The Demon Club

by Scott Mariani

  If Tomás had said they did, Wolf had no special desire to try to reintroduce himself to Sofia, or in any way rekindle what had been the most fleeting of youthful romances. He just wanted to see her again, from a distance, and make sure she was well and happy. As it turned out, Tomás informed him that Pero Moncayo, Sofia’s father, had died several years back and the rest of the family had moved away to Zaragoza.

  Wolf was saddened to learn the news, but he covered it well and quickly put it behind him as he left the tapas bar and spent a while wandering the streets of the old town. The scrubby hills loomed all around, and the warm mountain breeze was laden with all the scents of herbs and vegetation that he remembered. He passed a small bank called the Caja Rural, and briefly considered exploring the possibility of checking his heavy cash-filled holdall into a safe deposit storage. He soon changed his mind and decided not to take the risk of letting the money out of his sight.

  Walking on, he came across the little guest house where he’d stayed before. A number of other hotels seemed to have sprouted up in the area to cater for the growing tourist trade; but Wolf preferred solitude and elected to journey up into the hills and find a suitably sheltered and private spot to set up camp. He had no problem living rough during the warmer season, though with the perpetual glaciers of the Pyrenees not far away he knew that the winters would get cold up here. Over the coming months he might scout around for a remote rural property for rent, or spend a portion of his cash on a little patch of land where he might build a small, simple home for himself. Maybe he’d keep a few chickens, or a goat or two, and grow his own vegetables. Learn to speak the language better, so he could fit in with the locals. Maybe take up the guitar, something he’d always wanted but never got around to.

  But all that was for the future. There was no rush. No pressure. All the time in the world. Such money as he had, though by no means a fortune, would carry him a very long way here. Wolf was free to go where he pleased, do as he wished, and he no longer answered to anyone. He’d never felt so happy. Not even the joy of achieving SAS selection, until then the crowning glory of his life, could compare with the sense of liberation that flooded his mind. It was almost enough to make him forget the terrible things he’d seen and done in his life.

  Almost. The nightmare of the human sacrifice on the island – because that was exactly what he believed he’d witnessed, just days ago – would remain with him for as long as he lived. He never wanted to think about those filthy bastards again, though he would, over and over.

  Wolf stopped, set down his bag and shielded his eyes with his hand to scan the rugged landscape. To the east of Albarracín rose a high rocky escarpment that his instinct and training told him would be a perfect place to make camp for the night. He could seek out a little hollow, an eagle’s nest, from which he could see for miles and observe the sleepy little town. If he discovered the perfect spot, he might stay there for weeks. From time to time he could venture back down to civilisation, when he needed provisions or fancied another tasty meal at La Taba.

  Heaven. It already felt as though he was putting down roots here in his new home. Smiling to himself, Wolf shouldered his bag and set off on what would be a long, hot, dusty trek up into the hills.

  He had reached the edge of the town when he heard a sound that caught his attention. More correctly, it was a mixture of sounds. Ones that didn’t go well together, and set off alarms in his mind. The throaty laughter of a group of men mingled with the frightened, high-pitched yelping of a dog. Wolf slackened his step and looked around him. The sound was coming from the other side of an old, partially ruined stone wall. Part of the wall had collapsed a little way further on. Wolf headed towards the crumbled gap, following the sound.

  The other side of the old wall was a patch of waste ground, in which a group of six men had gathered and were standing around in a circle. They were a rough-looking bunch, the eldest maybe in his mid-forties, the youngest in his early twenties. Wolf remembered Sofia telling him about her father’s strong dislike for the gitanos, Romani gypsies, whom Pero Moncayo regarded as a criminal scourge living on the margins of decent society. Wolf didn’t know if these guys fitted that bill, and he didn’t care what or who they were. He only cared about what they were doing.

