The Sacred Sword bh-7

by Scott Mariani

  ‘That’s all I can tell you.’ Cutter replied. ‘Napier called me to say they’d followed Hope to Cornwall. That’s where they planned to take him out. There’s been nothing since. None of them are answering their phones.’ His voice was showing the strain of worry. ‘If Vince Napier hasn’t got back to me, something’s wrong.’

  ‘You sent six men after one and you tell me something’s wrong?! You told me Napier was one of your top people!’ Penrose screeched.

  ‘He is,’ Cutter said, resting his balled fists on the desktop and looking Penrose in the eye. The dressing on Cutter’s brow had been removed, showing the nasty gash that Ben Hope had administered with the shotgun barrel. The split lip hadn’t fully healed yet, and it hurt when he talked. He was still fully dressed, too edgy to sleep.

  ‘Or was!’ Penrose yelled. The migraine punched through his head like a spear blade. He screwed his eyes shut and dug the balls of his thumbs into his temples, thinking of all the money and treats he’d expended on these men, only for them to be snuffed out just like that, thanks to this Ben Hope. It was becoming a nightmare.

  ‘And I suppose you have no idea where Hope is now?’ Penrose grated. He glanced across at O’Neill, who just shook his head. Like Cutter, O’Neill hadn’t been to bed that night.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Cutter insisted.

  ‘That’s what you said about Holland, too,’ Penrose snapped. ‘And even if you do find him, what then?’

  ‘I’m calling in more men,’ Cutter said. He’d already made the call to his old associate Linus Gant. They’d worked together in Somalia. ‘But it’s going to cost more. They don’t come cheap.’

  Penrose stared at him. ‘Cheap? You call what I’ve been paying you cheap?’

  ‘How much more?’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘A grand a day. That’s the new price for all of us.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Penrose said, waving his arms. ‘Whatever it takes.’

  But O’Neill was stony-faced. ‘I feel we’re drifting off target here,’ he ventured after a moment’s silence. ‘In my opinion it’s time to re-evaluate the whole plan. This is not in line with our objective. Which I thought had been made clear to you.’

  Penrose’s face paled white. He bared his teeth. There was a fleck of foam at the corner of his mouth as he tore himself away from the desk, paced across the room towards O’Neill and stabbed the air with a trembling finger. ‘Are you questioning my orders?’

  As well as your rational judgement, O’Neill wanted to reply. But he could see the fire burning in Penrose’s bulging eyes and was watching the hand that might at any second dart inside the folds of the satin gown and come out shooting. He thought of his wife back home in London, and said nothing.

  Penrose glared at him in disgust, then whipped back around to face Cutter. ‘You tell your contacts I’ll pay twelve hundred a day, damn it. And I’m offering a million bounty to whoever brings me Ben Hope’s head on a plate.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Three and a half hours later, with the fuel gauge deep into the red and Jude slumped fast asleep in the passenger seat, Ben pulled up at a frosty truck stop off the M4 motorway before London to grab some rest. He’d slept in a lot more uncomfortable places than the dank interior of a half-decrepit Vauxhall on a freezing December morning, but his mind was too agitated to let him drift off. Dawn was still some way away when he finally gave up on the idea of sleep, and drove to the nearby Murco filling station.

  While Ben attended to the fuel pump, Jude let Scruffy out of the car and wandered around the forecourt, stretching his legs and flapping his arms to stay warm, and then went inside the filling station shop to stand in the blast of the fan heater.

  Ben had just finishing fuelling up and was about to go to pay when he heard the commotion from inside the shop. He hurried over to find Jude in an argument with the fat guy manning the counter, under the eye of the CCTV cameras. A newspaper stand had been knocked over and there were crumpled tabloids scattered on the floor. The fat guy yelled as Jude kicked over another one. ‘Fucking lies!’ Jude was shouting. There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ Ben said, bewildered, and Jude thrust one of the crumpled newspapers into his hands. ‘Look at this shit.’ It was that morning’s paper, dated December 20th.

  ‘Is he with you?’ the shopkeeper raged at Ben. ‘You’re going to pay for this damage, mate.’

