The Lost Relic

by Scott Mariani

  Ben took the case and opened it.

  ‘Jan the man’s personal survival kit,’ Jan said proudly. ‘Just like the fuckin’ old days, eh? Eh?’

  There was a tube of codeine pills, a syringe with sterile needles and a vial of broad-spectrum antibiotic, a good supply of bandages, a surgical suture kit and a scalpel. In a separate compartment was a tiny folding stove complete with a cube of solid petroleum fuel and matches, some water-purifying tablets and a packet of dehydrated army rations. Jan must have been reading his issues of Combat and Survival pretty faithfully. Everything a wannabe warrior might need for the day he got to live his fantasy. Ben opened the codeine tube and popped a couple of pills.

  ‘So where you headed, bro?’ Jan asked.

  Ben hesitated before replying. He wasn’t wild about divulging his plans to this guy – but under the circumstances he didn’t have an awful lot of choice. ‘Portugal,’ he said.

  He’d been thinking about it ever since he’d escaped the warehouse. Salamanca was just fifty kilometres from the border, and Brooke’s little rural Portuguese hideyhole wasn’t too far on the other side. He badly needed somewhere quiet to lie low, get this injury seen to and figure out what the hell his next move would be.

  ‘I’m takin’ this load of shit from La Coruña to Seville,’ Jan said. ‘I can drop you right on the fuckin’ border. Be an honour, man.’

  Ben’s head was spinning. He popped two of the codeine pills, closed his eyes and felt himself drifting through the void. Jan was still talking on in the background, but he was too tired and weak to care. Once the effects of the codeine kicked in he dozed fitfully, waking every so often to the monotonous rumble of the truck and Jan grinning wolfishly at him. Ben didn’t speak to him. Eventually, he fell into a deep, dreamless and dark sleep.

  When he awoke again, the truck was pulled up at the side of a winding road in open countryside. The driver’s seat was empty. Ben checked his watch. It was after three in the morning. He slipped painfully down from the cab and walked around the side of the truck. The rain had stopped, and the stars were bright.

  Jan was squatting in the bushes a few metres away, making no attempt to hide what he was doing.

  ‘Just takin’ a shit, man,’ he called over, grinning broadly.

  ‘You carry on,’ Ben said, and walked back towards the cab.

  ‘I was thinkin’, bro,’ Jan called after him. ‘When I’m done here, you let me take a look at that arm. Get that pill out for you. Maybe you’d let me keep it, eh? Little fuckin’ souvenir – what d’you say?’

  While Jan was still occupied, Ben took the green plastic case from the truck cab and slipped away over the hill fifty metres beyond the other side of the road. He crouched down in a stand of trees and watched as the South African searched for him, then stamped his foot in anger a couple of times before getting back into his truck and driving away.

  Using the stars to set his course westwards and light his way, Ben set off cross-country. After a while, he was pretty sure he’d passed into Portugal. He walked onwards through the night, feeling his strength draining like fuel from a tank, falling back on the old habits he’d learned all those years ago on SAS training marches in the Brecon Beacons. You didn’t think about your destination. You emptied your mind of all thought of the distance still to be covered, and focused instead on an object closer by, like a tree or a hill. Once you reached it, you set yourself a new marker, plodding doggedly from one to the next.

  The pain from his bullet wound gradually worsened. He was going to have to attend to himself soon, or he’d end up in an unconscious heap in a ditch for someone to find him and report it to the cops. He used that thought to force himself to keep going.

  By the time Ben’s energy was fading to a critical point, the first rays of dawn were cracking the rim of the dark horizon and he could see some farm outhouses in the distance. It was in a broken-down barn that he found the dusty hulk of the old Daihatsu four-wheel drive and climbed in. He dosed himself with more painkillers, lit the little stove on the passenger seat and used it to sterilise the scalpel blade. He then removed his improvised dressing, took a deep breath and set about performing surgery on himself.