  In the middle of the encircled group of men was a dog. It was a nondescript kind of mongrel mutt with brown and white markings, a crooked ear and only three legs. It looked undernourished, and Wolf guessed that it was probably nobody’s pet, but a stray that made its living foraging for scraps. The missing hind limb was an old injury, and the dog seemed to be coping fine hopping around on three legs. What it wasn’t coping so well with was the fact that the men had fastened a rope around its neck to prevent it from escaping while they kicked and beat the hell out of it. Which they seemed to be enjoying quite a bit, judging by their raucous laughter. Two of the men were whacking the yelping, howling, panic-stricken animal across the head and back with heavy sticks, while a third was brandishing a steel chain and whirling it around trying to get in a good strike.

  The oldest of the men was standing back enjoying the show, his grizzled features split wide in a grin. He wasn’t taking part in the beating, but he had other plans. He was clutching a plastic bottle that Wolf realised was barbecue lighting fluid, and there was a large matchbox protruding from the back pocket of his jeans. He was unscrewing the bottle cap and clearly intended to spray the dog with the liquid. They were going to set the poor creature on fire, just for fun.

  Except that wasn’t going to happen. No chance.

  Wolf set down his holdall and walked towards the group of men. They had all been too preoccupied to notice him appear through the gap in the wall, but now as he came closer the youngest of the gang saw him. With a nervous flash of eyes he reached out and nudged the older one with the bottle, who turned and shot a hostile stare at the approaching stranger.

  The kicking and beating stopped. The dog kept on screaming and yelping, desperate to get away. Wolf came a step closer. He sensed that the oldest of the group, the sadistic firebug, was the leader of the gang, and so he focused most of his attention on him. For a moment, nobody said a word. All eyes were on Wolf.

  Wolf spoke first. He wanted to say, ‘Sorry to interrupt the party, but I can’t let you burn that dog. Let it go.’ But the words in Spanish didn’t come to him, so he just pointed at the animal, shook his head and said, ‘No.’

  The leader’s eyes bulged and he gave Wolf a long, hard stare before he raised his eyebrows in mock amazement and replied in a deep, raspy voice, ‘¿No?’ He turned to his buddies and made a gesture, like saying, ‘What is it with this joker? Doesn’t he like burning dogs?’

  Most of the gang found this amusing. But a couple of them didn’t laugh, and a growing anxiety showed in their expressions. They were right to be anxious.

  ‘No,’ Wolf repeated. He felt very calm and there was no anger in his tone. He pointed at the dog. ‘Stop what you’re doing. Leave the dog alone. Dejar al perro solo.’ He wasn’t sure if that was right. But his message was clear. And if these guys had any sense, they’d take heed of his advice. It was their choice.

  But instead of listening to reason, the leader of the gang did something he’d regret for a long time to come. He tossed away the bottle of lighter fluid, dipped a quick hand into his hip pocket and came out with a fancy bone-handled switchblade knife. The blade popped open with a clack and the bright steel flashed in the sunlight. The guy’s eyes glittered and he gave another wide grin.

  Wolf shrugged. Okay by him, if that was how they wanted to play it. He took another step towards the leader. He was wary of the knife, but at the same time he could tell the guy had no real idea how to use it. Whereas Wolf had been trained by the world’s best teachers in all forms of combat, and particularly excelled at this one. He said nothing. Advanced another step and waited for the guy to make his move.

  Wolf’s lack of fear was the most unsettling thing for the men. The youngest of the gang muttered
something in Spanish that might have translated as ‘Screw this, I’m out of here’, turned on his heels and bolted away across the patch of wasteland. Two others backed off and looked ready to do the same.

  But the leader was committed, and couldn’t lose face by retreating from the crazy stranger. His grin was faltering and his confidence was already shot to pieces as he made a half-hearted jab at Wolf’s throat with the blade. Wolf had seen it coming even before the intention formed in the guy’s brain. He sidestepped the strike, moving like water past his attacker as the knife darted through empty air. Trapped the guy’s hand, folded it effortlessly back on itself and jointed the wrist with a crack of bone that was almost as loud as the guy’s scream of pain. The knife spun to the ground. Wolf swept it away with his foot while keeping hold of the guy’s broken wrist and using the leverage to bring him down to his knees. Then Wolf kicked him savagely in the face, not hard enough to cause irreversible brain damage, but the dislocated jaw would give the guy plenty to think about for a while to come, every time he tried to chew solid food.

