others. How could he have done anything that would lead to the kidnapping of his family? Surely her captors would realise their mistake. Surely the man they thought was her husband would put them right.
Or was all this his fault? Was he pretending to be Felix? Had he stolen her ex-husband’s identity and used it to commit crimes that had led these men to Lucille’s door? That seemed more likely.
Echoing footsteps told her one of her captors was approaching. The footsteps grew louder as they descended the steps and ceased when they reached the gate. The lock squealed and the hinges creaked and a man appeared. He wasn’t Hart or one of the five foreign men who had been holding her but a man she had only seen once, when she had been taken to see the man they thought was her husband. She remembered what they had called him: Dietrich.
He had a pistol tucked into the front of his trousers and carried a plate of plain boiled spaghetti in his left hand. He ate it with his fingers. He was a noisy eater.
Lucille couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten a proper meal. Even though she was sure her nerves would not let her eat anything substantial, her stomach groaned at the sight and smell of the spaghetti. Peter loved spaghetti. Dietrich saw her looking at the food and seemed pleased. He stood there, staring at her.
‘What do you want?’ she asked when she couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
He didn’t stop chewing to answer. ‘To kill your husband. But I’m not going to get the chance.’
‘He’s not my husband.’
‘Sure he isn’t.’ He scooped up more spaghetti with his fingers, dropping and sucking it into his mouth. He checked his watch. ‘I hate waiting, don’t you?’
‘Your name’s Dietrich, yes?’ She didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘You must listen to me, Dietrich. That man is not my husband. I’ve never seen him before in my life.’
Her captor smiled a little and she saw his yellow teeth. ‘If you say so.’
‘I’m telling the truth. He’s not going to kill himself for us. He doesn’t even know us.’ She shuffled forward and whispered so Peter couldn’t hear. ‘Then you’re going to have to kill me and my son. You don’t want to have to do that, do you, Dietrich?’
He smiled another yellow smile.
He stopped the car two hundred metres from the mill, next to the used car dealership, and killed the engine. The drive had taken almost eleven minutes. In eighteen minutes’ time he was supposed to be on the terrace. He pulled off the tuxedo and threw it into the back of the minivan. He unbuttoned the shirt and dropped it into the footwell while he unfastened the vest.
Francesca came round. She groaned and stirred and raised her eyebrows and blinked and grimaced. Then she turned her head and looked at him as though she had woken up after a full night’s sleep. Her eyes were still bloodshot, but she was focusing on him now and not at some point behind him as she had done. Hart had been correct when he’d said the effects wouldn’t last long.
She said, ‘What’s going on?’
Her words were quiet but clear. He didn’t answer. The vest was heavy and difficult to take off in the confines of the driver’s seat, but he couldn’t risk doing so outside in case someone saw.
‘Why aren’t we at the embassy?’
He didn’t answer that either. He put the shirt back on.
Francesca stared at him and the vest he no longer wore. She peered through the windscreen and saw where they were. Her mouth opened to speak but no words came out. He saw her eyes look to the passenger door a second before she went for the handle. The door didn’t open. She tried a few times before reaching for the unlock button on the console.
He grabbed her arm.
‘Let go of me.’
He didn’t. She struggled and tried to jerk her arm from his grasp. He kept hold of her while with his free hand he buttoned the shirt back up.
‘Oh no, Felix. What have you done? God, what are you doing? Dietrich’s going to kill them. Don’t you understand? Your son is going to be killed.’
‘He’s not my son,’ Victor said. ‘He’s Kooi’s son.’
She stopped struggling because she heard the truth in his voice. ‘I don’t understand. What are you talking about? Who are you?’
He didn’t answer. It was 8.30 p.m. so he thumbed out the last code and sent