  ‘Step back, pork chop, or I’ll do some more,’ Jude growled. The guy flushed purple and made a grab for him. Ben gently nudged the shopkeeper back a step and gave him a look that quietened him for a moment. ‘Now what’s this about?’ he said to Jude. Then he looked at the headline Jude was showing him, and his heart skipped two beats.

  JOYRIDING VICAR IN LOTUS DEATH PLUNGE.

  The colour photo underneath the huge bold print showed the crumpled car being winched out of the river. The partially demolished bridge was clearly visible in the background.

  ‘What the-?’ The pages crumpled in Ben’s fists as he scanned the text below. Jude had snatched another copy off the floor and began to read out loud, barely able to speak for fury. ‘Reverend Arundel was well known locally for being a playboy and a reckless driver. According to a witness at the scene of the crash, “Thank God there was nobody else on the road, the speed he was going at. They wouldn’t have stood a chance.”’ Jude’s face contorted in anger. He screwed the newspaper into a tight ball, hurled it down and started stamping on it.

  ‘That’s it. I’m calling the police,’ the fat guy said, hovering warily a few yards away.

  ‘Listen, Ben told him. ‘The article’s about somebody close. He’s just upset.’ Shelling out a fifty and a twenty from his wallet, he handed them over. ‘The twenty’s for the fuel. The rest is for you. Take it easy, my friend.’

  The fat guy’s mouth twisted. He wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Come on,’ Ben said. ‘It’s Christmas.’

  The fat guy was breathing heavily and clutching his money as Ben picked up the fallen stands and tidied up the mess. Jude had stormed outside. Ben found him pacing furiously near the car. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘How can they print that stuff?’ Jude raged as they drove away. ‘How can they say those things?’

  ‘You know it’s not true,’ Ben said quietly. ‘That’s what matters.’

  ‘It does matter. It matters a lot. They said there was a witness. What witness?’

  ‘There was no witness,’ Ben said. ‘I told you. I was the first on the scene.’

  ‘These people can fabricate a witness and write a load of lies in the press?’ Jude punched the dashboard with such force that it cracked the plastic and left a smear of blood.

  ‘They can do whatever they want,’ Ben said. Like plant paedophile filth on an innocent man’s computer before hurling him off the world’s tallest bridge, he thought. He said nothing more. Jude raged on a while longer and finally flung himself back in his seat and lapsed into a simmering trance, nursing his torn knuckles. The dog hopped up onto Jude’s lap, sniffed at his hand and gave it a lick.

  A gloomy dawn was beginning to break over the London skyline as Ben pulled up in the familiar quiet street in Richmond. ‘What is this place?’ Jude asked. ‘Hey. Where are you taking Scruffy?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. You stay here.’ Ben scooped the dog off Jude’s lap and got out of the car. He felt stupid and embarrassed as he walked up to the familiar red-brick Victorian house clutching the dog under his arm. Quarter to seven in the morning. He hoped Amal was an early riser. Ben barely knew the guy, and here he was about to lumber him with an unwanted temporary pet. ‘I should have left you on the moors,’ he muttered.

  Scruffy looked at him and wagged his tail.

  ‘Just kidding,’ Ben said.

  He was about to ring the bell when the door abruptly jerked open. He blinked as he found himself suddenly face to face with Brooke.

  She stood rooted in the doorway, her tartan dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. Her unsmiling gaze
pierced right through him. ‘I saw you out of the window. What are you doing here, Ben?’

  ‘I thought you weren’t here,’ he replied lamely.

  Brooke crossed her arms. She gave a little snort. ‘Is that why you came?’ she asked. ‘Because you thought I wasn’t here?’

  ‘No,’ he said, flustered. ‘I came about this dog.’

  Brooke stared at Scruffy. Her expression didn’t change. ‘What are you doing with that dog?’

  ‘He’s not mine.’

  ‘I know that, Ben. So you’re picking up strays now?’

  ‘I think I’ve kind of inherited him.’ Ben paused. ‘You look good, Brooke.’ In fact she looked spectacular. Her auburn hair was longer than it had been, and she was wearing it loose over her shoulders.

