The Rift by Rachel Lynch (good book recommendations txt) 📕

of times on their way to Les Alps, skiing, during happier times. He pushed her face out of his head. They’d meet soon enough. She must be on to him by now, he thought. The passenger list of Khalil’s jet to Marseilles would give it away if she didn’t already know.

The streets were busy and hot. The summer weather was particularly humid here further south, and even the breeze from the Alps overshadowing the metropolis was scant. The mood in Le Croix-Rousse was expectedly buoyant. The area, famous for its inclines, enjoyed much tourist trade, and the cobbled alleyways, old churches and ancient markets still selling silks saw a steady stream of trade at night as well as during the day. The old traboules were being slowly gentrified, and Grant found them charming as he wandered past smart pink, white and grey apartments, cute delis, patisseries and the odd street vendor touting for business on the steep slopes of the hill, shaded by century’s old ostrya, serrata and elm trees that offered much-needed shelter during the day. Madame Bisset had kindly helped him choose a short route to the address, after she’d calmed down and he’d assured her that Derek wouldn’t molest her unless it was under his strict say-so. She’d remain in his care until Khalil was satisfied that she’d told the truth.

Grant wasn’t a fan of torture, but advanced interrogation techniques could be extremely effective. They weren’t about to pull an old woman’s fingernails out, or subject her to any kind of indecent assault, but she didn’t need to know that. One thing that Grant did notice was that Madame Bisset took his threats seriously, which made him think Khalil capable of more than he’d let on. It got him thinking about what Khalil must have witnessed in his childhood; his family hadn’t always been the lords of Algiers. Grant’s thoughts turned to Hakim, and Grant hoped the lad hadn’t been hurt. He’d seen countless tortured corpses in Bosnia and Sierra Leone, as well as Iraq and Afghanistan. He also knew that it needn’t just be physical. But it shouldn’t come to that, he reassured himself, because, so far, Khalil had been completely cooperative with Fawaz’s demands.

He stopped outside an apartment block and looked around; it was the perfect spot to hide illegal activity, and that’s exactly what the Police Nationale were trying to wage war against by closing off many of the tiny streets. Grant’s training involved close-quarter combat and it was because of precisely these types of circumstances that one needed to be prepared: going into a snake pit might get you bitten. He climbed the stairs on the outside of the building and slipped onto a balcony level that was deserted. He could hear the hustle and bustle from the street below, and the light shining off the buildings was quite stunning. From the hill, he could see virtually the whole of Lyon and beyond to the Alps. Oh, what he would give to be skiing down the Aiguille Rouge at Les Arcs right now. He imagined the crisp blue sky beating down on fresh powder dumped the night before. Maybe when this was all over, he’d make his way up there and trek beneath Mont Blanc’s shadow. Helen’s face taunted him again: her smile when she rolled over in the morning, her laugh when he told her a bad joke, her hand, warm on his.

He found the flat number he was looking for and checked his phone. This was the one. There were no lights on. He peered through the tiny window at the front, but it afforded him no view decent enough to make an assessment of who might be inside. He checked both ways to see if there was any movement in front of the other flats on the balcony, and there was not. He tried the door: it was locked. He looked up and noticed that an upstairs window was open, and he checked the street below. It was clear. He held on to a metal ladder that led up towards other flats and hooked his leg over the wall adjacent to the open window. The opening was big enough for him, and he jettisoned himself across to a wide sill, still holding on to the metal rail, which shook. Once he was in front of the window, he checked the street again and peered inside. The room was empty. He swung his legs in and found himself standing in the middle of a hot and stuffy bedroom. It was sparse, with only a bed and cabinet beside it. He trod carefully and made his way out to the hallway. He heard nothing. He took the stone stairs slowly and edged down to the lower floor, where he opened the latch on the door, should he need a speedy alternative escape. There was no one home.

The rest of the flat was small, also sparsely furnished and bloody hot. He dare not open any lower-level windows, lest he attract attention, so he put the thought of fresh air from his mind and concentrated on searching the few drawers and cabinets. He put gloves on and held a tiny torch between his teeth. It was a mini LED Lenser that gave off minimal ambient light, perfect for searching confined spaces, or shining into someone’s eyes during interrogation.

He found some evidence of human occupancy, such as crockery and cutlery, as well as cooking pans and the odd packet of food, but in the bedroom, like the flat in Paris, Grant was reminded of something like the hideout of a special observation officer: ready to move on little notice. In other cupboards, he found similar electrical equipment to what he’d found in the other flat. He took photos.

He prepared to leave and couldn’t help feeling disappointed. A part of him hoped he might find some evidence of a hostage situation, or at least a real live witness to question. He slipped out of the front