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

had grown shaggy. He didn’t mind: his physical appearance meant nothing to him now. When once, his prowess as a man of power – and the women that attracted – had been important to him, now, all he cared about was revenge.

Chapter 44

Grant pulled a camera from his pocket and began to take photographs. They remained on the quay, in the shadows, but had moved up a metal stairwell to a better vantage point above the docking area. From there, they could see the unloading of the vessel clearly. The flurry of movement was a combination of an end to a long journey and the desire to unload quickly. Men shouted and swore. Containers were lowered from decks and rolled away. Forklifts were on hand to manoeuvre tricky objects, and foremen appeared from nowhere, asserting their authority over junior labourers.

Helen had put the nagging unease that she could be seen as going rogue to the back of her mind. Peter and Sylvia both approved her trip to Marseilles, but she hadn’t been entirely transparent with them. Instead of introducing herself to the port authority, her priority had been to find Grant. It was Friday evening, and she knew that both Sylvia and Peter had gone home for the weekend. She told herself that she’d check in with them at her earliest opportunity. She had enough evidence to suggest that Fawaz bin Nabil was using the ship before them to transport goods illegally into Europe, using the containers of AlGaz. She should be calling the port authority now, but she’d made a promise to Grant. If Sir Conrad turned round, when this was all over, and questioned her choices, then she could easily say, in all sincerity, that she’d tried to contact him, but Palmer blocked her calls.

The truth was, she trusted the judgement and capability of Grant Tennyson more than any of them. Her gut tugged at her conscience, knowing that she was doing the right thing. But sometimes the right thing is not the best thing. Sometimes, the best thing is to save one’s career, to toe the line, to adhere by red tape and protocol, but right now she couldn’t help but feel that she’d have a better chance of finding Hakim with this man than a hundred Interpol officers who had no idea that Fawaz Nabil was the orchestrator of the plot. But why? She still hadn’t worked out his motives.

Was it to target the summit? More specifically, the British? It must be. There was no other explanation. She’d agreed to give Grant more time before she blew the whistle on the threat to the summit, but would it then be too late? She figured that whatever was in those containers was heading to Paris. Her brain raced: what if it was chemical or biological warfare? A missile loaded with a deadly virus, if exploded by drone over the city, could cause a global pandemic, or worse. What if Fawaz’s intentions were merely to make more money, and he was a pawn of the Russians or Iranians? Anything was possible with a man who had zero compassion or care for his fellow human beings. Money and power were always behind the actions of those hell-bent on hurting others. Otherwise, what’s the point? Only psychopaths kill for fun; clever people kill for money and power. But the elephant in the room, which was growing bigger as she got closer to the truth, was that Fawaz was plotting revenge against the system responsible for his son’s death.

Grant distracted her.

‘Look, who’s this?’ he asked.

She followed his direction and they watched as a smart vehicle pulled up along the quayside.

‘Ship-hands and foremen don’t generally drive Mercedes SUVs,’ He added.

Helen agreed. ‘And certainly not clean ones, anyway.’ They watched a tall, well-dressed man, who appeared to be greeting the shipment, step out of a spotless silver Mercedes. Neither Grant nor Helen recognised him. He shook hands with an official in a high-visibility vest. A docket of some kind was exchanged and the official in the hard hat nodded and pointed to a hangar. Helen and Grant decided to head to where he’d pointed. They slipped down the staircase and walked in the shadows across the loading area. The hangar was brightly lit but there were plenty of places to hide.

‘Wait,’ she said. They’d walked past an open door, and inside, Helen had spotted a couple of spare hard hats and high-vis jackets. They stopped and went inside, slipping them on. They made themselves appear busy by talking about some stacked cartons to the back of the space. There, they noticed an elevated walkway above and headed up some metal stairs. From the higher position, they could see the cartons arriving from the ship at the entrance, and the man who’d arrived in the Mercedes was surveying the load. He spoke to several dockhands, and it appeared that he was arranging for where they should be sent. A medium-sized lorry arrived at the hangar door and Mercedes man pointed to it. The dockhands seemed to show their frustration at what looked like extra work. There was a short altercation, but they acquiesced and began unloading some of the cartons. Several boxes were unpacked and loaded onto the lorry. Helen took the number plate.

‘Let’s go – we can follow it if we move now,’ she said. Grant agreed, after taking a few more photos. They slipped through a side door unnoticed and doubled back around the quay to the carpark where Grant’s Fiat was parked. Helen had arrived by cab. From the car, they could see that any traffic leaving the quayside had to exit via the roundabout, near the carpark. Grant pulled away and waited in a lay-by. In his rear-view mirror, he could see various lorries, trucks and cars exiting the dock for the night. Workers were going home, officials were knocking off shift and cafe employees were closing up.

‘There,’ Helen said, spotting the lorry. Grant nodded. He kept his lights