Читать книгу: «The Babylon Idol»
SCOTT MARIANI
The Babylon Idol
Copyright
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017
Copyright © Scott Mariani 2017
Cover Design © Henry Steadman 2017
Scott Mariani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007486229
Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780007486410
Version: 2017-07-07
Join the army of fans who LOVE Scott Mariani’s Ben Hope series …
‘Deadly conspiracies, bone-crunching action and a tormented hero with a heart … Scott Mariani packs a real punch’
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‘Slick, serpentine, sharp, and very very entertaining. If you’ve got a pulse, you’ll love Scott Mariani; if you haven’t, then maybe you crossed Ben Hope’
Simon Toyne, bestselling author of the Sanctus series
‘Scott Mariani’s latest page-turning rollercoaster of a thriller takes the sort of conspiracy theory that made Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code an international hit, and gives it an injection of steroids … [Mariani] is a master of edge-of-the-seat suspense. A genuinely gripping thriller that holds the attention of its readers from the first page to the last’
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‘You know you are rooting for the guy when he does something so cool you do a mental fist punch in the air and have to bite the inside of your mouth not to shout out “YES!” in case you get arrested on the train. Awesome thrilling stuff’
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‘If you like Dan Brown you will like all of Scott Mariani’s work – but you will like it better. This guy knows exactly how to bait his hook, cast his line and reel you in, nice and slow. The heart-stopping pace and clever, cunning, joyfully serpentine tale will have you frantic to reach the end, but reluctant to finish such a blindingly good read’
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‘[The Cassandra Sanction] is a wonderful action-loaded thriller with a witty and lovely lead in Ben Hope … I am well and truly hooked!’
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‘Mariani is tipped for the top’
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‘Authentic settings, non-stop action, backstabbing villains and rough justice – this book delivers. It’s a romp of a read, each page like a tasty treat. Enjoy!’
Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author
‘I love the adrenalin rush that you get when reading a Ben Hope story … The Martyr’s Curse is an action-packed read, relentless in its pace. Scott Mariani goes from strength to strength!’
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‘Scott Mariani seems to be like a fine red wine that gets better with maturity!’
Bestselling Crime Thrillers.com
‘Mariani’s novels have consistently delivered on fast-paced action and The Armada Legacy is no different. Short chapters and never-ending twists mean that you can’t put the book down, and the high stakes of the plot make it as brilliant to read as all the previous novels in the series’
Female First
‘Scott Mariani is an awesome writer’
Chris Kuzneski, bestselling author of The Hunters
‘O King, we will not serve your gods, nor worship the image of gold you have set up.’
The Book of Daniel 3:15–18
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Join the Army of Fans Who Love Scott Mariani’s Ben Hope Series …
Epigraph
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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Epilogue
Read on for an Exclusive Extract of the New Ben Hope Adventure by Scott Mariani
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About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
For all of his sixty-three years Gennaro Tucci had lived in the same small cottage on the edge of the same rural village in Umbria. He had been a carpenter much of his working career, but now spent most of his time pottering about his house and garden, keeping himself to himself with little need for much in the way of a social life, apart from a cat. He was a simple, gentle, kindly man with few needs and no regrets in life, whom it took little to make happy. Every Friday morning, Gennaro would amble up the road to the tiny village church, which was usually empty, sit in the same pew within its craggy whitewashed walls and bow his head and offer a few simple prayers. Then he would amble home again, feed his cat and while away the rest of the morning until lunchtime.
One particular Friday morning, in the summer of what would turn out to be Gennaro’s final year, he arrived in the church to find that it wasn’t empty – though he took little notice of the well-dressed stranger sitting in one of the pews across the aisle, a man of the same approximate age as he was, with grey hair turning white, and a broad, deeply lined face with penetrating eyes, who had looked at Gennaro fixedly as he came in.
Gennaro never asked himself who the stranger was, whether a newcomer to the village or someone just passing through. He smiled, nodded politely and got on with his habitual prayers, oblivious of the way the stranger kept staring at him. He remained in his pew the same length of time he always did, then left the church and began walking home under the warm sunshine, sniffing flowers and feeling happy at the beauty of the day.
Had Gennaro Tucci’s mind not been fully taken up with such pleasant thoughts, he might have noticed that the mysterious stranger had left the church at the same time, and was following him at a distance, staring at his back with an expression Gennaro might have found unsettling.
And, once he’d reached his little cottage on the edge of the village, had Gennaro happened to look out of the window he’d have noticed the stranger standing there by the front gate, watching as though unable to tear his gaze away.
But Gennaro saw nothing, and after a few minutes the stranger disappeared. The next day came and went, as peacefully as ever; then the next.
The following evening, they came.
