House of War

by Scott Mariani

  It was a very big house, and it would take him some time to explore all of it. The salon was grand and huge, the dining room even more so. A music room displayed a collection of antique instruments. A library contained ceiling-high bookcases filled with leather-backed classics of literature, poetry, history and philosophical works. Every room Ben looked inside was a treasure trove of art and beauty, and yet nothing at all seemed to have been disturbed. Whoever had broken into the house before him was either the world’s most respectful burglar, or they’d had other reasons for being here.

  Either way, something felt very wrong. Ben kept the pistol in his hand as he finished checking the downstairs and crept silently up the sweeping marble staircase to the floor above. More valuable artwork and antiques everywhere; again nothing that seemed remotely out of place.

  Not until he came to the master bedroom, swept his torch around and saw the signs that he’d been worried he might find. The empty, dark bedroom was dominated by a princely four-poster, draped in red satin fleur de lys. In the corner by a tall window stood a Second Empire marble-topped dressing table. Beside the table, a slender antique gilt chair lay knocked onto its side on the rug. A woman’s hairbrush lay on the floor close by. There were some makeup items on the dressing table: a little mascara bottle with its cap unscrewed, an eyeshadow brush set in a leather case, a tube of lipstick. Ben went over, tucked his pistol in his belt and slipped off his left glove and touched a fingertip to the mascara applicator brush. Still moist. He replaced his glove, picked up the hairbrush, and shone his torch over it to see the long, silvery-blond hairs enmeshed in its bristles.

  The signs were subtle, but the message they gave out to Ben was clear. He was getting a déjà-vu memory of entering Romy Juneau’s apartment that morning. Because something had happened here, too. Something bad.

  And his guess was that Madame Segal’s absence from her home couldn’t be explained by anything as simple and mundane as a trip abroad. Which would also potentially account for the fact that the burglar alarm was disarmed. If the two of them had gone off together, they wouldn’t have left their beautiful home and all its fine contents unprotected. That didn’t make sense.

  Only one possibility did make sense.

  What Ben was seeing had all the hallmarks of an abduction.

  Chapter 30

  If Ben was right, and whoever had broken into the chateau sometime in the last few hours had taken Julien Segal’s wife away against her will, then it couldn’t be a coincidence that her husband just happened to be mixed up with vicious men for whom murder and kidnap were a routine event. And it also reinforced Ben’s doubts that the story of Segal’s overseas trip was true, whether the staff at ICS believed it or not.

  So where were the Segals? Were the couple together somewhere, captive, or perhaps dead? Had the suspicion that had fallen on Romy Juneau led Nazim to suspect his business associate of betrayal also, and take steps to eliminate not just him but his wife? Did that mean Madame Segal was in on the whole thing too? Or was she just collateral damage, another tie to be cut?

  As Ben stood in the dark, empty house, the bitterness of the realisation was sharp. Knowing that the tentative, faint trail he’d been hoping might lead him to Nazim al-Kassar had just been wiped away. Knowing that he was out of alternatives. There was no Plan B. The mystery was like a fog so dense that he couldn’t make out a trace of the reality behind it.

  He should just give this up and go home to Le Val.

  But how could he do that, knowing that Nazim al-Kassar was alive and still out there somewhere? He couldn’t let go. Not with Romy Juneau’s lifeless blue eyes still gazing at him in his memory. Not with Françoise Schell in the morgue.

  That was when Ben’s phone burred in his pocket, jolting him out of his thoughts. He was startled for an instant, unsure whether to answer. Then he fished out the phone and saw Ken Keegan’s caller ID on his screen.

  ‘You took your bloody time,’ he said to Keegan.

  ‘Prickly sod,’ Keegan’s voice rasped in his ear. He sounded as though he’d just finished a large dinner and washed it down with several pints of lager before moving on to the whisky. ‘So what about that Ethiopia job? Made your mind up, or what?’

  ‘To hell with the Ethiopia job,’ Ben said. ‘Do you recall our conversation earlier? You’d better be calling with good news.’

