Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7)

by Scott Mariani

  Then he had to try to find some other way out of here. He half-slid, half-rolled down the soft sand of the dune and started desperately searching for another escape route. The voices of his pursuers were getting louder, and coming from different directions as they split up to search for him. The beams of flashlights darted through the long grass. He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the baying of dogs coming after him. The enemy had taken no chances this time. It was as if they’d stepped their game up a gear.

  Ben turned and was suddenly blinded by searing white light. He covered his eyes with his arm. Nowhere to run. He was bathed in the glare, caught like a deer in a hunter’s lamp with enough hardware aimed at him to blow him to pieces.

  A voice yelled, ‘There he is!’

  Another shouted, ‘Drop the weapon!’

  If he hung onto the pistol for another instant, he was dead.

  He tossed it away and it hit the sand with a dull thud.

  And then the racing figures were closing in all around him. ‘Fuck it,’ he said, and put up his hands.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  There was no point in trying to resist any longer as they fastened his wrists and marched him roughly across the sand to the idling chopper.

  In minutes, the whole section of beach in front of the house had come alive with activity. It looked like the aftermath of a military operation. The gunmen who’d come from the sea returned to the boats, started up their motors and churned the water white as they roared away. The team leader and the remaining members of the assault team were at the chopper, talking with the air crew as the pilot readied for takeoff. They were all still wearing their ski masks. The team leader carried a large, translucent Ziploc bag, through which Ben could make out the lustre of bronze and steel.

  Wesley Holland’s sword of Christ. So now the enemy had what they’d been looking for all along.

  Ben could see something else, too. The sword’s blade was smeared with blood. He frowned. How had that happened? As he was led closer, he was able to pick snatches of the men’s conversation over the noise of the turbine.

  ‘—about the Yank?’

  The team leader shook his head and motioned to the bag in his hand, and Ben heard him say, ‘He fell on it.’

  Then the blood was Holland’s. Ben felt sorry. The way he saw it, the team leader had no reason to lie to one of his own people. The American must have impaled himself on the blade as he’d come tumbling down the stairs.

  Poor Wesley hadn’t deserved that. But then, Ben was pretty sure these people would have killed him anyway. Maybe falling on a sword was a better death than being made to kneel and having to spend your final moments waiting for a bullet in the head. The Samurai would have agreed with that one.

  Thinking about it led Ben to ponder another question, one that haunted him. Now that they had the sword, why did they want him alive?

  ‘Load him up,’ the team leader commanded, waving at the chopper. Ben was shoved towards it. The helicopter was a standard U.S. Army Bell UH-1 Iroquois with the military markings removed and painted matt black. It still retained its side-mounted pair of M240 general purpose machine guns.

  As Ben was pushed into the open hatch, the turbine note began to rise to a howl. The team leader and remaining assault team members clambered aboard and took their positions, watching him with hostility. Moments later, the aircraft lifted off from the beach in a whipping tornado of sand.

  As they climbed into the air, Ben looked out of the window. Down below on the dark beach, the first orange-red flames were flickering in the windows of Wesley’s house. They were going to burn it to the ground, erasing every trace that he’d ever been there. The case of the billionaire who’d vanished off the face of the earth would keep the media buzzing for months and go on intriguing the public for years. Ben wondered if anyone would ever find the vault underneath, and the valuable collections inside.

  The chopper banked steeply and headed out to sea, flying roughly southwest. Ben craned his neck back at the dark stretch of beach and the lights of houses that speckled the island’s coastline, and thought of Jude. He was down there somewhere. Somehow, he’d make it home.

  Ben turned to face the team leader. ‘You can take your masks off,’ he said over the roar of the prop. ‘I won’t laugh.’

  ‘Shut him up,’ the team leader ordered one of his men, who got up and approached Ben with a fiendish grin and a roll of duct tape.

  ‘Anyone want to tell me what this is all about?’ Ben said before a length of tape was slapped over his mouth and a hood yanked roughly over his head. That effectively ended the conversation.

