The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Mariani, Scott

  The corridor curved around to the right. Some clanging iron steps, then a landing with more doors. Another sign, with more red arrows pointing in different directions. Whatever this place was, it was huge.

  The men shoved Adam through one of the doors into what seemed like a storeroom. Judging by the layer of dust on the tables and shelves, the place hadn’t been used in decades.

  And when he looked around, he knew exactly how long. He stopped and gaped, blinking, disbelieving, at the age-worn banner that was hanging on the wall at the far end of the room. It was faded red, with a white circle in the centre about three feet in diameter.

  Inside the circle was a Nazi swastika.

  He whirled round to his captors, but they just shoved him roughly across the room and through another steel door, pushed him inside and shut him in.

  He was in a cell. It was clean and warm, with a radiator, a metal-framed single bed, a sink, a toilet and a wardrobe. But it was a cell.

  Adam O’Connor started beating on the cold steel door and screamed for his son.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ben was back at the Mini by three o’clock, and sitting at the wheel in the car park on the edge of Bruges, wondering what to do next. Europe was awash with sprouting neo-Nazi groups. Somewhere out there, one of them would lead him to this woman he believed was his sister. He could dedicate himself to tracking them down, infiltrating their meetings, shadowing them like a ghost, kicking down doors and breaking bones until he found the right shaven-headed, tattooed degenerate who could take him to her.

  Luc Simon had been right. The way he was feeling right now, it would satisfy him to kick some arses.

  But it could take months, years. It would dominate his life completely. Even if he was willing to risk incurring the wrath of Luc Simon and spending half his life dodging Interpol agents, time was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He had Rupert Shannon’s lawyer to worry about. The threat of losing Le Val hanging over him like the sword of Damocles. The stomach-churning prospect of having to go and beg for money from the bank, something he’d never had to do in his life before. And none of those things was about to go away.

  But he couldn’t just give this up and go home. The other alternative was to keep following the Kammler trail. If he could learn more about the kind of people who were interested in the SS general’s work, find and talk to others who were chasing the same thing, he might find connections.

  Ben thought about the man Don Jarrett had mentioned.

  ‘All right, Lenny Salt,’ he said out loud. ‘Let’s see if we can’t dig you out. Maybe you can shine some light on this mess.’

  He used his phone to do an online search on Manchester University. The Physics Department website was easy to find, but after trawling through the whole thing twice he could find no mention whatsoever of a Lenny Salt. He spent a few minutes checking through the other science departments as well, in case Jarrett had got it wrong. But no sign.

  Then he tried typing ‘Lenny Salt’ into the search engine. He came up with about a million results, but none of them offered up anything promising.

  He went back to the Physics Department site and figured out his next move. Late in June, the university would be deep into its holiday season. Few lecturers would be around, maybe just the odd one popping in and out of their offices, but there would be some kind of skeleton staff looking after reception. Ben scrolled down a list of lecturers and his eye landed on a guy called Tom Wilson. In his picture he looked about fortyish, heavyset and balding. He was smiling with his eyes like someone who’d have a sense of humour. Ben wondered whether he’d appreciate this joke.

  He called reception. ‘Physics Department,’ said a woman’s voice. She sounded young, and half-asleep with boredom. He could imagine her sitting there, manning an empty reception desk on a dull, hot afternoon, gazing out of the window at the sunshine and counting the minutes until she could get out of there.

  For all he knew, she talked to Wilson every day of her week and would see through the deception right away and slam down the phone. It was a one-shot deal, but it was the only shot he had.

  He tried to sound breezy and laidback. ‘Hi, this is Dr Wilson. Listen, sorry to bother you about this, but I’m trying to contact Lenny Salt and he’s not answering his office line. Need to ask him something, but I’ve lost his damn mobile number. You wouldn’t happen to have it there, would you?’

  Silence down the phone.

  When she spoke again, the bored slur in her voice was gone.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘Dr Tom Wilson,’ Ben said. He could feel this slipping away from him already.

  Another heavy silence on the line.

