SCOTT MARIANI
The Shadow Project

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

First published in paperback by HarperCollinsPublishers, 2010

Copyright © Scott Mariani 2010

Cover design © Henry Steadman 2016

Scott Mariani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780007358021

Version: 2019-12-06

Technological progress is like an axe in the hands of a pathological criminal.

Albert Einstein

The dogma of Christianity gets worn away before the advances of science.

Adolf Hitler

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

The Ben Hope series

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Scott Mariani

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The Sonoran Desert

An hour’s drive from Maricopa, Arizona Early May

Rock and dust, scrub and cactus and the blinding white sun beating down. Nobody ever came out here.

The dust from two off-road vehicles drifted upwards into the still air as they bounced and lurched across the arid wilderness. The big silver Subaru 4×4 in front crunched to a halt on the stones, doors opened and three men got out.

One of them didn’t want to be there. He stood out from the other two, and not just because he was the only Japanese guy and they were white Europeans. He was also the only one with a .45 auto to the back of his head and his wrists bound behind his back. Tape, not cord. Cord would leave a mark, and his captors didn’t want that. A length of the same silver duct tape was pressed firmly to his face, muffling his protests. The T-shirt he was wearing was damp with sweat.

His captors knew his name – Michio Miyazaki – and that he was a scientist. Beyond that, it wasn’t their concern why this was happening to him.

The bright red Jeep Cherokee following the Subaru pulled up alongside. Its driver killed the engine, stepped down, ran her fingers through her blond hair and wiped the sweat on her jeans. There was no sound except the ticking of hot metal and the feeble protests of the prisoner as the two men started marching him away from the vehicles.

The Jeep was Miyazaki’s, as was the technical equipment in the back. When this was over, it would look as though the scientist had been out here on a research trip, collecting samples. That fitted his profile. He was unmarried, single, no kids, tended to keep to himself, and he wasn’t a well man. Nobody would question what was about to take place.

The woman walked around to the passenger side of the Jeep, opened the door and lifted out the small container she’d been riding uncomfortably beside through the desert. This was one item that didn’t belong to Miyazaki. It was a pale blue plastic lunchbox, with tiny air holes pricked in the top. What was inside weighed almost nothing. The woman held it away from her at arm’s length. With her other hand she grabbed a shoulder bag from the footwell, then shut the Jeep door and trotted to catch up with the others. As she joined them she could hear the prisoner pleading with them through his gag.

They all ignored him.

‘This’ll be fine,’ the taller of the two white men said in their own language, glancing around him. The stocky guy with the muscles straining under his cotton shirt kept the .45 aimed at Miyazaki’s head.

The woman set the container down on the ground and stepped back, happy to get some distance from it. She reached into the shoulder bag and pulled out a pair of thick leather gauntlets. Tossed the right glove to her colleague, then the left.

‘You do it,’ she said. ‘I’m not touching that thing.’

The tall man pulled on the gloves. The one with the gun swept his foot out and Miyazaki crumpled on his back into the dirt. He was crying now, tears streaking the dust on his face.

The tall man walked over to the container and squatted down beside it. The others watched as, very carefully, he unsnapped the lid, lifted a corner, peered inside, dipped his gloved hand into the container and stood up with the thing in his fist.

Miyazaki started struggling and protesting with renewed energy when he saw the glistening brown scorpion trapped between the man’s fingers. He’d spent his life deeply involved in one small specialised corner of science, but he had enough knowledge of other disciplines to know that these people had done their research well. This was an Arizona bark scorpion, one of the most lethal arachnids on the planet.

Miyazaki couldn’t take his eyes from the creature as the tall man walked towards him with a smile. He struggled against his bonds as the scorpion came closer and closer. He could see it wriggling, the long tail lashing out, the stinger turgid with venom. Now it was right over him, six inches above his heaving chest. He could feel his heart pounding dangerously fast.

The man dropped it on him.

The scorpion landed on its feet and froze, as if cautiously assessing its new surroundings. Miyazaki began to gibber, every muscle in his body racked tight as he strained to see the thing that was perched on his torso.

But the scorpion was more interested in flight. It scuttled away, slithered down his ribs and dropped down onto the sand.

‘Shit.’ The tall man stepped quickly over to where the creature was trying to dig itself in, and scooped it back up. Sand ran out from between his fingers as he clenched the scorpion tightly in his palm.

‘Try again,’ the woman said.

The tall man nodded. He admired the creature. These things were tough. They’d been around for millions of years, unchanged, perfect. And they’d still be around long after humankind had obliterated itself. He didn’t want to harm it, just to stress it a little and activate its primal defence mechanisms. He squeezed hard and gave it a shake, feeling its hard carapace wriggle through the glove. Then he held it over Miyazaki’s exposed neck, where sweat was pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat, and let it drop a second time.

This time the creature landed on Miyazaki’s skin with its defences on full alert, poised to strike. The stinger lashed out, faster than a rattlesnake, and found its mark.

The scientist screamed behind the tape and thrashed on the sand as the creature scuttled away. His captors could see where the scorpion had stung him, a livid pin-prick already swelling on his neck three-quarters of an inch from the jugular artery.

‘That should do it,’ the woman said over the muffled cries of terror.

‘Gonna kill the fucking thing now,’ said the stocky guy, watching the scorpion as it ran towards the cover of the rocks. He pointed the pistol.

The woman slapped his arm down. ‘No shooting.’

‘Yeah, leave it be,’ the tall one said.

The stocky guy gave a shrug and put the pistol away. They looked down at the prisoner. His movements were already slowing, eyes rolling back in his head as the toxic shock started shutting down his weak heart. After another minute he wasn’t convulsing or kicking any more. His arched back sank down against the sand, his head lolled to one side and stayed there.

The tall man kneeled down next to the body and used a clasp knife to cut the tape from the dead man’s wrists. Once that was done, he ripped away the gag.

‘Now let’s dress this thing up to look how it’s meant to,’ the woman said.

The Picos de Europa mountain range Northern coast of Spain Two days later

The killers set out early. Seven in the morning, the low sun was glinting over the mountain peaks.

They’d driven up until they ran out of track. It was a long way down to the tree line. The cold breeze buffeted the van and made it hard to open the door. The woman stepped down from the vehicle and shivered. Reaching for the Minolta binoculars that hung from her neck, she scanned the mountainside, up, down, left and right. Nothing but rocks and shrubs.

Her two colleagues got out and walked around the van to join her. ‘OK?’ the tall man asked her without a smile.

‘Let’s get it done.’ She stepped over to the back of the van, opened up the back doors.

Julia Goodman blinked as the sunlight hit her eyes. Her heart was in her mouth and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She knew what was coming. She’d known it for days. Just not how they’d do it.

‘Let’s go,’ the woman said.

‘Please.’ Julia had repeated that word so often, it seemed to have lost all meaning. But all she could do was keep saying it and hope. Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Please.’

The woman looked at her impassively.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Julia had been saying that a lot, too. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make it work. I—’

‘Save your breath.’

With a last glance around them, the two men dragged Julia from the van. She struggled and kicked, but they held her tight and her cries vanished in the wind.

The woman walked around to the side door, slid it open and yanked out the quilted jacket, the hiking boots, the rucksack. Everything inside it had been checked and double-checked, right down to the keys to the blue Renault Espace that had been leased in the university lecturer’s name two months earlier. The Renault had already been transported to a hidden storage facility nearby. By the time the accident was reported, the car would be up here waiting for the police to find it.

Again, they’d thought of everything. They always did, every detail. It was what they were paid for.

The woman carried the gear over to Julia and dumped it at her feet. ‘Put it on.’

Julia obeyed, weeping uncontrollably and shaking so badly she could barely tie the bootlaces.

‘Please,’ she kept saying. ‘Please.’

‘You want to die some other way?’

‘I don’t want to die,’ she sobbed. She collapsed to her knees and sank down to the stony ground. ‘I don’t.’

The men yanked her up by the arms and held her steady as the woman grabbed the rucksack and looped the straps around Julia’s arms, then walked round to her front and did up the fastenings. Julia was sagging at the knees, too weak to fight, making little whimpering sounds.

‘See?’ the woman told her. ‘If you don’t fight it, it’ll be much easier.’

Twenty yards from where they were parked, the ground sloped sharply down to the edge of the precipice. The woman and the two men kept a tight hold of Julia as they walked her in that direction.

‘Please don’t do this,’ Julia pleaded desperately. ‘I’ll keep trying. I’ll work harder. I can make it work. I know I can. Give me another chance. Some more time. I—’

‘Shut it,’ the tall man commanded, and she did.

Then, with a sudden surge of energy, she ripped free of their grip. The stocky guy made a grab for her hair. She lashed out with a hiking boot, and he yelled in pain as the steel toecap caught his shin. Then she was dashing away from them, scrambling over the rocks.

She didn’t get far before they caught up with her and dragged her back. Ten yards to the edge. Five. Three. A sheer, vertiginous, thousand-foot drop below. The wind was whipping her hair across her face, sticking to her tears. She let out a cry when she looked down.

‘Nice view from up here,’ said the stocky guy, still grimacing with the pain in his shin. Then three strong pairs of hands shoved her hard down the slope towards the edge. She lost her footing and stumbled and rolled, grasping for stones and rocks, anything that would halt her momentum as she slithered towards the drop. Her fingertips found a crack in the rock, and suddenly she stopped sliding and was dangling with her legs in space. Her eyes were crazed, teeth bared, her breathing rapid.

‘Damn,’ the woman breathed. ‘Why do they always make things difficult?’

‘Don’t let me fall,’ Julia implored them. ‘Help me. Please. Don’t let me die.’

‘Could just leave her,’ the tall man said. ‘She won’t hang on forever.’

The woman shook her head. ‘I want to see her go over.’ She thought about the options. Too risky to scramble down the slope towards the edge and kick her hands loose. A long stick would work, but there wasn’t one around. She saw a jagged stone and picked it up. Hefted it in her hand. It was about the right size and weight. ‘No,’ Julia quavered.

The woman lobbed the stone. It caught Julia on the cheekbone. She let go of the rock and went tumbling into empty space with a guttural shriek that died away as she spun and cartwheeled down to the rocks below.

Four long, drawn-out seconds later, the scream was cut short along with Julia Goodman’s life.

Then the killers returned calmly, quietly, to the van, thinking about what to do with the rest of the day.

Chapter Two

Le Val Tactical Training Unit Near Valognes, Normandy Six weeks later

Ben Hope was sitting at his desk facing a mountain of papers, letters, contracts, insurance policies and bank statements, feeling impatience mounting up inside him and wanting to dash the whole lot to the floor when his radio beeped and Raymond on the security gate informed him that the first of the new clients had arrived.

A few seconds later, a gleaming black Porsche Boxster roared into the yard. It circled between the buildings and let out two long blasts of its horn.

‘Here comes Rollickin’ Holligan,’ said Jeff Dekker from his desk on the opposite side of the office and looking at his watch. ‘Right on time.’ Jeff was a former officer of the SBS, the Royal Navy’s Special Forces regiment, and Ben’s right-hand man at Le Val.

Ben threw a glance at his friend and felt like saying something about respecting clients, but kept his mouth shut. The truth was, he didn’t like Rupert Shannon any more than Jeff did, and had been glad that almost two months had passed without the guy turning up. But business was business, and the ex-Para and his new six-man bodyguard team had booked Le Val for an intensive two-day refresher course in VIP close protection after landing some new contract in Switzerland. That was what Ben did, pass on his special skills to men like Shannon, so that vulnerable people would be kept safe and protected. His opinion of the guy didn’t matter.

Ben and Jeff both got up from their desks and walked over to the window.

‘I was getting bored of paperwork anyway,’ Jeff said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Just think. This time next week I’ll be in Nice, basking on a beach with a frosted glass in my hand. You should come along. Five days of doing nothing but sitting watching the girls go by.’

‘And no paperwork,’ Ben said with a smile.

Jeff rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t bloody wait.’

‘It’s been a busy time. You deserve a holiday.’

‘So do you. The place is closing down for that week anyway.’

Ben laughed. ‘Only so that I can catch up on all the other things that need doing around here.’

They watched through the window as the Porsche parked up across the yard, near the small bungalow that Ben had built for Jeff next to the trainee accommodation block. The early evening sunlight glittered off the car’s sleek bodywork and tinted windows. The driver’s door swung open and Rupert Shannon climbed out wearing aviator shades, a shiny black leather jacket and a wide grin. The breeze ruffled his sandy hair and he quickly patted it back into place as he glanced around him.

Jeff shook his head in disgust. ‘Will you take a look at this guy? If the fucker was made of chocolate, he’d eat himself.’

Ben was about to head for the door to greet their new arrival, when the Porsche’s passenger door opened.

‘Shit,’ Jeff muttered. ‘I had a feeling she’d be with him.’

Ben followed Jeff’s gaze and saw Brooke Marcel get out and walk around the side of the car. Her thick auburn hair was tied loosely back from her face, and she was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt that hugged her slim figure. She looked as good as she always did, but today Ben thought he could see a frown on her face, a certain self-consciousness in her body language. She looked down at her feet a couple of times as she followed Shannon across the yard towards the office building. Seemed to be trailing behind, holding back. It wasn’t like her.

‘Why is Brooke here?’ Ben murmured. ‘She’s not needed for this course. This is purely practical. Shannon doesn’t need lectures in hostage psychology.’

Jeff didn’t say anything.

‘And what’s she doing with him?’ Ben added.

Jeff gave a derisory snort. ‘Can’t you tell?’

