Drug dealers, Mo-bot thought, and she watched the pitiful woman stagger away, wishing there was something she could do to steer her off such a self-destructive path.
As she considered the bleak future that awaited the poor addict, Mo-bot noticed a camera rigged to the exterior of the store. It looked like a cheap, self-installed unit and was pointed away from the two dealers and aimed across the street toward the hotel.
“Come on,” Mo-bot said, nudging Sci and nodding to the camera. “We might get lucky.”
As they walked along the street, the two dealers shuffled away, keeping their eyes on the strangers as they moved on.
The convenience store was piled high with discount brands, and a bin near the door was full of yellow-stickered cans near their expiry dates.
Mo-bot spied a grubby man emerging from a stock room at the rear of the store. She shuddered when she saw him zip up his fly and adjust his pants.
“Gross,” she remarked to Sci, who was oblivious.
“What?” he asked.
“Either I’m judging an innocent man who has just been to the bathroom or we’ve got someone here who exploits the vulnerable,” Mo-bot replied. “Let’s find out which.”
She reached the checkout counter at the same time as the debauched-looking man.
“Do you speak English?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You having a busy day?” Mo-bot said.
The guy looked puzzled. “You want to buy something?”
“Your surveillance footage for the past week. From the camera out there.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “That’s very expensive.”
“How much is your marriage worth?” Mo-bot had noticed the man’s wedding ring as he’d adjusted his fly.
He looked bemused.
“Because we have photos of the young lady who just left this store with more money than she came in with, and your wife might be interested to know how she earned it.”
The guy looked as though Mo-bot had hit him. His mouth opened and closed a few times. Finally, whatever he was trying to say fell away and his bluster dissipated, leaving him fearful, compliant.
“USB okay?” he asked.
“USB is fine,” Mo-bot told him.
“Last week?” he checked.
“The past seven days,” Mo-bot confirmed, and he hurried toward the stock room.
“Wow,” Sci said, finally breaking the stern, impassive silence he’d maintained throughout the exchange. “You’re something else.”
“Never miss an opportunity to teach a scumbag a lesson,” she replied, waiting patiently for the footage. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait long. The sleazy man would be keen to get them out of his store.
Chapter 18
The door to Mo-bot and Sci’s suite was ajar when I passed it on the way back to my and Justine’s room, so I knocked and went inside to find my colleagues sitting at their workstations, reviewing video footage.
“Hey,” I said.
Mo-bot started. “Jeez, Jack, don’t sneak up on people like that.”
Sci looked round coolly. “I knew he was there. Hey, Jack.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“We scored footage from a camera outside a convenience store. It’s pointed at the sidewalk and street, but it catches the hotel, too,” Mo-bot revealed. “We’ve already got photos of two of the biker’s accomplices.”
She minimized the video footage and clicked open a photo library showing one of the white vans used in the kidnapping. It was parked outside the hotel and there were two men in the front cab. Both had unkempt stubble, one had a shaved head and the other long, dark curly hair. Mo-bot cycled through a series of images, blowing up the originals to pick out the two men more clearly, capturing their faces in the closest possible detail.
“Clear images of both the driver and passenger,” she said. “This is from the morning of the attack. We’re just checking the rest of the week to see if they show up any other time.”
“Got nothing else so far,” Sci added, before resuming his review of the footage.
“We need to get these photos to Chevalier,” I said.
Mo-bot nodded. “I’ll also run them against the databases I can access and see if I can call in a favor at Quantico,” she said, referring to the FBI’s computer lab.
Just then the cell phone the bellhop had delivered from the kidnappers rang. Mo-bot had wired it to one of her laptops. As I picked up the device, she moved to the connected computer and checked a tracing program. She nodded at me.
“Hello,” I said, answering the call.
“You have your proof of life,” the distorted voice responded, and the phone vibrated to indicate an incoming message.
I looked at Mo-bot, who was programming commands into a prompt window. She glanced at me and signaled for me to play for more time.
“Let me check,” I said, and didn’t wait for a reply as I switched from the call to the messages folder, where I found a video sent from a withheld number.
I opened it and pressed play to see Justine in what looked like a barn. She was standing in front of a stone wall and held a copy of today’s newspaper.
“I’m alive and in good health, Jack,” she said before the clip ended abruptly.
My eyes filled and I fought the desire to vent my fury at the caller. Expressing my anger would get us nowhere. I tried to calm my thundering heart, which thumped scalding fire through my veins.
Sci was on his feet and had caught sight of the video over my shoulder. He gave me a sympathetic look and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
I saw Mo-bot working furiously to trace the call through various private networks, but she was running into complex systems that tested even her.
“I’ve got it,” I said.
“So now you know Ms. Smith is unharmed and that we are professionals who mean business,” the machine voice said, “you will do as you are told. You will be sent an address at the end of this call. You have two hours to reach the address and collect a package that is waiting for you.”
“What’s in the package?” I asked, playing for more time.
My question was met with silence.
“Can I talk to Justine?” I tried.
“You will find out what is in the package when you collect it, Mr. Morgan,” the anonymous voice replied. “You will speak to Ms. Smith when you have completed the tasks we set for you.”
The phone vibrated to indicate the arrival of another message.
“You have two hours. Do you understand, Mr. Morgan?” the voice asked.
“I understand,” I replied, before the line went dead. “Tell me you got something,” I said, turning to Mo-bot.
She shook her head forlornly.
“Work your magic, Mo,” I implored her. “Do whatever you have to.”
I checked the message.
“I need to go to Nice,” I said.
“I’m coming with you,” Sci announced. “Make sure you don’t walk into a trap.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“Let me get my gear,” he said.
He ducked into his room and emerged moments later with a large holdall slung over his shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Stay in touch,” Mo-bot advised.
“Will do,” Sci replied.
He followed me out of the suite, and we started out to find whatever awaited us in Nice.
Chapter 19
The taxi wouldn’t take us to the address I’d been sent. It was on Avenue de la Méditerranée in Moulins, which, according to the research Sci and I did in the back of the gray Honda CRV, was one of the most notorious neighborhoods in Nice. The streets oozed disrepute, and every single building exhibited signs of physical decay. The tower blocks and tenements of Moulins were surrounded by major arterial roads, supermarkets and office buildings, penning in the poverty behind a perimeter of commerce and industry, so that the social failure to provide these people with better lives couldn’t be seen by the casual observer. And it seemed few visitors had the courage to venture inside the perimeter. Moulins was listed in a number of travel guides as a dangerous part of Nice that should be avoided.