Gennaro was upstairs, getting ready for bed, when the lights shone through his windows and he heard the thump of someone crashing through his front door. Frightened, he padded down the stairs, calling, ‘Chi è là?’
When he saw the three intruders, masked and armed, Gennaro almost died of fright. At first he’d thought the men had come to rob him, but that was unthinkable – he had nothing to steal, which was why he’d never locked his door in all these years. But they hadn’t come for valuables. It was him they wanted.
Gennaro struggled and cried out as they grabbed him. One of the men jabbed a hypodermic syringe into his arm, and after that things began to go hazy for the sixty-three-year-old. They dragged his half-unconscious body outside and bundled him into a black van, shut him up in the back and sped off into the night.
Many hours later, some four hundred kilometres north of the home Gennaro would never see again, the van finally stopped and his captors dragged him out. By then the drugs had begun to wear off. Gennaro blinked in the strong sunlight and gaped at his new surroundings, too terrified to ask what was happening to him and why he’d been kidnapped. He was in the grounds of some magnificent house by a lake. Poor Gennaro had never left rural Umbria, and had no recognition of where he’d been brought. But he did faintly recognise the man who stood before him as the three thugs shoved and dragged him inside the big house, then threw him down on his knees on the hard marble floor. The man smiled down at him with an expression that was almost benevolent. Gennaro blinked up at him and struggled to remember where he’d seen him before.
The stranger from the church.
Now that Gennaro saw him more closely, he was even more confused. It was like looking into a mirror. They could have been identical twins.
‘What is your name?’ the man asked.
‘G-Gennaro T-Tucci,’ Gennaro managed to quaver.
‘Gennaro,’ the man said with a broad smile, ‘you are a gift from God.’
Chapter 1
So many times in the past, Ben Hope had vowed and declared that his crazy days of running from one adventure to another were over, and that he was going to stay put at home for the foreseeable future. And every time he’d said it, before long some new crisis had come barrelling into his life and whisked him off again – the latest in a sorry, never-ending series of broken promises, to himself, and to others, which had sometimes made him wonder if he was cursed by fate.
This time, though, he was determined to be true to his word. This was it. Mayhem, violence, war, intrigue, chasing around the world – he was done with the lot of it, once and for all.
It wasn’t so much that, as his longtime friend and business partner Jeff Dekker sometimes joked, ‘We’re getting too old for this shit.’ In his early forties, Ben had plenty of life left in him and could still outrun, out-train and, if necessary, outfight guys half his age. But he would have been lying if he’d said that the recent African escapade hadn’t taken a lot out of him, physically and emotionally.
The same went for Jeff, who’d been right there at Ben’s side in what had to be the deadliest, most complex and disturbing rescue mission either man had ever experienced, either during their time in British Special Forces and in the years since. Likewise for Tuesday Fletcher, the young ex-trooper who had not long since joined their small staff at the Le Val Tactical Training Centre in rural Normandy but already proved himself ten times over to be a stalwart asset to the team and forged bonds of comradeship with Ben and Jeff that could never be broken.
Less than a fortnight had passed since they’d all returned to Le Val, to find a mountain of mail waiting for them. The business was growing by the month, attracting so many bookings from military, law enforcement and private close-protection agencies worldwide looking to refine and extend their tactical skillset that it was hard to keep up with demand. Now that the operation had received a substantial cash injection in the wake of the Africa mission, they were set to grow still further.
But all of that had been set aside for a week, as an official Le Val holiday was declared.
Ben had spent that time recuperating. For most people, ‘recuperating’ might have meant lying in bed, or sitting around idle, licking their wounds and feeling sorry for themselves. For Ben it meant getting back into the punishing exercise routines he’d followed for most of his life. Working back up to a thousand push-ups a day, lifting weights, honing his marksmanship skills on Le Val’s pistol and rifle ranges, scaling cliffs and sea-kayaking off the Normandy coast, and going for long runs through the wintry countryside with Storm, his favourite of the pack of German Shepherds that patrolled the compound. The harder Ben trained, the more he emptied his mind and the further he left the horrors of Africa behind him.
Jeff Dekker was no slouch either, but he’d used his recuperation period differently. His romance with Chantal Mercier, who taught at the École Primaire in the nearby village of Saint-Acaire, had grown more serious over the last months, and he’d spent his time off with her. In all the years Ben had known Jeff, throughout the never-ending sequence of on-off, part-time, short-term girlfriends whose names were too many to remember, he’d never seen him so committed to a relationship. He was happy for his friend, and Jeff seemed happy too. Even Jeff’s French had improved.