‘They’re—’

‘Yup. Looks like it. They’re an item.’

‘Since when?’

‘Not sure. Since the last course, I think. I’d noticed they were spending a lot of time together. I was going to tell you. Must have slipped my mind. Or maybe I just didn’t want it to happen. Denial, or something.’

Ben watched her approach. Dr Brooke Marcel. Expert in hostage psychology, with an alphabet of letters after her name. Based in London, she’d spent years as a consultant to specialised police and military units, but was recently spending more and more time lecturing at Le Val. She was thirty-five, maybe thirty-six. He suddenly realised that maybe he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought.

‘No reaction?’ Jeff asked, watching him closely.

‘Not my business,’ Ben said.

‘Come on. There’s always been something between you two. All those nights sitting together in the kitchen, drinking wine, listening to music. Going for walks. Don’t act like you don’t care.’

‘There’s never been anything going on between me and Brooke. Only in your head.’

‘I don’t know what she sees in that pumped-up twit, anyway. You’re more her type.’

Ben ignored that. ‘He is what he is, but he’s paying a lot of money for this course.’

‘I get it. You want me to be nice to the bastard.’

‘Too much to ask?’

Jeff kept his eyes on Shannon as he chewed it over. ‘It just might be, yeah.’

‘Remember what we agreed, Jeff,’ Ben said. ‘At Le Val we always respect our clients, no matter what. OK?’ But he didn’t like the lecturing way it came out.

‘Even the arseholes.’

‘Especially the arseholes.’ Ben walked over to the door, opened it and stepped out just as Shannon reached the building. Jeff followed him outside, muttering something that Ben didn’t catch.

Shannon’s grin broadened as he greeted them. He was a big guy. At six-three he was four inches taller than Ben, probably fifty pounds heavier, about five years younger. He raised his hand to his face and whipped off the shades.

‘Ciao, Jeff, ciao, Benjamin,’ he brayed at them. ‘How’s it going, boys?’

‘It’s Benedict, not Benjamin. And you can call me Ben.’ Not a great start, he thought.

Shannon grunted with a dismissive gesture. ‘Whatever. Benedict, Benjamin, Ben, it’s all the same to me.’

Ben could feel Jeff bristling beside him. He threw him a quick warning glance. Respect the client, no matter what.

Brooke came up behind Shannon. ‘Hello, Ben,’ she said softly, and smiled.

‘Hi, Brooke.’ Ben patted her arm affectionately, like he always did. Shannon noticed it, and cleared his throat.

‘The rest of the guys should be arriving soon,’ he said.

‘Fine. The accommodation’s ready for you all.’ Ben pointed over at the trainees’ block, across the yard from the main farmhouse.

‘I won’t be kipping here,’ Shannon said. He put a big arm around Brooke’s shoulders and pulled her tightly against his side. ‘Us two are booked into the Cour du Château. This little lady deserves a bit more luxury than this old place has to offer.’

‘That’s miles away,’ Ben said.

Shannon grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be here bright and early in the morning. Always punctual.’

‘Nice wheels, Rupert,’ Jeff said dryly, motioning towards the Porsche.

Shannon’s eyes twinkled. ‘Oh yes. I’ve hit the fucking jackpot this time.’

‘So this would be the contract you were telling me about,’ Ben said.

Shannon nodded. ‘You don’t know the half of it, Benjamin. Steiner Industries. Protecting the head honcho himself, Maximilian Steiner.’

‘Kidnap threat?’

‘One attempt so far,’ Shannon said. ‘Failed, but only just. What d’you expect? The guy’s a billionaire, for Christ’s sakes. Have I hit paydirt, or what? He’s paying one point two million for this gig. And there’s a shitload more to come. You should see the place we’re going.’

‘Congratulations, Rupert,’ Ben said. ‘Looks like this new business venture of yours is really taking off.’

‘You bet your arse it is. And this is just the beginning, pal. I’ve been looking at new offices. Docklands, right on the river, three floors. PA, receptionists, you name it, the works.’

‘Here’s my advice, though,’ Ben said. ‘I know you’re flush from getting this Steiner contract. That’s great. I’m pleased for you. But take it easy. Don’t go mad with it. This is a tough business, and you never know what’s round the corner.’

Shannon reddened. ‘Listen to this guy. Are you for real, Hope?’

‘I just meant, be careful, that’s all. Don’t go spending it all at once, before you’ve even earned it.’

Shannon laughed and slapped him on the arm. ‘You sound like my fucking nanny. You know what your problem is? You’re getting old and slow.’

‘Forty next birthday,’ Ben said. ‘Be dead soon.’

‘Fucking forty,’ Shannon guffawed. ‘Five years from now you’ll be just another flabby-arsed, ulcer-ridden businessman sitting behind a desk.’

‘You might be right,’ Ben said. Now he could sense indignation radiating from Jeff in waves. Couldn’t say he blamed him.

Shannon grinned down at Brooke and squeezed her to his side. ‘Now why don’t we see about heading back to the hotel and grab some nosh?’

‘Any plans for tomorrow?’ Ben asked her.

She shrugged. ‘Not really.’

‘We’ll be doing kidnap simulation exercises in the morning. How d’you feel about coming along and playing the principal?’

‘Sounds fun,’ she smiled. ‘Looking forward to it.’

Chapter Three

The Sheldon Hotel, Dublin The next morning, 10.15

The audience broke into enthusiastic applause as the speaker brought his presentation to an end. Up on the low stage, Dr Adam O’Connor smiled from the podium, thanked them all for listening and started gathering up his notes. People rose from their seats and started filtering out towards the exit. Adam folded up his laptop, walked over to the projector and turned it off.

He was pleased with himself. The last fifteen minutes of the talk had been a Q and A session and, judging by the level of interest, he was pretty sure he’d get back home to find some new orders coming in. ‘The smart house is the home of the future’ had been his closing line. It looked as though his audience felt that way too.

As he wound up the cable from the laptop to the projector, Adam cast his mind back, thinking about the last eighteen months and how well things were going. His academic colleagues at City University NY had all thought he was crazy, giving up a plum academic position to go off and start up a new business from the ground up. Back to the old country, they’d joked. But Adam was serious about his Irish roots – virtually the first thing he’d done on hitting these shores was to change his surname from Connor and reinstate the missing ‘O’ that the English had forcibly removed from the names of his ancestors. Adam O’Connor. He liked the way it sounded. New name, new life.

As for the business side, what he didn’t like to boast about to his former colleagues was that selling smart house technology installations was able to bring him in ten times his old academic salary, and rising fast every month. Not bad for a physics geek. He should have done this ages ago. Everything was better here – the air was cleaner, the countryside was lush and beautiful, the people were open and friendly. He felt he’d come home at last. The new environment in the Wicklow Hills was wonderful for his thirteen-year-old son, Rory, and the house itself was fantastic. Seven months of sweating over architect’s plans, but it had been worth it. Stunning lakeside view, a dozen large open-plan rooms, beautiful wood and acres of glass, incorporating many of his own patented designs. Teach na Loch was the Gaelic name he’d chosen. He could pronounce it pretty well now, getting his tongue round the guttural consonants. Tee-ach na Loch: the Lake House.

For a fleeting moment he thought about Amy and wondered where she was now. Last seen heading off towards southern California on the pillion of a chopped Harley with her arms around some large, hairy guy in denim and leather. Never a thought for her kid, let alone her husband.

That’s what you get for being a nerd, Adam thought to himself.

The last time they’d spoken was over a year ago. Seemed like a different life now. And Rory seldom asked about his mom any more.

The last of the delegates were filtering out of the entrance as Adam zipped up his bags, looked at his watch, picked up the copy of the Irish Times he’d bought that morning and thought about heading for home.

Just then, he heard a little cough behind him, and turned to see who was there. Stepping furtively out from behind one of the curtains that flanked the entrance was a figure he recognised. Someone he hadn’t heard from in quite a while.

‘Lenny,’ he said, surprised.

‘Hi, Adam,’ Lenny Salt muttered in a low voice. He walked up between the empty rows of seats, glancing nervously about him.

So nothing had changed, then, Adam thought. Still the same old Lenny, always acting as though the Men in Black were just one step behind him. Physically, he hadn’t changed much either. A little more stooped, maybe. A little greyer and, as he came closer, it seemed to Adam as though his teeth were fewer and blacker.

Adam put out his hand. The limp handshake was still the same, too.

‘What brings you here, Lenny?’ he said, smiling pleasantly, while wondering what the hell this was about. ‘Good presentation, man.’

‘You’re in the market for a smart house?’ Adam knew he wasn’t.

Salt shook his head. ‘No, man. We need to talk.’

Ten minutes later they were sitting over coffees in the hotel bar downstairs. Adam wanted to make this quick. Salt was a rambler, especially when he got started on his pet subjects – and if it was radical and wacky enough, he was up for it. UFOs one year, the fake moon landings the next. He’d hold you with his glittering eye, and, three hours later, you’d still be sitting there none the wiser and your smile beginning to freeze on your lips, wishing you were somewhere else or just had the courage to ask the silly old bastard to shut up.

Today, Lenny Salt looked especially spooked. Maybe he was just getting crazier with age, Adam thought.

‘What did you want to talk about, Lenny? I don’t have a lot of time.’ He slipped a hand in his pocket and restlessly fingered the key to his Saab. ‘My sister’s coming to stay for a few days, I have a new housekeeper arriving after lunch, and Rory’s on his own. Need to get back.’ He reached for his cup.

But Lenny Salt didn’t seem interested in Adam’s home life. He leaned forward.

‘Julia’s dead.’

Adam’s cup abruptly stopped halfway to his mouth. ‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Our Julia? Julia Goodman?’

Salt nodded.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘She fell off a mountain in Spain. They found the body last week. She’d been down there a while. Very nasty.’

Adam put the cup down on its saucer with a rattle. Sank his head in his hands, his mind suddenly filled with images and memories. ‘This is awful. Poor Julia.’

‘It wasn’t an accident, man.’

Adam looked up sharply.

‘Nah. It was just made to look like one. Nobody had heard from her in three months. She apparently just went off on her own. Doesn’t that sound a bit strange to you?’

‘She was into hiking in a big way.’

Salt raised an eyebrow.

‘Come on, Lenny. This is nuts. Isn’t it awful enough that she’s dead, without making up crazy—’

‘I know what you think about me. But this isn’t crazy.’

Adam felt a flush of anger in his cheeks. ‘Then tell me how you know there’s something strange about it. What makes you so sure?’

‘Because there’s more to it that I haven’t told you,’ Salt said. ‘If you’d let me finish.’

‘Then what?’

‘Michio’s gone too.’

‘Michio often goes off places without warning,’ O’Connor said testily. ‘His research takes him to every desolate corner of the planet. He’s probably wandering about on a glacier somewhere as we speak, collecting ice samples.’

Salt shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. He’s dead as well.’

Adam stared at him.

‘Died of a scorpion sting out in Arizona. Forgot to pack his anti-venom, apparently. Oh, and his heart pills too. Very convenient.’

Adam took a few seconds to digest all this, staring into his coffee. He couldn’t drink any more.

‘How come you know so much, Lenny? How come I haven’t heard anything?’

‘I’m not the one who cut himself away,’ Salt replied. ‘I didn’t turn my back on my friends, man. I stayed in touch with the rest of the Krew.’

‘Never mind the damn Kammler Krew. That was never a serious thing, and you know it.’

‘It was for Julia, Michio and me.’

Adam didn’t want to get into old arguments. ‘How did you find out about Michio?’

‘His brother emailed me a couple of weeks ago.’

‘And you didn’t call me about this? Two old friends die, and you don’t think to tell me about it?’

‘I didn’t have your number.’

‘I gave it to you.’

Salt shrugged. ‘I didn’t write it down. I don’t like to use the phone. You never know who might be listening in.’ He leaned across the table with a conspiratorial look. ‘Listen to me, man. Something’s up. Something bad.’

‘You’re not suggesting that Julia’s and Michio’s deaths are connected?’

‘Of course that’s what I’m suggesting. It’s obvious. Someone murdered them, and now they’re coming after us. We’re all that’s left of the old Kammler Krew. Now it’s just you and me.’

Chapter Four

At that moment, deep within the acres of dense forest that surrounded the training facility at Le Val, Brooke was sitting reading a paperback in the specially adapted cottage that Ben Hope referred to as his killing house.

It was the place where the bulk of the tactical raid and assault exercises were carried out, the many bullet holes and ragged splinters in the plywood walls silent witnesses to the amount of live-fire practice that went on there. The two-seater sofa Brooke was reclining on, deep in her novel, had looked better in the days before it had become riddled with 9mm rounds; one end was resting on bricks, and the stuffing was hanging out all over the place.

Today, though, there was to be no live shooting. Brooke was playing the role of a VIP, albeit the kind of VIP that would be hanging out in a semi-derelict cottage wearing faded jeans and an old rugby top. Shannon’s guys – Neville, Woodcock, Morgan, Burton, Powell and Jackson – were stationed at strategic points inside and outside the building, assigned to protect their charge from Ben’s squad of ‘kidnappers’. The imminent raid was a test designed to expose any weaknesses in Shannon’s team and form the basis of the training sessions to come. They’d been waiting for what seemed like an eternity, and so far no sign.

As team leader, Shannon had insisted on remaining closest to his principal. He was padding up and down the room in his black tactical clothes, glancing at her occasionally, trying not to look edgy, the empty 9mm Glock slapping on his thigh in its holster. The only sounds outside were the singing of the birds and the whisper of the breeze in the trees.

