The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

The vending-machine swallowed Luc Simon’s coins and spurted a jet of thin brown liquid into a plastic cup. The cup was so flimsy he could hardly pick the damn thing up without squeezing all the coffee out of it. He took a sip as he walked back down the corridor towards Cellier’s office, and screwed up his face.

  On the wall of the corridor was another one of those Missing Person posters he’d been seeing everywhere, about the teenager who had disappeared a few days before. There’d even been one pinned up in the dingy bar in the village where that old priest lived.

  He looked at his watch. Cellier was more than ten minutes late now. He needed to share notes with him about the Ben Hope case, and show him the new information he’d just got through from Interpol. Why was everyone always so fucking slow?. As he paced up and down, he kept looking at the poster.

  He took another slurp from his plastic cup and decided he just couldn’t drink this stuff. He stuck his head around the dimpled glass door of Cellier’s office. The secretary looked up from her typing.

  ‘Where can I get a decent cup of coffee around here?’ he said. ‘Someone filled your vending-machine with diarrhoea.’

  The secretary grinned. ‘There’s a good place up the road, sir. I always go there.’

  ‘Thanks. When your boss comes in, if he ever does, tell him I’ll be back in a few minutes, OK? Oh, where can I pour this shit out?’

  ‘Give it to me, sir,’ she said, laughing, and he leaned across the desk to pass it to her. There was a file open on her desk, with a photo of Marc Dubois, the missing kid. Sitting on top of the file was a small transparent plastic bag with some items in it.

  ‘OK, see you in a bit. Coffee place this way or that way?’ he said, pointing up and down the street through the window.

  ‘That way.’

  Simon was heading out of the door when he suddenly stopped. He turned back towards her desk, and bent down to look at that file again. ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked.

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘This in the bag.’ He jabbed his finger through the plastic bag at the object that had caught his eye. ‘Where did they find this?’

  ‘That’s all stuff from the Dubois missing persons case,’ she said. ‘Just a jotter and a couple of other things belonging to the boy.’

  ‘What about this thing here?’ He pointed.

  She frowned at it. ‘Think they found it in the boy’s bedroom. They don’t think it’s important, though. I’m just typing up the case notes. Why d’you ask?’

  In too much of a hurry to walk the three blocks to the café and back, he jumped into the unmarked car he’d been allocated and drove up. He came out three minutes later with a brioche and a cup of something that smelled and looked a hell of a lot more like the real thing. He climbed back into the car and sat sipping the coffee. Ah, yes, much better. The coffee helped him get his thoughts in order.

  He was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice the figure approach the car until Ben Hope was opening the door, getting in beside him and holding a pistol at his head.

  ‘I’ll have that .38,’ Ben said. ‘Carefully, now.’

  Simon hesitated for a second, then sighed and drew the revolver slowly from his holster, keeping his fingers well clear of the trigger and handing it to Ben butt-first. ‘You’ve got a nerve, Hope.’

  ‘Let’s go for a drive.’

  They drove out of the town in silence, northwestwards towards the Bois de Valène and down wooded lanes by the banks of the river Mosson. After a few kilometres Ben pointed to an opening in the trees and said, ‘Pull in here.’ The police car bumped down a dirt road and arrived at a shady forest glade. Ben walked Simon from the car at gunpoint to where the trees opened up onto the riverbank and the sparkling blue water sloshed and burbled against the rocks.

  ‘Are you going to shoot me,’ asked Simon, ‘Major Hope?’

  ‘Been checking up on me.’ Ben smiled. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that. You and I are going to have a little talk in this pretty spot.’

  Simon was wondering if Ben would get close enough to give him a chance to grab the pistol off him. Didn’t seem likely.

  They walked down to the river. Ben motioned the gun at him to sit on a flat rock. He sat a couple of metres away from the detective.

  ‘What’s there to talk about?’ Simon asked.

  ‘For a start, we could talk about how you’re going to call your dogs off me.’

  Simon laughed. ‘And why should I do that?’