Meanwhile, Tuesday Fletcher had taken advantage of the week’s holiday to fly home to London to see his parents, Rosco and Shekeia, second-generation immigrants from Jamaica. Tuesday was still recovering from a gunshot wound to the arm, sustained during their flight from the Congo. Ben had no doubt that he’d come up with some white lie to conceal from his parents just how close he’d come to being killed. If anyone could make light of a bullet in the arm, it was the ever-cheerful Tuesday.
The second week since their return, the three of them had started easing themselves back into business-as-usual mode and begun working their way through the backlog of emails, letters, accounts, orders, bookings and the process of hiring new staff to cope with the expanding Le Val operation, and a hundred other matters that had accumulated during their absence.
That was where Ben found himself at this moment, sitting alone in the prefabricated office building across the yard from the old stone farmhouse. It was an early December morning, and the icy rain that had been drumming on the office roof since dawn was threatening to turn snowy. The fan heater was blasting waves of warm air that engulfed Ben as he sat at the desk sipping from a steaming mug of black coffee. Storm and two more of the guard dogs, Mauser and Luger, appeared to have given themselves the morning off and were curled contentedly at his feet, like a huge hairy black-and-tan rug spread over the floor. Ben didn’t have the heart to kick them out into the cold.
From where he sat, through the window he could see the parked minibus that had brought the current crop of trainees to Le Val: eight agents from the French SDAT anti-terror unit anxious to up their game in expectation of more of the troubles that had been rocking Paris in recent times. Tuesday was currently out with them on the six-hundred-yard range, the group probably all freezing their balls off as he took them through their sniper paces. Trembling hands and numb fingers were no great boon to long-range accuracy. Poor sods. Ben was scheduled to teach a two-hour session that afternoon in the plywood-and-car-tyre walled construction they called the ‘killing house’, covering elements of advanced live-fire CQB, or close-quarter-battle, training that they were unlikely to learn anywhere else. At least they’d be indoors out of the wet. Two more members of the Le Val team who’d be happy to huddle indoors with mugs of coffee were Serge and Adrien, the two ex-French Army guys who manned the new gatehouse – the latest addition to the complex – and controlled people coming in and out.
As for Jeff Dekker, Ben wasn’t quite sure where he was at that moment. He’d said something about checking the perimeter fence for wind damage; the region had been buffeted by one winter gale after another that week. With the kind of arsenal that Le Val kept locked up in its special armoury vault, and the sort of work that went on within the various sections of the compound, government bureaucracy insisted on the property being ultra-secure. Not that Ben had lately noticed any gangs of jihadist terrorists roaming the Normandy countryside in search of military hardware. But rules were rules.
Ben reached for his Gauloises and Zippo lighter, flicked a cigarette from the familiar blue pack, clanged open the lighter and lit up in a cloud of smoke. It suddenly felt even better to be home. Puffing happily away, he reached across the desk for the stack of mail he’d been sifting through. So far it had all been bills, bills, and more bills.
But this letter looked different.
Chapter 2
The letter certainly was unusual. More than the Italian postmark, Ben was surprised to see the ink-stamped legend ISTITUTO PENITENZIARO BOLLATI on the envelope. He’d heard of the Bollati medium-security prison in Milan, but never been there, could think of no connections the place could have to him, and wouldn’t have expected to receive a letter from anyone there.
Yet there was no denying his name and address neatly handwritten on the front of the envelope. Above them, the date on the postmark showed that the letter had left Milan while Ben was struggling to survive somewhere in the middle of the Congo jungle.
‘Hm,’ he said.
At his feet, Storm cocked an ear and glanced up as though to see what the fuss was about, then lost interest and went back to sleep.
Ben took another slurp of scalding coffee and another drag on the Gauloise, then put down his mug, rested the cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the old M4 bayonet that served as a letter-opener in the Le Val office. He carefully slit one end of the envelope, reached inside and was about to draw out the single folded sheet of paper when his phone suddenly came to life and started buzzing on the desk like an upturned bee.
‘Got a problem in Sector Nine.’ Jeff’s voice was barely audible over the crackle of the wind distorting his phone’s mic. Sector Nine was what they called part of the east perimeter fence. ‘That sodding apple tree Marie-Claire wouldn’t ever let me cut down? Well, we won’t need to now. Sorry to drag you out here, mate, but I need your help.’
Ben could imagine what had happened. He’d read the letter later. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on.
‘You want to come?’ he said to Storm, who instantly sprang to his feet as though it were feeding time. Life was simple if you were a dog.