‘I don’t like this place,’ he muttered. ‘Too quiet.’

Brooke flipped a page and went on reading.

‘You’ve always got your face in a book,’ he said irritably. ‘You read too much. I don’t know how anyone can read all the time.’

‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘You’re the bodyguard, remember? You’re supposed to be protecting me, not chatting to me.’

He snorted and walked over to the window, stared out at the rustling greenery. ‘What’s keeping the bastard?’

Brooke glanced up at him. ‘You mean the guy you came here to learn from?’

He ignored her. ‘Come on, Hope,’ he murmured to himself.

‘He’ll come.’

‘He’ll never get to you, you know. No way he and his guys are going to get past my boys. There’s a reason why Steiner picked us, out of all the thousands of close protection outfits out there. It’s simple. We’re the best there is. Yeah.’ Shannon made a fist.

‘Nothing to do with your uncle the brigadier’s connections, then,’ Brooke said quietly, without looking up from her novel.

But Shannon didn’t hear. He gazed out of the window for a while longer, breathing noisily.

‘Maybe we didn’t even need to come here. Maybe I’m wasting time and money here. I mean, we’re ready. We’re fucking ready. You can’t improve on perfection.’ He turned away from the window, grinning to himself.

Then his grin froze.

And so did he.

‘Morning, Rupert,’ Ben said. He was sitting on the sofa beside Brooke, a pistol dangling lazily in his hand. The worn cushions were sagging in the middle, pressing them together so that their thighs were touching.

The door swung open, and Jeff Dekker walked in with Paul Bonnard and Raoul de la Vega, the two ex-military fitness trainers Ben employed as assistants. The shapes of Shannon’s men were visible through the doorway, face down on the bare floorboards, tape across their mouths, struggling against the plastic ties that bound their wrists and ankles. Trussed up like turkeys.

Shannon stared for a long moment. Next to Ben on the sofa, Brooke was trying to suppress a smile.

Ben stood up, slipping his pistol in its holster. ‘You need to pay more attention, Rupert. A gang of clog dancers could have come hopping and skipping in here, and you wouldn’t have noticed them. Maybe you should spend less time chatting to your principal, and more time focused on your job.’

‘You set me up,’ Shannon protested. ‘It was your idea to make her the principal.’

‘Good training,’ Ben said. ‘Teaches you to remain objective. That’s something we can work on a bit more over the next couple of days.’ He reached out a hand to Brooke and pulled her gently to her feet. ‘Break for coffee?’ he said to her.

She smiled. ‘Love to.’

‘Like fuck we will.’ Shannon ripped his Glock from its holster and pointed it at Ben. ‘Stand down. This isn’t over. Give her back.’

Ben wasn’t worried about having an empty pistol waved at him. But he was annoyed at the pointless gesture, and he didn’t like the way Shannon was shoving it in his face.

‘Drop it, Rupert. You’re out of the game. Your principal is taken. We’re having a break, and then we’re going to do this again, and keep doing it until your team’s providing effective protection. You do want to be worth that million, don’t you? You don’t want to be sent home from Switzerland in disgrace.’

But Shannon wasn’t listening. ‘Stand down,’ he yelled again. ‘Get on your knees. Hand over the principal.’

‘Rupert—’ Brooke began. Shannon ignored her and took another step towards Ben.

‘Put the weapon down,’ Ben said quietly. ‘You’re wasting everybody’s time. I’m not going to say it again, OK?’

Shannon kept the gun levelled. His face was burning red. ‘On your fucking knees,’ he bellowed. ‘Throw down your guns and let her go.’

Ben stared at him for a second, then moved. He carried out the disarming technique gently and at half speed. Because doing it properly at full speed, he would have trapped Shannon’s finger in the trigger guard and broken it like a twig when he twisted the weapon round out of his grip, disarming and crippling him at the same time. He didn’t want to do that.

But Ben was quick enough that Shannon’s hand was empty before he even knew what was happening. He tossed the weapon to Jeff, who was looking at Shannon in disgust.

‘You think you’re pretty fucking smart with your SAS tricks, don’t you?’ Shannon sneered. ‘None of that stuff’s worth shit in the real world.’

‘Change of plan,’ Ben said. ‘No coffee break. We’re going to work straight through the morning. Maybe through lunch, and through dinner if we have to. Nobody leaves this house until we get it right. Understood, Shannon?’

Shannon said nothing. Instead he came on another step and took a swing at Ben.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Jeff groaned.

The punch was long and curved, and Ben had plenty of time to anticipate it. He stepped easily back out of the arc of the blow. He didn’t try to block it. He didn’t want anyone getting hurt.

‘What’s wrong with you, Major Hope? Forgotten how to fight?’ Shannon took another swing, and again Ben moved out of the way.

‘You’re being ridiculous, Rupert,’ Brooke shouted. ‘This is supposed to be an exercise, not a bar-room brawl. What’s got into you?’

But Shannon had completely forgotten the exercise. ‘Just like I said, Hope. You’re getting too old and too slow for this, you fucker.’

Ben ignored him and calmly turned away. ‘Enough. Everyone back into position.’ He clapped his hands, twice. Pointed through the open door at Shannon’s trussed-up team. ‘Paul, Raoul, untie them. Let’s go again.’

It was partly the look on Jeff’s face, but mostly Ben’s natural instinct that made him sense the movement behind him.

It happened fast. He half-turned. This time Shannon was flying at him with all his weight and power.

If Ben had done nothing and stayed where he was, the incoming punch was on course to take him on the side of the head. Shannon was a muscular guy, with a broad back and thick shoulders. A blow like that could do considerable damage. Loss of hearing in one ear. Damage to an eye. Or worse.

Naturally, the blow couldn’t be allowed to land. Instead, Ben moved again. And this time he moved at full speed.

Shannon hit the floor with a crash that almost broke through the planks and sent him tumbling down into the foundations. He writhed and rolled and howled in agony, clutching his arm. ‘You bastard!’

Brooke ran over to Shannon and kneeled down beside him. ‘Let me see.’

‘He’s broken my fucking arm!’

She looked angrily up at Ben. ‘What did you do to him?’

Ben didn’t reply. Apart from Shannon’s groans, there was absolute silence in the room. Shannon’s men were lying there staring in horror through the open door at their prostrated leader.

Jeff had his arms folded and one eyebrow raised. Ben caught his look. Jeff didn’t have to say it. Respect the client, no matter what?

Shannon was still whimpering on the floor.

Ben turned to his assistants. ‘Raoul, call an ambulance, will you?’

Twenty minutes later, there were flashing blue lights in the yard at Le Val as paramedics took Shannon away on a stretcher. Ben watched from a distance, saying nothing, trying not to contemplate what had just happened. He looked on numbly as Brooke climbed into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics closed up the back doors and Ben lost sight of her.

‘Ben?’ said Jeff’s voice behind him, and Ben turned.

‘I’ll go along too. Best you stay here, OK?’

Ben nodded. ‘Fine.’

Jeff held his eye for a moment. It was hard to tell whether he was about to laugh or start yelling at him. Maybe both. Then he ran over to the ambulance and clambered in the front, leaving Ben standing there on his own. A blast of the siren, and the ambulance took off. He watched as it drove out of the yard and started making its way down the long drive towards the gates. He guessed they’d take Shannon to the hospital at Valognes, a few miles away.

There was nothing left to do except wait. Ben slumped on a low wall and lit up a cigarette. Storm, his favourite of the German Shepherds, and more of a pet than a guard dog, came running over and licked his face. Ben ran his fingers through the dog’s fur, genuinely grateful for the company.

He sat on the wall and smoked as Shannon’s team came filing past about thirty yards away, firing hostile looks across the yard at him and muttering among themselves in low voices. They disappeared one by one into the trainee block. Neville was the last to go in, shooting a long stare at Ben before slamming the olive-green door shut with a bang that echoed around the buildings. Paul and Raoul had repaired to the office, maybe awaiting his instructions.

He couldn’t think of any to give them. They might as well go home now.

He blew out a cloud of smoke and ruffled the dog’s ears.

‘Well, Storm, that surely was a fine morning’s work.’

Chapter Five

The outskirts of Dublin shrank away in the Saab’s rearview mirror as Adam O’Connor drove southwards into the green countryside. A choral air by the medieval composer Thomas Tallis filled the car from the six-speaker CD player, but Adam hardly heard the music. He was thinking about the deaths of his old friends, and feeling sad. And just a little guilty, too, that he’d allowed himself to lose contact with them.

Michio and Julia and him. Part of Adam missed those days. The three of them might have seemed an unlikely bunch of friends – the sober American professor quietly going crazy with his marital problems, the ebullient, fun-loving Japanese planetary scientist and the brilliant, hard-driving young head of the Applied Physics Department at Manchester University – but it had been great for a while, a refreshing antidote to the daily drag of teaching and research, lectures and seminars and department politics. There’d been a kind of innocent camaraderie between them, almost like schoolkids. From the outside, it might have seemed even stranger that what had drawn the trio together from across the world was their shared interest in an obscure, all-but-forgotten, wartime Nazi engineer and SS general. Hans Kammler had been personally appointed by Adolf Hitler in 1943 to work on some very, very strange things indeed.

Their first meeting had been a chance encounter at a physics conference in Cambridge, just about the driest and most uninspiring series of lectures Adam had ever listened to. He’d actually fallen asleep in the middle of the morning session, until he’d been prodded awake by the grinning little Japanese guy sitting next to him and he’d realised with a flush of embarrassment that he’d been snoring.

When the lecture ended, Michio had laughed about it all the way to the delegates’ lunch. Adam liked him right away, and sat with him. Across from them had been a bright-eyed, attentive and switched-on young British physics PhD who introduced herself as Julia Goodman.

Instant friends. Just one of those moments in life when people seemed to chime with one another. They’d endured the rest of the afternoon’s lectures as a threesome, then got together again for the evening in the bar at the hotel where many of the delegates were staying.

That had been when the ever-smiling Michio had first mentioned the name Kammler to them. He’d kept them up until after midnight in the bar, babbling on about his discoveries. The little guy’s almost hyperactive enthusiasm had been infectious, and it hadn’t taken him long to persuade them that this obscure piece of science history was more than just bizarrely compelling. Adam could still remember the rush of amazement he’d felt, and the look on Julia’s face, when Michio had told them what he reckoned the Nazis had really been into. If you were even half-alive, if academia hadn’t yet dried out your soul, it was the kind of physics that could turn your blood to wine just thinking about it.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Adam had asked Michio. Sometimes the most exciting theories were nothing more than a cool idea waiting to be destroyed by an ugly, inconvenient truth. But even as he’d asked the question, the sparkle in Michio’s eyes told him this was no fanciful notion.

‘I’m more than sure. I know they could make it work.’

‘But the implications of what you’re saying—’ Julia cut in.

‘Blows your mind, doesn’t it?’ Michio had grinned. ‘Get used to it. There’s more.’

And there was. The more Adam and Julia listened to what Michio had to say, the more incredible it seemed. This was pure, beautiful, intoxicating science. Nothing to do with politics or ideology. Science the way it was meant to be. It was easy to forget that the man behind it all was an SS general, one of the minds behind the building of Hitler’s death camps and, in the closing days of World War II, one of the top five figures in the dying Third Reich. Adam had found himself almost obsessively consumed with the Kammler theories, as the months went on. The three of them had started meeting up whenever they could – London, Tokyo, New York – and staying in touch via email in between, mulling over ideas, postulating what-if scenarios. It had become a little gang of three, and they’d even made up a fun name for it. The Kammler Krew. Almost as much as his relationship with his boy Rory, it had been what had sustained Adam through the dark times of his break-up with Amy.

About a year into their friendship, the trio had become a foursome with the arrival of Lenny Salt. Lenny liked to tell people that he was a physicist, but in fact he’d just been Julia’s lab assistant at Manchester, doing basic routine jobs that any decent first-year student could do. Adam hadn’t been too sure about his coming on board, and had thought that Julia was too soft in letting him join. She’d said that Lenny was deeply interested in the subject and that he’d be happy to do some research for them to help out. By the time they’d discovered he was unable to contribute much to their discussions except his own brand of conspiracy paranoia, it had been too late to say anything for fear of offending Julia.

Lenny Salt’s arrival had cooled Adam’s enthusiasm for the Kammler Krew. After another year and a couple more meetings, he could feel himself drifting away from the group. By that time the whole smart house thing had begun to take over Adam’s life in any case; he’d been winding up his teaching career, heavily involved in buying the plot of land in Ireland and designing, and subsequently building, Teach na Loch. With all that going on, he’d had less and less time to keep in touch with his fellow Krew members.

What nobody knew was that, though he’d slackened his involvement with the gang, Adam hadn’t lost his interest in the Kammler research. He’d still often sit up late into the night, day after day, working feverishly on his ideas, even after setting up in business and moving to Ireland. He had a bunch of notes on four CD-ROMS that he kept locked away in his safe at the house. Sometimes he’d think about it, when he was supposed to be working on his smart house business, and the possibilities would start to flood his mind all over again, coming so thick and fast he was almost choking.

The worst thing had been having to keep quiet. This stuff was just too hot, and not just because it derived from the work of a Nazi. It was hot because of its incredible, almost limitless implications. Never mind making millions from smart homes. If anyone could make the Kammler theories work, they’d be talking billions. Money on tap.

