his head. It caught Modena on the ear and sent a ringing noise
coursing through his brain. It took him a moment to recover, but before he could say anything another fist was thrust into his stomach. This time, despite his efforts, he couldn’t stop as he retched and sprayed sticky, acidic vomit over his legs and onto the floor.

‘Fuck me!’ the man said, laughing. ‘That’s grim!’

Modena heaved a few more times, until there wasn’t anything else in him to come out.

‘Look, it’s pretty simple, Frank. That one thing will save your life. In fact, that’s the only thing that’s going to.’

Modena spat out a mouthful of phlegm. It didn’t take away any of the foul taste. ‘But … you don’t understand. I can’t do what you’re asking. I can’t. Because I don’t know it … I don’t know how!’

‘Oh, you
will
do it,’ the man snarled, an instant before his fist caught Modena on the side of his head again. ‘Or you’d better start praying.’

His head filled with pain and confusion, Modena was only partially aware of another strike to his head before everything went black.

The boxes that Mackie had left contained copies of everything that the local police had compiled so far. The investigation had only been ongoing for three days but they’d already pulled together a vast amount of data. But for all the pieces of paper, there really wasn’t much to go on. They had endless details about exactly how the crime had taken place, including numerous witness statements. But there wasn’t a single lead as to who had carried out the attack, why they had done it or where Modena now was.

The majority of the witnesses had seen or heard very little, mainly because most had either fled or kept their heads well down through fear of getting caught up in the melee. Together, though, the statements had allowed the police to re-create the events of the attack in some detail: how many perps there were, how each element of the assault had occurred, where the vehicles and people were located throughout, who had said what and when.

On top of that, there were numerous other pieces of information within the file analysing the scene: where the shots were fired from, what type of guns had been used, how many different guns had been fired, which ones fired the killer shots. The police had worked exceptionally fast to pull so much detail together in such a short space of time.

But none of it would help unless there was a lead to go on. All of those details would be crucial to any criminal case against the perpetrators, and would be vital in obtaining convictions. They were the difference between reasonable doubt and a lifetime in
prison. But Logan hadn’t been brought into this to secure convictions. He’d been brought in to find the Attorney General.

Logan turned around when he heard the door open. It was Mackie. He took his coat off and hung it on the stand before walking over to the desk. Logan looked at his watch. Three hours, five minutes since Mackie had left. He’d been so engrossed in the files that he hadn’t once stopped to look at the time.

‘So where do we start?’ Mackie said, putting a brown paper bag down in front of Logan which contained a large cheese and ham baguette.

Logan picked up the sandwich and took a bite before answering, both because he hadn’t eaten in hours and because he wanted to think his response through. He hadn’t had anywhere near enough time to finish reading the files. And in truth, he was lost as to where to start.

‘Modena was here to discuss Guantanamo Bay,’ Logan said.

‘You, me and the whole world know that.’

‘He was delivering a speech at the Hôtel de Ville,’ Logan carried on, fully aware that Mackie probably knew all this, but it was helping him form his thoughts. ‘The new guys at the White House are closing the place down. Or so they say. You ask me, it’ll probably take them a few more years yet, and then all they’ll do is carry on the same activities somewhere more private. Call me a cynic if you will.’

‘It’s what the world wants to hear.’

‘Yeah, but closing the place down doesn’t make the bad guys go away.’

Logan had some sympathies for what went on at Guantanamo Bay. He knew that his own job would probably be derided by those same people who protested against the existence of the facility. He had never had a problem with the things he had done. Not until recently, at least. Did he agree that everything he had done in his life was for a greater good? Maybe, maybe not. But someone somewhere did, otherwise he wouldn’t have been given his orders. And in his line of work you couldn’t really say no.

‘There’s the obvious hypothesis – that the kidnapping is linked to terrorists,’ Logan said.

‘It’s certainly the route the press are taking. And the local police too. I take it you’re not buying it.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, we’re not seeing the whole picture.’

‘How so?’

‘Too many things are wrong. Where do I start? There’s been no contact with the kidnappers, no ransom. Why such an elaborate attack? It was carried out in broad daylight. They used assault rifles and killed seven innocent people. Just to get to a politician?’

Logan stopped and took another couple of bites from his sandwich.

‘The attack was all so over the top,’ he said after swallowing another big mouthful. ‘Certainly not how I would have snatched someone. You should know. You’ve had me do it plenty of times. You do it as quickly and effortlessly as possible. And that means
not
doing it in broad daylight, in a heavily populated area, against a heavily protected target where there are likely to be lots of witnesses and lots of casualties. Not to the mention the planning and the money required to hire and train all your men and commandeer the vehicles needed.’

‘Yes, I get all that,’ Mackie said, standing up, a frustrated look on his face, and moving toward the sash window behind the desk. ‘But do you have anything to go on?’

Logan thought for a minute before answering. There was one loose thread he wanted to pull on. But he was reluctant to raise it for fear of being shot down. And for fear of it being a non-starter. He’d been brought back into the field to prove himself, and there was no doubt he was already feeling the pressure.

‘One thing,’ Logan said eventually. ‘The crash that was staged at the Place de la Concorde. It was a hit and run. They’ve looked for and can’t find the offender, but the police haven’t even spoken to the victim yet. We should dig into him a bit, see what there is.’

‘The motorcyclist? He’s still in hospital. He’ll never walk again, apparently.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘You think he wanted his leg smashed fifteen different ways?’

‘It’s not unthinkable that he was part of it.’

‘But it’s much more likely that he wasn’t.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Logan said, going on the defensive. ‘This whole thing would have fallen apart if that crash didn’t happen at exactly the right time and place. Yeah, they could have crashed
their car into anyone, but it’s not exactly a high-speed junction. A simple car prang and everything would have moved on within minutes. They wanted gridlock. It had to be a serious incident.’

