The rear passenger’s name was Randall. He was an ex-regiment man, quick-witted and built like a fox. Ben had trained him years before, and trusted him completely. His accentless German had come from his mother’s side and made him the perfect choice to take over the gatehouse and wave through any straggling guests. Bryant, the lean dark ex-para from Lancashire, had been chosen to back him up.
Working fast, they laid the guards out on the floor of the hut. Ben nodded. Randall and Bryant quickly removed their overcoats and tuxedo jackets and started pulling on the guards’ clothes.
Ben walked briskly back to the Jaguar and slipped in behind the wheel. In the passenger seat was Jean Gardier, one of Louis Moreau’s former GIGN guys, the youngest of the team they’d hastily but carefully assembled in Aragon’s office. Gardier was smooth and handsome, with a head of thick black curly hair and a broad white smile that he flashed freely. He’d mix well with the party crowd. From what Aragon’s head of security had told him, Ben knew enough to know Gardier would be excellent at his job.
The tall gates glided open with a dull mechanical whirr and the car purred on through and down the driveway towards the incandescent mansion in the distance.
The house towered into the night sky as they drew up outside. Every leaf of ivy on its massive façade was lit up like daylight. Ben opened up a slim case and took out a pair of oval wire-framed glasses with plain lenses. He slipped them on.
He did a last check of his subvocal earpiece before he stepped out and handed the keys to a valet. Gardier followed him towards the house. The doormen greeted them at the entrance. Ben let one of them take his long black coat. They walked inside and instantly split up without a glance at each other, mingling with the crowd.
It was warm inside the reception hall, and the air was filled with music and bright chatter. A waiter came wafting by, carrying a tray of glasses. Ben snatched one without stopping and brought it to his lips, sipping the ice-chilled champagne. He stood in the corner of the huge entrance hall, catching a glimpse of himself in one of the tall gilt-framed mirrors that lined the walls. The black tuxedo fitted him well, and he barely recognized himself with the spectacles and this darker brown hair tint. Subtle changes were enough to alter a man’s appearance very effectively and naturally. Kroll and Glass would know him if they got close, but if he was careful he’d go unnoticed. For the moment, at least. He still had to get deep inside the place.
He chewed on a canapé from a side-table and wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin. ‘Check,’ he said quietly behind the napkin. Gardier’s voice responded instantly in his ear.
He looked casual as he scanned his surroundings. The hallway alone was large enough to accommodate a small jet aircraft. From its centre the broad red-carpeted marble staircase swept up to a landing with a high domed ceiling, satin drapes and a huge dramatic painting that he thought he recognized as a Delacroix.
Beyond the landing, the staircase split into two, climbing in a majestic double curve to the first floor. The landing was cordoned off with a length of silky gold rope. There were two guards hanging around at the foot of the stairs, very discreet with their weapons and radios well out of sight.
He circulated, strolling calmly through into the ballroom and pausing to hear the string quartet. He’d lost sight of Gardier.
He looked around him at the guests. Most of them were high society, wealthy businessmen and their wives just here for the party. They had no idea of the real reason for the gathering, the bloodthirsty ritual murder due to take place right under their noses as they sipped their champagne and nibbled their canapés.
A waiter came by with a loaded tray and he turned to pick up another glass of champagne. Just then he saw Kroll walking quickly his way. For an instant he thought he could feel the old man’s dark eyes on him. Ben turned slowly away, controlling the surge of adrenaline, sipping his drink and feeling completely naked as Kroll came close. As he pretended to be admiring the artwork on the wall he felt Kroll pass within a foot of him. Ben breathed again as the old man’s narrow back disappeared among the crowd.
As he watched Kroll go, Ben had another sudden uncomfortable sensation that he was being watched. He turned. A woman was standing by herself across the dance floor, drink in hand. Their eyes met for an instant through the throng of waltzing couples. She seemed to frown, as though scrutinizing him uncertainly.