Outside in the biting wind, the sleet was turning snowier by the minute. Ben pulled up the collar of his jacket and crossed the yard, past the minibus and over to the ancient Land Rover. It was a tool box on wheels, filled with all kinds of junk including a greasy old chainsaw. Storm hopped in the back and found a space for himself while Ben got behind the wheel, and they set off across the yard and down the rutted track that ran between the buildings parallel with the rifle range and led across the fields towards Sector Nine. He heard the muffled boom of a rifle coming from the range, the ear-splitting report and supersonic crack of the bullet in flight muted by the high earth walls that ran parallel from the firing points to the butts at the far end and prevented any ‘flyers’ from escaping the range boundaries. Not that such elementary mistakes could happen under Tuesday’s expert supervision; he could splatter grapes all day long at five hundred yards with his modified Remington 700, and he was one of the best instructors Ben had ever seen.
The old tree had been a bone of contention for years. Marie-Claire, the local woman they’d employed from day one as an occasional cook, swore the particular apples it produced were essential to her mouth-wateringly delicious traditional Normandy apple tart recipe. As popular as her tart was with the parties of hard-worked and hungry trainees at Le Val, Jeff had always griped that the tree was too close to the fence and had argued that they could get perfectly decent apples at the grocer’s in Saint-Acaire or the Carrefour in Valognes. It had been an endless and hard-fought debate, with neither side giving an inch, while the tree kept growing taller and spreading outwards year on year. Now it looked as if the winter wind had settled the argument for them.
The track wound and snaked through the grounds. To Ben’s right, he passed the patch of oak woodland, now bare and gaunt, that in summer completely screened the ruins of the tiny thirteenth-century chapel where he sometimes retreated to sit, and think, and enjoy the silence. To his left, beyond hills and fields and forest, he could see the distant steeple of the church at Saint-Acaire pointing up at the grey sky.
He loved this place, in any season. He couldn’t imagine why he’d ever wanted to leave it.
But then, he’d done a lot of things in his life that he couldn’t understand why, looking back.
As Ben approached Sector Nine, he saw Jeff’s Ford Ranger over the grassy rise up ahead. Then Jeff himself, arms folded and frowning unhappily at the branches that had become enmeshed in the wire. The whole tree had uprooted and toppled over, flattening a thirty-foot section of fence with it. Those ever-lurking jihadis had only to come leaping through the gap, and they’d be just a step away from total European domination.
‘What did I always say?’ Jeff said, pointing at the fallen tree as Ben stepped down from the Land Rover. ‘What did I always warn that old bat would happen one day? And did she ever listen to a word? Did she buggery.’
‘No use crying about it now,’ Ben said. He grabbed the chainsaw from the back of the Landy. The dog clambered into the front seat, fogging up the windscreen with his hot breath as he watched the two humans set about dismantling the tree.
Ben started with the smaller branches, trimming them off while Jeff dragged them away and tossed them in a heap to one side. Once the gnarly old trunk was as bare as a telegraph pole, it was time to start chopping it up into sections before the real work of rebuilding the broken fence could begin. By then, the sleet had delivered on its threat to turn snowy. Ben and Jeff took a break, and sat in the Land Rover watching the snow dust the landscape. Ben lit another Gauloise, smoking it slowly, savouring the tranquillity of the moment.
‘I love her, you know,’ Jeff said, out of the blue after a lengthy pause.
‘The old bat?’
‘Chantal. I’m in love with her, mate.’
Ben had never heard his friend say anything like that before. From his lips, it was like Mahatma Gandhi saying how much he loved a good juicy beefsteak.
Jeff shook his head, as though he could hardly believe it himself. ‘I mean, I know what it sounds like, and I never thought this would happen to me. But I think she’s the one. Christ, I really fucking think so.’ He glanced at Ben. There was a look in his eyes something like helplessness.
‘Chantal’s great,’ Ben said, even though he’d only met her briefly a couple of times.
‘Yeah, she is.’ Jeff swallowed, like a man about to make a confession. ‘Listen. I … uh, I asked her to marry me. She said yes. Wanted you to be the first to know.’
Ben masked his complete astonishment and said, ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.’ The subject of marriage wasn’t one that was ever discussed between them, given Ben’s patchy history in that department. He was more unqualified than most people to extol the joys of married life, but it was all he could think of to say right now.
‘Thanks, mate.’ Jeff smiled, then pointed through the windscreen, obviously keen to change the subject. ‘Look at this frigging snow.’ It was thickening by the minute, blown about in sheets by the increasing wind.
‘No point waiting for it to stop,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s get on.’
The chainsaw buzzed and snorted and kicked in Ben’s hands as he sliced the tree into sections, bending over the prone trunk, with Jeff standing at his shoulder waiting to grab each piece as it came loose and toss it into the pile. Ten minutes later, the top half of the tree was next year’s firewood logs ready to be loaded on a trailer and split and stacked in the barn.
Two minutes after that, it happened.