‘It’s possible, but it’s hardly a smoking gun. Check it out by all means. But if it doesn’t fit then move on. We don’t have time on our side.’

Mackie sighed and came away from the window and sat down at the desk. He took out his tablet computer and began tapping away. Logan finished his sandwich and quickly rifled through the remaining files. But nothing else jumped out.

Checking out the motorcyclist had to be worth a shot. He knew that the lead was tenuous, and might prove ultimately to be worthless, but as Mackie had always told him: you take the low-hanging fruit first. And he had to start somewhere. Right now, just doing something was better than doing nothing. He needed to find his feet again. Mackie might not have been explicit but Logan was being tested. If he failed here, it would be the end of the line for him. And that made him uncomfortable because this case was anything but usual for him. He wasn’t a detective. Having to eke leads out of nothing was not his strength. But he had to play the hand he’d been dealt. He had to make this case work somehow.

As Logan got up to leave Mackie stopped what he was doing. ‘Please keep me abreast, Logan. I want to know what’s happening at all times.’

Logan didn’t respond. He knew he was under the spotlight and his every move would be watched and scrutinised and there was no point in fighting it. He was just going to have to grin and bear it. He headed towards the door. But Mackie wasn’t quite finished yet.

‘And, Logan … just be careful out there.’

Again, Logan said nothing. He rolled his eyes as he walked out of the room, then carried on out of the safe house.

Once outside, he made his way to the apartment of Jean Vincent, the motorcyclist who’d been knocked off his bike at the Place de le Concorde. That crash had started the sequence of events which had led to Modena’s capture. Vincent was still in hospital, but Logan didn’t want to speak to him yet. He wanted to pay a visit to Vincent’s apartment, where he lived alone, to
see what dirt he could find. Anything that might link him to the attackers.

Logan travelled on the Paris metro from Saint-Denis to Montparnasse where Vincent’s apartment was located in a quiet back street. Although in close proximity to the main Parisian tourist traps, Montparnasse had a more leisurely feel with many residential apartment blocks and quaint cafés and bars. In years gone by it had been one of the main artistic centres in France where many of the world’s most respected artists chose to live, and the area still carried a bohemian air.

The apartment block that Logan headed to was a five-storey building built in the pre-war years with wrought-iron balconies and ornate decorations on the outside window arches. It was clear, though, that the building had seen its best years and was now falling into disrepair. The main entrance to the building had neither a doorman nor a secured main entrance and Logan casually walked into the foyer, eyeballing the layout as he went. There was a wide central staircase which Logan began to walk up – Vincent’s apartment was on the third floor.

As Logan left the stairs onto the dimly lit corridor, he took just a moment to take in his surroundings. He wasn’t sure why but he could feel his nerves begin to take hold. Like a child would with a comforter, he put his hand to his side and felt the bulge where his gun was. A Glock. JIA agents didn’t have standard issues as such, but the Glock handgun was about as standard as they got.

The trouble with being in Logan’s line of work was that he didn’t have any kind of security clearance because most of his identities didn’t really exist. He couldn’t take a gun through airport security like some law enforcement officers could, and that made carrying weapons across borders difficult. As a result he would typically pick up a weapon soon after arriving in a country from a pre-determined source. This Glock had been ready for him at the safe house when he arrived.

The importance of de-arming before cross-border travel and re-arming after had been drilled into Logan from early on in his career. Having had to do it for years now, it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. There was a well-told story of one agent who had fallen foul of the system which had always stuck in Logan’s mind. The agent, working on a case against a gang
involved in people trafficking and weary from months of non-stop travelling around Eastern Europe, had turned up at airport security at Heathrow carrying a concealed handgun. He had simply forgotten he still had it with him. After causing quite a commotion, which made the national news, he was eventually charged with a whole host of firearms-related offences and sentenced to four years in jail. Whether to set an example of him, or whether it was just the way they did things, the JIA never intervened in the process, never came to his aid at all. The agent ended up spending over two years in jail before being let out on parole.

When Logan was younger, the part he had liked most about the story was how the agent had never once tried to defend himself by claiming to work for a government organisation. He didn’t try to persuade the police, the judge or the jury that it was all part of his job. Didn’t ask them to check out who he really was. He never asked for help from anyone. He just accepted his punishment, almost as if he acknowledged that he had done wrong by not following the JIA’s rules. Two years of his life gone and he had accepted it as though it was a slap on his wrist. That, to Logan, spoke volumes about what working for an organisation like the JIA was all about. When he was younger, he had admired that – had admired both the JIA’s
and
the agent’s response to the situation.

He wasn’t so sure he felt the same way about it anymore.

Would they just sit and let him rot if he was banged up in some archaic foreign jail? He already knew the answer to that. If it suited them, then yes, they would. The trick of course was not to get caught. But nobody is perfect.

Logan shook his head, realising that he’d let his mind wander. He needed to focus. He carried on down the corridor, which was deserted, and approached the door to apartment 3d, one hand still on his Glock. But he came to a stop on the near side of the door when he realised that it was already ajar. As he looked more closely, the splintered wood on the door frame made it clear that the lock had been jimmied.

He looked around, up and down the corridor, his senses on high alert. No signs of anyone else. He stood there for a few seconds, listening for any sounds coming from within the apartment. But there was nothing. His heart rate was quickening nonetheless. He inched forward, pulled his Glock from his
trousers and held it out, using the barrel to push open the door further. And as it opened to reveal the studio-style apartment inside, Logan felt a pang of satisfaction when he realised this lead might be worthwhile after all.

Because Logan didn’t believe in coincidences.

And it was quite clear that someone had ransacked Jean Vincent’s apartment.