Chapter 21
By the time Pascal Goff reviewed the CCTV footage, some fourteen days later, the car was on a freight train loaded with dozens of others, all stolen in France and headed for Russia. There were no other videos or still shots of the car in and around Bayeux.
The waiters at the café where Malik collapsed while trying to enjoy a quiet lunch were interrogated thoroughly, but remembered little of value.
They agreed that the incident had been loud and dramatic but couldn’t recall much about the bike rider.
They had been more concerned with assisting their customers and cleaning up the mess.
One waiter was of the opinion that the bike rider had a slight accent, probably North African, though his French was excellent.
He had dark hair, dark stubble, and slightly darker skin than most of the tourists and regulars in Bayeux.
Half his face was covered with the large reflective sunglasses preferred by bikers in the area.
An effort at a computerized police sketch yielded little.
The cute girl with the red curls proved equally elusive.
None of the waiters had heard her say a word.
Malik was certain she was French to the core.
He was from Senegal and still had a slight accent, which he tried to iron out every day.
He lived and worked in a world of immigrants and tourists and could identify an accent in a second.
A fake one too. She had none. She was definitely French, though he was not sure of any regional distinction.
On Sunday morning, Malik spent four hours with Jean-Pierre and his team, along with Pascal, looking at hundreds of photos of suspicious characters.
Most of them were from North Africa and all had strong ties to France.
They ranged from known terrorists to drug dealers to arms brokers to street-gang thugs to petty criminals to illegal immigrants who had never committed a crime. After an hour they all looked the same.
More than once Malik wanted to ask some questions of his own, such as: What if the incident with the bike rider was really just an accident?
Or, How can you be certain the guy on the bike was involved in the theft of the car, and thus the kidnappings?
Or, What if the girl had nothing to do with the guy on the bike?
But he patiently answered their questions and looked at their photos because he felt their desperation.
They were searching for clues left behind by criminals they were not likely to find.
Malik wanted to help because he believed in justice and truly liked the Tanners.
He was relieved that Chelsea had been released and he prayed Paul would be as lucky.
And, though he had done nothing wrong, he still felt some responsibility. The crime happened on his watch.
With help from the detectives, he managed to select four favorite suspects. When their photos were enlarged on the wide screen, Malik felt like a fool. Not a single one resembled the other. There were no common traits, except for the large sunglasses and dark stubble.
As for the girl, he did a better job with a description.
He’d seen her twice, though he could barely remember the second time as the drugs had hit him hard.
Before he began wading through another batch of photos, he and the sketch artist worked on a computerized composite.
Round face, high cheekbones, pointed nose.
The obvious problem was that he never saw her eyes.
They were covered by oversized fake designer sunglasses.
Then there was a bandana with a straw hat on top of it, completely covering her forehead.
He could not tell if the bright red hair was real or a wig, though it did not look authentic.
The detectives took the sketch and ran it through their databases.
Photos of real faces began appearing on the wide screen.
Evidently, there were several dozen French women known to the police to hang around with criminals from North Africa, almost all of them involved in drug trafficking.
Malik picked out a couple, but was far from certain.
When he left the building after four hours, he felt as though the entire exercise had been a waste of time.
Jean-Pierre and Pascal shared the same feelings, though they were too professional to be disappointed. They had long since grown accustomed to slogging through dead ends, but success required tenacity. You never knew when a clue would fall from the slush pile.
Pascal reported to the home office in Washington and sent the four photos of men who might possibly have been on the orange bike.
Two of the suspects had no criminal records.
One had a drug charge pending. One was included only because his brother was serving time in a French prison for smuggling stolen watches and designer bags.
Not exactly a promising lineup of possible kidnappers.
The two photos of the girl were equally bland and uninspiring.
—
Sunday afternoon, Sam drove Chelsea across the Potomac to the FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue.
They were met in the lobby by Agent Dyer, who escorted them through a dizzying maze of halls and wings and elevators.
They finally made it to a large busy room with screens covering the walls and desks and tables strewn haphazardly throughout.
Though it was Sunday, at least a dozen analysts were staring at computer screens and pecking away. Crime never takes a day off.
Before being shown the faces Malik had selected hours earlier in Paris, Chelsea sat with a computer artist and worked on a sketch for an hour.
She had seen her handler, Laurent, on three occasions.
At first she’d called him Laurent, then switched to “Grumps” later in captivity, though there were other less pleasant names she had used when mumbling to herself.
His eyes were always covered with sunglasses.
A composite slowly took shape, though without a good guess at the eyes it seemed hopeless. When they finished, they compared it to the four real faces chosen by Malik. Only one was remotely close—the illegal immigrant who’d never committed a crime.
The next exercise was more interesting, especially for Chelsea, who loved languages.
She was introduced to four men, all about forty years old, all allegedly working for either U.S.
intelligence or the State Department. Two had been born in the United States, the other two had immigrated with their parents as children.
One each from Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya.
All spoke fluent English with no accent; however, they could revert to Arabic with their differing accents.
Chelsea explained that she had had very little in the way of communication with Laurent.
She re-created their abrupt conversations, then listened to the four men repeat the dialogues with various tones and intonations.
At first they all sounded the same as Laurent.
But with practice and patience she was able to eliminate the Libyan and lean toward the Tunisian and Algerian.
After two hours of playing detective, she was exhausted. The agents thanked her and assured her that her assistance was important. Agent Dyer led them out of the building and onto the sidewalk outside Hoover. He promised to call the following day, same as always.
—
Sam drove to a Chinese restaurant near Dupont Circle and they had a quiet dinner. She sipped cranberry juice and ate little.
“You’re looking skinny,” he said. “Eat some more.”
“You sound like Mom.”
“I know but you gotta eat, girl.”
“Not much of an appetite. Can I ask a favor?”
“Anything, sis.”
“Could you sleep on the sofa tonight? I’m not ready to be alone.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sure I’ll get over it, Sam, but I’m scared at night. I’m having nightmares about being held in that dark little closet, so dark I could not see my hand in front of my face. And then I think of Paul and try not to imagine what he’s going through.”
“I know, sis.”
Her eyes were wet but she was determined not to make a scene. “Do you think he’s still alive, Sam?”
Without hesitation he replied, “Yes, I really do. Just watching the agents and listening to what they say, I have no doubt they believe Paul is still alive. And not only that, they believe he can be rescued in some way. He’s going to come home, sis.”
She reached across the table and patted his hand. “Thanks, Sam.”
He looked at her beautiful wet eyes and said, “Paul has been like a big brother to me, sis, you know that. From the day you first brought him home, we knew he was the guy. I’m crying at night too, Chelsea. All of us are. And we all believe Paul will survive. He’s the toughest guy I know.”
“He is. He’s very tough, and he’s very sweet.”
“Sweet? He’s a complete pushover where you’re concerned, Chelsea. The guy thoroughly idolizes you.”
She managed a smile and said, “I know. Can’t really blame him, can you?”
Sam laughed and swallowed some beer. Then Chelsea managed a quiet chuckle herself.