  ‘Because I’m not your killer.’

  ‘No? It seems that everywhere you go, there are dead bodies in your wake,’ Simon said. ‘And hijacking a police officer at gunpoint isn’t the behaviour of an innocent man.’

  ‘I won’t come in.’

  ‘You realize that this points to your guilt.’

  ‘I know,’ Ben replied. ‘But I have a job to do, and I can’t do it if your people are on me every step of the way.’

  ‘That’s what we do, Hope. Where’s Roberta Ryder?’

  ‘You already know that. She’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘I’m losing track of all the times she’s been kidnapped,’ Simon replied.

  ‘This is only the first time. She and I have been working together.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Sorry, can’t tell you that.’

  ‘I take it you’ve brought me out here to tell me something?

  ‘I have. Does the term Gladius Domini mean anything to you?’

  Simon paused. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact it does. One of your victims had it tattooed on him.’

  ‘He wasn’t my victim. One of his own people shot him. With a bullet meant for Roberta Ryder–or for me.’

  ‘What the fuck are you involved in, Hope?’

  ‘I think they’re a Christian fundamentalist cult. Maybe a bit more than a cult. They’re well-organized, well-financed and they mean business. They’ve got Roberta.’

  ‘Why? What would they want with her?’

  ‘They’ve been trying to kill her, and me, for the last week. I’m not sure why. But I can rescue her.’

  ‘That’s a police matter,’ Simon protested.

  ‘No, this is my territory. I know what happens when the police get involved in kidnap cases. I’ve seen it often enough. The victim usually winds up in a bodybag. You have to back off and let me handle this. I’ll give you something in return.’

  ‘You’re in no position to negotiate with me.’

  Ben smiled. ‘I’m the one holding the gun.’

  ‘What makes you think you’ll get away from me, Major Hope?’

  ‘And what makes you think you’ll get away from me, Inspector Simon?’ Ben replied. ‘I could have killed you. And I can get to you any time I want.’

  ‘Huh. Covert assassination. That’s what they train you to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not threatening you. I want us to help each other.’

  Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘I’ll give you your cop-killers. The people who killed Michel Zardi, and who also tried to kill Roberta Ryder–when you thought she was just crazy.’

  Simon looked down at his feet, feeling uncomfortable at the reminder.

  ‘That’s just for starters,’ Ben went on. ‘I think you’ll be surprised where the trail leads.’

  ‘OK, so what is it you want?’

  ‘There’s something I need you to do.’ Ben tossed him a card with the phone number he’d got from the bald man under the bridge.

  ‘What’s this?’ Simon asked, reading it and looking puzzled.

  ‘Just listen. Get your most efficient people in Paris to call this man. He goes by the name “Saul”. Your guy should pretend to be Michel Zardi.’

  ‘But Zardi’s dead.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Yes, but Saul thinks he’s alive. And he probably thinks he’s working with me somehow. Don’t worry about the details. Tell Saul that Ben Hope ran back to Paris, and that you’ve double-crossed him and are holding him. Say he can have
Hope for a price. Make it a high one. Arrange a rendezvous.’

  Simon bit his lip, trying to fit the pieces together in his mind.

  ‘Get your men to take Saul into custody,’ Ben continued. ‘Press him hard. Tell him the cops know all about Gladius Domini, that the bald man sold him out before he died, and he’d better tell you everything.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ Simon muttered, frowning.

  ‘You’ll understand, if you do as I say. But you have to move fast.’

  Simon was quiet for a few minutes, turning over what Ben had told him. Ben relaxed the gun a little, letting it rest on his lap. He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the river with a splash.

  ‘So, tell me more about you and Roberta Ryder,’ Simon said. ‘Are you an item, as they say?’

  ‘…No,’ Ben answered after a pause.

  ‘Men like us are bad news for women,’ Simon said pensively, copying Ben and throwing in another stone. They watched it arc against the sunlight and drop into the water, ripples radiating outward. ‘We’re lone wolves. We want to love them, but we only hurt them. And so they walk away…’

  ‘Talking from experience?’

