The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Mariani, Scott

  ‘What about your lectures?’

  ‘Jeff could stand in for me, couldn’t he? Just this once?’

  ‘I don’t know if that would be a good idea, Brooke.’ She looked away, flushing. ‘Shouldn’t have asked. You’re the boss.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘I’d be happy for Jeff to stand in for you, if you needed it. But this is something I have to do on my own.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand. When will you be back?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. ‘Soon as I can.’

  ‘I’m flying back to London the day after tomorrow. Call me there if I don’t see you before, OK?’

  Outside the sun was shining brightly and the air tasted fresh and sweet after last night’s rainstorm. It felt like it was going to be a hot day. Ben looked around him as he walked across the yard, and on top of all the other things he was feeling, he felt a tingle of apprehension wash through him. He didn’t want to lose this place.

  He strode over to the office and walked in to see that Luc Simon’s fax had come through already. He dumped his bag on the floor, tore the single sheet out of the machine and studied it. There were two police mugshots of Don Jarrett, a photocopy of a Der Spiegel newspaper cutting about his trial and imprisonment for Holocaust denial, and some information hastily jotted down in Luc’s handwriting with the address and location of Jarrett’s regular lunchtime hangout in Bruges.

  Ben folded the paper into his pocket. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the office phone and dialled the number for the bank manager.

  Five minutes later he had set up an appointment at the branch in Valognes. Dupont, the manager, was away fishing and couldn’t see him for ten days. That suited Ben fine. He wasn’t in too much of a hurry to find out whether or not he was about to lose his livelihood.

  He wondered what Dupont’s reaction was going to be when he told him how much money he needed to raise. As a going concern and with all the work he’d done on the place, Le Val had to be worth at least a million and a half. Business was better than he’d ever anticipated. The facility was bringing commerce to the area. Thanks to his clients and delegates, the local village brasserie had never had it so good. Ben was liked, and he was employing local people. Maybe the bank would look favourably on his needs.

  Maybe. Or maybe not. But right now, he couldn’t think about that.

  As he was about to leave the office, the phone rang again. Ben knew the voice immediately. Shannon. Screaming at the top of his voice.

  ‘Motherfucker, you’re going to pay me that fucking money!’

  ‘How’s the back, Rupert?’

  ‘I want the fucking money. I want it now.’

  ‘You can’t have it now.’

  ‘I want it.’

  ‘You’ll get it when I have it. That’s the best I can do.’

  Shannon went on screaming down the phone about his lost contract, his ruined reputation, his damaged back, that bitch Brooke walking out on him, and Ben’s personal responsibility for all the ills of the world. After about thirty seconds of furious invective, Ben had had enough and took the phone away from his ear. Even at arm’s length, he could still hear the tinny little voice rasping from the receiver. He gently laid the phone handset down on the desk, turned and walked away. Shannon was still screaming at him as he shut the office door.

  Something to worry about later.

  From the office, Ben went over to the old converted Dutch barn at the side of the house where he kept the Mini, and tossed his bag onto the passenger seat. He’d always been a light traveller. He was carrying just a change of clothing, his well-worn whisky flask topped up with his favourite ten-year-old Laphroaig, two spare packs of untipped Gauloises and a few other travelling items.

  In addition to which he’d packed something that Luc Simon wouldn’t have been too happy about.

  The pistol wasn’t part of the official weapons inventory at Le Val, every item of which was registered and logged, serial numbers on file everywhere from NATO to the French Defence Ministry. It was a scuffed old plain steel Smith & Wesson automatic that had probably seen criminal use at some point in its life, the serial numbers filed off both frame and slide. The child kidnapper Ben had taken it from didn’t need it any more, the same way he hadn’t needed any food, water or air for the last six years. It had lain at the bottom of Ben’s safe deposit box at the Banque Nationale in Paris for most of that time, and it wasn’t until he’d cleared it out before moving to Le Val that he’d even remembered it was there.