There was a strong gust of wind, followed immediately by a strange whizzing crack that was only faintly audible over the noise of the saw. At almost the same instant, Ben heard Jeff’s strangled cry of shock and pain. He looked quickly around, just in time to see the blood fly. As if in slow motion, like a scarlet ribbon fluttering from Jeff’s body, twisting in the air. Jeff doubling up. Falling against him. Collapsing into the trampled grass. Mud and snow and sawdust and more blood. Lots of it, spilling everywhere. Ben yelling Jeff’s name. Getting no response. The sudden fear twisting his guts like a pair of icy gripping hands.
In those first confused instants, Ben thought that the chain had broken and gone spinning off the bar of the saw, hitting Jeff in some kind of freakish accident. In a panic he hit the engine kill switch. The saw instantly stopped, and Ben realised the chain was still intact.
He threw the saw down and fell on his knees by Jeff’s slumped body. Jeff wasn’t moving. The snow was turning red in a spreading stain under him. Ben yelled his friend’s name. Tried to shake him, to roll him over, to understand what was happening. Blood slicked his hands and bubbled up between his fingers. So much blood.
Now Ben was thinking that the spinning chainsaw might have dislodged an old nail or fencing staple buried deep in the tree trunk from long ago, and sent it flying through the air like a deadly piece of shrapnel.
‘Jeff!’
Jeff’s eyes were closed. His face was white, except where it was spattered red. His jacket and shirt were black and oily with blood. Ben ripped at the material.
And then he saw the gaping bullet wound in Jeff’s chest.
Chapter 3
You didn’t need to be a forensic pathologist to recognise the devastating effect that a high-velocity rifle bullet could have on the human body. And Ben was no stranger to gunshot wounds.
This one was bad. It was very bad.
A gust of wind slapped a fresh flurry of snowflakes over them, and suddenly it was blizzarding. Ben crouched in the mud and the blood and the snow, bending over his friend’s inert body, blinking away the flakes that swirled into his eyes. His hands shook so violently that he could barely control them enough to check Jeff’s pulse. Inside the Land Rover, Storm was howling and barking and scrabbling at the window to get out.
There was no pulse. The shock of the impact had stopped Jeff’s heart. He wasn’t breathing. Red froth was bubbling at his lips.
Ben closed his mind to the panic that rushed up inside him, and dived into action with artificial respiration to try to force Jeff’s lungs to start working. His own face was soon slick with blood. He could taste the coppery saltiness of it on his lips. He spat and kept trying.
After ten breaths there was still no response. No breath. No pulse.
Using the edge of his hand Ben gave a sharp rap to the lower part of Jeff’s breastbone in the desperate hope that the cardiac compression would jar his heart back into life. That was, if the bullet hadn’t carved it into butcher meat.
No pulse.
Jeff was dead.
But Ben couldn’t allow that to happen. He yelled, ‘No!’ And hit him again, terrified of doing further damage to the wound but not knowing what other choice he had. Blood sprayed from the impact. Jeff’s flesh felt cold and lifeless to the touch.
One more time, Ben resorted to the mouth-to-mouth to try to force oxygen into Jeff’s inert lungs.
And this time, Ben’s own heart soared as he suddenly felt a pulse, as ragged and delicate as a damaged butterfly’s wingbeats. ‘You’re not dead yet, Dekker!’ Ben yelled, wanting to shake him, slap him. Jeff’s body convulsed and a spout of blood burst out of him with a rattling gasp. He was alive, though Ben knew he could slip back down at any moment and not come back up again.
There had been no more shots. In his near-panic, Ben struggled to think straight. He remembered that Tuesday was out with the trainees on the long rifle range. Could a bullet have gone astray somehow? Impossible. Not on Tuesday’s watch. And in any case, the shot that had hit Jeff had very clearly come from the opposite direction.
Beyond the fence. Outside the boundaries of Le Val. Logic dictated that the shooter had hidden himself among the wooded hills somewhere between here and Saint-Acaire. He could have been half a mile away. Waiting, watching through his scope, biding his time for the perfect moment to pull the trigger.
But who was he? And why had he done this?
The landscape was rapidly turning white, visibility suddenly diminished to not much better than a hundred yards. There was no sign of anyone. Nothing moved or made a sound, except for the whistle of the gusting wind and the swirl and patter of the falling snow. Ben didn’t want to leave Jeff, but it haunted him that the faceless shooter was still out there, somewhere, perhaps hundreds of yards distant, or maybe moving in closer to finish what he’d started. Ben ran to the Land Rover, wrenched open the tailgate and grabbed the old shotgun that kicked about in the back among the shovels and other tools. A rustic twelve-bore against a long-range rifle was no match, but it was better than being unarmed. He rummaged inside the vehicle for the green plastic first-aid box and shoved it under his arm.