  ‘Thanks,’ she sniffed. ‘You look like someone who’s spent the night in a car.’ She glanced down at the dried spatters of Cornish mud that flecked the bottoms of his jeans. ‘Have you been wading in a mire or something?’

  ‘Or something,’ Ben said. This didn’t seem to be going too well.

  ‘What’s with the banger?’ she said, peering over his shoulder at the Vauxhall. ‘And who’s the guy with you?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he said.

  ‘It always is with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘So what about the dog?’ he asked.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I was going to ask Amal if he’d take him.’

  ‘Amal’s allergic to animals.’

  ‘Then would you? He’s Scruffy.’

  ‘Not as scruffy as you are,’ she said. ‘What is this, another present? I didn’t want the last one.’

  ‘I need the favour. It’s only for a little while.’

  ‘This isn’t the Brooke Marcel boarding kennel,’ she said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask your friend Darcey Kane?’

  That hurt like a punch in the guts. Ben said nothing for a few moments, then turned to walk away.

  ‘All right. I’ll take the ruddy dog,’ Brooke said. ‘He’s not going to pee all over my flat, I hope?’

  ‘He’s a vicarage dog,’ Ben said, setting Scruffy down on the ground.

  ‘Oh, well, in that case. What does His Worship eat?’

  ‘I don’t know. Dog food, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s helpful. I have some stewing beef in the fridge.’ She paused, eyed the dog for a moment and then glanced back up at Ben with a softer expression. ‘I’m sorry for what I said before. It wasn’t fair of me to mention her.’

  Ben didn’t reply.

  ‘It’s cold out here. Do you and your friend want to come inside for a cup of coffee or something? You can wash up in my bathroom.’

  Ben paused a second, then shook his head. ‘I’d better make a move.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I’m sorry I can’t explain. I really appreciate this, Brooke.’

  Brooke reached down to pat Scruffy on the head, and he trotted inside the flat as if he’d lived there all his life. ‘You’re not in trouble, are you?’ she asked Ben. The flash of concern he thought he saw in her eyes made him feel strangely comforted.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll always worry about you, and you know it,’ she said. She stepped back into the hallway to where her handbag hung from a Victorian coathanger, took out her purse and produced a business card. ‘My new number’s on here. In case you need it,’ she added hesitantly.

  Their fingers brushed as he took the card from her hand. They parted with a few more lame words. Ben felt her gaze on him as he walked towards the car. Don’t look back, he thought.

  But he did. Brooke was still standing in the doorway. She gave him an uncertain wave as he opened the car door, and a drum began to beat triumphantly in his heart. He managed to conquer the urge to run back through the gate and take her in his arms. It somehow didn’t seem appropriate.

  ‘Who was that?’ Jude said as Ben got back in the car. ‘She looks nice.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Ben said, starting the engine. He glanced back towards the house and saw that Brooke had shut the door.

  ‘Your girlfriend?’

  ‘Leave it, Jude.’

  ‘What’s wrong? You two have a fight?’

  Ben said nothing and sped away.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  After managing to make a last-minute phone booking en route, Ben screeched the Vauxhall into the car ferry terminal at Dover with just minutes to spare before the 10 a.m. crossing. They were the last car to board.

  A few days closer to Christmas than Ben’s outward journey from France, the ship was more crowded. As the cliffs of Dover sank into the leaden sea, he wandered out on deck and leaned against the stern railing. Jude came out to join him. ‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t want to take a flight,’ Jude said, gazing down at the ship’s wake.

  ‘I thought you liked the sea,’ Ben said.

  ‘I do. A lot. But you seemed in such a hurry. The ferry seems like an unnecessary hassle.’

  ‘Some things are worth the hassle,’ Ben said.

  Jude frowned at him. ‘You’re a complete mystery to me, you know that? I always get the feeling you’re holding stuff back. Don’t you trust me?’

  Ben didn’t reply. He took out his cigarettes.

  ‘We’re not going to make it through this, are we?’ Jude said, gazing fixedly down at the ferry’s broad white wake. ‘We’re going to get killed. I am, at any rate.’