  He didn’t expect any serious need for it in Bruges. But in his experience there was only one really effective way of liberating information from someone who didn’t want to talk. There was no need to hurt them, or even to make specific threats. Just the sight of the weapon was usually enough, especially for a bookish type of guy like Don Jarrett.

  Luc Simon would be pissed off. Get in line, Ben thought.

  He fired up the Mini, drove out of the barn and across the yard. As he passed the house he glanced over and saw Brooke standing at the window watching him go. She gave a sad little wave.

  On the track that led towards the road, he met Silvain Bourdon’s minibus, waved at the driver and pulled to the side to let it by. Bourdon was the local guy whose taxi firm Ben used to shuttle delegates back and forth from the airport at Cherbourg. As the dusty minibus passed by, he could see the pasty faces of the eight insurance brokers who were here for Brooke’s hostage psychology course.

  Hating himself for leaving her and Jeff at a time like this, Ben drove on up to the road, passed through the gates and pointed the car east across France for the second time in three days.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rory woke up in a soft bed. At first he thought he was at home, and it was all a bad dream. That he was going to sit up in bed and see all his things around him, his posters on the wall and his chess computer on the desk, his astrobinoculars on their tripod over the other side of the room, and then look out of the window and see the sun rising over the lake and hear the birds singing in the trees outside and the sound of his Aunt Sabrina’s voice calling his name from downstairs.

  But when he blinked away the bleariness and his vision came into focus, he saw where he really was and felt that cold, skin-shrivelling feeling down the back of his neck.

  He was in a room he’d never seen before, and he had no idea how he’d got here. He only knew how very, very desperately he didn’t want to be here. The stone walls had no windows, and the only light came from a dull naked bulb that hung from a wire above his head and was covered with spider’s webs and the dried-out corpses of flies.

  The other side of the iron bed frame, two men were standing watching him. One was tall with sandy hair, about the same age as his dad or maybe a little younger. The other was shorter, not much taller than Rory, with a ruddy complexion and thick dark hair.

  Rory shrank away from them.

  ‘You’re awake,’ the sandy-haired man said. He sounded English. ‘You’ve been asleep for a long time.’

  Rory could feel the bruise in the crook of his left elbow where the needle had gone in. He remembered now. The ship, the sea, the distant islands he’d seen from the deck when he’d managed to get away. The kidnappers who’d chased him. The way he’d managed to toss the stolen phone overboard before they’d caught him and dragged him roughly out from under the lifeboat and shaken him violently, asking him who he’d telephoned; how he’d struggled and kicked and screamed and spat in their faces as they’d held him tight and rolled up his sleeve and the horrible woman had jabbed the syringe into his arm. The last thing he could recall was being hauled back down to that stinking hold and being cuffed to the pipe again. Nothing after that.

  He glared at the strangers at the foot of his bed and thought about his secret. He was smarter than they were. Only he knew that he’d talked to Sabrina. She and his dad would have called the cops. There had to be the biggest search of all time underway by now.

  ‘You assho
les had better let me go,’ he said darkly.

  The sandy-haired man grinned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Because my dad happens to be in the Special Forces, and if you don’t let me go home right now, he’s going to hunt you down and take you apart.’

  ‘Your dad sounds like quite a fellow,’ the sandy-haired man said. ‘But the thing is, Rory, I know you’re making that up. I’ve spoken to your dad. In fact, he and I are very well acquainted. And it might interest you to know that he’s on his way here even as we speak. You’ll be seeing him in no time.’

  Rory frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he and I have some business to take care of. But that needn’t concern you. All you have to do is sit quietly and wait.’

  ‘I think you’re lying.’

  ‘You’ll soon see, won’t you?’ the man replied. ‘Anyway, now that you’re awake, you might want to take a shower and change into the clothes we have ready for you. You must be hungry, too.’

  ‘I don’t want anything, jerkoff.’

  The man smiled. ‘Actually, the name’s Pelham.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Rory yelled at him.

  ‘Now, Rory. I’m sure your father wouldn’t like you to use language like that. We all have to try to get on, don’t you think? Better for everyone that way.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid,’ Rory spat.