  ‘And you’d better start sounding a bit more appreciative, old son. I’ve been busting my bollocks all day for your sake, and it sounds like I’m going to get bugger all for my trouble. Jesus H. Christ, why do I even bother?’

  ‘You made contact with Tyler Roth?’

  ‘Let’s say I spoke to someone who spoke to someone who’s in touch with him. Pulled a lot of fuckin’ strings to get that far, pal.’

  ‘I do appreciate it,’ Ben said, trying to sound more agreeable. ‘So do you have a number for Roth?’

  There was a pause on the line, accompanied by the sound of tinkling ice and a loud slurp. Keegan smacked his lips and said, ‘Forget it. He won’t talk to you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t take it personally. I told you he was a funny geezer, didn’t I? He won’t talk to anyone. Doesn’t use phones any more. He’s got this crazy idea in his head that there are people listening who shouldn’t be.’

  ‘I need to talk to him,’ Ben said impatiently. ‘It’s important.’

  And it was, more than ever, now that Ben had run out of other options. If the ex-Delta operative knew anything about why US military intel had wrongly reported Nazim al-Kassar as being dead, maybe he had other information that could lead Ben in the right direction to find him. At this point, Ben didn’t care if he had to scour the earth to hunt for Nazim.

  Keegan said, ‘I said he won’t talk to you by phone. But he’ll agree to a face to face. On his terms only.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘You have to go to him,’ Keegan replied. And then he told Ben where he’d have to go.

  ‘That’s got to be three thousand miles away,’ Ben said. Then had to remind himself that just a moment earlier he’d been prepared to travel the globe in search of Nazim.

  ‘Four thousand miles,’ Keegan corrected him with a chuckle. ‘Cost of doing business.’

  ‘What the hell’s he doing in the US Virgin Islands?’

  ‘Playing golf and fishing with all the other retired lazy bastards, I suppose. How the fuck should I know? So what shall I tell my contact?’

  ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’

  ‘And what about the favour you’re going to do your old mate in return for all this? Quid pro quo, remember?’

  ‘Some other time,’ Ben said, and hung up the call before Keegan could swear at him.

  Alone again, the house seemed oppressively dark and empty. There was nothing more Ben could do here. He retraced his steps back downstairs and outside, across the park and over the wall to the car. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Sitting at the wheel he pulled out his smartphone again, this time to check flights to the US Virgin Islands. He found one leaving Paris before seven the next morning, sixteen hours end to end, with one connection in Miami and landing at Cyril E. King Airport on the Caribbean island of St Thomas sometime early evening, local time. He was reluctant to abort his hunt in order to go running halfway around the world, but he’d already admitted to himself that he had no choice.

  Whether Roth would pay off was another question, one that Ben could worry about when he got there. If nothing else, a few hours on a plane might give him time to think.

  But nothing could be more stupid than to let himself get caught at the airport, if indeed the cops were onto him. That was a risk Ben couldn’t afford to take, which meant he’d have to travel as Paul Harris. It also meant he couldn’t book the flight with his own credit card. That was where the rest of Sarfaraz’s cash would come in handy. Ben fished out the wad of notes, unrolled it and counted up what he had left. The terrorist had been walking around with nearly three thousand euros in his pocke
t. More than enough to pay for the return flight and expenses, with change.

  Ben drove back to the safehouse and found Thierry asleep at the computer. He considered waking him up to ask how things were coming along, but already knew the answer.

  Pierrot was crashed out in the bedroom, fully clothed and snoring as loud as a chainsaw. Junk food packaging was everywhere and it seemed inconceivable that two guys could make so much mess in just the space of a few hours.

  Ben let them sleep while he took a shower, cleaned and redressed his wounds and changed into fresh clothes and packed some things for the trip, including Paul Harris’s passport. He unloaded and stripped his pistol, and added it to the cache of weaponry he’d already hidden from his temporary houseguests. Lastly he scribbled a note saying, ‘Back soon’, which he left on the table along with another few euros in case they needed to send out for a pizza. The things you had to think of.