  Impossible to tell where they might be taking him. Ben knew that the operational range of a Bell UH-1 was around three hundred miles, which meant their destination could lie anywhere within a radius half that distance; in his mind he traced a circle on the map, and it covered a whole wedge of the U.S. mainland from New York City to the south all the way up into New Hampshire in the north.

  After about an hour, Ben sensed the aircraft settling down to land. As they touched down there was noise and activity all around him. The hatch opened and lights shone through the material of his hood. He was grabbed by the arms, hauled out of the chopper and marched across hard ground. Cold wind pierced him for a few moments, then stopped as he was led inside a building where voices echoed in empty space.

  ‘This way, dickhead,’ someone said gruffly close to his ear, jerking his arm. He could almost feel the presence of any number of guns pointing at him as he was marched along. Doors opened ahead and were slammed behind them, leading deeper into the building. Then he was shoved roughly down a short flight of steps. The hood was yanked off his head, and he blinked as torchlight flashed in his face. An unseen hand ripped the tape painfully from his lips while the blade of a knife passed between his tethered wrists and cut away the plastic tie.

  ‘Sweet dreams, fucker,’ said the same gruff voice, and then something hit him hard from behind and he blacked out.

  Chapter Sixty

  Ben awoke on a hard stone floor, shivering with cold and blind in the darkness. His head was throbbing badly. Touching his fingers to the lump on the back of his skull, he felt the crust of dried blood where his captors had clubbed him. He stood up and let his eyes adjust to the blackness, and gradually he was able to make out his surroundings. The stone cell was about eight feet square and windowless. A plain wooden bunk was mounted to one wall, a washbasin and rudimentary toilet to another.

  He could tell from the airless, damp atmosphere that he was underground. His pockets had been emptied, but they’d let him keep his watch. Its faintly glowing dial read after 4 a.m., December 24th.

  He settled on the bunk and rested his aching head in his hands, trying to empty his mind so that time would pass more quickly. But it was impossible to shut off the endless cascade of thoughts that kept swirling around. He kept hearing Brooke’s voice, and wondering when he might ever hear it again. More than anything, he agonised over Jude, stranded on Martha’s Vineyard. Jude would surely have been able to make his way back to Edgartown, on foot if need be, where he’d be able to make a credit card withdrawal. If he could scrape enough cash together for the ferry back to the mainland, maybe he could phone Robbie from there, or Robbie’s uncle—

  Over and over, a hundred different scenarios. One way or another, Jude was all right. He had to be.

  The hours dragged by. Ben’s headache eventually diminished, leaving him with the sick nausea of fatigue and worry. 6 a.m., 8 a.m. The cell remained dark. His mind drifted. Slowly, slowly, his eyelids began to droop, his breathing slowed and he finally felt the blessed angels of sleep coming to deliver him to a place of tranquillity …

  And then the cell door banged open. Ben jolted upright as three men burst into the small space. ‘Wakey, wakey!’ said a harsh voice. He blinked, certain that he’d been asleep for just a few moments – but a glance at his watch told him it was after 11 a.m. He rose to his feet, stiff from the hard bunk
. Two of the guards grabbed his arms and led him towards the dimly lit doorway as the third kept a pistol trained on his chest. They were all wearing heavy jackets and gloves.

  For the first time, he was able to see where they’d taken him last night. The corridor leading from the cell was narrow, its rough walls shiny with condensation. The men shoved open a succession of doors, led him around corners and up a flight of steps. He could smell fresh air at last. The man in front opened a final door to the outside, and the morning sunlight flooded over Ben, making him blink. He stood and breathed in the sharp, cold air. He couldn’t believe the surreal sight in front of him.

  He was in the grounds of a magnificent mansion, formal gardens stretching away as far as the eye could see. Lawns and summerhouses and pergolas coated in fresh snow. Looking back, he realised that he’d been kept housed in some kind of bunker attached to a cluster of outbuildings and storage sheds.