  ‘Tom Wilson, assistant head of department?’ She said it suspiciously, but Ben could hear the smile curling on her lips.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Do you know your office number, Dr Wilson?’ Teasing now. Ben didn’t reply.

  ‘Lenny Salt doesn’t work here any more,’ she said. ‘And he never had an office here. He was just the lab assistant. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Dr Wilson?’

  Shit.

  ‘Student gags are usually reserved for Rag Week,’ she said. ‘You got me. But this isn’t a student gag.’

  ‘So you’re not Tom Wilson, and you’re not a student either.’

  ‘Innocent on both counts.’

  ‘I knew you weren’t Wilson. Your voice is too nice. And the students are all callow youths.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Ben said. ‘So who are you, caller?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m Ben.’ Sometimes frankness was the best way.

  ‘That’s a nice name. You’re not trying to get me into trouble, are you, Ben?’

  ‘I didn’t get your name.’

  ‘I didn’t give it. It’s Vicki. That’s with an i.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of getting you into trouble, Vicki with an i.’

  She gave a low laugh. ‘Listen, Mr Nice-Voice-Ben. Even if I had a number to give you, I wouldn’t be allowed. But I don’t have a number, because Lenny Salt wouldn’t ever give one out. He’d be too worried the CIA or someone would use it to track him down.’

  ‘Got to watch those things,’ Ben said. ‘You never know with those guys.’

  ‘And that’s why if I were looking for that old fart, not that I would in a million billion years, I wouldn’t even bother with the phone. I’d be looking up some weird shit online.’

  ‘Some weird shit?’

  ‘That’s his website, someweirdshit-dot-com. But you didn’t hear that from me.’

  ‘I get the feeling Lenny wasn’t your favourite person in the department.’

  She snorted. ‘He’s a nut. And a creep. Thinks he’s this big scientist. Not that I have any favourites in this place.’

  ‘Any idea where he went after he left there?’

  ‘I know he lives in a caravan or a camper, something like that. But he could be anywhere.’

  ‘I really appreciate your help, Vicki. You’re definitely the nicest and strangest Physics Department receptionist who’s ever flirted with me on the phone.’

  That low laugh again. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Buy me a drink sometime, if you want to thank me.’

  ‘The very next time I’m in Manchester.’

  ‘Look forward to it, Ben. You know where to find me.’

  Then she hung up. Ben stared at the phone for a moment, smiling and shaking his head.

  Leaning back in the car seat, he revisited the search engine and punched in the web address Vicki had given him. What he found there was no great surprise. The website was a paradise for conspiracy theorists. All the usual suspects were on display. The Diana murder. The real reason for the Iraq invasion. Bin Laden a US Intelligence agent. Area 51 and UFO cover-ups. The CIA observation posts on the far side of the moon.

  Ben sifted through it all quickly, scrolling down the long list until he came to a header that read ‘The Kammler Shadow P
roject: Fact or Fiction?’

  Ben stared at it.

  He clicked on it.

  Page temporarily unavailable.

  He sat thinking for a moment, then scrolled over to a tab that said ‘Contact’. The page flashed up, and offered no number to call, no obvious email address like ‘lenny@someweirdshit.com’. There was just an electronic form to fill in and submit.

  Ben pondered the best way to draw the guy out. No point in coming straight out with ‘I want to ask you questions’ and then expect a call. He had to make Salt think he was offering something juicy. If Salt had been keen enough to travel to one of Don Jarrett’s lectures, he might be interested enough to call back.

  He wrote:

  ‘Message for Lenny Salt. I have important information about Hans Kammler. If you want to know more, let’s talk.’

  He didn’t sign with a name or offer a return email address, just typed in his mobile number and then sent the message.

  He sat in the car a long time. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, or whether Salt would be any use to him, or even where to go from here if it turned out to be a blind alley. Maybe back to Luc Simon for more names. Perhaps it was time to start kicking down doors after all.

  Or maybe Brooke was right. Maybe he just should go home and try to focus his mind on the many troubles awaiting him there.

  But he knew he’d come too far for that now. He couldn’t walk away. He closed his eyes and tried to still his mind. So much to think about, and so little that made any sense.