‘Storm, go find Tuesday!’ Ben told the German Shepherd. ‘Fetch!’ The dog was trained to know the names of everyone at Le Val, and to locate and alert them on command. Storm cocked his head, understood what Ben was asking him to do, bounded out of the Land Rover and streaked away through the snow like a heat-seeking missile.
As he ran back to Jeff, Ben tore out his phone and dialled 15, the emergency SAMU number for urgent medical assistance. He forced himself to speak clearly and slowly as he explained what had happened. ‘Please hurry.’
The nearest hospitals were in Valognes and Cherbourg, both miles away. Jeff was going to need everything Ben could do to keep him alive until someone got here. He was still losing blood much too fast. The bullet had passed right through his body, making an exit hole between his shoulder blades that Ben could have poked three fingers inside. More blood was leaking from that hole than the entry wound, but he’d have to stem the bleeding from both before Jeff lost a fatal amount.
Ben pulled open a bandage pack from the first-aid kit and tore it in half. Struggling to get Jeff’s dead weight rolled over a little he wedged one knee under his friend’s back with a wad of bandage pressed tightly between it and the exit wound, and used both hands to maintain pressure on the entry wound with the other wad. He squeezed with all his might to staunch the deadly haemorrhages. It could take ten or fifteen minutes of steady pressure to stem the flow – by which time it could all be over. Blood quickly soaked through the bandages until they were saturated.
It wasn’t long before Storm came pounding back through the snow. Tuesday was sprinting after him, still clutching the scoped rifle they’d been using for their training session. The dog was barking frantically and running circles around Tuesday to guide him on. In their wake came the eight SDAT guys. Tuesday’s jaw dropped in horror at the sight of Ben crouching over Jeff’s bloody form in the snow.
‘He’s been shot,’ Ben said tersely. ‘Don’t ask me more, because I don’t know. Just help me. I’ve called for the ambulance but I need more bandages from the kit. Quickly. And keep your head down. The shot came from that way, eleven o’clock. The shooter could still be around.’
Tuesday nodded dumbly, dropped the rifle and set about tearing open more bandage packs. He knew better than to ask questions. Once a soldier, always a soldier; like Ben he was no stranger to dealing with gravely injured comrades in the field. The SDAT guys were good at what they did, and they were experts in looking tough and intimidating in the black balaclavas and tactical armour they wore on the job, but they had about as much real-life battlefield experience as any other cops, and in those first shocked instants they could do little but watch grimly as Ben discarded the blood-soaked pressure pads and replaced them with the fresh ones Tuesday quickly handed him.
The SDAT team leader was a tough, gruff Frenchman called Roman Vidal. He took out a phone and urgently, efficiently called in police reinforcements, then picked up the rifle and the shotgun and began delegating orders to his men, marshalling them as though they were dealing with a terrorist attack.
Which maybe they were. Ben had no idea what was happening, and right now it was the last thing on his mind. Jeff’s pulse was vacillating wildly, sometimes barely there at all. The blood kept coming, though now the flow seemed to be easing a little.
With Tuesday’s help Ben laid Jeff out flat on the ground with his legs elevated to make it easier for his weak heartbeat to pump blood to the head. Ben had taken off his bloody jacket and laid it over Jeff to keep him warm. That was all they could do, except hope they could get their friend out of here as soon as possible.
The SDAT guys fanned out along the perimeter, keeping low and scanning the terrain beyond the fence for any sign of the shooter. The falling snow wasn’t helping. It was becoming hard to tell where the horizon ended and the sky began. Tuesday stayed close by Ben and Jeff, biting his lip in agonised worry and holding in the thousand questions that were bursting to come out.
‘Hang in there, Jeff,’ Ben kept saying in his ear. ‘Help’s on its way. You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be fine.’
He didn’t even know if Jeff could hear him.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Ben caught the sound of an approaching helicopter. He looked up and saw the aircraft thudding towards them out of the grey clouds.
Ben would never know the pilot’s name, but he would forever bless the guy’s heroism for having flown out in such bad weather. The white SAMU air ambulance landed just inside the perimeter, whipping up powdery snow from the ground by the blast of its rotors. Two paramedics jumped out and hurried over.
It took a monumental effort for Ben to stand back and let them take charge of the situation. Within minutes, Jeff was being stretchered aboard the chopper. Ben kept his hand from shaking as he scribbled out a few details on a form: Jeff’s name, address, blood type and next of kin, which Ben wrote down as Lynne Dekker. Jeff’s father had walked out when he was eight. His mother Lynne had emigrated from the UK to Australia’s Northern Territory a few years back, where she and her new man, an outbacker called Kip Malloy, ran a crocodile farm supplying leather to the cowboy boot industry. Ben couldn’t remember the name of the place.
