Eyes of the Innocent

About the book

Matt and Zoé's baby, Jack, needs urgent treatment in a New York specialist clinic. Before treatment can start, baby Jack is snatched. Has Jack been taken for ransom, for body parts, by a weird cult for indoctrination? A man claiming to be an ex-cop offers to help, as does Simon Urquet (from Hands of the Traitor), and Archbishop Stephen Valdieri who is now ex-Archbishop Stephen Valdieri (from Hands of the Healer). Finding the baby still alive means a race against time. Zoé thinks that her mother's instinct will lead them to baby Jack, but she has to admit that she and Matt are, in her words, chasing the wild goose. Matt believes he has the answer, annoyed with himself for not putting the clues together sooner. But even that lead seems to finish at a dead end. And all the time the clock is ticking because Jack is not getting his urgent treatment -- assuming he's still alive.

Eyes of the Innocent

by

Christopher Wright

©Christopher Wright 2016

A Matt Rider Thriller #4

Eyes of the Innocent is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

North View Publishing

email: northviewpublishing@gmail.com

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Contents

Cover

About the book

Author's Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

More thrillers from North View Publishing

Author's Note

My original intention was to write just three Matt Rider thrillers, but readers of Academy of the Dead have asked what happened after the incident on Masaryk Railway Station in Prague at the very end of that book. I have often wondered too. So I thought I'd write this book so we could all find out.

Eyes of the Innocent reintroduces two characters from previous Matt Rider books: Archbishop Stephen Valdieri who played a prominent role in Shroud of the Healer, and lawyer Simon Urquet from Hands of the Traitor who is still working for DCI.

The four Matt Rider stories follow on from each other in time, irrespective of the year in which they were first published. Hands of the Traitor was first published in 2004 and reflects the technology available at a time when the Internet was more basic. Digital cameras were slowly replacing film cameras, even though the picture quality was generally inferior; computers were slow; and cell phones (called mobiles in some parts of the world) were simply for making calls, with no advanced operating systems like today's smartphones with thousands of apps we take for granted. The world of technology has certainly made amazing advances, and it's easy to imagine these things have been around a lot longer than they really have.

Although Eyes of the Innocent has only just been written, it follows on a few months from the third Matt Rider thriller, Academy of the Dead. So the technology available to Matt Rider in Eyes of the Innocent has to be the technology of that period. A small photographic drone, steered by a TV camera, would have been a great help at one stage. And proton beam (not photon beam) treatment for cancer was very much in the experimental stage.

Christopher Wright

Prologue

East Coast USA

Just look at his eyes, she said. They are so innocent. Then she burst into tears.

He held her tightly around her shaking body. She must suffer no longer. He would risk anything to find a solution. He stared at the little baby's white clothing. It reminded him of a shroud. And the cradle was like a baby's casket.

Dry your eyes, he said. I will find a way. You must trust me.

Chapter 1

England

Had he made his presence obvious? Matt Rider tried not to look too closely at the man who passed him under the streetlight for the third time. He was aware of unease on the man's face. Matt knew from experience that it wasn't easy being inconspicuous, but he had to take as many photographs as he could, and if possible get a recording of any conversation that followed, assuming the man met up with someone.

He'd already checked out the digital camera under the street light the previous night. Although the results were noisy from lack of light, they were adequate, so the camera was doing its intended job. He felt suitably dressed. Old jeans and a worn zip jacket -- his usual clothing. The target looked far too smartly dressed for this part of town. Maybe that explained his unease.

The man waved a hand almost imperceptibly. Another smartly dressed man approached, nodding. Matt opened his backpack and removed a Coke can. He raised it as though taking a drink and took a picture with the digital camera concealed inside. This was what he'd come to do. Holding up a camera would have been stupid. The camera in the Coke can was sheer genius. Well, it was if it worked successfully.

The two men entered the Kingfisher Grill, and Matt followed. He'd not expected this, but things might work in his favor. They ordered coffee, and Matt collected a genuine can of Coke from the fridge, paid for it and placed it on the table as he sat down next to the two men. He pretended to take a drink from it, then discretely switched the can for one in his backpack, the one containing the camera. A couple of photos with it and he carefully switched it for the can with the digital voice recorder.