  The roofs and gables of the mansion itself were just about visible beyond a ring of snowy conifers up ahead. There was not a whisper of traffic noise. They were somewhere deep in the countryside.

  ‘Move,’ said the guard with the pistol at his back. Nobody spoke as they trudged through the snow towards the house and along a broad path that led through an archway and around to the front. It was a millionaire paradise to rival just about any that Ben had seen. They led him through the tall front doorway and into a hall with gleaming wooden floors. ‘You guys had better wipe your feet,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up,’ said the one in front, and pointed at a door across the hall. ‘Get in there and wait.’

  ‘What am I waiting for?’ Ben asked, but they didn’t reply as they shoved him inside the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

  It was better than the cell, at any rate. He was in a large, elegant drawing room filled with tasteful period furniture, a vast Persian rug spread over the polished floor. There was a fire crackling in the hearth. Ben went over to warm his hands by it, then wandered across to gaze out of the French window at the snow-covered lawns that seemed to stretch for miles to the distant trees. He wondered what lay beyond – a road, a town?

  He tried the handle of the French window. It wasn’t locked. There was nobody in sight, and apparently nothing stopping him from walking right out of here. But that was what worried him.

  Ben heard the door open behind him and turned to see a man walk in. He was in his sixties or early seventies, large and imposing with a strong presence that seemed to fill the room. He wore small wire-framed glasses and a dark suit that looked expensively tailored to hide his bulk. His hair was grey, thin oiled strands carefully combed across his scalp. His eyes were pale and watery, and fixed on Ben as he shut the door softly behind him.

  Ben wondered who he was. The gravity of his demeanour gave the impression of an elder statesman, someone used to giving orders and making important decisions.

  The man crossed the room towards him.

  ‘Benedict Hope.’ His voice was deep and resonant. His accent was that of an upper-class Englishman who’d spent a lot of time in Europe, with traces of German, or maybe Swiss. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. He proffered his hand. ‘You can call me Mr Brown.’

  Ben just looked at the hand. ‘Brown,’ he said. ‘The colour of bullshit.’

  The man didn’t seem offended. ‘You understand that I can’t reveal my real identity.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where I am, either.’

  ‘A friend’s house,’ Brown replied casually, withdrawing his hand. ‘It’s just his holiday place. He was happy to let me use it for the occasion. I’ve flown in from Europe this morning specially to meet you.’

  ‘You needn’t have troubled yourself,’ Ben said.

  Brown crossed the rug to a large antique globe on a stand, that slid open to reveal a drinks cabinet. He lifted out a bottle, peered at it over his glasses, and nodded approvingly. ‘Care for a drink? I always take a glass of pale sherry before lunch. It helps the digestion.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ Ben said. ‘But I don’t drink with murderers, as a rule.’

  ‘I was afraid you might be under that misconception,’ Brown said as he poured himself his sherry. He took a sip and smacked his lips with pleasure.

  Ben was wondering how many blows it would take to ram the sherry bottle down the guy’s throat. Maybe later. First he wanted to know the truth behind all that had happened. ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘My friends were killed in a car crash that was caused by one of your agents, a man called Vincent Napier. Your people threw the priest Fabrice Lalique off a bridge and made it look like suicide. I’ve been chased halfway around the world by professional gunmen trying to kill me. I saw your thugs shoot Wesley Holland and burn down his house. And you’re telling me that’s all a misconception.’

  ‘What happened to Mr Holland was highly regrettable,’ Brown said. ‘And, I might add, purely accidental. We might have had some difficulty persuading him to keep his mouth shut under the circumstances, but rest assured we had no intention of letting him come to harm.’

  He paused for another small sip of sherry, then set the glass down. ‘That’s enough for me. Get heartburn if I overdo it. As for the rest,’ he went on, ‘I’m afraid you’re quite wrong. Vincent Napier wasn’t working for us, at least not directly. We didn’t arrange fake suicides or car accidents, and we have never purposely deployed a single one of our agents against you. In fact your presence on Martha’s Vineyard came as a complete surprise.’