  ‘You’re not going to get killed,’ Ben said. ‘A few weeks from now you’ll be back at university and getting on with your life.’

  Jude shook his head sadly. ‘If I make it through this, I don’t think I’ll be going back there. I’d already kind of decided to quit. Dad and I argued about it a lot. I suppose you’re going to give me a hard time about it too?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. Quit to do what?’ Ben asked.

  ‘I don’t really know yet. I always wanted to do something to help the environment. Maybe I’ll join up with Greenpeace, try to get crew work on board one of their ships.’

  Ben lit a cigarette and offered him one. Jude waved it away. ‘Don’t smoke.’

  ‘You mean you don’t smoke tobacco,’ Ben said.

  Jude shot him a glance. ‘I don’t smoke anything else either, unlike a lot of the deadheads that hang around Robbie’s folks’ place. Not that it’s any of your business.’ He went quiet for a while, turned his back on the deck rail and gently rubbed his torn knuckles. They looked painful. Ben knew from experience how much it hurt to vent your anger against solid objects, like brick walls and car dashboards.

  He knew how other kinds of pain felt, too.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve been there myself,’ he said, letting a stream of smoke blow away on the sea breeze. ‘I lost my parents, a long time ago. I was a bit younger than you when it happened. I know exactly what it’s like to be left all alone in the world.’

  ‘Did they die in an accident?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I almost wish they had. No, my mother killed herself. My father went soon afterwards. He couldn’t go on.’ He could talk about these things now, though it still pained him after so many years.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jude said. ‘So you’ve got no family either.’

  ‘I didn’t, for a long time. Until I found my sister Ruth.’

  ‘Found her?’

  ‘Ruth was kidnapped as a child, during a family holiday in Morocco. For years, everyone assumed she was dead. We all lost hope. It was what tore the rest of the family apart.’ Ben puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Except that she wasn’t dead at all.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘That’s a long story,’ Ben said, and immediately heard Brooke’s voice in his mind.

  It always is with you, isn’t it?

  ‘She lives in Switzerland now,’ he went on, ‘running her own mega-corporation. You’d like her. She’s ano
ther Greenie, like you.’

  ‘Crazy shit,’ Jude said, gazing out to sea.

  ‘I suppose it’s been a crazy life,’ Ben said.

  It was 12.30 p.m. local time when the ferry docked at the cold, sleety port of Calais and they disembarked and breezed through customs. ‘Are you sure we’ll make it to Paris in this thing?’ Jude asked uncertainly as Ben fired up the Vauxhall and a cloud of black smoke belched from its exhaust.

  Once they were safely away from the watchful security officials at the port, Ben pulled into a side street and got out of the car. Ignoring Jude’s nonstop questions as to what the hell he was doing, he crouched down on the pavement to peer at the filth-crusted underside of the Vauxhall, produced a small clasp knife and slit the winding of duct tape that secured the two-foot-long plastic-wrapped item to one of the rusty chassis tubes.

  ‘I think I know what that is,’ Jude said suspiciously as Ben detached it from the bottom of the car, glanced quickly up and down the street and then slipped the object into his bag.

  ‘There,’ Ben said. ‘Now you know why we didn’t take a flight.’

  ‘You just smuggled a dirty great gun through customs!’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Let’s hope the nasty terrorists don’t get the same idea. Now grab your rucksack. This car’s scrap. There’s a Hertz place two minutes’ walk from here.’

  They picked up a silver Renault Laguna at the car rental office and quickly left the north coast behind them, cutting down through the Pas de Calais and Picardy towards Paris, three hours’ drive to the south. Ben pressed the Laguna on hard, carving through the motorway traffic and keeping an eye out for police.

  Sometime after Amiens, he turned on the radio to escape the monotonous roar of the heater, only to find a classical music station playing Chopin’s Marche Funebre. As if he needed a reminder that Simeon and Michaela’s funeral could be, for all he knew, taking place at that very moment. He quickly hit the tuner button, scanning through a jumble of music and talk until he landed on a jazz station and turned up the volume.