And maybe, Adam thought now as he drove, that was also the problem. With Julia and Michio dead and Lenny’s warnings still echoing in his ears, he could feel his heart beating and an icy chill run down his spine.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. Had that black Mercedes been following him all the way from Dublin? He started to worry as he watched it, taking his eyes off the road so long that he had to hit the brakes hard to avoid crashing into the back of a slowing truck. He overtook the truck, glanced nervously in the mirror and saw the Mercedes indicate and move out to follow him.

Shit. They are tailing me.

Don’t be ridiculous.

He drove faster nonetheless, and the Mercedes kept pace with him. Then, just as he was getting really edgy, a straight opened up ahead and the black car flashed by him, doing at least ninety. Adam laughed shakily to himself.

A couple of miles further on, he spotted the Mercedes in a fuel station forecourt and saw that the driver was a young woman with a small child.

He cursed Lenny Salt for putting daft ideas in his head. What a weirdo the guy was. What an insult to their poor friends to come out with such a cockamamie story and cheapen the tragedy of their deaths like that. It was typical of the conspiracy theory mindset. Pure ego. Like anyone would even think to come after a pathetic old fart who thought he was a real scientist.

Adam’s thoughts wandered back to Julia and Michio. The coincidence was terrible; but surely a coincidence all the same.

Just then, his mobile ringtone chimed through the car’s sound system.

It was the housekeeping agency. Adam frowned as he listened to the woman informing him that the new housekeeper wouldn’t be able to come until tomorrow, due to a minor road accident.

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘She just had a bit of a shock,’ said the woman. ‘She’ll be right as rain in no time, and with you tomorrow afternoon.’

Adam said he was pleased to hear that. Tomorrow afternoon was no problem. He ended the call and huffed with irritation. Wonderful. Now he’d have to start clearing up the house himself for Sabrina’s visit.

Don’t be such a jerk, Adam. You’ll survive. He stabbed at the CD player and switched from the Tallis to a lively Vivaldi violin concerto. Michio and Julia floated up in his thoughts again, and he tried to focus on driving.

A couple of minutes later, the phone rang again.

‘Dad?’

‘Hey, Rory.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Sorry I was held up. Be with you in about five minutes, all right?’

‘Don’t worry. Everything’s under control. She just got here.’

‘Sabrina’s there already?’

‘No, not Sabrina.’

‘Then who?’ Adam asked. Rory was like that. A separate question and answer for everything. You had to tease stuff out of him. He was at that age.

‘The housekeeper, stoopid,’ Rory said in an affected moronic voice. ‘Remember?’

‘I hate when you talk in that damn voice. And what are you going on about? The agency just called me to say she won’t be arriving until tomorrow.’

‘I don’t know,’ Rory said in a deadpan tone. ‘Maybe they changed their mind.’

‘How do you know it’s the housekeeper?’

‘Because I spoke to her just now on the security monitor. She said her name was Sue. I just buzzed her in the gate and she’s parking her van up outside. I’m watching her right now, from the window.’ A pause. ‘Where’s she from? Kinda weird accent.’

‘I’ll be there in exactly two minutes, all right?’

‘Hey, there’s a couple of guys with her,’ Rory said.

‘A couple of guys?’

‘Yeah, they’re walking towards the house.’

‘Rory, hold on till I get there. Don’t open the door.’

But the kid had already hung up.

The Saab was coming into the bends a mile and a half from the house as Adam dialled the number for the agency. ‘This is Adam O’Connor. We spoke a couple of minutes ago.’

‘Yes, Mr O’Connor?’ the same woman replied pleasantly.

‘Did I misunderstand you before? I thought you said nobody was coming out until tomorrow.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then where did this Sue come from?’ he asked, letting his irritation flood out. ‘And who are these two guys with her? You know, this kind of disorganisation doesn’t make you people look very good.’

‘We don’t have anyone called Sue working for us,’ the woman said archly. ‘There must be some confusion. And I must say I don’t like your tone, sir.’

‘Fine. Shove it up your ass. I’ll find someone else.’

Two seconds after the call was over, Adam started to feel the first trembles in his hands. He put his foot down and the needle soared as he rounded the side of the big hill and the solitary lake house came into view. Everything looked peaceful enough. Acres of glass and the surface of the lake glittered the sunlight back at him from between the rolling green hills. A perfect picture.

But he just knew something was terribly wrong.

The gates sensed his car approaching and opened automatically to let him through. He roared into the gateway and up the long drive.

There was no van parked anywhere. The shakes got worse, and his step was wobbly as he got out of the cool Saab and into the hot sun. He strode to the front door and said ‘Constantinople’ to the sensor. The lock clicked open and he ran through into the wide, airy entrance hall.

‘Rory?’ It was a big house, and you sometimes had to yell to communicate from one part to another. But from the instant he stepped inside, something told him the place was empty. ‘Rory?’

No reply. No Rory, no housekeeper. He checked the living room. Empty. Strode across the hall and thundered up the stairs and threw open his son’s bedroom door.

‘Dad, I wish you wouldn’t burst in like that.’ That was what Rory would have said to him, turning towards the door with a scowl. But Rory wasn’t there. His chess computer and TV and Blu-ray player and drawing pad and the model spyplane he was building were all exactly where they should be. But no Rory.

Adam was sweating cold now. Back downstairs, he called and called. Nothing. Checked the garden, the pool. Still nothing.

Then the phone rang. He rushed over to it. ‘Professor O’Connor?’ said a voice. A man’s voice, calm and soft. The accent was English, educated.

‘Yes.’

‘Professor Adam O’Connor?’

‘Who is this?’

‘We have your son.’

Adam almost collapsed at the words. His hands were shaking so violently that he needed both of them to keep the phone clasped tightly to his ear.

‘You will follow my instructions to the letter,’ the voice continued. ‘Any attempt to contact the police, any calls or communication with anyone from this moment on, we will know and Rory will die. Any failure or hesitation to do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you to do it, he will die. There will be no second warning. Do you understand?’

Adam managed a tiny ‘Yes’.

‘Good. Now listen to me very carefully.’

Chapter Six

In the casualty department waiting room in Valognes, Jeff Dekker got two foam cups of coffee from a machine down the corridor and carried them over to the row of plastic chairs where Brooke was sitting staring into space. He handed her a cup, then slumped down next to her.

He tried to sound upbeat. ‘Don’t look so miserable. I’m sure he’s going to be OK. We’ll know soon. They should have finished the X-ray by now.’ He took a loud slurp of coffee. ‘Jesus, this is revolting.’

Brooke sipped hers expressionlessly, as though the finest Blue Mountain roast or liquid shit would have been all the same to her.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Jeff said again cheerfully. His plastic chair creaked as he leaned back in it, stretching his legs out in front of him.

‘I hope so,’ Brooke murmured, taking another sip of the coffee.

‘Though I have to say, he had it coming.’

She said nothing.

‘And Ben hardly touched him, really.’ Brooke snorted. ‘That’s reassuring.’

‘Don’t be too pissed off with Ben. He was provoked.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘You know I’m not pissed off with him. I just wish this whole thing hadn’t happened.’

‘You can be sure that Ben feels that way too,’ Jeff said. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘What the hell was eating Shannon anyway? Acting like that—’

‘I think this was all my fault,’ she said miserably.

‘Your fault?’

She nodded. ‘Something I said.’

‘I didn’t hear you say a thing.’

‘Not then. Yesterday, in the car, on the way down.’

‘What did you say?’

She sucked air through her teeth. ‘It was about Ben.’

‘So?’

‘I think I just mentioned his name once too often, that’s all.’

‘You’re saying that Shannon’s jealous. He can tell how you feel about Ben.’

She turned to look at him. There was a flush of red in her cheeks. ‘It’s that obvious?’

‘To me, and everyone else,’ Jeff said. ‘Except Ben, that is.’

‘Everyone except Ben,’ she echoed sadly.

‘And when he got you to act out the role of the principal, that was too much for matey boy. He saw it as some kind of competition.’

She nodded. ‘Fighting over the female. Locking antlers like a couple of rutting stags.’

‘Except one of the stags didn’t even know what was going on.’

‘And it’s all because of me. Damn. I shouldn’t have agreed to it. I’m supposed to be a psychologist, for God’s sake! I’m supposed to know people’s minds.’

‘Why don’t you just tell Ben the way you feel about him?’

She shook her head.

‘We’re all grown ups. What’s the worst that can happen?’

‘That I’d lose his friendship, scare him away,’ she said. ‘I’d rather have him as a friend than not have him at all. You can’t force someone to love you.’

Jeff raised his eyebrows. ‘Whoa. Did you just use the L-word?’

Brooke closed her eyes and sank her head into her hands.

‘You’re actually in love with him?’

‘For a long time,’ she muttered, not looking up.

‘Shit.’

‘Don’t I know it.’

‘I didn’t think it was that serious. I thought it was just – you know.’

‘It wasn’t always. But after a while I realised I wasn’t just flirting with him.’

Jeff looked confused. ‘So wait a minute. You’re in love with Ben … but you’re going out with Shannon?’

‘Don’t go there, Jeff, all right?’

He shrugged. ‘I think it’s great, though. You and Ben. I can see it. Really.’

‘Apart from the fact that he doesn’t seem to know I even exist.’

‘You’ve got that all wrong. He loves spending time with you. I can always see he’s looking forward to your visits. He really likes you.’

‘But not in that way.’

Jeff didn’t reply.

She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘What a situation. Here we are in the hospital because my boyfriend’s been injured and I’m more concerned about the guy who put him there. I shouldn’t even have come with Rupert. I just wanted to see Ben.’ She sighed.

Jeff paused a moment. ‘I think Ben cares for you a lot more than you think. He just doesn’t know it yet, because that’s the kind of guy he is. But one day he’s going to wake up and see it.’

‘You’re not going to say anything, are you?’

‘Would I?’

‘You’d better swear to that, Jeff Dekker. One word and—’

Brooke was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the vinyl floor of the corridor. She and Jeff turned to see the doctor walking towards them. Brooke stood up, looking at him with a mixture of expectation and worry.

The doctor smiled. ‘No need for alarm,’ he said. ‘There’s no serious damage.’

‘But he must be in a lot of pain, yeah?’ Jeff asked hopefully, smiling back.

The doctor rubbed his chin pensively, glanced down at his clipboard and spent the next minute or so gravely reeling off a long list of medical terminology.

‘Ben did all that to him?’ Jeff said, eyes wide.

‘Monsieur Shannon is also complaining about severe back pain, and although there’s nothing showing up in the X-ray, it would be prudent to keep him under observation for a few days.’

‘Are you saying he can start work again soon?’ Brooke asked.

The doctor shook his head. ‘Certainly not. Complete rest will be essential for at least three weeks.’

‘Shit,’ Jeff said to Brooke as the doctor walked away. ‘There goes Switzerland,’ she muttered. ‘I was afraid of that.’

‘Guess we’d better go and break the news to Ben.’

‘You go. I ought to stay here with Rupert. It’s probably for the best.’

Chapter Seven

Adam sat on the edge of an armchair in the living room at Teach na Loch, head in hands. He reached out for the tumbler in front of him and knocked back the inch of Bushmills malt that was still in it, then grabbed the bottle and swilled some more into it. His head was spinning with shock, the taste of vomit still on his lips from when he’d thrown up earlier on. He’d thought he was never going to stop.

Now he just felt numb. It was unreal. Lenny Salt had been right. The old weirdo hadn’t imagined it after all.

The kidnappers’ instructions had been simple. He was to get all his Kammler material together and get on a flight to Graz. He checked the atlas: it was in Austria, near the Hungarian border. They’d given him the name of a hotel in the city, where a reservation had been made for him, and he was to check in there no later than 10 p.m., local time, the following evening. The orders were to sit in his room, speak to no one, and wait to be contacted.

Adam suddenly felt hot tears welling up out of his eyes. He thought of Rory. What were they doing to him? Where was he? Would he ever see him again? He could imagine the look of terror on the boy’s face when they took him, could hear his screams of protest.

If only Salt hadn’t turned up at the presentation. I’d have been here. I could have done something.

A thought suddenly crossed his mind. Had Salt had something to do with it? Had he been deliberately planted there to delay him?

He stood up from the armchair, unsteady on his feet. Walked over to the bookcase across the room and picked up the framed black and white photo of Rory. Sabrina had taken that one, just after he’d turned twelve. They’d gone to London for a weekend and visited her photography studio there. It was such a beautiful shot of the kid. He was smiling and looked so happy in it. Sabrina had a giant blow-up of the same picture on her studio wall. Adam knew his younger sister doted on her nephew – he was the only real reason they stayed in touch.

Sabrina. What was he going to tell her when she got here? Adam glanced at his watch and winced. Any time now. His hand was trembling as he replaced the picture frame on the bookcase. Another acid lurch in his throat, and he turned and stumbled towards the downstairs bathroom.

He was bent over the toilet bowl, retching vomit and whiskey, when a smooth female electronic voice announced through the hidden speakers: ‘You have a visitor.’

Sabrina Connor paid the taxi driver, got her bags from the back and watched as the car turned and disappeared out of the gates. She looked up at the house, shielded her eyes from the bright afternoon sunshine, and smiled. She was looking forward to this break. Seven whole days away from London, the hustle and humidity and bad air, her capricious celebrity clients. Perfect. And it was great to be able to spend some time with Rory – she hadn’t seen him since Christmas. This time she might actually beat the little smartass at chess.

The door opened. Adam stepped out to greet her. When he came up and hugged her, it was more tightly than usual. She could smell the sharp tang of mouthwash on him, and when she broke the embrace and looked up at her elder brother, she could see his eyes were a little pink.

‘You changed your hair again,’ he said.