  Simon looked at him, smiled sadly. ‘She said life with me was like death. All I can think about, talk about, is death. It’s my job, the only thing I know.’

  ‘You do it pretty well,’ Ben said.

  ‘Pretty well,’ Simon conceded. ‘But not well enough. As you were quick to point out, you’re the one holding the gun.’

  Ben tossed him back the .38. ‘Sign of good faith.’

  Simon looked surprised, and slipped the gun back in its holster. Ben offered him a cigarette, and they sat smoking in silence as they both gazed at the flowing water and listened to the birds. Then Simon turned to Ben. ‘All right. Supposing I go along with you on this. There’s something else I want you to do in return.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want you to help find a missing teenager. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

  ‘You really have been doing your homework.’

  ‘Your priest friend told me. I didn’t believe him at first, so I checked it out with Interpol. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the Julián Sanchez kidnap case, would you? Spanish police are still wondering about the mystery rescuer who did such a…rigorous job.’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Off the record, I might know something about it. But I can’t help you with this one. There’s no time. I’ve got to find Roberta.’

  ‘What if I told you that I think this missing persons case is connected?’

  Ben looked at him sharply. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  Simon smiled. ‘A gold medallion was found in the boy’s bedroom. You’d recognize the symbol on it, I’m sure. A sword with a banner and the words Gladius Domini engraved on it?’

  50

  Montpellier

  ‘More questions? Why aren’t you people out looking for my son, instead of coming around here all the time?’

  Natalie Dubois showed Ben inside the simple, modest house and led him into a living-room. She was a small blonde woman in her thirties, pale and tense-looking with large black circles under her eyes. ‘It won’t take long,’ he promised her. ‘I just need a few details.’

  ‘I already told the other officers everything,’ she retorted. ‘He’s been gone for days–what more do you need to know?’

  ‘Madame, I’m a specialist. Please, if you co-operate with me I believe we have a much better chance of finding Marc quickly. May I sit down?’ He took out his pad and pen.

  ‘I just know that something awful has happened to him. I feel it. I think I’m never going to see him again.’ Madame Dubois’ face was drawn and haggard. She sobbed quietly into a handkerchief.

  ‘So, the last time you saw him, he was riding off on his moped. He didn’t say where he was going?’

  ‘Of course not, I would have mentioned it,’ she replied impatiently.

  ‘Maybe you could write me down the registration number of the bike. Has he ever done anything like this before? Disappeared for a few days, gone off somewhere?’

  ‘Never. He’s come home late a few times, but nothing like this.’

  ‘What about friends? Is there anyone he might have gone off with, or gone to see–like a music event, maybe, or a party somewhere?’

  She shook her head, sniffing. ‘Marc isn’t that kind of boy. He’s shy, introverted. He likes reading and writing stories. He has friends, but he doesn’t go off with them.’

  ‘He’s still at school?’

  ‘No, he left earlier this year. He works with my brother-in-law Richard, as an apprentice electrician.’

  ‘Does Marc’s father live with you?’ He’d noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring.

  ‘Marc’s father walked out of here four years ago,’ she said coldly. ‘We haven’t seen him since.’

  Ben noted down on his pad: Father involved in abduction?

  She gave a bitter laugh. ‘If you’re thinking his father’s got him, you’re wrong. That man isn’t the least bit interested in anyone but himself.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘Is Marc religious? Did he ever talk about joining a Christian organization, anything like that?’

  ‘No. Are you asking because of that thing they found in his room?’

  ‘The medallion.’

  ‘I don’t know where that came from, I’d never seen it before. The cops–I mean, the other officers–think he stole it. But my Marc’s no thief.’ Madame Dubois rose defensively in her chair.

  ‘No, I don’t think he’s a thief either. Listen, do you think it’s possible I could talk to Marc’s uncle, Richard?’

  ‘He lives not far away, just up the road. But he won’t be able to tell you anything I couldn’t.’