Her long blonde hair was piled up with a diamond clasp and a shimmering backless ball-gown clung to her figure. But there was no doubt who she was under the makeup and the wig.
Eve turned away and he lost sight of her. He wondered if that had been a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Whether he could trust her. Whether he could do anything about it either way.
He glanced back through the double doors into the hallway. The guards had moved away from the foot of the stairs. He checked his watch. It was 8.51. He coughed lightly into his palm as he headed from the ballroom. ‘Diversion,’ he said softly into his cupped hand.
Two seconds later there was a loud crash from the back of the ballroom. A waiter had tripped and a whole tray of glasses lay broken and spilled on the floor. One of the guests, a young man with thick dark curly hair, was apologizing for his clumsiness as two more waiters came running with a broom and wads of kitchen roll. There was a buzz of conversation around the scene. The waiters got to work cleaning up the mess, and then it was over. But it had given Ben the time he needed. He smiled at Gardier’s act as he headed quickly for the stairs and trotted up to the first landing. He glanced over his shoulder. Slipped under the rope cordon. Nobody saw him. He took off the spectacles and slid them into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
He hoped that O’Neill, Cook, Lambert and Delmas would be in their assigned positions outside. How many guards would they have to neutralize? Everything seemed to be going all right-for the moment.
‘How are we doing with the church?’ he muttered into the subvocal as he reached the first floor.
Silence. A tiny crackle in his ear. Then: ‘No way in from the outside.’ He recognized the throaty voice of Delmas, another of Moreau’s ex-GIGN men. He’d been expecting that.
He explored the corridors, looking for the landmarks he’d memorized from Oliver’s video-clip. This was familiar, he thought, as he paused at an alcove in the wall, domed at the top, just a little taller than him. It housed an Egyptian artifact on a marble pedestal, the black and gold Pharaoh’s mask Oliver had accidentally caught on camera. He was moving in the right direction.
But the place was a maze. To his left, a doorway opened up into another long corridor that was flanked with delicate antiques and more paintings in gold frames. He checked his watch again. Time was passing fast.
The chilling thought entered his mind again. What if he was wrong?
He tried a door. It was locked. He moved down the corridor to the next one and found it open. He turned the gilded handle. The door creaked as he stepped inside. He left it slightly ajar. Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness he walked through the room. Something heavy and hard caught his hip and he put his hand out to feel it.
It was a billiard table. He made his way around its edge to the moonlit French window and unlatched it. He stepped out onto the stone balcony, feeling the sudden bite of the freezing cold air. He scanned the snowy grounds. There was no sign of his team-but then, there wasn’t meant to be. These men were trained to be invisible.
He took the Mini Maglite from his inside pocket and flashed twice.
At the signal, four dark shapes broke cover and crept across the lawn to the side of the house. They gathered under the window. There were no guards to surprise them. Ben knew it was the guards who must have had the surprise.
The rubber-sleeved claw of the grappling hook flew over the edge of the balcony and gained a hold. Ben secured the rope and gave it a tug. He felt it go taut as the first man tested his weight on it.
Light flooded into the room behind him. A man’s figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. ‘Was mac
hen Sie da?’ said a harsh voice.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Ben walked away from the window. The guard’s arms were folded across his chest and there was a severe look on his face. His bald crown gleamed in the light from the corridor, a fuzz of dark stubble over his ears. Another man came up behind him, smaller than his companion, scowling as he saw Ben.
‘Pardon me,’ Ben said in German. ‘I was looking for the bathroom.’
‘This is a private room,’ the bald guard said. ‘What are you doing in here?’ He peered past Ben’s shoulder, looking at the open window. ‘Did you open that window?’ he demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
The rope scraped on the balcony handrail. The guard took a step closer to the window. He had one hand on his radio.
‘I needed some air,’ Ben said, grinning. ‘Too much wine.’
‘There are bathrooms downstairs,’ the smaller guard snapped.