As he handed the form back to the paramedics, blood smeared all over the paper from his fingers, he asked if there was room for one more on board the chopper and was told, without hesitation, no chance.
Ben said, ‘At least tell me where you’re taking him.’ The paramedic replied that Jeff would be flown direct to the Centre Hospitalier Louis Pasteur, the big hospital in Cherbourg, being the nearest facility equipped to deal with major trauma. Ben thanked him and let him go. He stood back, and he and Tuesday watched in silence as the hatch slammed shut and the chopper took off.
Both thinking the same terrible thought.
That they might never see Jeff Dekker alive again.
Chapter 4
The distance from Le Val to Cherbourg was almost exactly thirty-five kilometres by road. Ben couldn’t get there as fast as a chopper, but he was damned well going to try.
‘I’m coming too,’ Tuesday declared as Ben clambered into Jeff’s truck. It was faster than the Land Rover, not that Ben intended to make the drive in either.
Ben shook his head. ‘Someone’s got to hold the fort, Tues. In a few minutes this place will be crawling with police. In the meantime, kennel the dogs, lock the weapons up in the armoury and get ready for a lot of questions. If they want me, they know where to find me.’
Tuesday just nodded. He looked as ashen and pallid as it was possible for a healthy twenty-four-year-old Jamaican guy to look. Ben briefly laid a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to give him some kind of reassuring smile, but he couldn’t. He slammed the truck door, fired up the engine and took off over the bumpy ground, wipers slapping, lights burning twin beams through the drifting snow. Tuesday, Vidal and the others shrank in the rear-view mirror until the white veil swallowed them up.
Ben hammered the truck back towards the house. Less than a minute later he was skidding to a halt in the yard, piling out without shutting the door and sprinting past the big stone farmhouse towards the lean-to garage where he stored his personal car.
The old BMW Alpina turbo was neglected and dirty, but its 4.4-litre V8 motor could get Ben where he wanted to be just about as fast as anything else on the road, especially when he was the one behind the wheel. He punched it out of the yard and down the rutted track to the security gates that shut Le Val off from the big, bad world. He left those open, too, for the contingent of gendarmerie vehicles that would soon be descending on them in force. Then he was off, heading north, shifting as aggressively as the untreated and slippery rural roads would let him.
His mind was empty, numb. There was no point in trying to make sense of what had happened. That would come later. And when he figured out who had done this …
He gripped the steering wheel. He couldn’t afford to let his grief and rage take him over. That would come later, too.
Traffic grew steadily thicker as he left the countryside behind him and joined the N13 heading towards the city. The sudden snowfall had caught a lot of people unprepared, and the road was heavily congested with sluggish bumper-to-bumper lines of vehicles. Twice he veered off onto the verge to roar by the dawdling drivers blocking his way, and forced past them with his horn blaring to warn them of his approach. People gawked at him from their car windows. He didn’t care.
A few minutes later, he left the nationale and carved his way into Cherbourg-Octeville. The hospital was located in the north of the city, not far from the port. He screeched through slippery, twisty streets, attracting more stares from drivers and pedestrians, burning through red lights and ignoring one-way systems and not giving a damn about police, until he spotted the sign with a red cross and the words ‘HÔPITAL PASTEUR URGENCES’. Moments later he swerved into the hospital car park, skidded into a space, burst out of the BMW and ran for the entrance without bothering to lock the car.
It wasn’t until Ben shoved through the doors into the hospital emergency-room reception area that he realised that his hands, face and clothes were still covered in blood and he looked like someone who’d just been dragged out of a train wreck. That probably accounted for some of the looks he’d been getting on the way here. The same expressions were on the faces of the hospital staff as they came rushing to meet him, intent on grabbing him and shoving him onto a gurney before he collapsed on the floor.
‘It’s not me. I’m not hurt,’ he explained to the nurses, putting out his bloodstained hands to ward them off him. ‘Jeff Dekker. He was brought here by helicopter. Less than an hour ago. Where is he? Is he—?’
Not dead, was all the information he could glean from any of the tight-lipped nursing personnel. A large matron kept insisting that if he would please settle down and wait, Docteur Lacombe the head surgeon would update him as soon as possible. Ben got the impression that Lacombe was deep in the middle of working on Jeff at that very moment. Which explained why the nurses were being noncommittal about the condition of the patient. Which in turn implied that things were very much in the balance and could go either way.
Ben did what they said and went to a small waiting area with banks of plastic seats and a vending machine. He sat by a window that overlooked the hospital car park and gazed out without seeing anything.