The two suspects definitely seemed anxious, glancing over in his direction. No way would they know who he was, but the safest thing to do was go out for a few minutes. The can of Coke would carry on recording their conversation.

Placing the can on the table he told the waiter he was coming back and to leave the Coke there. He crossed the street where he entered the local late night convenience-store, watching from the window. As soon as the men left the café he would retrieve the can. The store owner regarded him with a certain amount of suspicion. Maybe he should say something.

"A friend over there in the Kingfisher Grill, Matt explained. I don't want him to see me. He talks too much."

A friend? The owner shrugged before turning his attention to rearranging the adult magazines on the top shelf, shaking his head.

The second man called the waiter over and seemed to be placing an order. The waiter glanced over at the Coke can. Matt felt his heart racing. The waiter -- well, he was probably the owner -- went to Matt's table, shook the can and frowned. It would have felt full. He cleared it from the table in spite of Matt's instructions.

Matt felt his pulse rise.

The waiter took it behind the serving counter without examining the can, and the two suspects carried on talking. Matt started for the door, checked himself and sighed. Oh well, no one said PI work was all play. When the café closed, he would be having a very messy experience in the tall bins round the back.

***

Matt nodded knowingly. Here, in the cold light of day in the office of Habgood Securities, last night's episode with the garbage seemed almost funny. We nearly lost a digital recorder, he said.

"You nearly lost it," Ken Habgood snapped.

Matt shrugged. Me, we, you, it's all the same. What I should have said is Habgood Securities nearly lost it.

Matt Rider, Ken said firmly, you need to learn to be careful with my equipment.

Matt pointed to the computer -- the new computer that Ken had recently bought under protest when smoke had finally signaled the death of the one Matt said had been used by Queen Victoria to keep count of the number of her children. I only got a few minutes' sound recording before the waiter cleared the table. The pics from the camera are good. Look at this one of the two men talking together. Couple that with the sound, and our client will be pleased.

I'll email the file to him. Ken seemed to be softening a little. Matt was used to his boss's occasional outbursts. He'd been with Habgood Securities for almost five years now -- since leaving the police force in a hurry.

Good idea, Ken. I'll make some coffee.

Ken pursed his lips. "Actually, I'd rather you send the file, Matt. I'm a little busy."

Matt shook his head slowly. You don't know how to do it, he said accusingly.

Well, I'm not too sure with this new model...

You couldn't do it with the old computer.

I could send emails.

Not with attachments.

Ken didn't smile, but he seemed to be taking the banter in good heart. It's what I pay you for.

Like slaves get paid, you mean?

Just do it, Matt. Our client will be waiting.

Matt checked the file size. Much too large to attach. Ken still had dial-up. Phone him and tell him there are some photographs, and about eight minutes of useful sound. There were nearly two hours of sound. Most of it sounded like rats scrabbling around in the rubbish, and probably was. I'll put everything on a CD. We can mail it to him, or he can pick it up from here if he wants it urgently. Let me sit at your desk while I do it.

Ken moved somewhat reluctantly and Matt brought up their client's email address and wrote a quick note letting him know that the pictures and audio file from yesterday were now on a CD. The photographs showed the two men clearly enough to identify them, and there were several minute's recording of their conversation. Ken said he should have sent the email himself, explaining to the client how 'his man', under his guidance, had managed to get exactly what was wanted.

Matt said it was too late. The email had already gone.

Footsteps on the stairs announced an approaching visitor. If Ken invested in a CCTV system they'd know who was coming -- and sometimes be prepared for an angry encounter.

A friendly voice called out, Is anyone in? It sounded American.

Matt knew the voice even before the man reached the top. Not that he was ever expecting to see him again. It had been more than two years since Simon Urquet had been here. Simon Urquet of DCI. Domestic Chemical International of Switzerland and America. The company had managed to survive, in spite of Matt killing off the top company men. Well, not killing them off exactly. Their deaths were of their own making. That's how the French police saw it at the time, and Matt was happy that they'd never changed their views on that. Simon Urquet had a reassuring way of dealing with the police. Not that he was likely to need Urquet's services again, but it was good to know.