  ‘I’d still like to pay him a visit. Will he be at home now?’

  As he was getting up to leave, she gripped his wrist and looked into his eyes. ‘Monsieur, will you find my boy?’

  He patted her hand. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘The kid hasn’t been kidnapped, for Christ’s sake. He’s run off somewhere, probably got a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Who fucking knows, these days?’ Richard offered Ben a beer. ‘First cop I’ve ever known who takes a drink on duty,’ he laughed as Ben cracked open the can and pulled up a chair at the kitchen table.

  ‘I’m what you might call an outside consultant,’ Ben said. ‘What makes you so sure he’s just run off?’

  ‘Look, between you and me, he takes after his father, my brother Thierry. Total waster. Guy never held down a job in his life, in and out of jail for all kinds of petty crimes. The kid’s going down the same road, I reckon, and his mother can’t see it. Thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Me, I rue the day I ever let her talk me into taking the little bastard on. He’s a complete waste of time and money, and if I don’t fire him pretty soon he’ll probably fry himself on a live wire and I’ll get the blame…’

  ‘I understand, but I still have to treat this as suspicious until we know better. You’re his uncle, and he’s got no father. Did he ever confide in you, maybe mention anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘You kidding? Everything’s out of the ordinary with Marc. Talk about head in the clouds.’

  ‘Like what, for instance?’

  Richard made an exasperated gesture. ‘You fucking name it. The kid lives in a dream world–if you believed half of what he told you, you’d think…I dunno…Dracula was your neighbour and aliens run the world.’ He slurped his beer, and drew the can away with a ring of foam on his upper lip. He wiped it away with his sleeve. ‘Like the job we did just before he ran away…’

  ‘Or disappeared.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’ Richard told Ben about the cellar. ‘And then he wouldn’t stop going on about it. Convinced it was something weird.’

  Ben leaned forward in his chair, setting down the beer can and taking out his pad. ‘This was a private residence?’

  ‘Nah, it’s some kind
of place for Holy Joes.’ Richard grinned. ‘You know, a centre for Christian something or other. Like a school. Nice folks, friendly, decent. Paid cash, too.’

  ‘Have you got the address there?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Richard went into the hall and came back leafing through a thick business diary. ‘Here it is. Centre for Christian Education, about fifteen kilometres from here, out in the sticks. But you’re wasting your time if you think that godless little turd went there.’ Richard sighed. ‘Look, maybe I’m sounding rough on the kid. If something’s happened to him, I’m sorry and I’ll eat my words. But I don’t believe it. Three or four days, he’ll have run out of whatever cash he lifted from Natalie’s purse, and he’ll be home again with a hangover and his tail between his legs. And this is what you guys spend our tax money on, instead of catching crooks?’

  Roberta didn’t know how long she’d been lying there on the hard, narrow bunk. Her mind cleared slowly as she blinked and tried to remember where she was. Frightening memories came back. A big, strong guy dragging her out of a car. She’d been held down. Injected with something, screaming. Then she must have passed out.

  Her head was throbbing and her mouth tasted bad. She was in a dim, cold, windowless cellar. The room was long and wide, but the cell she was locked in was tiny and cramped. On three sides she was surrounded by steel bars. The wall behind her was cold stone. A single naked bulb hung from a strand of wire in the middle of the cellar, its pale yellow light shining weakly off thick stone pillars.

  In another cell a few metres away, a teenage boy was lying comatose on the concrete floor. He seemed heavily sedated, or dead. She tried calling out to him. He didn’t stir.

  Her guard was a scrawny-looking man of about thirty. He had bulbous, shifting eyes and a straggly yellow beard. A submachine gun hung from a sling around his neck. He paced nervously up and down all the time. She watched him, measuring the cellar by the number of his steps. Every so often he shot a look at her, the bulging eyes scanning her from head to toe.

  After a while the scrawny guard was replaced by a stocky man with a shaven head, older, more confident. He brought her a mug of thin coffee and some beans and rice in a tin dish. After that he ignored her.