The wait was agonising. He took a few sips of eighteen-year-old single malt scotch from his old steel flask, then stared at it for a moment, thinking back to the time when it had turned a bullet that had been heading for his heart. Perhaps it could have done the same for Jeff. The thought made him want to swallow the whole contents of the flask, but he fought the urge and put it away.
He paced and sat down. Paced and sat down. The snow had stopped falling outside. The sky was leaden, threatening a downpour of rain that would thaw the streets of Cherbourg to a brown slush. Restless and badly in need of something other than alcohol to settle his nerves, he wanted to duck outside for a cigarette but worried that he might miss speaking to this Lacombe guy. After another half-hour he dialled the Le Val office number, and Tuesday snapped up the call before the first ring was over.
‘Well?’ Tuesday sounded breathless with worry.
‘Nobody wants to tell me anything much,’ Ben said. ‘I think they’re operating on him as we speak.’
‘Then there’s a chance,’ Tuesday gasped. ‘Thank Christ. When the phone rang I thought—’
Ben preferred not to dwell on what might all too well turn out to be false hopes. ‘What’s happening there?’ he interrupted.
Tuesday let out a frustrated grunt and replied all in a flurry, ‘Jesus, what isn’t happening here? Now would be a good time to rob a bank, because it seems to me every cop in Normandy’s turned up to get a piece of the action. Not long after you left, four NH-nineties landed in the field, full of guys in black. Then about thirty more vehicles rolled up. They’ve got the whole place surrounded and they’re combing through every square inch like it was the biggest terrorist incident in French history. It’s mayhem. I’ve repeated the whole story so many times I’m beginning to feel like a bloody parrot.’
‘Let them do what they have to do,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe they’ll find something.’
He very much doubted they would. More likely, the guys in black body armour would strut about feeling pumped up and hungry for Muslim extremists to gun down, then they’d eventually get bored and go home to their shoot-’em-up video games.
He asked, ‘Is Vidal still there?’
‘Overseeing his troops like he’s General Patton. There’s something else, Ben.’ Tuesday paused, sounding uncomfortable. ‘I’m really sorry. I had no choice.’
‘What?’
‘They demanded access to the armoury, and I had to let them in. They took the lot. Stripped it totally bare.’
‘What do you mean, took the lot?’
‘Every last scrap, down to the empty spare magazines. They even took the slings and bipods for the rifles. Said it was a precaution in accordance with the new anti-terror legislation. So if I tried to stand in their way, that pretty much made me a terrorist myself. They loaded everything into an armoured van and gave me a slip of paper that says it’s being kept in secure storage at a government facility until further notice. Which basically means we’re out of business for the foreseeable future. I’m sorry, Ben. If you want to fire me now, I’d understand.’
‘No, Tuesday. You did the right thing and I wouldn’t blame you for a minute, and neither will Jeff. Listen, do me a favour. Middle drawer of Jeff’s desk there in the office. There’s a tatty address book. Look under M and give me his mother’s number in Australia.’
‘Got it,’ Tuesday said after a moment, and Ben scribbled the number down on the back of his Gauloises packet. Then he remembered the other call he was going to have to make, a prospect that felt like a cold knife going into his belly. ‘Now look under C.’
‘Chantal,’ Tuesday said with a groan. ‘God, I’d forgotten all about her. The poor woman. Hold on. Yeah, there’s a mobile number.’ He read it out. ‘You want me to—?’
‘I’ll do it,’ Ben said grimly. ‘Thanks, Tuesday. I’ll keep you posted when I know anything.’ He ended the call. Then took a deep breath and made the first of the two other calls he was dreading. As the dial tone was pulsing in his ear he tried desperately to formulate what he had to say. A woman’s voice answered at the fourth ring, ten thousand miles away.
‘May I speak to Mrs Lynne Dekker?’
‘Speaking. Who is this?’
‘Mrs Dekker, you don’t know me. My name’s Ben Hope. I work with Jeff.’
It was one of the worst calls he’d ever had to make. But the next one, to Chantal Mercier, was even harder. First the same stunned silence, then the same cry of anguish, the same gulping sobs. Then, to make Ben even more miserable, followed the rage, the recriminations, the bitter accusations. Chantal was certain that it was as a result of all the awful and dangerous things they did at Le Val that Jeff was hurt. Ben tried to placate her, but could think of little to say.
When it was over, he put the phone away and went back to the slightly lesser ordeal of waiting. He wasn’t counting the minutes. He was counting the seconds.
About nine thousand more of them had ticked by in his head, and the hands on the wall clock in the waiting room had left midday far behind, by the time a door swung open and a figure in a blue doctor’s overall appeared, spotted him and started walking briskly over. Ben stood up on jelly legs, his heart rate suddenly doubled. He stopped breathing.
Here it comes, he thought.
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