  A bad hour later, the copper-nosed 9mm bullet was lying wrapped up in a bloody wad of gauze on the passenger seat, and Ben had finished cleaning out the hole and stitching himself up. He injected a dose of antibiotics into a vein, then leaned back in the Daihatsu’s seat and passed out for a while.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  London

  Mason Ferris had got to the office before seven that morning and been at the desk in his private office for nearly an hour when his secure line rang. The caller ID said Brewster Blackmore.

  Ferris picked up. ‘I see we’re having little success apprehending Major Hope,’ he said coldly, without waiting for Blackmore to speak.

  ‘I’m not calling about that,’ Blackmore said. ‘I think we may have a problem with our man Lister.’

  Ferris breathed out through his nose. ‘The park. You know where. Give me thirty minutes.’

  Twenty-two minutes later, Mason Ferris had his driver drop him at Canada Gate, the south-side entrance to Green Park, just a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace. He told the driver to circle for a few minutes, then straightened his tie and walked under the gilded gates, making his way through the wooded meadows to the prearranged location. They never met at the same place twice.

  Blackmore was sitting on the end of a park bench reading the morning’s Times as Ferris approached him. There was no greeting. Ferris casually perched himself on the other end of the bench and took out his own paper. He waited for Blackmore to speak.

  ‘It seems that our boy is getting himself into trouble,’ Blackmore said quietly, without looking up from the page. ‘He was in his office yesterday afternoon when Lesley Pollock walked in on him making a call to someone he shouldn’t have. He hung up fast, acted extremely nervous with her, made his excuses and left in a hurry. Hasn’t been seen since.’

  Ferris remained expressionless as he listened.

  ‘The problem is this,’ Blackmore went on. ‘As you know, we monitor Lister’s phone, as we do everyone’s in the department. And we now know with whom he’s been in contact.’

  Ferris slowly turned and looked at him coldly.

  ‘The SOCA woman. Kane.’ Blackmore paused. ‘There’s something else. Something worse, I’m afraid. Lister’s copy of the operation file is missing. We think he’s taken it.’

  Mason Ferris was silent for a long minute. ‘Do we have his location?’

  Blackmore nodded. ‘Silly sod apparently didn’t learn a lot at GCHQ. Seems to think he can give us the slip by going to stay in some backwater hotel in Surrey. Should I issue the order?’

  Ferris thought a little longer, then shook his head. ‘Not just yet. Let the boy run. See where he leads us. If this goes where I think it will . . .’ He pursed his lips. ‘Then you know what to do. And do it quickly.’

  Salamanca

  8.19 a.m.

  After a fruitless night searching the city for a fugitive who seemed determined to evade and humiliate her at every turn, Darcey had finally returned in defeat to the police HQ in central Salamanca’s Ronda de Sancti Spíritus, where she’d knocked back four coffees and two aspirin before curling up exhausted on a couch in the top-floor office they’d given her.

  In her dreams she was chasing Ben Hope. Just as she was about to catch him, her phone rang and woke her up.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked sleepily, straightening up on the couch and brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes.

  ‘It’s Borg,’ came the whispered reply.

  Darcey swallowed, waking up fast. ‘You again.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  Darcey paused a beat. Maybe she ought to hang up right now, but what the hell. ‘Spain,’ she said.

  ‘I’m leaving for Paris in an hour,’ he said. ‘Can you make it there this afternoon?’

  ‘All right.�
�

  ‘Café de la Paix, three o’clock. Come alone.’

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Café de la Paix

  Central Paris

  Darcey sat alone at a table on the terrace of the famous café, watching the traffic shoot by on the Boulevard des Capucines and the people around her eating brioche and drinking coffee and bière blonde. She wondered if this Borg was even going to show up. He was now four minutes late.

  Until he did, there was nothing much for her to do except sip on her Orangina and enjoy the Paris atmosphere. There had been just enough time to book into a hotel, take a shower and change into a white blouse, crisp blue jeans and a denim jacket, and she now felt refreshed and alert.

  At exactly five minutes past three, a grey Renault Laguna pulled up abruptly at the kerbside a few metres from her table, and a young guy with soft brown eyes and dark hair leaned nervously out of the driver’s window. He glanced up and down the café terrace, then his gaze landed on her.

  ‘Get in,’ he said in a jittery voice.