  Then Ben quietly left the safehouse, returned to the car and made the twenty-five-kilometre drive out of Paris to Charles de Gaulle Airport, where he paid cash for his flight ticket, no questions, no problems. Thank God some civilised traditions still existed. Sometime after midnight he checked into his executive room at the Hilton. Sarfaraz’s money might as well pay for a few luxuries while it lasted.

  Ben raided the mini-bar for all the scotch he could find, and sat on the bed flipping TV channels to catch up on the latest news of the Paris terror incident. Amid all the speculation and breast-beating the media were coyly remaining politically correct as to the possible motives of the ‘Allahu Akbar’-screaming attackers, while nonetheless happy to broadcast all the gruesome scenes from the aftermath of the shooting. They’d managed to get the President out of hiding from the riots to deliver an impassioned statement about bringing the perpetrators of this latest atrocity to justice, even if nobody seemed to know quite who they were. None of the regular terrorist groups had so far stepped up to claim responsibility.

  Nor was there any mention of a bogus plain-clothes police detective seen fleeing from the scene, whom authorities were seeking to help them with their inquiries. Then again, you couldn’t believe everything you saw on TV.

  Ben turned it off, poured himself another drink and stood out on the balcony with a cigarette, watching the activity at the airport terminal across the way. Feeling suddenly very weary, he undressed and clambered into bed.

  Today had been a long day. Tomorrow might be even longer, and he had no idea what it might bring.

  Chapter 31

  Two hours and forty-six minutes after takeoff from Miami, the Air Sunshine flight with one Paul Harris on board touched down on the runway on the island of St Thomas. Cyril E. King International airport was its own little peninsula stretching out over the ocean. From the air it looked like a grounded aircraft carrier. St Thomas was the largest of the islands, with a few smaller ones dotted around. An invisible line separated the US territory from the British Virgin Islands, just thirty kilometres across the water.

  Mr Harris was travelling light, with just a single bag whose battered military appearance drew a few inquisitive looks from the customs officials. After clearing security he stepped out into the balmy early evening. The sun was beginning to set, casting shimmering hues of gold and crimson and purple over the ocean. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. It felt a long, long way from the cold and damp of northern France, and it was. Off-season, the island was far less packed with tourists than it might have been. The laid-back Caribbean vibe was in evidence everywhere, and under different circumstances a fellow could have been forgiven for making straight for the nearest beach bar and seeing out the glorious sunset with a rum cocktail or two. But Ben wasn’t here for the scenic tour.

  While he was still en route to Charles de Gaulle, Keegan had called back to say that one of Roth’s ‘people’ would come to pick him up at the island airport. Ben hadn’t been waiting long when a bright-yellow Ford Mustang screeched into the parking lot and pulled up nearby. The guy who stepped out of the car wore dark glasses, a Panama hat and a tropical flowery shirt that hung loose enough around his middle to conceal a handgun.

  ‘You Hope?’ His mouth twisted when he talked, like a snarl.

  Ben nodded. ‘What do I call you? Bugsy? Baby Face?’

  ‘I’m Angelo,’ the guy snarled back at him. Pulling out a phone he stabbed a number and muttered, ‘He’s here.’ As he put the phone away Ben got a glimpse of the revolver butt sticking out of Angelo’s cargo trousers.

  Ben said, ‘I thought Roth didn’t use a phone, as a rule.’

  ‘He don’t.’ Angelo motioned towards the car. ‘Let’s go. He’s waitin’.’

  Ben didn’t much care for the guy’s tone, or for the fact that he’d come armed. He said nothing as he got in the car. Angelo dived in behind the wheel and took off with a raspy V8 roar and a squeal of tyres. They sped out of the airport and turned out into a long sweeping coastal boulevard following the twisty contour of the shoreline with verdant forested hills rising up on one side, the shimmering golden ocean on the other. People drove on the left in the US Virgin Islands, like in Britain, despite the cars having left-hand drive.