  ‘You’re a brave boy,’ Pelham said. ‘And I know you’re also a clever boy who understands what’s best for him. So why don’t you settle down and behave, and the minute your father and I have finished our business together, it’ll all be over.’ Pelham smiled again. ‘Now, I’m sort of in charge here, and I have a lot to do, so you won’t be seeing too much of me.’ He motioned to the man standing next to him, who hadn’t spoken. ‘This gentleman here is called Ivan, and he’s going to be looking after you.’

  ‘Hello, Rory,’ Ivan said. His voice was gentle. Rory had heard accents like his in movies. He figured the guy was Polish or Russian or something. He glowered at him.

  Pelham looked at his watch. ‘It was good to talk to you, Rory. Ivan and I have to go now, but he’ll be back in a minute to show you where the bathroom is and get you something to eat.’ He turned to Ivan and they exchanged a few words in a language that Rory didn’t understand. After that, they left the room and Rory heard the sound of a key in the lock. He stared at the door for as long as he could hold in his tears, then buried his face in the pillow.

  No way was he going to let them hear him cry.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  If Bruges was the best-preserved medieval city in Europe, the motorway that sliced through the countryside to its outskirts was one of the fastest and most modern. Ben reached the place with just about enough time to make his rendezvous, left the car in an out-of-town parking complex and boarded a bus heading for the historic centre.

  Alone in the back row, he unfolded the fax sheet from his pocket and ran back through the details Luc Simon had sent him. The little family café-restaurant where Don Jarrett liked to have his lunch each day was right in the middle of the old town, off the largest of its squares. Afterwards, according to the Interpol agents who had been keeping tabs on him, it was the Holocaust denier’s habit to take a daily stroll down by the picturesque canals.

  Sweet, Ben thought.

  He got off the bus on the edge of the old town and mingled with the many tourists in the squares and narrow cobbled streets. He bought a Belgian newspaper from a little newsagent stand, then checked his watch and went looking for the main square and the location of Jarrett’s regular lunchtime haunt.

  It didn’t take long to find, and it was just as Luc Simon had said, next to the clock tower. On the adjacent side of the square was a bistro with an outdoor terrace. Ben took a parasol-shaded table between a romantic hand-holding young couple and an argumentative American family who looked like they were going for some kind of burgers-and-Coke speed record. He leaned back in the wicker seat and started flipping nonchalantly through his paper. Over the top of the pages he kept his eye on the restaurant entrance across the way.

  Creatures of habit were easy to track. At 1.29 p.m. Ben saw a man cut across the square, head straight for the restaurant and go inside without glancing at the sign on the awning or checking out the menu beside the door. A regular customer for sure, but in his beige safari jacket and that conspicuous manner that the British always seemed to exude abroad, he wasn’t ever going to pass for a local. There was a large book under his arm, which told Ben this was someone intending to sit alone for a while. He looked to be in his early sixties, with a curly ring of grey hair around a bald crown. A good deal heavier and paunchier than in the picture Luc Simon had faxed through from Lyon, but it was definitely Don Jarrett.

  Now there was nothing to do except wait for the guy to have his lunch. A waiter came to Ben’s table, and Ben ordered a beer and a plate of mussels with French fries. He paid in advance so that he could leave quickly if needed.

  As he ate, he skipped idly through a few articles in the newspaper without taking in a single word, glancing frequently over at the restaurant window where he could just make out the top of Jarrett’s head above the Kronenbourg logo painted on the glass. The Americans at the next table finally had their fill and went off to argue somewhere else.

  At just after 2.15, Ben saw Jarrett walk out of the restaurant doorway with his book under his arm, take a right across the square and mingle into the crowds of tourists standing around and snapping pictures of the clock tower. Ben scattered a handful of euros on his table to tip the waiter and followed.

  Away from the main square, the streets between the old buildings were winding and narrow. Ben hung back a hundred yards or so as Jarrett walked, keeping him in sight without being spotted. Up ahead, the sunlight sparkled between the trees and across the rippling waters of the canal. Jarrett took a left turn and trotted down some steps towards the towpath.

