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.
1. Proof of Life
Is my husband alive? Is he safe? Can I speak to him? Can you prove it? (Think of a question only Jérôme could answe
r.)
2. Money
I don’t have any funds. I don’t have access to my husband’s bank accounts. I can’t raise the amount you’re asking for.
3. Insurance Policy
I don’t know what you’re talking about. My husband doesn’t tell me anything. Is he safe? Is he alive? Etc.
‘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
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.
1. Proof of Life
Is my husband alive? Is he safe? Can I speak to him? Can you prove it? (Think of a question only Jérôme could answe
r.)
2. Money
I don’t have any funds. I don’t have access to my husband’s bank accounts. I can’t raise the amount you’re asking for.
3. Insurance Policy
I don’t know what you’re talking about. My husband doesn’t tell me anything. Is he safe? Is he alive? Etc.
‘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
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