LITMIR.BIZ

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have lost LeClarc in the first place. It’s all his bloody fault,” Edwards shot back, his face immediately reddening. This was one hook Bliss wasn’t going to wriggle off. Edwards needed a scapegoat. Word had already filtered back to him that he was being personally blamed. The assistant commissioner, according to the rumour picked up by his secretary in the lunchroom, had called the deputy commissioner to discuss a charge of neglect. There were several old scores to be settled and the rumour had followed an acrimonious 9 a.m. meeting with the A.C., which had lasted all of thirty seconds.

      “What’s happened?” the Assistant Commissioner had enquired blackly, without inviting Edwards to sit down.

      “We seem to have temporarily lost LeClarc, Sir,” he had said with false bravado.

      “Well I suggest you temporarily find him again, Mr. Edwards.”

      “We are trying, Sir.”

      “Try harder Mr. Edwards and, just for the record, how did eight detectives manage to lose one fat man on a ship?”

      Flustered, he mumbled “Ah … I’ll get onto it right away, Sir.”

      “You do that Mr. Edwards. I shall expect your report in twenty-four hours. Good morning.”

      The waitress returned noisily with the main course, her heavy boots clumping halfway across the room. The captain yelled they were not ready so she plunked the tray of food on the nearest table and clumped back out. Despite the noise Edwards didn’t notice her, his mind still stuck on the morning’s meeting and, with mounting fury, his fists clenched, his muscles tensed, and the blood pumped in his temples.

      “Bugger. You’d think four of them would be enough on board one bloody ship,” he exploded, slamming a fist onto the table and catching Captain Jahnssen completely off guard.

      “I. Um …,” started the captain, but was immediately cut short by Edwards violently smashing his right fist into the palm of his left hand as if stabbing himself.

      “What could go wrong, eh?” he yelled, but gave no time for an answer. “How could they have been so stupid?” Then the tension abated and he looked across the table at the captain, “Sorry,” he said, “I wonder if I could have a drop more whisky.” He spoke as if nothing had happened and the captain poured him a generous shot before rising to fetch the dinner plates.

      They ate silently for more than five minutes—an explanation brewing. “There was a second team,” Edwards began eventually, “back- up—but Bliss and the others didn’t know about them. It was just a safety measure in case anything went wrong.”

      “Something did go wrong,” interjected the captain, then wished he hadn’t.

      “I know,” screamed Edwards, “I pulled the second group off when LeClarc got safely on board. I didn’t want to lose two teams for forty-eight four hours. What could happen on a ship? It was only an eight hour crossing for Christ sake.” He paused for a second, then pleaded with Jahnssenn. “I was just trying to keep expenses down.”

      “Oh,” was all the captain could muster.

      “So,” continued Edwards in a lighter tone, “what’s our plan now?”

      Captain Jahnssen really didn’t have a plan, the events of the day had taken their own course and he, like everybody else, had simply reacted. Thinking for a second he ad-libbed, “I thought you would want to interview King and the driver yourself,” he began, then paused hoping Edwards would say something to give him more time to think.

      “And …?” said Edwards expectantly, then had an idea of his own. “What about the truck, do we know where it was going?”

      “Istanbul according to the documents, but that would take three or four days by road, maybe more.”

      “Perhaps we should contact the Turkish police, although I doubt if LeClarc would have been taken there. They would probably have stopped the truck en route and hauled him out into a car.”

      An idea seized the captain. “What if I put a couple of men into the truck and let it go, he might lead us to the kidnappers.”

      Enthusiasm brightened Edwards’ face as he envisaged the scheme. “I could send two of my men with two of yours in the back of the truck. We’ll have to hope the kidnappers have no way of knowing LeClarc isn’t inside.”

      Jahnssen frowned, “It might be dangerous. I think we should send a car as well, another two officers.” He paused for thought, “Maybe four, these men have already murdered two innocent people if what you say is correct.”

      “I’ve only got two men here.”

      “And Detective Bliss?”

      Edwards felt his blood rising—Bliss had twice put the phone down on him in one day, in addition to losing LeClarc. “Mr. Bliss will return to England first thing tomorrow,” he replied firmly—further discussion unwelcome. “We will make do with the men we have.”

      The chocolate gâteau had been excellent. “A definite cut above the canteen at Scotland Yard,” Edwards was saying when an officer crashed into the room and blasted the captain with a volley of Dutch.

      “They’ve spotted the Saab,” translated the captain excitedly, “near Rotterdam.”

      “And Motsom?”

      “Quick. We’ll go to the communications room and find out.”

      They half ran down the long corridor, round a corner. Run up a staircase or wait for the elevator? They chose the stairs, climbed six and heard the ping of the elevator behind them. They kept going, the decision already made. Two steps at a time they made it to the next floor, turned left and flew into the control room. Stopping for a second Edwards familiarized himself with his surroundings—no different from any other police control room: A jumble of telephones, radios and computer terminals; walls covered with banks of alarm panels and enormous maps; desks strewn with scratch pads, instruction manuals and coffee cups.

      The loudspeakers were alive with unintelligible words, shooting back and forth with the rapidity of a foreign TV quiz show. He couldn’t understand a word yet knew exactly what they were saying.

      “They’re chasing the Saab,” the captain said rapidly in English, not wasting time for fear of missing something important. “We’ve got two cars behind him.”

      Edwards pictured the chase in his mind. The tension of the police drivers and co-drivers: adrenalin pumping, muscles taught with anticipation, breathing heavily, hearts beating loud enough to hear. Each man speaking in one-word commands: Right. Left. Faster. Stop. The controlled power and emotion—two highly charged men and more than two hundred horsepower in one car. The excitement; the exhilaration; the thrill. And the risks: Cornering too fast; braking too late; jumping lights; squeezing through impossible gaps.

      Captain Jahnssen listened intently, interpreting what he could, the important bits. “They’re driving fast—two hundred kilometres an hour.”

      There’s nothing like it, thought Edwards, exhilarated by the excited babble on the radio, nothing compares to the thrill of a police chase: Seat of the pants driving; controlled skids, sudden direction changes. The risk taking. Guessing—no, not guessing—calculating the way the target will turn. The rush; the sheer speed; the way everything flashes past in a blur. Total concentration on the target and the road to the exclusion of everything. Mind and machine in perfect harmony.

      The voices on the radio bubbled with excitement as they. closed in. “Big intersection ahead,” explained the captain.

      Edwards pictured it: Red lights rushing toward them—stab the brakes; jab the clutch; wrench the gear stick; thrust the throttle to the floor; twist the wheel; feel the tires sliding and bouncing, losing grip. Pedestrians and cyclists out for a jaunt suddenly caught in the midst of a life and death struggle. Blast the horn; hear the siren screaming overhead, your siren; other sirens joining in. Take the corner; pray the truck can stop; hope the pedestrian isn’t deaf or stupid. Feel the car

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