  Ben said nothing. He was thinking how easy it would be to grab the thin, delicate sherry glass, break it and use it to slice this lying bastard’s throat wide open.

  ‘I understand you must be feeling very upset,’ Brown said, eyeing him closely. ‘You consider me to be the architect of some grand conspiracy scheme hell-bent on obtaining an ancient relic, killing anyone who stands in the way.’ He grunted with amusement. ‘I’m afraid that’s a rather far-fetched notion, Mr Hope. In truth, I don’t give a damn whether Holland’s trinket is the genuine article or not. It’s just a piece of old iron as far as I’m concerned.’

  Ben narrowed his eyes and stayed silent.

  ‘You’d like an explanation,’ Brown said. ‘I certainly owe you one, and I’ll be as open and honest with you as my position allows me. I head an organisation that very few people have ever heard of, for the simple reason that its existence was never intended for public knowledge. This organisation goes by the name of the Trimble Group. It was founded many years ago by some very influential men whose names I’m sure you’d recognise, though you’d find no mention of it on any official record. Needless to say, there never was a Trimble either.’

  ‘Let me take a wild guess,’ Ben said. ‘We’re talking about a secret government agency?’

  Brown made a casual gesture. ‘We’re all chess pieces on the same board, cogs in the same machine, and all of that. Although the Trimble Group is far more autonomous than most similar organisations. It’s enough for you to know that we operate behind the scenes and are involved in many planning and decision-making processes that shape our world. Ordinarily, of course, I would never be revealing our existence to an outsider, not even one with such a distinguished record of service to your country. I trust I’ll be able to count on your discretion.’

  ‘Do you really.’

  ‘Yes,’ Brown said with knowing emphasis. ‘I do. Just as I can count on the fact that you wouldn’t do anything foolish as we stand here talking. There are expert marksmen in those trees observing you at this very moment, with orders to shoot if you make any false move. Another four very well-trained guards on the other side of that door, and more personnel watching us on camera. I might add that they are not privy to our conversation. The information I’m about to reveal to you is highly classified.’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear it,’ Ben said.

  ‘Then I’ll get right to the point.’ Brown paced the rug as he went on. ‘The Trimble Group exists to help c
reate a new world, Mr Hope. A world of stability and peace, in which nations and the communities of citizens within them can co-exist harmoniously, comfortably, productively. A homogenised world, by necessity, discarding many of the things that have made people unhappy and created social division and disorder in the past. Class. Tradition. History. Things we no longer need. Things we have to eliminate in order to achieve our vision.’ Brown made a flapping motion with his hand, as if whisking unseen obstacles out of his way.

  ‘A new world order,’ Ben said.

  ‘That makes it sound much more sinister than it really is,’ Brown said, wryly amused. ‘There’s nothing new about rulers of nations aspiring to create a happy world. Believe me, it’d be a lot easier to run than the old one. But it’s only now, in the modern age, that we really have a chance to make it happen. Forget the old. Tear down the crumbling relics, the outdated institutions, the churches and cathedrals. They only remind us of a dark and distant past that’s no longer relevant to modern life. Let’s look to the future.’

  ‘So your Trimble Group’s aim is to dismantle religion,’ Ben said.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s been tried before? Mao. Stalin. A whole procession of past dictators who wanted to impose an atheist state, and all failed in the end. Religion doesn’t go away. For better or worse, it’s part of who we are.’

  ‘They failed because they tried to create change by force,’ Brown said. ‘Open dictatorship is crude, unsophisticated, ineffective. The way you create change is to make the people want it, or to think they do. But you’re right about one thing. There’s something about the human spirit that seems irrevocably driven to revere a greater power. We can cater for that, however. We have new gods and idols for them to worship. Ones that we can control and manipulate.’

  Ben remembered what Michaela had said that night in the restaurant about churches turning into McDonalds drive-throughs. ‘Consumerism is the new faith, is that it?’ he said. ‘Your god is one that hands out glittering little toys and gadgets to the children like Santa Claus.’