  Darcey got up and climbed into the front passenger seat next to him. ‘So you’re Borg,’ she said. ‘What happened to the headband?’

  ‘Very funny,’ he said, waiting for a gap in the traffic. He was just about to pull out when Paolo Buitoni appeared as if out of nowhere, wrenched open the back door and got in.

  ‘My associate, Mr McEnroe,’ Darcey said.

  ‘Jesus Christ, I said come alone.’

  ‘My mother taught me not to get in cars with strange men,’ Darcey said. ‘Especially ones who won’t tell me who the fuck they really are.’ She slipped out her Beretta from under her denim jacket and shoved it in his side. ‘Now drive, and start talking.’

  They pulled into the traffic and headed up Boulevard des Capucines.

  ‘I’m listening,’ Darcey said.

  ‘OK, first things first. My name’s Jamie. Jamie Lister.’ Lister glanced down at the gun. ‘Listen, would you mind not pointing that thing at me? It makes me feel very uncomfortable.’

  Darcey put the Beretta away. ‘Just remember it’s there. So who exactly are you, Jamie Lister?’

  ‘I’m with MI6. Or was, until yesterday. This isn’t exactly the greatest career move for me.’

  She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘You don’t believe me?’ As he drove, Lister reached into his jacket pocket, took out a laminated ID card and tossed it to her.

  She inspected it, held it up for Buitoni to see, then skimmed it onto the dashboard. ‘Where did that come from, inside of a Christmas cracker?’

  Lister looked pained. ‘It’s vital that you believe me. I’m MI6, all right? How else would I have known about Operation Jericho?’

  ‘I don’t like all this furtive crap,’ she said. ‘There are channels.’

  ‘It’s necessary. If they knew I was talking to you, they’d kill us all.’

  ‘Forget the them-and-us stuff. Who d’you think it is you’re talking to here?’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, Agent Kane. You’re not one of them, because if you were, they wouldn’t have you raking through a load of falsified evidence. You’re just a pawn in a game you don’t even know exists. This whole thing with Tassoni is fucked up. They’ve sent you after an innocent man.’

  Darcey exchanged glances with Buitoni. ‘Why would they do that?’ she asked Lister.

  ‘To get to Shikov,’ Lister replied, steering past the Madeleine church and heading southwest towards Place de la Concorde.

  ‘Who’s Shikov?’ Buitoni asked from the back seat.

  ‘Grigori Shikov,’ Lister said. ‘He’s a Russian mafia boss. High up. They call him “the Tsar”.’

  Darcey shook her head. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have,’ Lister told her. ‘He’s well connected. And very careful. Even his fronts have fronts. For decades, agents have been prying around the edges of his business empire looking for the smallest chink in his armour. Nothing. They can’t even get him on tax evasion. He’s smarter than Al Capone.’

  ‘Why are M16 going after Russian mafia? That’s SOCA’s territory.’

  ‘Not since Shikov branched out into a new line of business. Drugs and prostitution and people trafficking aren’t enough for him any more. He’s dealing in arms. A very specific class of weaponry, destined for a very specific client.’ Lister gave her a sideways look. ‘The Taliban.’

  Darcey shook her head. ‘Unlikely. The Taliban already have more weapons than the entire Russian mafia put together.’

  ‘Not like these, they don’t,’ Lister said. ‘What do you know about the Ka-50?’

  ‘Russian military attack helicopter. Their answer to our Apache Mk1, maybe even more advanced in some ways. Known as the Black Shark.’

  Lister nodded. ‘Seven weeks ago, a pair of Russian air force Black Shark helicopters went missing from a base in the Ukraine. Inside job. Major bribery and corruption. When Russian military intelligence tracked down the personnel involved, all they found were dead bodies. At this moment, nobody knows where the helicopters went. According to our own sources, we have reason to believe that Shikov has them hidden somewhere. But Russia’s a pretty big place. Nobody knows where.’

  ‘And he’s planning to sell them to terrorists?’

  ‘That’s what the intelligence sources suggest. If it’s true, it could turn the tide of the war in Afghanistan against us. Forget hit-and-run RPG attacks, forget suicide bombers. We’re talking about a rise of the terrorist threat to a whole new unprecedented level.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Darcey said, raising her hands. ‘I’m lost here. What does all this have to do with Ben Hope murdering Urbano Tassoni?’