She ran her fingers through the spiky red highlights. ‘I like it like this. You OK? You look a little wired.’

‘I’m fine. Just working hard.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Come inside. It’s good to see you. Want a drink?’ He picked up her bags and ushered her inside.

‘Coffee would be great. Oh, here. I got you something.’ She unzipped one of her bags and took out a little package. ‘Happy birthday. Forty-five.’

He took it. ‘Forty-six. And it was nearly two months ago.’

‘What a close-knit little family we are. Well, aren’t you going to open it?’

He tore the wrapper. ‘Handkerchiefs.’

‘Irish linen,’ she said. ‘Had to scour London for them. I got them embroidered, too, see? Adam O’Connor.’ She exaggerated the ‘O’.

‘I know you think it’s stupid, me changing my name. But it’s important to me. It’s heritage.’

She shrugged. ‘Do what you want. Fine by me.’

‘Nice hankies.’

‘Kind of a lame present, huh?’

‘No, really. I like them.’

Sabrina glanced around. ‘Where’s Rory?’

‘Tennis camp,’ he replied instantly.

‘Tennis camp? You’re kidding me, right?’

Adam shook his head. ‘Nope. Tennis camp.’

‘When?’

‘I drove him up there yesterday.’

‘Where?’

He made a vague gesture with his hand. ‘Up in Donegal.’

‘They even have things like tennis camp in this place?’

‘Whatever they call it. Activity holiday, something like that. Why, you think we’re all bog paddies living in mud huts out here?’

‘Oh, give it a rest with the whole Irish thing, Adam.’

‘Anyway, so he’s at tennis camp.’

She shrugged. ‘Fine. It’s just I thought he hated sports.’

Adam headed for the kitchen to put some coffee on. ‘You know what kids are like. One of his friends plays and so he wanted to have a go. It’ll do him good. Get him away from that damn chess computer of his.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘Couple of weeks.’

Sabrina made a face. ‘Jesus, Adam. You didn’t think to tell me about any of this before? I was really looking forward to seeing him, you know.’

He sighed. ‘Look, the truth is that I totally forgot. I was meaning to call you about it ages ago. It just slipped my mind. I’m sorry.’

‘I spoke to him on the phone not long ago, and he never said a word about going to any tennis camp.’

‘Well, you know Rory. He moves in mysterious ways sometimes. Like I said, I’m really sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too.’ She sighed. ‘Just disappointed, that’s all.’

The coffee was beginning to bubble up in the percolator. Adam took two mugs from the shelf and poured it out for them. Sabrina settled on a stool at the mahogany breakfast bar and sipped her coffee. She felt soft fur brush her leg, and a Siamese cat jumped up on her lap. ‘Hey, Cassini.’ She stroked the cat and it rubbed its head against her.

‘You’re the one visitor he doesn’t bite,’ Adam said, pulling up another stool. ‘He likes you.’

She forced a smile. ‘Anyway, here I am. Rory or no Rory.’

‘It’s really good to see you, sis. Really good.’ She watched him. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. You just seem a little tense. Things going all right here?’

‘Things are fine.’

‘Thought maybe you’d heard from Amy or something.’ He snorted. ‘Who? No, I don’t think so.’

‘How’s business?’

‘Business is great.’

She touched his arm. ‘Look, I know that you and I aren’t that close. But you’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?’

Adam forced a laugh. ‘Don’t be silly. You know I would. I’m just a little tired. I’ve been working late a lot the last couple of weeks. New project.’ He paused. ‘Speaking of which—’

She glanced up. ‘What?’

He hesitated. ‘I have to go away too.’

‘What? When?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Something really important just came up. There’s this conference in Edinburgh, and someone dropped out, and I’ve got to speak in their place, and, well…’

‘I just love your sense of timing.’

‘I know. But you’re more than welcome to stay here. As long as you like.’

‘All alone?’

‘You’ve got Cassini for company. And you don’t even have to worry about feeding him or letting him out. All automated. The house takes care of everything.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘You should have everything you need. But if you need to go out for anything, the password to open the front door is “Constantinople”.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Constantinople?’

‘Just say it into the sensor. It’ll recognise any voice. And if you want to lock the guest bedroom door, just tell the house “lock” and it’ll hear you. OK?’

‘Yeah, like I’d need to, out here.’

‘And if you lock it, I’ve set it up so you just say “Cassini” and it’ll unlock again. It’s the same password for all the bedrooms. Popular security feature. We never use it ourselves, though.’

She glared at him. ‘Fantastic, bro.’

‘Look, I’m really sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it. Just bad timing, like you said. Why don’t you call Nick? Maybe he could come over and join you.’

‘Nick and I aren’t together any more. Not since he started screwing the model I used in his last shoot.’

‘That’s a real shame,’ Adam said absently. He bit his lip. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go and get my things sorted out for this conference. Help yourself to more coffee. See you in a little while, OK?’

Sabrina watched him leave the room. He definitely seemed odd. She poured herself another cup and sat stroking Cassini. ‘Tennis camp,’ she muttered.

Chapter Eight

When Jeff walked into the office at Le Val, Ben was slamming down the phone. He sat down heavily in his desk chair, clapped his hands to his head and swore loudly.

‘Listen, Ben, I’ve got to tell you something. The doctor said—’

‘I already know what the doctor said,’ Ben replied without looking up.

‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘I didn’t need to. Shannon’s lawyer’s just told me. Multiple contusions, possible lower back injury, out of action for at least three weeks.’

Jeff looked perplexed. ‘The bastard’s been talking to his lawyer? Already? From his hospital bed?’

Ben got up from the chair and went over to the window. ‘Not one to waste time. He’s threatening to press charges. Grievous bodily harm.’

‘Nothing that grievous about a bit of a twisted elbow and a couple of bruises. Shannon can take it.’

‘Tell that to the lawyer,’ Ben said. ‘But that’s not all.’

Jeff was quiet for a second as the meaning sank in. He swallowed. ‘He’s suing us, isn’t he?’

‘For loss of earnings,’ Ben said, still gazing out of the window. Over the roofs of the facility buildings he could see the trees beyond. He so much wanted to be there. Hidden deep within Le Val’s sprawl of woodland was the tumbledown ivy-covered ruin of an old church that for the last seven hundred and fifty or so years had been home to the wild creatures of the forest. It was a place Ben loved to go and spend time away from everything, just him and the stillness of the sun-dappled woods, the whisper of the trees and the sound of the doves nesting in the remains of the steeple. At this moment, all that seemed infinitely beyond his reach.

‘As in one point two million kind of earnings?’ Jeff asked quietly.

Ben nodded. He tore himself away from the window, went back to his desk and reclined in his chair. ‘The Swiss gig will have to be cancelled. Which basically leaves Shannon and the rest of the team out of a job. And I’m responsible for that.’

‘Can’t they manage without him?’

‘Apparently not. He insists they need a leader. It’s his contract, and he can do what he wants.’

‘Then we’re fucked,’ Jeff said.

They sat in silence for a long time. Three minutes passed, then four. Both men sat staring into space.

‘Why? Why?’ Ben muttered under his breath. ‘Why did I have to hit him?’

‘You didn’t exactly hit him, Ben. If you’d really hit him, you’d be up for manslaughter now.’

‘That’s a comforting thought, Jeff. Thanks for that.’ Ben took out his cigarettes and Zippo, and lit one up. Offered one to Jeff, and they sat smoking together.

‘There’s got to be a way out of this,’ Jeff said. ‘Is there no way we can just deny responsibility? Pretend it never happened?’

‘Nice idea, if you can forget the six witnesses who saw him go down. Seven, if you include Brooke.’

‘Brooke wouldn’t say anything.’

‘That’s not the point, Jeff. If it comes down to it, I won’t ask her to perjure herself for nothing.’

‘It was self-defence. He made the first move.’

‘But I overreacted. I didn’t have to cripple the guy.’

‘What about public liability insurance?’

‘I don’t think the policy underwriters would be happy about forking out a seven-figure sum because I beat up my client.’

‘It wasn’t your fault. The bastard had it coming.’

‘It is my fault. No excuses. I’ve put the customer in hospital, and that’s it. He has every right to sue for loss of earnings.’

Silence again for a few moments.

‘How about this?’ Jeff suggested suddenly. ‘We go back to the hospital, you and me, right now. We hang around and wait until Brooke and the doctor are out of the way. And then we slip into Shannon’s room and tell him that if he goes ahead with this, we’ll—’

‘Forget it. That’s not going to work either.’

‘Then we’re fucked,’ Jeff said again. ‘Completely screwed. Dead in the water.’

‘Maybe not,’ Ben said. ‘I’ve got another idea.’

Chapter Nine

The next morning

The rust-streaked prow of the ship cleaved through the waves at a steady ten knots, throwing up a bow wave of white spray. The tweendecker cargo vessel was more than forty years old, and every inch of her hundred-and-sixty-foot hull was crusted with salt and oily grime, but she was a fast and reliable ship. Her speed was one reason she’d been chosen for this assignment; the other was that her Icelandic captain and his crew of six were savvy enough to take the cash and ask no questions of the two men and the woman they were being hired to ferry eastwards across the northern tip of Scotland into Scandinavian waters. They wanted to know even less about the ‘cargo’ that their three passengers had stored down below.

The ship had sailed in the night from Clifden on the Irish west coast. A few hours into the voyage, the sun was shining but the salty sea wind was cool as they left the Outer Hebrides behind them, the Orkney Islands a few hours ahead. The diesels kept up their steady grind, the clouds drifted overhead and the sea foamed white in their wake as the vessel ploughed onwards towards Stavanger, Norway, where the plane would be waiting to deliver the package to its final destination.

The stocky guy was not feeling good. He hated this fucking pile of rust, the stink of oil and ocean, the nauseous pitch and yaw of the floor under his feet. He was ill all the time, and he’d have loved to shoot down one or two of those incessantly screeching fucking seabirds. Not the most rewarding job he’d been on. He couldn’t wait for it to be over.

The things you have to do for money, he was thinking as he clanged open the hatch and carried the tray down into the part of the hold that was off-limits to the crew. He hated having to act as waiter to the damn kid, too, and carried the tray carelessly. Some water sloshed out of the tin cup and spilled onto the thin cheese sandwiches. If the kid complained, then fuck him. Let him starve.

Down in the murky shadows, the stink of oil was even stronger. The guy could make out the pale shape of the mattress on the floor and the dull glint of the handcuffs that secured the kid’s left wrist to the pipe.

Hold on. He shone the torch. The white circle of light danced on the rusty wall.

The handcuff was dangling empty from the pipe.

He dropped the tray with a clatter and stood there, mouth hanging open as his rising fury quickly gave way to fear. He dropped into a squat and rubbed his chin. If he’d lost the kid, he was a dead man.

Spotting a twisted length of wire lying among the filth on the floor, he picked it up and examined it, and his rage started flooding back. Little bastard.

He couldn’t be far away. The guy muttered and cursed and shone the torch this way and that in the shadows.

A soft sound came from behind him. He started to turn towards it, but then something came whooshing out of the darkness and caught him a glancing blow to the side of the head. His vision flashed white with pain. He dropped the torch and fell to the floor. The hard object hit him again and he felt unconsciousness washing over him.

Then he was dimly aware of someone bending over him, feeling through his pockets. Light footsteps running away.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to clamber to his knees, just in time to see the kid momentarily framed in the sunlight that streamed through the open hatch. Then he was gone.

‘Come back here, you little fucker,’ the guy yelled out. His head felt ready to explode as he staggered to his feet and over towards the hatch, stumbling over the length of iron pipe that the prisoner had hit him with. He tore the .45 auto from his belt and went for the phone in his pocket to alert the others.

It was gone.

Rory’s heart was pounding in his throat as he half-ran, half-clambered up a clanking metal stair and sprinted along a railed walkway. He glanced frantically up and down the length of the ship and over the side at the heaving grey-green ocean and shivered in the cold, wondering where on earth he was. Gulls and cormorants were swooping and circling overhead; he could see dark islands on the horizon. His mind was working so fast that he was tripping over his thoughts, but he knew he’d already made two mistakes.

First mistake: when he’d taken the kidnapper’s phone he’d seen the black butt of a pistol sticking out of his belt. He should have taken it, even if he didn’t know how to work a gun.

Second mistake: in his haste to get away, he hadn’t shut the hatch behind him. They’d soon be searching the ship for him. He ran on, his footsteps ringing on the walkway.

A riveted door swung open a few yards ahead, and Rory ducked behind a girder. The two men who came out of the doorway were wearing oil-stained overalls and talking in some language he didn’t understand. They were rough-looking, dirt on their hands and faces unshaven. It sounded like they were sharing a joke. One of them was lighting up a cigarette, and Rory caught a whiff of the smoke as they came past. For a moment he thought he was going to cough, but he clamped it in tight and held his breath. His heart was thudding so hard that he was convinced they would hear it over the rumble of the ship. He shrank behind the girder, trying to make himself as small as possible.

They walked on by. Rory let his breath out very slowly, waited until they were around a corner and out of sight. Then he darted out from behind the girder and made for the lifeboats up ahead. He dropped down on his hands and knees and crawled under their rusty mountings, where a tattered piece of tarpaulin dangled down to offer some cover. Crammed as deep into the space as he could get, he reached into his jeans and took out the phone he’d stolen from the man. It was switched on, and there was a tiny flicker of reception.

Rory hesitated. Police or home? Home first. He suddenly wanted to hear his father’s voice so badly. He quickly punched out the number.