  It was about half an hour later, when the clock on the Mini dashboard was approaching quarter to four, that the phone buzzed in his lap and he realised he’d drifted off into an uncomfortable doze. His head jerked up at the sound and he was instantly alert.

  ‘Who’s this?’ said a man’s voice on the other end. The voice was filled with suspicion, deep and gravelly. Ben pictured a man in his sixties. The accent was east London.

  ‘Is that Lenny Salt?’

  ‘Who’s this?’ the voice said again.

  ‘Just a friend, Lenny. Just want to talk.’

  ‘You’ll never track this number.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m a friend.’

  There was a long pause. Then: ‘Info on Kammler, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I already have all the info I need on Kammler.’

  ‘You just think you do,’ Ben said. ‘Wait until you hear what I have to tell you. Can we meet?’

  Pushing for a meeting with a paranoid like Salt was a dangerous move, because it was all too easy to frighten him away – and once he was gone, he’d be gone for good. But Ben knew the only way to winkle him out of his shell and keep him there was to pin him down face to face. And if his instinct was right about Salt, all it would take was to arouse his curiosity enough.

  It seemed to be working. The long silence on the phone tasted of wary interest, like a hungry cat struggling between suspicion and temptation over a morsel in a stranger’s hand.

  ‘We can meet,’ Salt said. ‘But strictly on my terms. You come to me.’

  ‘No problem at all. Name the place.’

  ‘Laugharne.’

  Ben had to think where it was. ‘Laugharne in Wales or Larne in Northern Ireland?’

  ‘Wales.’

  ‘That’s where you live, on the Welsh coast?’

  ‘I didn’t say I lived there,’ Salt said cagily. ‘I said I’ll meet you there. Tomorrow morning at eleven. Come alone. Wear a red scarf so I know you.’

  A red scarf in the middle of summer, Ben thought. Great.

  ‘OK, where exactly?’

  ‘There’s a castle on the bay. Take the path that runs along the side, towards the Dylan Thomas boathouse. Walk to the first bench and wait.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By five o’ clock Ben was sipping a scotch on the rocks in the departure lounge at Brussels airport, waiting for a UK-bound flight that would take him as close as possible to his destination. The Mini was in secure long-term parking, and the Smith & Wesson was scattered in pieces across the Belgian countryside.

  Three hours after that, he was behind the wheel of a black rental Audi A5 Turbo Diesel speeding west up the M4 from Bristol airport over the Severn Bridge and into Wales. He hit Carmarthen, then more dual carriageway, then twisty rural roads led him through lush green countryside down towards the coast. By the time he got to Laugharne, the sun was setting. He checked into the first bed and breakfast he saw on the edge of town, spent an hour in a nearby pub over a couple of beers and a plate of ham sandwiches, then headed back to the B&B for an early night.

  The next morning at five to eleven, he was pulling up at his rendezvous point. He slotted the Audi into the car park near the ruined medieval castle overlooking the bay, and got out. The sky was clear and the sun already hot. On the passenger seat was a red woolly scarf he’d bought at the airport in Brussels. He draped it reluctantly around his neck and made his way between the stalls selling local produce, clothing and bric-a-brac to tourists, then headed over a little humpback bridge towards the walkway that skirted the base of the castle. A couple of passers-by shot strange looks at the man wearing the thick scarf on such a warm, sunny June day.

  A sign saying ‘Dylan Thomas Boathouse’ pointed in the direction of a white stone cottage perched over the shoreline in the distance. Ben walked towards it. People were ambling up and down the pathway with dogs on leads, some tourists were taking photos of the castle towers, and a couple of artists sat in the grass at the foot of its craggy wall sketching the view across the bay.

  Ben scanned the horizon. It was a peaceful place, the kind of place he’d have liked to hang around for a while. The tide was out, and the sand and shingle glittered in the sunlight. He spent a few minutes taking it all in, feeling the sun’s warmth on his face, breathing in the rich tang of the sea and watching the gulls that circled and called to one another overhead. He wished he had the freedom to enjoy moments like this more often.