  ‘Ben Hope no more killed Tassoni than you did.’

  ‘So who did kill him?’ Darcey said, stunned.

  Lister looked at her. ‘We did.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Lister let out a humourless laugh at her expression. ‘That’s right. Us. The good guys.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Buitoni said.

  Lister glanced back at him in the mirror. ‘No? That’s just for openers.’

  A million frantic questions crowded into Darcey’s mind at once. Lister had just shared a piece of information which, if it were even half true, could get them all killed. Part of her wished she’d never heard it; the other part wanted to hear more.

  ‘Keep talking,’ she said.

  Lister talked fast as he drove. The Laguna was in thick traffic circling the Place de la Concorde, with the Champs Élysées to their right. ‘OK. Tassoni’s public face is pretty well documented. Born into a wealthy, influential family in 1956. Successful, handsome, charismatic, destined from the start to be a major player, one way or another. What the public don’t know is that Tassoni was connected to organised crime, going back years. Italian mafia, Russian mob, you name it, but none of it ever proved. As far as we can tell, he first ran into Grigori Shikov in Moscow back in the late seventies, as a young guy heavily involved in the Italian Marxist movement. Those ideologies didn’t last long. He and Shikov have been photographed together on numerous occasions since then and are reckoned to be doing a lot of business together. Intelligence services have had surveillance on him for as long as anyone can remember, but he’s never put a foot wrong. Not until earlier this year, when he made one mistake that gave our people the opening we wanted.’ Lister glanced sideways at Darcey. ‘Tassoni liked them young, seemingly.’

  Buitoni swore from the back seat. Darcey said nothing.

  Lister continued. ‘So they didn’t waste any time approaching him and offering him the deal. The terms were pretty simple. Sell out Shikov to us and walk free, or else be buried forever by an underage sex scandal. Tassoni was quick to agree. The problem was, not even he could offer anything to nail Shikov down solid. Then, just a few days ago, Tassoni contacted our agents. It looked like the perfect opportunity had finally come up. He said Shikov was planning a heist on an Italian art gallery, and he was giving the job to his son, Anatoly. Re
al piece of work, that one. He and his gang were going to kidnap the three gallery owners from their homes in the night and force them to give up the security codes. In the end, it didn’t happen that way.’

  Darcey frowned, working hard to keep up with the welter of details. ‘Hold on. You’re saying British Intelligence had advance knowledge of the robbery?’

  Lister swallowed and nodded. ‘It’s all there in the Operation Jericho file. The proper file, that is, not the censored version you’ve seen. My department heads decided to let it play out. The Italian police were never told.’

  ‘This is really fucked up.’

  ‘Keep listening. I don’t have a lot of time. It was Tassoni who recruited the Italian team for the job, including his own bodyguard, Rocco Massi. What Rocco didn’t know was that he was a stooge. If he’d been arrested and tried to plea-bargain his way out by giving them his boss’s name, it would’ve been buried. As it happened, he got away clean. But what Tassoni didn’t know was that one of the guys he brought in, Bruno Bellomo, was a deep-cover intelligence agent whose real name is Mario Belli. Are you following this?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If things had worked out, either of two things could have happened. One, Anatoly could have led us straight back to his father, in which case Junior and Senior could be arrested together. Jackpot. Alternatively, if the Shikovs were more careful and there was no direct contact, with Belli’s help we were going to pick up Anatoly on his own and lean hard on him. He was a sadistic little bastard, but deep down he was a spoilt weakling who’d have quickly broken down and agreed to give up his father rather than spend the rest of his life in prison.’

  Darcey gave a bitter chuckle. ‘I just love the way you people operate.’

  ‘Let me continue. That’s how it was meant to go down. Everything changed when Anatoly Shikov altered the robbery plan at the last minute. Belli could still have led us to him, no problem. But by turning the robbery from a low-key night raid into the full-on daytime heist it became, it allowed a new and completely unforeseen factor to enter the equation.’