Sabrina was sitting outside on the patio finishing a breakfast of coffee and croissants and gazing out across the lake with Cassini on her lap when she heard the phone ring from inside the house. She twisted her head towards the open sliding glass door. Two rings, three. Adam didn’t come to pick up.

Of course not, she thought. Her dear brother was too busy bustling about in a panic getting ready for his stupid last-minute conference to think of such things as attending to his visitor or answering his phone. What the hell was wrong with him? He was definitely acting jumpy. He hadn’t wanted breakfast, either, and looked like he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

She shooed the cat away irritably, jumped up from the deck chair and trotted over to the house. Maybe her big bro wasn’t cut out to be a businessman after all.

She picked up the phone on the seventh ring. ‘Hello, Slaves ‘R’ Us. How may I help you?’

‘Sabrina?’

‘Rory?’ She brightened momentarily. But then the tone of her nephew’s voice made her frown. He sounded scared. No, he didn’t. He sounded utterly terrorised. ‘What’s wrong, honey?’

‘Is Dad there?’

‘He’s not around. You sound upset. What is it?’

‘I’m in trouble. I mean really bad trouble. I’ve been kidnapped.’

Sabrina froze. ‘What?’ ‘I said—’

‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m on a boat. No, a ship, in the sea. There are islands.’

‘Rory—’

‘I’m scared. I’m scared.’ He started sobbing. ‘Where’s my dad?’

Sabrina gripped the phone in horror. ‘Tell me where you are.’

‘Oh, shit. They’re coming. I—’

There were scraping and scuffling sounds, and then the phone went dead.

‘Rory? Rory?’

He was gone. Sabrina wanted to scream for Adam, but her throat was so dry and constricted no sound came out. Still clutching the phone, she went running through the house to find her brother. He was in the hallway, carrying a travel bag and a briefcase out to the car.

‘There you are. Oh my God, Adam.’

He stopped and stared at her. His face was pale, dark rings around his eyes.

‘Something’s happened to Rory,’ she blurted. ‘He’s been kidnapped.’

‘What? Say that again.’

‘I’ve just had a call from him. He’s been taken, Adam. Said he was on board a ship or something.’ Tears prickled her eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

He stared at her a second longer, then broke into a twisted grin. ‘Sabrina, that’s not possible. I talked to him just a few minutes ago.’

Sabrina looked at him incredulously.

‘This is something he’s been doing lately. Playing practical jokes. You’re not the first person he’s tricked this way. Last time it was he’d been taken up into an alien spacecraft.’

‘But … it sounded real. He was terrified.’

Adam’s grin widened an inch. ‘He could be an actor one day, that one. Anyway, he called on his mobile to say hi to you and that he’s sorry he missed you. He’s having a great time at tennis camp.’

She scanned his face carefully, trying to read his expression. The smile was steady, but there was something in his eyes that made her wonder. ‘What the hell’s going on, Adam?’

He shrugged. ‘Like I said. Consider yourself Rory’s latest victim.’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t sound right.’

‘Anyway, listen, I’m all ready to go.’

‘You’re leaving? Now?’

‘I did say I had to go.’

‘But the call—’

‘Don’t worry about it. Trust me.’

She sighed loudly. ‘I still can’t believe you’re leaving me here alone like this.’

‘I’ll make it up to you next time, I promise.’ He put down his bags and hugged her tightly the way he’d done when she’d arrived, and she could feel the tension in his body. It was almost as if he thought he was never going to see her again.

Chapter Ten

Within twenty-four hours of Rupert Shannon’s admission to hospital, Ben’s idea had become a detailed plan, and the plan had quickly developed into a reality. The two-day training course had been cancelled, and Shannon’s close protection team had returned to London to gather their equipment and be picked up at Heathrow by a private jet belonging to Maximilian Steiner. Meanwhile, Ben was making his own way to Switzerland. He didn’t know when he’d be back.

He hated the idea, but it was the only way to resolve the situation. After his conversation with Jeff, he’d called Shannon’s lawyer in London to suggest the only course of action he could see: to take the injured man’s place as team leader, unpaid, until the damaged arm was healed and Shannon was able to resume his role.

After letting Ben stew a little, the lawyer had called back to say that his client had agreed to the deal, and that the new arrangement had been squared with Steiner’s people. In practice, it meant that the team would arrive in Switzerland a day earlier than planned, giving them time to settle in before meeting their billionaire employer.

So it was done. Ben was on his way to a new job. Jeff had been ready to drive him to the airport at Cherbourg, but he’d wanted to take the Mini Cooper. Sitting on a plane with nothing to do except stare out of the window and brood over his situation wasn’t his idea of a good time. Driving to Switzerland to do a job he didn’t want to do wasn’t much better, but at least it would give him something to occupy his mind.

It was a long drive across France. He left early and stuck to the fast roads, cutting eastwards as directly as he could. By the time he bypassed Paris the traffic was building up, and it stayed busy until he hit the countryside beyond the city. He let the CD player loop the same Stefano Bollani jazz piano album round and round at high volume and kept his foot down at a steady eighty, stopping only for fuel and tolls. The concentration of driving helped, but it didn’t completely silence the voices in his head that asked him over and over again: Why? Why?

When the voices reached a fever pitch he just gritted his teeth, gripped the wheel tightly in his fists and stared fixedly ahead as the white lines in the road zipped towards him and waited for his mind to go numb. It never really did.

Sometime in the afternoon he started seeing the first signs for Switzerland, and a little while after that he passed over the border. Most of the traffic was bound for Bern and Lausanne, and thinned out as he followed the winding route upwards into alpine country. The road carved through rolling valleys and pine forests, green fields criss-crossed with country lanes and dotted with farms and villages. He passed through golden acres of sunflowers under a vivid azure sky. Watched the sunlight glitter off the blue-white mountains that hovered over the landscape like distant mirages. The shimmering reflection of the trees was mirrored in the surface of a vast lake. A wooded island rose up out of the water, the grey stone towers of an old monastery peeping through the foliage.

It was the kind of scenery that could take a person’s breath away. But Ben could leave it until another time to appreciate things like the majestic splendour of nature. He kept moving on hard, following the directions he’d been given, and, as the sun turned from gold to red and sank down to kiss the mountaintops, he found himself approaching the secluded Steiner residence.

The estate wall seemed to go on forever. Then, arriving at a set of high iron gates, Ben was stopped by uniformed guards who questioned him and scrutinised the photo on his ID very carefully before waving him inside.

The gates whirred open to let him pass. Cameras mounted on the gateposts and the pretty stone gatehouse swivelled to watch him as he drove on through. Then there was another mile or so of private road, winding through a wood so neat that it looked as if every tree had been placed there by a designer. Ben came to a second set of gates and more guards with radios who waved him on without a word. He drove through a high stone archway and down a broad gravel path, and the trees parted and he caught his first view of the great Maximilian Steiner’s home.

Even with all the troubles on his mind, he whistled to himself at the sight of it. He’d been in some moneyed environments in his time, but this was the kind of property that mere millionaires could only dream of.

You couldn’t call this a house, nor even a mansion. The alpine château was a thing of fantasy. The sun’s dying rays glimmered off towers and turrets, columns and arches. It could have been the home of a Bavarian monarch from three centuries ago, but the gleaming white stonework looked as though it had been built yesterday. Around it, acre after endless acre of sweeping lawns and gardens that looked like they’d need an army of groundskeepers to maintain them. Ben wondered at the size of the staff that Steiner must keep on site.

Now he was one of them. Great. Just great.

He ran back through what he knew about his new employer. He’d dug up plenty of information online to explain how the Steiner billions were generated: pharmaceutical companies, oil refineries, heavy industry and aviation, with one of Europe’s largest fleets of corporate jets. By contrast, virtually nothing was revealed about the man himself that could have shed more light on the kidnap threat against him.

But even without knowing the full details, Ben could imagine the scenario pretty well. The kidnap business was just like any other. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, barring the occasional revenge job or sex abductions, it came down to money, pure and simple. And he’d seen enough of that world to know the kind of people who would be drawn to the idea of grabbing a guy of Steiner’s extreme wealth, whisking him away to some dingy basement somewhere nobody could ever find him, keeping him chained and starving with a pair of bolt-croppers on standby in case the family needed persuasion of their serious intentions. A finger in the mail was a highly effective means of getting the ransom paid. Ben had seen it all before. And had kind of hoped he wasn’t going to see it again.

The château loomed like a sculpted quartz mountain as he approached, and he felt ridiculously dwarfed by it. He pulled the Mini up on the gravel at the bottom of a flight of polished white stone steps that were maybe not quite wide enough to accommodate the wingspan of a Boeing 747 and climbed out, stretching his legs after the long drive.

Someone was coming down the steps to meet him. A man in a beige suit, around fifty, a little shorter than Ben and lightly built with the delicate frame of a lifelong desk guy. As the man walked closer, Ben could see his eyes were sharp and his face lean, the thin hair neatly parted and combed. He put out his hand and greeted Ben in English, which he spoke with only a trace of an accent. The warmth of his smile seemed genuine.

‘Mr Hope? So pleased to meet you. My name is Heinrich Dorenkamp. I am Herr Steiner’s PA. I trust you had a pleasant journey?’

Ben wasn’t in the mood for niceties, but he returned the smile as Dorenkamp seemed to warrant it. ‘Very pleasant, thank you.’

‘Herr Steiner is very much looking forward to making your acquaintance. Regrettably it will not be today. He is tied up in meetings for the rest of the evening.’

‘A busy man,’ Ben commented.

Dorenkamp flashed a grin and chuckled. ‘You have no idea.’

A guy in his early twenties who looked like a valet emerged from a side entrance and walked over to them.

‘Dieter will take your car and have your luggage sent on to your quarters,’ Dorenkamp told Ben. ‘The garage blocks are situated to the rear of the east wing. All fully secure, naturally.’

Ben handed the Mini’s key to Dieter, and watched as his little car was driven off across the gravel and round the side of the château. He wondered how anyone was ever going to find it again among the Rolls-Royces, Aston Martins and Bugattis that he imagined filled the garages of a man like Maximilian Steiner.

Dorenkamp smiled again. ‘Now, please allow me to escort you to the guest accommodation, where the rest of your team are waiting for you. They arrived here late this afternoon.’

My team, Ben thought, and cursed himself one more time for good measure. From the opposite direction another member of staff came rolling up in a white golf buggy. Dorenkamp motioned to the back seats. ‘We generally use these for getting around. It is a big place.’

Ben didn’t reply as he climbed into the open buggy. Dorenkamp settled in beside him and the electric vehicle darted off through the grounds with surprising speed. As the sunlight faded, concealed floodlamps were beginning to burn brighter, lighting up the house and grounds. Around the side of the château, the view opened up to show more panoramic acres of perfectly clipped lawns, so green that they looked unreal. Ben said nothing, taking in his surroundings as they cut across the estate. In the distance he could see the little flags of a golf course waving in the light breeze.

‘You play, Mr Hope?’ Dorenkamp asked.

Ben shook his head and was about to reply when the buggy rounded another gigantic column and the PA said, ‘And here are your quarters.’

The accommodation was no château, but it was still spectacular enough to make Le Val look like a rustic hovel. The ultra-modern building was built into the side of a hill, its roof grassed over and dotted with wildflowers. Its white facade was smooth and undulating, a post-modern complex of caves with huge oval windows. Stylistically it was completely at odds with the château itself, but Ben had never seen a building so organically blended into its natural environment.

Dorenkamp noted his reaction with approval. ‘Designed by the architect Peter Vetsch. The inside is extremely well appointed. I don’t think you will be unhappy here.’

The inside was as white as the outside, the lines clean and elegant. The floors were granite tile that had been polished to a mirrored sheen, and the furniture was gleaming oak and white leather. Kandinsky and Paul Klee adorned the walls, and Ben would have bet they weren’t copies. A giant TV and sound system nestled discreetly in an oval wall alcove.

The worst thing about the place was the other occupants. Shannon’s guys had already got comfortable, slouching on the leather armchairs with their feet up on tables and bags, cases, clothing, shoes and magazines scattered about the main sitting area. Their laughter and conversation died down abruptly as Ben and Dorenkamp walked in. Ben met the six pairs of hostile eyes and his first thought was to ask himself why he wanted to cringe with embarrassment on behalf of someone else’s team. Shannon really could pick them.

If Dorenkamp noticed the change in the atmosphere or was shocked by the mess, he didn’t show it. Peeling back the sleeve of his jacket, he looked at his watch.

‘I’m pleased to see you are making yourselves at home, gentlemen. I must return to Herr Steiner’s meeting. Dinner will be brought to you at seven thirty.’

He was about to leave, then seemed to remember something. ‘One other point I should make clear to you all,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘I am unaware whether there are any smokers among you, but I should make it clear that smoking is strictly disallowed anywhere within the estate.’ He pointed up at the ceiling, and Ben saw there was an alarm discreetly blended into the plasterwork. ‘It is very sensitive, and it makes quite a noise, believe me.’ Dorenkamp smiled again. ‘Now, gentlemen, I shall leave you to settle in.’

With Dorenkamp gone, the atmosphere settled quickly into frosty silence as the rest of the team watched Ben resentfully. He ignored them and went about exploring the accommodation. Each team member had his own bedroom with en-suite shower room. There was a communal sauna room, Jacuzzi, and a well-equipped gym with stationary bikes, running and rowing machines, weight bench and racks of dumbbells. The separate dining area had a long table and seven chairs. Everything was neat, precise and laid out with the utmost thoughtfulness.

‘Never had a gig like this before,’ Ben heard Jackson say as he walked back into the living area. ‘Awesome.’