  Ben followed. Jarrett walked on ahead, moving slowly, seeming to relish his surroundings. A couple of hundred yards further up the canal path, a pretty arched stone bridge spanned the water. Moored up to its side, bobbing gently on the current, was an empty tourist barge.

  There was nobody about. It was quiet down here, just the gentle lap of the water against the stone walls and the warble of a blackbird perched overhead in a tree. Ben quickened his step. As he walked, he took the Smith & Wesson from his bag and slipped it discreetly into his jacket pocket.

  Jarrett seemed to sense the presence behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, then half-turned, smiled and nodded with a polite ‘Good afternoon’ in English-accented French.

  Ben didn’t return the smile. ‘Don Jarrett?’

  Jarrett turned again and looked at him. The smile faded quickly, replaced by a wary glint in his eye.

  ‘You are Don Jarrett, aren’t you?’ Ben said calmly.

  ‘If you’re a journalist, I won’t talk to you. Not interested. So piss off.’

  ‘I’m not a journalist,’ Ben said. ‘But I didn’t come to Bruges for the sightseeing.’

  As he said it, he drew the Smith & Wesson out of his pocket. Normally he would have carried it already cocked and locked, Condition One, the way he’d been trained. That way, you only had to flip off the safety and it was ready for action. Efficient, but not particularly theatrical.

  Instead, he did it the showy way they did it in the movies, the way that gets you killed in real life, making a big deal out of reaching across with his left hand, racking back the slide and releasing it with that bright, splashy shlak-clang of metal on metal that he knew would strike fear into Don Jarrett’s heart.

  It did. And all the more so when Ben pointed the pistol at his head.

  It wasn’t even loaded. Something the guy didn’t need to know.

  Jarrett backed away fearfully. He raised his hands, palms out, eyes pleading. ‘You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?’

  ‘Expecting someone?’

  Jarrett eyed him un
certainly, with the look of a man facing up to something he’d been resigned to for a long time. ‘I’ve had threats.’

  ‘Seem like a popular guy. But I’m not going to kill you. Unless you make me.’

  Jarrett reddened. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I asked them where I could find the biggest turd of a Holocaust denier going. They told me you were it. So here I am, and you and I are going to have a little chat.’ Ben made a big show of uncocking the pistol, then put it back in his pocket.

  Jarrett looked a little more relieved. The fear had drained away from his face to leave a flush of indignation in his cheeks. ‘Who’s they?’ he demanded.

  Ben shrugged. ‘Them.’

  Jarrett said, ‘The same bastards who persecuted me, ruined my life and put me in jail.’

  ‘I’d say you brought that on yourself, no?’

  ‘I’m not a Holocaust denier.’

  Ben smiled coldly. ‘You’re denying that, too?’

  ‘They call me a Jew hater, a fascist, a terrorist. I’m none of those things, all right? I’m a revisionist historical scholar whose only crime was to ask questions about things that everyone else was afraid to. I’ve served my time. Now why don’t you just bugger off and leave me alone?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Now I have some questions to ask you.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘Let’s you and I go for a boat ride.’

  Ben ushered the man down the path. He was pretty certain they weren’t being followed by any of Luc Simon’s people, but he didn’t want eavesdroppers. The last thing he needed was to draw Interpol’s attention to whatever it was that his sister had got herself involved in. That was something for him, and him alone, to deal with.

  As they approached the bridge, a small thin man with a straggly moustache and a money pouch on a strap around his shoulder appeared at the side of the canal, hovered near the boat mooring and eyed them expectantly.

  Ben pointed down at the barge. ‘How much for the tour?’ he asked, and the guy told him it was twelve euros each. The boat had a little wheelhouse at the front, and behind it was seating for about a dozen passengers. Ben reached for his wallet, counted out a hundred and eighty euros and handed it to the boatman. ‘Just him and me. No other passengers. There’s a little extra for you.’