‘Guess I got lost,’ Ben said. ‘Big place.’
The wiry guard didn’t look convinced. The bald one kept moving towards the window.
Ben glanced at the balcony. The black claws of the grappling hook were plain against the white stone. The bald guard saw it and tore out his radio. The wiry one dived a hand inside his jacket.
Ben was two feet away from the edge of the billiard table. In the shadows his fingers closed on something smooth, tapered and hard.
The bald one was about to signal the alert when Ben smashed the cue across his head. The guy dropped the radio and crumpled to the floor.
The wiry guard went for his pistol. Even if he missed, the sound of a shot was going to alert the whole house. He moved fast, but Ben was faster. The billiard cue was a broken spike in his hand. He rammed the jagged point hard and deep into the guard’s eye, penetrating the brain and killing him instantly.
The first one was by then back up on his feet, teeth bared in the shadows. He lunged. Ben sidestepped and felt the wind from a swinging punch that just missed his head. He moved inside the arc of the blow and crushed the bald man’s trachea with the web of his hand. The guard went down. Ben stamped on his neck and snapped it.
There was a movement at the window. Ben turned to see the black shape of a man hauling himself up and swinging his legs over onto the balcony. It was O’Neill, the Irish SAS sergeant who’d been Ben’s first choice for the team.
‘Glad you could make it, Shane,’ Ben said.
O’Neill stepped into the room. He pulled the black woollen hat down tight and grinned through his straggly salt-and-pepper moustache. He looked down at the two dead guards. ‘Looks like you started without us.’
Ben was already dragging the bodies towards a cupboard. By the time they were hidden and the bloodstained carpet covered by moving a rug, the three other black shapes had scrambled up the rope and had joined Ben and Shane O’Neill in the billiard room. Cook, Lambert and Delmas were all in place. The six remaining team members would be well dispersed in the grounds by now, moving in pairs, neutralizing any security staff they came across.
The four black-clad men did a last check of their suppressed submachine carbines. O’Neill handed Ben a high-capacity 9mm with a long suppressor.
‘We haven’t got much time,’ Ben said. He cocked and locked the pistol and stuck it in his belt.
The corridor outside was clear. Ben stepped out first, looking carefully around him. The other four followed, padding over the thick carpets in their combat boots, carrying their weapons silently. Any chance of passing themselves off as lost party guests was gone now.
They had to act fast. There was still no word from Gardier downstairs, but Kroll’s associates could be moving any time now. Ben led the way, concentrating hard to remember the layout from Oliver’s video-clip. Another corner. Another doorway, another decision.
He stopped and studied a painting on the wall. It was the one Oliver had caught on camera, showing an eighteenth-century scene of men meeting in a large hall. Masonic symbols, columns. He knew what it meant now.
He pressed on, feeling a cold rage building up inside him. They must be close.
A door burst open ahead of them. They threw themselves tight back against the wall. A giggling young couple staggered out, clasping on to one another and fooling about. There was a mirror on the opposite wall. The girl broke free and sauntered over to it on her high heels, checking her makeup and her hair. ‘I look like someone who’s been screwing,’ she said in a slurred voice.
‘You look fine,’ said the young man, doing up his tie. ‘Let’s get back to the party.’
The girl straightened up her dress in the mirror. She only had to take half a step to her left and she would see the reflection of the men hidden in the corridor behind her. Ben tensed.
The girl smiled in the mirror, pursed her lips, and teetered off to join her partner, taking his outstretched hand as she caught up with him. Their giggles disappeared with them around a corner.
Ben glanced at O’Neill, who let out a long sigh. Ben was about to whisper something when his earpiece crackled and he heard Gardier’s voice. ‘Things are moving down here’
Ben checked the time. 9.12 p.m.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Werner Kroll rolled back the sleeve of his dinner jacket and peered at the gold Longines on his wrist. He signalled to Glass on the other side of the ballroom. Glass nodded. It was time.