‘Shame Rupert couldn’t be here, though,’ Neville said in a pointed stage whisper that was plainly intended for Ben to hear. Ben said nothing.

Dinner was served promptly at seven thirty by three waiting staff in white jackets. The chicken casserole was simple but smelled great, and with it came five bottles of good wine. Ben filled up a plate, grabbed one of the bottles and went off to eat alone in his room. It might not be helping his popularity with the group any, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He wasn’t here to make friends. No matter what, he knew they’d keep resenting his presence there until Shannon took over. Which couldn’t happen soon enough.

Let’s just get the damn job done, he thought to himself.

Chapter Eleven

At the same moment, Adam O’Connor was walking into a hotel room on the edge of the city of Graz, Austria. He dumped his travel bag and briefcase on the narrow bed, stared out of the window at the flickering neon sign of the bar across the road, then slumped in an armchair and closed his eyes.

Everything had gone exactly as the kidnappers had said it would. The room had been reserved for him, his key ready and waiting. The fat, greasy-looking guy behind the reception desk had taken only the most cursory look at his passport. No paperwork, no register to sign. Just a key and a grunt and a nod towards the lift. He wondered if the whole hotel staff were in on this too. The bastards probably were. He wanted to grab the television and shove it through the window, set the whole damn building on fire, run screaming through the streets.

But he had to do as they said. Now all he could do was wait. Wait and think about his thirteen-year-old son, imprisoned Christ knew where.

The whole journey, he’d been unable to stop thinking that Sabrina was bound to call the cops. What if she did? What if they found out what was happening? Rory would die.

And Adam wasn’t fool enough to imagine that Rory wasn’t going to die anyway, if he just blindly went along with the kidnappers’ demands. He knew enough about the way these things worked to know that things didn’t just go back to normal afterwards.

Which was why, right from the first moment he’d stood there listening to their demands on the phone, he’d made his plans.

Fuck them. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. He was going to get his son out of there unharmed, and he knew exactly how he was going to do it.

Downstairs in the hotel lobby, the fat receptionist picked up the phone and stabbed out the number he’d been given. Two rings, and someone answered. The same voice he’d heard before.

‘The American is here,’ the receptionist said. Then he put the phone down and went back to his internet poker.

Chapter Twelve

It had been a gloriously sunny day in the Wicklow Hills, and Sabrina had spent most of it by the pool listening to music in her earphones and reading photography magazines. Every so often she’d slip into the water and swim a couple of lengths. All the while, she’d been trying hard to forget about her brother’s odd behaviour and the phone call from Rory.

A practical joke? She knew Rory well, better than most aunts knew their nephews, probably even better than Adam knew his son. He was a serious kind of boy, maybe even a little too serious sometimes. A thoughtless prank like pretending to be kidnapped just seemed beneath him somehow.

Then again, she’d thought, he was at the age where you could expect to start seeing behavioural and attitudinal changes. And maybe, in fact, as she’d turned it over in her mind, discovering the humorous side of his personality could be good for him. As for the tennis camp, it occurred to her that there might be more to that than met the eye. Maybe there was a girl involved, a teen romance going on there. Perhaps something that Adam didn’t even know about. It was possible. Kind of sweet, too.

In any case, the alternative was unthinkable. Her nephew kidnapped, her brother acting cool about it? Completely absurd. Now she’d started to feel bad about the way she’d overreacted with Adam earlier. He was clearly under a lot of stress.

By the time her thoughts had worked their way round that far, the sun had started to dip behind the clouds and it was getting too chilly to stay out in her swimsuit. She’d wrapped a towel round herself, taken her iPod and magazines inside, showered and dried her hair and pulled on jeans and a blouse.

After a light dinner she’d settled in front of the TV and flipped through channels for a while, then got bored with the rubbish that was on and started combing idly through the ads in the back of one of the photography magazines. By chance, she came across a juicy special offer on a tele-photo lens, a top-notch piece of kit that she’d been toying with the idea of buying for a while. ‘For more information, view our website’ the ad proclaimed.

It was an attractive enough prospect to make her start thinking about logging on to Adam’s computer and checking out the site. She got up from the sofa and padded upstairs in her bare feet.

But his study door on the top floor was locked. Damned if she knew what the password was for that one.

Then it occurred to her that she could use the PC across the hall in Rory’s room. He’d often allowed her to go on it, and she was sure it wouldn’t be intruding on his privacy if she used it in his absence. She gingerly tried the handle on his door and found it open.

She went inside. The room hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d seen it. Going over to the desk, she was about to turn on his computer when she accidentally nudged the mouse with her hand and to her surprise the screen flashed awake. Why had he left it on standby if he wasn’t going to be around for two whole weeks?

The screen had opened up in Rory’s Outlook Express email program. She was about to close that box and go to Internet Explorer when she saw that there was a new message incoming. When the mail appeared on the screen, she saw that it was from someone called Declan. It was just a one-liner in reply to an email Rory had sent.

‘Cool. Just watched it. Best one yet!’

Sabrina’s eye flashed down the screen, and it was with a jolt that she saw the date on Rory’s original message.

Yesterday.

She frowned. And the time the message had been sent was only about two hours before she’d arrived at the house.

But that was impossible. Adam had said he’d driven Rory to Donegal the day before.

She read it again, and the shivers down her back got colder. Could Rory have sent the message from another source, maybe at the tennis camp? She was no expert, but she was pretty sure that if the reply had come here, Rory’s message must have come from here too.

Calm down, Sabby. There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe there was a glitch with the PC. Unlikely. Or else Rory had somehow managed to sneak home and then away again without anybody noticing. Nuts. Or Adam had written the message to Declan himself, pretending to be Rory. Oh, come on.

She turned away from the desk. Saw Rory’s mobile phone lying among the rumpled sheets on his bed. The phone he took everywhere with him. The one he’d supposedly spoken to Adam on from the tennis camp.

‘Oh my God,’ she said out loud. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

Chapter Thirteen

Next morning at eight o’clock sharp, Dorenkamp came for Ben and the team and escorted them to the main residence to meet Steiner. Ben was aware of Neville and the others gaping around them as the PA led the way inside the palatial house, into a hallway about a square mile in size. In its centre was a life-size cast of a medieval warhorse in full dress, rearing up dramatically on its hind legs and carrying a knight with plumed helmet, spiked mace and a shield with a red lion rampant herald. Maybe a ton of glittering armour plate in total between animal and rider, and Ben was fairly sure it wasn’t reproduction antique. He paused a moment to admire it, then walked with Dorenkamp across the hall and through another doorway. The rest of the team followed a few yards behind, talking in low voices.

‘Tell me, Mr Hope,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘How much do you know about Maximilian Steiner?’

‘Very little,’ Ben admitted.

‘Try to avoid asking him too many direct questions,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘If there’s anything you need to know, I would request that you address your queries to me. Herr Steiner is a very private man, and doesn’t tolerate intrusion into his family life. He is notoriously hard to interview, and relatively few people even get to have an audience with him.’

‘Sounds like I’m going to meet royalty,’ Ben said.

‘In some circles that’s exactly what Maximilian Steiner is,’ Dorenkamp replied. ‘One thing. You may find him cold. Many people do. But that is just his manner, and you shouldn’t be put off by it. I have known him for many years and I can tell you that he’s a good man. Behind the scenes he is a tireless campaigner against violence in all its forms, a staunch opponent of the international arms trade. He donates a vast amount of money each year to support many worthy causes. The fact that he does so anonymously only reflects his desire for privacy.’

‘If I’m going to protect him, I need to know everything,’ Ben said. ‘I need total access to every part of his life. I respect his desire for privacy, but there can’t be any secrets.’

Dorenkamp nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. We’ll see what can be done.’

‘Tell me about the kidnap attempt,’ Ben said as they walked.

‘It happened three weeks ago. Herr Steiner and his wife were on their way to a family wedding in one of the limousines. As they drove, they came across what at first appeared to be an accident. There was a car in the middle of the road, which seemed to have skidded to a halt, blocking the way. Next to the car was a man lying on the ground, apparently injured. A woman was with him, shouting for help as Herr Steiner’s car arrived on the scene.’

‘It’s an old ploy,’ Ben said. ‘Exploiting people’s humanity to trap them.’

‘Naturally, the Steiners had their driver stop at the scene, in order to help. But in the very next instant, a van suddenly appeared with more men who tried to grab Herr Steiner and drag him inside it.’

‘Armed?’

Dorenkamp nodded gravely. ‘Heavily.’

‘Masked?’

Dorenkamp nodded again.

‘How did they get out of it?’

‘Purely by good fortune and sheer coincidence,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘There had been a real accident further along the same road, a few kilometres away. It later transpired that the ambulance was already there, attending to the injured. But the police were late arriving on the scene, and happened to appear at the right moment to frighten off the kidnappers.’

‘But they didn’t catch any of them.’

‘No, they escaped.’

‘Did the Steiners and their driver get a good look at the injured man, or the woman who was with him?’

Dorenkamp shook his head. ‘Sadly not. The injured man was lying face down, and the woman was wearing dark glasses and a headscarf. She had long black hair.’

‘Which you can assume to be a wig,’ Ben said. ‘Now, you said they were on their way to a wedding when it happened. How many people knew about their travel plans that day?’

‘You are thinking about sources on the inside?’

Ben nodded.

‘It was a high society wedding,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘Well publicised, and the hotel additionally had a guest list.’

‘So the information was openly accessible.’

‘In any case, the police have already pursued these avenues of inquiry,’ Dorenkamp said.

‘Though they haven’t come up with anything, apparently.’

‘Not yet.’

‘So does anyone have any idea who might have attempted the kidnap?’ Ben asked.

‘Herr Steiner has his own theories.’

‘Which are?’

Dorenkamp smiled. ‘To be revealed. He will tell you himself in just a moment.’

They came to a tall doorway, and Dorenkamp led the way through it and past a broad gilt-framed painting depicting a classical scene with semi-naked nymphs frolicking around Greek ruins. Ben heard one of the men behind him muttering something about nice tits. Again, if Dorenkamp noticed, he made a good show of hiding it.

‘Do the Steiners have children?’ Ben asked the PA. ‘I ask because kidnappers will often target other family members, even if it’s only to get to the main person they want.’

‘No children,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘There is just him, his wife Silvia and their nephew, Otto Steiner, who is in line to take over the business when Herr Steiner retires.’ He chuckled. ‘Though I find it difficult to imagine that he ever would. Perhaps at the age of ninety-nine, when Otto is nearly seventy himself.’

‘Where does Otto live?’ Ben asked. ‘Here, on the estate. He has his own villa within the compound.’

‘What about Otto’s parents?’

‘Sadly deceased,’ Dorenkamp answered. ‘It was a long time ago. A car accident. Please don’t mention it to Herr Steiner. He was extremely attached to his brother Karl.’

‘I won’t say a thing. Now tell me about Mrs Steiner.’

As he said it, Ben could hear the sound of someone playing the piano from a room somewhere nearby. Someone very good. The piece they were playing was fast and intricate, the kind of thing only a real virtuoso would attempt. It might have been Rachmaninov or Chopin – Ben wasn’t sure.

‘You are listening to her,’ Dorenkamp said with a smile. ‘She was once a concert pianist, before Herr Steiner and she were married.’

‘What does she do now?’

Dorenkamp shrugged. ‘She has her music, and he has his work. They spend each day largely in their separate worlds, and they dine together in the evenings when he is not working late or away on business. It is a simple and unobtrusive life they lead, despite their wealth. There isn’t much to say. Frau Steiner tends to remain here on the estate. She has everything she needs.’

It seemed like a lonely life, Ben thought as they walked on and left the sound of the piano behind them. He followed Dorenkamp up two sweeping flights of stairs to the second floor. The PA stopped outside a grand double doorway. ‘Here we are,’ he said and twisted the ornate bronze knob to push open one of the huge doors.

Ben followed him inside, and found himself gazing around him at the enormous conference room. Sunlight streamed in through French windows overlooking the estate and the mountainscape in the distance. A massive oak table was surrounded by some thirty buttoned leather chairs. The ceiling was high and ornate, and the walls were lined with arrangements of shields and old swords, from cavalry sabres to fifteenth-century claymores. In between the weaponry displays hung more gilt-framed paintings. Around the edges of the room were display cabinets. Ben wandered over to one of them and bent down to peer through the glass at the old letter inside. The paper was yellowed, the quill-penned handwriting flamboyant. Ben read the signature at the bottom and turned to Dorenkamp. ‘Is this an original Napoleon Bonaparte letter?’

‘One of several in Herr Steiner’s possession,’ Dorenkamp said.

‘I gather he’s something of a collector.’

‘It’s quite a passion of his, in fact.’ Dorenkamp motioned towards the table. ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen. Herr Steiner will be joining us shortly.’

Ben and the team pulled up chairs and settled around the table. Nobody spoke to Ben, and he in turn ignored everyone. Dorenkamp pulled up a chair near the top of the table, to Ben’s left. The PA checked his watch again, and turned expectantly towards the door.

Ben heard footsteps outside in the corridor and, a moment later, the door swung open and Maximilian Steiner walked into the room.

Chapter Fourteen

Ben and Dorenkamp got up from their seats as Steiner entered, and the rest of the team followed their example.

Steiner might have been approaching his mid-sixties, but he looked several years younger. He was about Ben’s height, a shade under six feet tall, though heavier in build. He exuded an air of seriousness and absolute self-confidence as he scanned each face in the room in turn intently, as though he could read their thoughts. His reddish-brown hair was still thick, turning just a little grey above the ears. He was wearing an elegant light grey suit and a formal navy tie.