Company going well? Ken asked, going forward to welcome the American visitor. His face beamed. Any work for us in America?

Matt stood too, leaving Ken red captain's chair empty.

I came to discuss some sort of reward, courtesy of DCI, Urquet explained, sitting in Ken's chair.

A reward? Ken asked, looking anxiously at his chair, but was obviously unwilling to upset the bearer of gifts.

A reward for Mr. and Mrs. Rider, Urquet said. For Matt and Zoé. He smiled at Matt. Are you keeping well?

We've got a baby now, Matt told him. He's nearly a month old. Jack.

A boy, Ken explained.

I expect Simon guessed that, Matt said, raising his eyes in despair. Zoé's not feeling at all happy. I think it's postnatal depression.

Ken looked awkward. That's women's talk, he mumbled.

Urquet picked up an empty juice carton from Ken's desk and examined it closely. This some sort of surveillance device?

How did you guess? Ken asked.

Urquet shrugged. The large hole in the side is a bit of a giveaway.

Ken looked embarrassed. You don't see the hole when the camera's in there. Well, not unless you're looking for it. Anyway, that's a prototype. The hole isn't neat. I cut it out with a blunt knife, just to see if the idea would work.

Matt pointed to the carton. Not too blunt.

Urquet examined it closely. That explains what looks like dried blood around the hole, he said dryly.

It's a prototype, Ken repeated. I asked Matt to develop the idea into a Coke can where we can fit either a digital camera or a miniature voice recorder. Matt got some great results with our cans yesterday. Great idea of mine. It's all on the computer now.

You lift it to your mouth as though taking a drink, Matt explained, deciding to let Ken take the credit for the sake of peace. You squeeze it in the right place, and it automatically takes a digital snap of anyone who's alongside. The sound recorder can be left running in the other can. It's digital so it runs for a couple of hours.

Ken was not to be outdone. We got a recording of their voices. Two men met up to share company secrets. It's the sort of work we go in for.

Matt let it pass. Mostly they seemed to be following errant husbands and wives who forgot they were already married. You mentioned DCI and a reward, he reminded Urquet.

More footsteps on the stairs. A woman's shoes, going slowly.

That will be our client now, coming for the results, Ken said. That was quick.

Zoé appeared, carrying baby Jack.

I didn't expect you, Matt said in surprise. Remember Simon Urquet?

Zoé looked too worried to notice their visitor from DCI. Jack he is ill, she said quietly.

Matt looked at Jack and was unable to see anything obvious. A temperature?

It is his eye, Matt. Zoé's French accent always sounded strong when she was worked up.

The GP told us not to worry about his eye colors, Matt reminded her. With her depression, Zoé was liable to get upset about nothing.

Urquet looked closely at Jack's eyes. One blue and one green. Sure is distinctive. And I really love his hair style.

The eyes are certainly unusual, Matt agreed. It's called heterochromia, but it's harmless.

He can always wear colored contact lenses when he's older, Ken added helpfully. And his hair will keep the sun out his eyes.

The mass of dark hair growing forward like the peak of a cap was unusual, but not a problem. Gel would fix it back if it stayed like that, but Matt had been concerned about school kids teasing Jack for his eyes, but it now seemed there was something to really worry about.

No, Matt, it is not the blue and the green eye. I think... Zoé paused for breath, and Matt took Jack from her in case she did something careless. I think it is a very big problem. Retinoblastoma, perhaps. It is a cancer that killed my little niece in Clermont-Ferrand when she was only seven months old.

Matt sighed. There's nothing wrong with Jack. You've got to stop worrying, Zoé. The GP had diagnosed postnatal depression. That was what was wrong. Nothing to do with baby Jack's eyes. Simon Urquet has come to see us.

Zoé seemed to notice the visitor for the first time. She nodded, then pointed to Jack. It is serious, I tell you, Matt. I have collected the photos you took yesterday of me and Jack. On three of them the reflection from Jack's left eye is white.

Red-eye, Matt said. It's the flash. I can fix it on the computer.