  Wolf let go of his groaning, bleeding and prostrated adversary and turned to face the rest. The one with the chain was scowling and looked as if he might want to have a go. Wolf said, ‘Come on, then.’ But then the chain guy had second thoughts, let the weapon slink to the dirt and took off at a run. The one holding the dog’s rope let it go and followed him, along with the sixth guy, who had no desire to be left there to face the enemy alone. The three-legged dog bounded away in the opposite direction. Wolf watched the men run, and shook his head in disgust. ‘Cowards.’

  When they were at a safe distance, three of the gang turned and shook their fists, yelling threats. Wolf didn’t need a translator to understand that they were promising that this wasn’t over. Wolf said, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ First day in a new place, and he was already making friends.

  The guy on the ground looked up at Wolf with dustcrusted features and pain blazing in his eyes. His jaw was at a distorted angle but he managed to blurt out ‘¿Quién eres tú?’ Who are you?

  Wolf replied, ‘No soy nadie importante.’ I’m nobody important.

  He went over to his holdall and picked it up. As he was walking away, he felt eyes watching his back and looked over his shoulder to see the dog standing there. Its head was cocked and it was observing him with a kind of curiosity. The rope was still attached to its neck. Wolf walked slowly over to it, extended a gentle hand for it to sniff, then carefully removed the rope. He said in a soft voice, ‘Well?’

  For a moment the dog seemed to be deciding whether or not to tag along with him; then it turned, trotted lopsidedly off and disappeared. Wolf wouldn’t have minded its company, but he understood. He’d always been a loner, too.

  He muttered, ‘See you around, amigo.’ And set off towards the hills.

  Chapter 12

  Ben had entered Wolf’s apartment at 4.45 a.m. and spent less than an hour inside. It was 5.38 when he got back to his car, already working out his next move.

  Now that he knew where he needed to go from here, he considered his travel arrangements. A flight from Heathrow or Stansted to Zaragoza or Valencia, plus checking-in and waiting-around time, plus the extra driving distance to his final destination, was going to take a few hours but was his fastest option. By road, he faced a sixteen-hour marathon journey, or even longer if he factored in minor details like the need to eat or rest – but with the important advantage of being able to travel armed, as long as he didn’t get caught. Getting caught was bad. But going after Wolf unarmed was worse. At least the customs officials wouldn’t kill him and make his body disappear.

  Ben made the choice to go by car. Retracing his steps from London back to the coast, he stopped on his way south to replace his gun in its hiding place. He arrived in Folkestone at 7.07 a.m., grabbed a paper cup of sour-tasting coffee while waiting for his Eurotunnel connection, and got the car on board for a 7.30 crossing. By 9.06 local time, he was rolling out the other side in Calais. After parading his concealed stash of weaponry right under the noses of the customs officials for the second time in hours, he grabbed another coffee and a sandwich to munch en route, and was off. His route would steer him southwards past Paris and cut straight down across France: through the nature reserves of La Brenne and Perigord-Limousin, then Montauban, Toulouse and the French Pyrenees before he hit the Spanish border. He would zip by Aragón’s capital city of Zaragoza before the final two-hour leg of the journey took him to Albarracín. A long way for a single person to drive, but Ben had driven longer.

  He made two stops for fuel, one at a crowded motorway services and the other at a quieter countryside station where he popped the bonnet and retrieved his Browning and ammunition, which he tucked under the driver’s seat. The rest of the way, he stayed sharp by burning through two packs of Gauloises and forcing himself to keep mentally revisualising the video footage Saunders had made him watch. The combination of fear and nicotine made for a powerfully stimulating cocktail that impelled him to cover the fifteen hundred kilometres like a racing driver on amphetamines and shave nearly ninety minutes off his estimated journey time.

  It was just gone 9.45 p.m. when he arrived in Albarracín. Every mile of the way, the same nagging voice at the back of his mind hadn’t stopped telling him how thin his lead was. If he was on the wrong track, he had no idea what to try next. He felt nauseous with worry and exhaustion and badly needed to sleep a while, but couldn’t stop moving or shake from his mind the image of Saunders’ spooks shadowing Grace, ready to step in and put a bullet in her head if he failed in his quest.