  There were some wooden benches along the walkway. He went over to the first one as Lenny Salt had instructed, and checked the time. It was after eleven now.

  Looking up and down the walkway, he watched the people going by. He saw portly middle-class tourists with cameras and walking sticks and plastic bags with gift-shop logos on them. He saw arty-looking literary types with open-toed sandals and scruffy hair, clutching volumes of poetry on their pilgrimage to the former home of the famous Welsh poet. He saw an old man bending down to pick up the dogshit that his overweight Labrador had deposited on the path, and dumping it in a bin.

  But he didn’t see anyone who answered to Don Jarrett’s description of Lenny Salt.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was beginning to wonder if he’d come all this way for nothing. Maybe it had been a mistake to trust that a paranoid conspiracy obsessive like Salt would turn up to meet him.

  But Ben had a very well-developed sense of when he was being watched, honed over years of following people and being followed himself. And suddenly he was getting a feeling, like a tickle in his brain, that made him glance back towards the car park a hundred yards away.

  He could see his big muscular Audi sitting there, sunlight reflecting off its windscreen. Three cars along was a vehicle that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived. It was a red Vauxhall estate, a junkyard special with a lopsided number plate and a blue passenger door. Standing a few steps from the Vauxhall was a skinny, hunched, white-haired man wearing khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. In his hand was a chunky black camera with a long lens, and he was staring in Ben’s direction. Even at this distance he looked strangely out of place.

  As Ben watched out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be following the line of a white cruiser that was tracking across the bay, he saw the distant figure raise the camera and he knew he was being photographed. Then the guy lowered the camera and went shuffling round the side of the red Vauxhall, looking jittery and furtive and
shooting a final nervous glance Ben’s way as he got in.

  Ben saw a puff of blue smoke from the exhaust as the engine fired up, and heard it rev out as the guy hit the gas too hard in his hurry to get away. The Vauxhall reversed quickly out of its parking space, lurching on tired springs, headed out of the car park and turned right onto the main street through the village.

  As it went, Ben saw the big tow-hitch sticking out from its rear, and he remembered what Vicki had told him about Salt living in a caravan.

  Salt, you bastard.

  Ben ran, dropping the stupid red scarf on the path as he sprinted back towards the car park. By the time he reached his car, the junkyard Vauxhall had disappeared out of sight down the road.

  Chapter Thirty

  As Adam sat slumped on the edge of the bunk in his neon-lit cell, only the hands on his watch gave him any clue that it was mid-morning by the time he heard the tinkle of keys at the door.

  He turned slowly to face the two guards who walked in. One of them stayed by the door, pointing the muzzle of his stubby automatic weapon across the room at Adam’s chest. The other one walked up to him, made a brusque gesture and whistled out of the corner of his mouth. The universal sign language for ‘On your feet, asshole.’

  Adam looked at him, then over at the one with the gun, who was clutching the weapon as though the prisoner might suddenly jump them and make a break for it. It seemed absurd.

  ‘Who do you people think I am, James frigging Bond?’

  If the two guards even understood him, there was no flicker of reaction on either of their faces. Their eyes were stony cold as they marched Adam out of the cell and through the storeroom. He glanced at the swastika banner on the wall. ‘So let me guess. You’re Nazis, right?’

  No reply. He gave up talking to them as they walked him out across the landing outside, back down the metal stairway and down the twisting stone corridors. The place was a maze, and after a couple of turns he couldn’t remember coming this way the previous day. A doorway led into a dim, dank room containing what looked like some kind of old service lift, a crude platform suspended by cables that vanished off into a dark shaft overhead. The guards walked Adam to the platform, then one of them stabbed an antiquated Bakelite button on a wall panel. A second later there was a grunt of machinery coming to life, and Adam felt the platform jolt under his feet. With a whirring and screeching of cables, the lift was cranked upwards through the hole in the ceiling and into the shaft. Up and up through the darkness for what seemed like forever. Then the machinery clanked to a halt and they stepped out. Another room, more doors, more incomprehensible signs. But the air seemed fresher here, and Adam thought he could detect the slightest hint of a breeze from somewhere.