"This is white, Matt. It is not the same -- so you know nothing. Rien du tout." She sounded even more French.

What do you want me to do, Zoé?

Go home, Matt Ken interrupted. Keep the little lady happy, and have a look at those photos.

I'll catch up with you both later, Urquet said. Nothing's sorted yet, anyway. Just wanted to tip you both off.

Zoé seemed hesitant. I need to change Jack, she said quietly.

Ken shook his head. Better not do it here, Zoé. I'm not sure our washroom is clean enough for a baby.

It is not, Zoé agreed. I had to use it once.

Matt got ready to leave. Zoé isn't using the washroom, Ken. You'd better move. She's about to change Jack on your desk.

Chapter 2

Zoé sat in the chair after their meal, crying. It is as I thought, she said through her tears for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening. At least she was holding baby Jack securely.

Matt felt numb. Okay, so their local GP wasn't one hundred percent sure at their emergency appointment, but they'd know in the morning when they visited the local hospital to see a consultant specialist. Their own GP had taken everything seriously and had rung the hospital to arrange a scan. Retinoblastoma. Matt had already looked it up on the Internet and could understand why Zoé was so upset. The tumour usually developed before the age of five, and the medical website said some children were born with retinoblastoma. Right -- Jack, for one. For the first time he could see the full reason for the death of Zoé's niece, which her aunt had simply called cancer.

He glanced at his watch. I have to be going soon.

Going?

I told you at tea. Ken wants me to follow up on those two men tonight. The company knows that they'll be at the----

Zoé stood up, nearly dropping Jack. You think your Ken is more important than me? Her eyes flashed.

Not more important, but...

You will phone Ken Habgood and tell him about the GP.

He should have seen this coming, and Zoé was right. Okay, the family comes first. I'll phone him now.

Zoé sat down again, almost smiling. Matt went across and gave her a hug. Is it okay if I get back on the Internet after I've phoned Ken?

You will not find out anything more, Matt. It is a serious cancer. We do not need to be told that again.

I was thinking about finding a specialist clinic.

Zoé dabbed her eyes with a tissue, holding Jack firmly with her other arm. You do not think our local hospital knows what to do? You must remember, I work there as a nurse.

Do they specialize in eye problems in young children?

We have a pediatric department.

For treatment of eye cancers? Okay, okay. Let me phone Ken at his home. He's not going to like it, but you and baby Jack need me here. Definitely.

Zoé seemed more absorbed in Jack than in Matt as he made the call. Ken sounded remarkably understanding, although he clearly had no intention of carrying out the surveillance himself that night, or indeed any other night. Matt put the phone down. He had more to worry about than an upset client.

He sat at the computer with a coffee. Zoé didn't want a drink. All she wanted to do was watch baby Jack who was now lying peacefully in his navy blue crib on its wooden rocker, staring at the colored toys strung across in front of his eyes. Jack was clearly oblivious to the anxiety of his parents.

Retinoblastoma. Perhaps it wasn't so bad after all. Lots of sites came up in his online search, and the consensus seemed to be that nine out of ten sufferers were cured, although in some cases there was a need to remove the eye. Nine out of ten sounded good. Not so good for the odd one out.

Jack suddenly started crying. He shook his head, looked at Zoé, and decided he needed to pull himself together. One of them had to stay on top during this ordeal.

Leave him to me, Zoé said quietly, reaching forward to lift Jack gently from the crib. Have you found anything useful, Dr. Rider?

He let the title pass without comment. Nine out of ten recover.

That is something I already know. Me, I am a nurse. But what happens if our baby is number ten?

There's a specialist clinic in New York that just about guarantees one hundred percent success on treating small children for cancer.

Zoé gave a hollow laugh. I think we had enough of clinics that promise one hundred percent success when we were in Avignon. I nearly died on the operating table.

But this one's in America, not France. And it's not the same team running it. Anyway, you were nearly killed there for snooping. You won't be getting any more problems from those two surgeons. They're dead.

Zoé was rocking Jack in her arms in what looked like a careful, motherly way. Her depression seemed to have lifted slightly, in spite of her concern about the ten percent failure rate. Certainly she was very unpredictable