  Ben lit up a Gauloise without winding down his window. Angelo flashed him a disapproving look from behind the dark glasses, but didn’t pull out his revolver. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

  Ben asked, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Across the island to meet the boat.’

  The sun was sinking fast. Ben asked, ‘You planning to take those shades off after nightfall, or do you like to drive blind?’

  ‘I can see just fine,’ Angelo mumbled. ‘Don’t you worry about me, buddy.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Just don’t let me see that gun again. Or you won’t like what happens next, okay?’

  Angelo fell silent and didn’t speak another word for the rest of the journey. Night fell. The road skirted the islands’ capital of Charlotte Amalie, then left the city behind, snaking west and north as their headlights shone through thick forest that hugged the road, now and then passing a solitary house. From what Ben had understood, Roth lived on one of the smaller islands off St Thomas.

  They passed by the small town of Bonne Esperance, and continued a winding route westwards until the twisting road had gradually narrowed with jungle-like foliage encroaching on both sides. Then the trees parted and Ben saw the dark ocean filling the horizon. The car snaked down a winding cliff track that led to a tiny harbour. Angelo pulled up by an old wooden jetty, to which was moored a motor cruiser, its lights bobbing on the water that lapped at the shore.

  Angelo turned on the car’s interior light and nodded towards the boat. Ben grabbed his bag and got out, while Angelo remained at the wheel. Ben walked away without saying a word to him. He walked along the jetty to the waiting boat. Its pilot was a dreadlocked Afro-Caribbean guy who was smoking a cigar and greeted Ben with a smile and a ‘Hail up, Pardnah,’ and introduced himself as Emile.

  Ben climbed aboard, and Emile cast off. The boat burbled out to sea, the twin outboards churning up a white wake behind them. The ocean was flat and smooth, but this was hurricane season and things could get rough without warning. Emile smoked and talked incessantly over the burble of the engines, speaking a form of Creole English out of which Ben caught maybe one word in five. Ben asked him where they were headed, and Emile pointed westwards and replied, ‘Over deh ih Savana Island, Bahss. That’s where we be goin.’

  Ben peered into the darkness. ‘Roth lives there?’

  Emile grinned, ‘Sure does, mos’ defenetly.’

  ‘The guy with the hat. Does he work for Roth too?’

  Emile’s smile fell away as he replied darkly, ‘Angelo? Yuh cyan trust dat moomoo.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  The boat burbled on. After a few more minutes the dark silhouette of Savana Island could be made out against the night sky, a hemispherical dome rising out of the ocean to blot out the stars. Ben could make out a few faint
lines by the shore, another jetty that he guessed was their destination. As they chugged closer Emile steered the cruiser towards a tiny inlet. Forested cliffs loomed high overhead. Emile cut the motors and they bumped against the jetty and lashed up. On shore, the lights of a Jeep flared into life. Ben disembarked and headed towards the waiting vehicle, where he was met by another Afro-Caribbean much less loquacious than Emile, and a burly white guy who said, ‘Yo, my name’s Charlie. I work for Mr Roth. Okay if I frisk you, bud?’

  Ben said it was okay, and held out his arms to let him do his work. What Keegan had said about Roth’s paranoia was no joke, obviously. Charlie finished patting him down and said, ‘You’re clean. Welcome to Savana Island.’ He ushered Ben into the open-top Jeep. The Afro-Caribbean guy gunned the engine, and they took off with Charlie riding shotgun, climbing fast into the dark forested hills.

  The track was steep and twisting, and badly surfaced with ruts full of white sand that made the Jeep tyres dig in deep and spin for traction. The night air ruffled Ben’s hair and shirt, thick with the warm scent of the sea mixed with palm vegetation and flowers. They bumped along for about a mile without seeing any sign of human habitation, then rounded a bend in the track and a house suddenly came into view. It stood perched high on a clifftop with big windows overlooking the ocean and a decking on stilts that jutted out over the cliff edge.