Dr Emil Ziegler was standing on the edge of an animated conversation near the grand fireplace when he felt the tap on his shoulder. Ziegler turned, looking over the top of his spectacles. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ Glass said, bending down to speak in his ear. ‘You’re wanted on the phone.’
Ziegler’s chubby face registered no surprise. He nodded, walked stiffly over to a nearby table and laid down his champagne flute. He smoothed back his thin grey wisps of hair, made his excuses to the group, and started making his way to the door.
Glass did his rounds. Nobody noticed as the twelve men left the party. Their exit was discreet and casual. They all knew exactly where they were going.
Eve watched them slip away. In six years she’d witnessed this seven times. Or was it eight? It was always the same polished, well-orchestrated performance. The party guests would barely notice the absence of the grey-haired men, and nobody else had the slightest idea of where they were going. Or what was about to happen. As the last of the twelve left the room, Kroll and Glass exchanged brief glances. Kroll checked his watch again and looked satisfied. He headed for the doorway, Glass following a few feet behind.
Eve sipped her champagne and felt sick.
Nobody but members of the group had ever walked down the hidden corridor, one of the many secret passageways that honeycombed the old house. It was long and stark, lit by neons, the walls plain white and the floor bare concrete. At the end of the corridor was a waiting area. There were twelve wooden chairs, a low table with a jug of water and some glasses.
The twelve men gathered in silence, exchanging little more than a few nods. Emil Ziegler cleared his throat and poured himself a glass of water. Thomas Blochwitz glanced at his watch, mopped sweat from his pale forehead and took a puff from an asthma inhaler. Peter Gienger paced the waiting room. Ziegler watched him irritably. ‘Do you have to pace like that?’ he snapped. Gienger sat down.
They had little to say to one another. Their association wasn’t based on friendship. It was a business relationship that went deeper than loyalty, deeper even than money. When this was over, they wouldn’t see or speak to one another for a while. Until the next time. None of them knew when that would be. The signal would come, sooner or later. It always did. The decisions were not theirs, but they knew and trusted that every time they met here like this, it meant a consolidation of their collective business interests. Tonight’s event was, for some of them, a very considerable consolidation indeed. It was the removal of a serious threat that had caused all of them a good number of sleepless nights over the past months.
Some of the men looked up as footsteps ech
oed down the bare corridor. Kroll appeared in the doorway. Glass stood behind him.
‘Gentlemen,’ Kroll said softly. A thin smile tugged at the corners of his lips. ‘I believe we are ready.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Ben had seen these stone walls before. They were deep in the heart of the house now. The classical décor was behind them. In front of them was an arched bridgeway that Ben knew would take them where it had taken Oliver almost a year earlier.
He led the way through the arched passage and laid a hand against the heavy wooden door at its end. It was open. He pushed gently and stepped through.
They were standing on a high gallery overlooking the interior of the private church below.
Gardier’s whispered voice buzzed urgently in his earpiece. ‘Subjects have left’, he said. ‘Presume heading your way. I have no visual contact. Repeat, heading your way.’
Just a little moonlight seeped through the stained-glass windows, throwing long shadows across the church’s interior. The flagstones were plain and grey. Polished wooden pews gleamed dully.
Ben’s mouth went dry and his heart began to pound. He didn’t want to believe what he was seeing, but it was undeniable. It wasn’t the room Oliver had captured on film. This was a completely different place.
He glanced around him. There were no doorways leading off anywhere, just the one they’d come in.
He could sense O’Neill and the others behind him, watching him and wondering what was wrong. His mind started to race, filling with thoughts that swelled his fears.
Kroll’s associates were heading for a completely different part of the house. Kroll had anticipated him, double-bluffed him. Eve had tricked him a second time. He’d walked right into it. He’d given Aragon away to them on a plate. He was out of time. And he was leading his team into a trap.
‘What now?’ O’Neill asked.
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