  He parked the Alpina in a quiet layby on the edge of Albarracín, took out his phone and a notepad and pen, and got to work using Google Maps to put together a list of all the hotels, boarding houses and guest houses in the town and the surrounding area. The sure knowledge that his target would have been travelling incognito gave him nothing to go on, except for Wolf’s picture. It meant that he’d have to do this the hard way, hoofing it from hotel to hotel with some pretext for showing the picture to people in the hope that someone might recognise it and point him in the right direction. With his list complete, Ben sat staring at it for a long time before he felt a stabbing ache in his temples and realised that this wasn’t the right approach. He ripped the page from the notepad and crumpled it. Then reclined into the driver’s seat, closed his eyes and tried to let his mind take a step back.

  To catch a wolf, you have to think like a wolf.

  The Jaden Ben knew wasn’t the type to check into a hotel. He was a man who sought solitude and loved the wild places. Chances were that he’d be living rough in the hills somewhere close by. By Ben’s reckoning, if indeed Wolf made his way straight to Albarracín from London, travelling as discreetly and covertly as possible, he probably hadn’t been here much longer than a couple of days. Long enough to have picked a spot to make his camp, somewhere up there on the high ground overlooking the town. But not so long that he’d have got itchy feet and started drifting further afield. He had a sentimental attachment to this place that wouldn’t wear off so fast. He might even be planning on remaining here long-term. If he was here at all, then he’d be somewhere not far away, within easy range of Albarracín for the purposes of restocking provisions whenever he needed them.

  That psychological profile worked for Ben. Now he refined it further, thinking that when Wolf first arrived here, he’d have hung around the town for at least a couple of hours or so, getting his bearings, maybe revisiting some of his old haunts from the long-ago visit that he’d talked so fondly about that night in Afghanistan. Ben recalled that he’d mentioned a young lady. What had she been called? Sofia. Easy to remember, because it was the most popular name for Hispanic parents to give their little girls. Wolf might have been interested in tracking her down. Might have asked around to find out if she was still living there.

  The newly arrived Wolf would also have needed to eat. And so did Ben, before he passed out from energy depletion. He took the
Browning from under his seat, loaded it and slipped it in his waistband, then locked up the Alpina and headed through the town on foot. It was a beautiful night, in a beautiful place, if only Ben had been in the mood to appreciate either. The older part of Albarracín dated back to medieval times, with narrow winding streets in places barely wide enough to drive a car through. He found a little restaurant that was still open late, went inside and took a corner window table with a view of the street, just in case his target happened to come wandering by. Ben ordered a steak and a whisky. No salad, no trimmings. Meat and alcohol were the things he needed. Rare and strong, in that order. He ate and drank fast and felt re-energised, relaxed and ready to go to work.

  Ben had first studied Spanish at the Ministry of Defence’s Centre for Languages and Culture in Shrivenham, and later refined his fluency during his years as a private kidnap rescue operator. As he was paying for his meal he showed the waiter the photo of Wolf and said in Spanish, ‘This is my brother, Mike. Said he’d meet me here in town, but he hasn’t shown up. Wondered if you might have seen him in here?’

  The old standby. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. When the waiter looked blank and shook his head Ben asked, ‘Think anybody else here might have seen him? It’d be within the last couple of days or so.’

  The waiter shook his head again. ‘I’m always here, six days a week. This job, you have to be good with faces. If your brother – you said his name is Mike? If he had been in here, I’d have noticed him.’

  Win some, lose some. Ben thanked him and left.

  He was wandering further through the town, deep in thought, when he came across another restaurant in the maze of narrow, winding streets. It was a tapas bar, smaller than the place he’d eaten in. They were closing up for the night but the door was still open. Ben looked in, saw the simple decor and the mismatched chairs and tables, and his instinct told him this was more the kind of place that Jaden Wolf would gravitate to. A woman with an apron and black hair tied back was sweeping the floor. She turned as Ben appeared in the doorway and said, ‘We’re closed.’