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 machen 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 echoed 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.
Ben said nothing.
‘What do we do, sir?’ There was an edge of worry to the Irishman’s whisper.
Ben said nothing.
Down below them, there was a grating sound of stone on stone. In the shadows of the church, in the middle of the aisle between the rows of pews, something was moving. A flagstone scraped sideways. A dark figure of a man seemed to emerge from the floor.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The crypt was filled with flickering golden candlelight and the scent of hot wax. The wavering light lined the edges of the ancient symbols carved into the stone walls and the three massive columns that dominated the space. Around the stone walls hung intricate tapestries depicting the esoteric emblems of the Order of Ra. Up above, the golden ram’s head glinted and its spiral horns threw eerie shadows across the vaulted stone ceiling.
A line of men filtered through an arched entrance. They walked silently, solemnly, in single file, their heads slightly bowed as though out of reverence for a church service or a funeral. Each man knew his mark, and they quickly assembled in a semicircular formation in the centre of the floor between the columns. Like a line of elderly soldiers they stood and faced the strange platform. The sacrificial altar was ready for them, as always. Chains hung from the high wooden post erected in the middle.
Kroll and Glass entered the crypt last. They stood at the end of the line, slightly to one side. Nobody spoke. Kroll threw a last quick glance at his watch. It was about to begin.
Deep in the shadows, the heavy iron door swung open. Three men stepped into the flickering light. Everyone recognized the face of the man in the middle. Philippe Aragon’s shirt was stained and crumpled, and there was a cut across his left eyebrow. His arms were held tight by the two hooded men flanking him. There was a leather gag tied across his mouth. His eyes were wild and staring, darting up and down the row of black-suited men who had come to see him die.
They walked him slowly to the wooden post. He struggled as they cuffed his arms behind it and wrapped three lengths of the heavy chain around his waist. He sagged weakly at the knees. Once the chains were secure, the hooded men turned and walked solemnly back into the shadows behind the altar, one either side, half-hidden in the darkness.
The only sound in the crypt was the echoing clinking of the chains as Aragon struggled feebly to get free. All eyes were on him.
Glass smiled to himself. He always enjoyed this moment. He didn’t give a damn one way or the other about Aragon or what he might represent, any more than he’d cared about the others. He just liked the idea of what they were going to do to him. Maybe one day, he thought, they’d get to do a woman this way. That would be good. Maybe the old man would let him do it himself.
The iron door creaked again, and the executioner walked out across the platform. His black hooded robe hung down to his feet. In his hands was a long object wrapped in a piece of scarlet satin. He drew the cloth away and firelight danced down the blade of the ceremonial knife. He stepped up to the prisoner.
Kroll spoke out, and his voice echoed in the crypt. ‘Philippe Aragon, have you anything to say before your sentence is carried out?’ He gestured to the executioner. The hooded man reached out and tore away the gag from Aragon’s lips. Aragon hung from the post, breathing heavily. He fixed Kroll with red-rimmed eyes and spat in his direction.
Kroll turned to the executioner. ‘Cut his heart out,’ he said quietly.
The executioner didn’t hesitate. The razor-sharp blade glittered as he raised it above his head.
The twelve men in the line watched as if hypnotized. Glass grinned in anticipation. Kroll’s lips stretched into a thin smile.
The knife came down in a blur. Aragon let out a cry as the sharp blade buried itself deep.
Into the woo
den post by his head. The executioner let go of the knife handle and it stuck there, juddering.
Kroll took a step forwards, his brow creasing, mouth opening. Something was wrong.
The executioner moved away from the prisoner. His hand darted inside his robe and came out with a suppressed 9mm pistol. The fat cylindrical muzzle swung towards the assembled spectators.
Glass reacted instantly by reaching for his own gun. A rattle of silenced gunfire raked the black-and-white flagstones at Glass’s feet and he dropped his weapon.
The hooded guards emerged back into the light. Candle-flame glimmered on their stubby black automatic weapons. O’Neill and Lambert. Two more figures appeared from behind the stone columns on either side. Delmas and Cook. Lambert stepped up to the wooden post and undid Aragon’s chains.
Ben ripped back his hood and shrugged the executioner’s robe off his shoulders. It slipped down to his feet, and he kicked it away.
Kroll’s associates were panicking, wide-eyed, looking to their leader for an explanation. Kroll’s jaw had dropped in amazement. Ben met his eye with a cold smile. Figure that one out, he thought.
The improvised plan had worked well. It hadn’t been difficult to disable the guards and take control of the crypt beneath the church, minutes before Kroll and his people had come in. The real executioner was now lying dead in a backroom with the rest.
Jack Glass stared up at Ben with burning hate in his eyes. Even disarmed, he was still the most dangerous man in the room. Ben kept the sights of the Heckler & Koch square on him, watching him down the pistol’s barrel. The hammer was back, the safety was off. His finger was inside the trigger guard. He only had to squeeze lightly and the hammer would punch down on the round in the chamber, igniting the fulminate in the primer and sending the 9mm hollowpoint spinning down the short barrel. It would reach Glass’s body in less than a hundredth of a second. The bullet would mushroom inside him, exploding into a million razor splinters of lead alloy and copper that would blast out a wide tunnel of lifeless jelly.
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 60