His cool gaze settled on Ben, and his eyes narrowed. ‘You must be Captain Shannon’s replacement.’ He spoke with even less accent than his PA. ‘Mr Benjamin Hope.’

Ben groaned inwardly. Benjamin again. This was Shannon’s doing. ‘Please call me Ben,’ he said, avoiding the issue.

Steiner raised an eyebrow. ‘I prefer a more formal address, Mr Hope.’

Ben smiled. Fine, have it your way. ‘Then you can call me Major Hope,’ he said. Pulling rank wasn’t something he normally liked to do, but he was damned if he was going to stand in Shannon’s shadow.

Steiner shot a glance at Dorenkamp. ‘We were not informed of this.’

‘Must be a glitch in your communications,’ Ben said. ‘I served with the British Army, Special Air Service. Rank of Major, retired.’ He felt like adding ‘and it’s Benedict Hope, not Benjamin’ – but he didn’t want to make Shannon look too foolish. Just a little bit.

Steiner gave a curt little nod. ‘Now to business,’ he said, moving on briskly. Clearly not a man to dally over small talk, Ben thought.

‘You know why you are here,’ Steiner continued. ‘I have no doubt that the recent attempt to kidnap me will not be the last. While the perimeter of the estate offers full protection from intruders, I cannot remain a hermit. I have businesses to run, places to go and people to meet. Your team’s assignment is to protect me whenever I leave home.’

‘Have you left the estate since the attack?’ Ben asked.

Steiner shook his head. ‘I have not. An intolerable situation that cannot be allowed to continue.’

‘Is there anything you can tell us about the kidnappers?’ Ben said, thinking of what Dorenkamp had told him. ‘The more we know, the more we can anticipate their moves. It might be worth liaising with the police, as the investigation is ongoing.’

‘The police are useless,’ Steiner answered harshly. ‘There will be no need for that. But I do have an idea who is behind this, and am happy to share the information with you.’ He cleared his throat.

Happy to share. Ben felt like saying something about that, but instead he kept his mouth shut and waited for more. Across the table, Dorenkamp looked uneasy.

‘It is my belief that the kidnappers have a political motive,’ Steiner went on. ‘Of a very particular sort. You may have noticed my interest in collecting objects of historical value.’ He waved a hand at the mounted swords and the display cabinets. ‘One of the items in my collection, which I do not keep on display but securely under lock and key, for reasons that will become apparent, is a certain set of documents – design notes to be exact – dating back to 1944. Not especially old, then, but of enormous historical interest. The author of these extremely rare papers is one Hans Kammler, a wartime design engineer as well as an Obergruppenführer of Adolf Hitler’s Schutzstaffel.’

In plain language, an SS general, Ben thought.

‘It is my belief,’ Steiner went on, ‘that the kidnappers are interested in obtaining the Kammler papers from me, by force or coercion.’

‘Why?’ Ben’s question cut through the silence. It was perhaps a little more direct than Steiner liked, judging by the glint of disapproval in the man’s eye.

‘Because, Major Hope, Hans Kammler was the engineer in charge of Hitler’s SS Buildings and Works Division in the closing years of World War Two, and the mastermind and designer of the death camps. And because I further believe the kidnappers to be neo-Nazi activists who have falsely persuaded themselves that within these documents is proof that the historical records of the Nazi Final Solution have been grossly exaggerated, possibly even made up.’

‘Holocaust deniers,’ Ben said.

Steiner nodded. ‘Correct, Major. As you obviously know, ever since the war, a growing number of twisted neo-fascists have been intent on demonstrating that the Allied forces simply fabricated much of the evidence of the Holocaust as a means of vilifying Hitler and justifying their own atrocities. Kammler’s papers are quite certainly the most detailed plans in existence of what the Nazis really did at Auschwitz and the other death camps.’

‘One question. How do you know that the kidnappers are neo-Nazis? Were they chanting “Sieg Heil,” wearing armbands and leather boots?’

Steiner clearly didn’t appreciate the humour. He stared icily at Ben. ‘Because one of them had a swastika tattoo on his hand.’

‘So do a lot of British football hooligans,’ Ben replied. ‘It doesn’t necessarily prove anything.’

‘Though I don’t believe that the typical football hooligan would be interested in the Kammler papers. Herr Dorenkamp has described the kidnap incident to you?’

‘He has.’

‘When the police car arrived on the scene and inadvertently foiled the attempt, the thug who was holding my arm—’

‘The one with the tattoo.’

‘On the hand that was clutching the pistol pointed at my head,’ Steiner said coolly. ‘This thug began to scream “Where are the Kammler documents?” At that point, one of his fellow kidnappers urged him to keep quiet and let me go, and they retreated to their vehicle.’

‘Sounds fair enough to me,’ Neville said from across the table.

Ben hesitated for a moment. ‘Another question, Herr Steiner. This all has to do with these Kammler documents, correct?’

Steiner replied with a slow nod and a narrowing of the eyes.

‘And these people believe the documents contain certain proof, but you’re saying that’s a fallacy. That there’s no such proof in them at all.’

Steiner looked uncomfortable. ‘Correct.’

‘Then why don’t you just go public with them? Put them on display in one of the many museums that would be delighted to have them, and show the world what they really say? If your theory is right, you’d be destroying the kidnappers’ whole incentive to get hold of them.’

Steiner stared at him with a look that said: ‘Aren’t you asking questions above your pay grade?’

Dorenkamp interjected. ‘An interesting point, Major. But not directly pertinent to the issue at hand.’

Ben shrugged. ‘You’re wrong,’ he wanted to say. But he stayed quiet, and wished he’d said nothing at all. It struck him as ironic that, if he pressed the point, he risked ruining Shannon’s contract altogether by solving the problem too quickly.

‘Now,’ Steiner said. ‘To other matters.’ He turned to Dorenkamp with a barely perceptible gesture of his hand, and the PA quickly got up and left the room. There was silence around the table as Steiner’s gaze swept slowly around from man to man. Ben watched him. Across the table, he saw Neville looking down at his hands as Steiner’s eyes fixed on him.

After a moment Dorenkamp returned. With him were two men in dark suits, each carrying a shiny aluminium flight-case about two feet long. Dorenkamp directed the men over to the table. They carefully laid the cases on its shiny surface, then turned without a word and left the room. The PA flipped open the metal catches on each case, then lifted each lid in turn and stepped back.

Steiner’s gaze settled on Ben. ‘Please,’ he said, motioning to him. Ben got up from his seat and walked over to the open cases and looked down at what was inside them. He looked, blinked, looked again.

‘What are these?’ he asked Steiner. His consternation must have showed in his voice, because he caught an edgy look from Dorenkamp, as if to say ‘Don’t question him like that.’

‘These are the items I have provided for you to use in your protective role,’ Steiner said.

Chapter Fifteen

Ben looked back at the contents of the cases. Each box had a cavity cut out of its foam lining, and inset into each recess was a weapon, brand new and shining under the lights.

‘Naturally, what you see is only a sample,’ Steiner said with an air of indifference. ‘Each team member will be issued his own.’

Ben didn’t reply. He reached down and picked one up. ‘You are not familiar with this type of weapon?’ Steiner asked.

Ben turned the gun over in his hands. It was a double-barrelled device, with bores large enough to accommodate a wine bottle. It was bulky and clumsy in his hands. He knew what it was, and what it was for. A Flash-Ball rubber bullet gun, what riot and raid teams called a ‘non-lethal option’. At close to medium range its hard rubber projectile could deliver a blow roughly equivalent to a punch from a champion boxer. Enough kinetic force to knock a large human being to the floor and incapacitate them without doing any serious damage. Ben could think of a lot of situations where such a weapon would be extremely useful. Home defence in those countries that allowed it, to take down an intruder without having to kill them. Bounty hunters, who needed to soften a tough target and bring them in alive. In those situations, fine. Ideal.

But for the purposes of close protection they were worse than useless.

He put the weapon back in the box and turned to Steiner. ‘No chance,’ he said.

Steiner stared at him again. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said no chance,’ Ben repeated. ‘These—’ He was going to say ‘Mickey Mouse pieces of shit’, but then thought better of it. ‘These weapons are completely unsuitable for our purposes. They’re heavy and clumsy and impossible to conceal, and they’re going to compromise our ability to protect you. They put us at a serious disadvantage in the event of a further kidnap attempt.’

Steiner just stared at him coldly. Dorenkamp was pale and wide-eyed. Across the table, Pete Neville was sitting back in his chair with his arms folded, glaring at him angrily.

‘In short, Ben said, ’they’re useless. I recommend you ditch them and get something more appropriate.’

‘And what exactly is it that you would recommend, Major?’ Steiner asked curtly.

‘In my experience, the Heckler & Koch MP5 machine carbine is a good companion to compact, concealable semiautomatic pistols such as the 9mm Glock, Browning or SIG,’ Ben said. ‘Whatever works.’ He pointed at the Flash-Balls in the cases. ‘These won’t.’

Steiner’s lips tightened. ‘No firearms. That is a contractual condition of your employment. I want you to protect me, but there must be no loss of life. I will neither tolerate bloodshed nor authorise the use of lethal force.’

Ben could see he was resolute. ‘Herr Steiner, these people who are after you aren’t playing. They’re evidently armed and serious.’ He paused, remembering what Dorenkamp had told him about Steiner’s anti-gun stance. ‘I understand your principles, and I admire them. It’s laudable that you want to avoid any kind of violence. Believe me, so do I. That’s what I’m here for. And the best way to avoid conflict is to ensure that we’re as well equipped as, or better equipped than, your enemies.’ Steiner shook his head.

‘Then I’d urge you to think about your family. Putting yourself at risk is one thing, but you also have the emotional interests of your wife and nephew to consider. I’ve seen too many families torn apart by kidnapping.’

Steiner’s face became even harder. ‘We are getting nowhere. Your proposal is out of the question.’ He threw a look at Dorenkamp.

‘The, ah, equipment requirements had already been discussed with Captain Shannon,’ Dorenkamp said weakly. ‘I’m surprised you weren’t notified of that.’

No, Ben thought. I damn well wasn’t. He sighed, knowing that he had no choice but to back down. In normal circumstances, in sane circumstances, if this had been his contract, being forced to use such inappropriate equipment would have been a deal-breaker. He would have found it unacceptable to risk the safety not only of his principal, but of the whole team. And any team leader who agreed to this kind of a deal was a cowboy. Shannon was clearly just agreeing to anything to get his hands on the money.

But Ben wasn’t here to make Shannon look incompetent in front of his employers. He was here to make reparations, not trouble. It was intolerable, but that was the way it was.

He took a deep breath before replying, ‘I apologise. You’re quite right. I was notified. It must have slipped my mind. We’ll make do with the items you’ve supplied.’

Steiner eyed him coolly. ‘Good. Let us move on to the subject of your first assignment. I am due to attend an extremely important meeting at a conference centre outside Lausanne early this afternoon. My presence there is vital, and I have no intention of letting a gang of Nazis prevent me from carrying on my business.’

Ben listened and nodded. It wasn’t a long drive to Lausanne. But far enough to be cautious. ‘I should have a look at the vehicles.’

Steiner shook his head. ‘We are not travelling by road. As team leader, you may travel with myself and Herr Dorenkamp in my personal helicopter. The rest of the team will follow in the second craft as arranged.’

This was just getting worse. Ben knew it was the wrong thing to do, but he had to say something. ‘I’m sorry, but that doesn’t seem entirely secure.’

Dorenkamp was staring at the tabletop with a weary look of resignation.

‘Why not?’ Steiner demanded.

‘Because in my experience it’s bad practice to separate the principal, in this case, you, from most of the team. If anything kicks off—’

But Steiner silenced him with a gesture. ‘I don’t have time to waste on a long road trip. The aircraft will reach the destination within half an hour.’

‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Then perhaps you’ll agree to let at least one of my team ride with me in the lead chopper?’

‘Regrettably, that is not possible,’ Dorenkamp cut in. ‘There are only five seats. Pilot, co-pilot, and three passengers.’

‘Then perhaps one of the men could take your place?’ Ben said.

Steiner shook his head impatiently. ‘I cannot allow that. I need my Personal Assistant with me at all times. We will have important matters to discuss in the air, prior to the meeting.’ He paused. ‘We are wasting time here. I had already discussed my schedule with Captain Shannon, who seemed perfectly content with the plans. I am surprised you did not know this either. Or perhaps you did, and this also slipped your mind?’

Shannon again. Ben was silent.

‘You are being paid to protect me, not to organise my business arrangements,’ Steiner added.

‘Then I apologise again,’ Ben replied. He could feel the looks that the other team members were firing at him.

‘Then all is settled,’ Steiner said. He laid his hands on the table, palms down, fingers splayed. Put his weight on them and stood up with a nod. ‘Gentlemen.’ He turned and walked out of the room.

Dorenkamp got up. He looked tense, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his high forehead. ‘Morning coffee will be served in the refectory downstairs,’ he said. ‘If you will follow me. Then at one fifteen we will reassemble at the helipad. My assistant Rolf will provide you with everything you need.’

Including the useless weaponry, Ben thought as he followed Dorenkamp out of the conference room and the rest of the team filed out after him. ‘I’d like to take a look around the grounds,’ he said to the PA. ‘Just to assess security and familiarise myself with the layout.’

Dorenkamp nodded. ‘If you wish. However, I should point out that the grounds are completely secure. We have seen to that.’

They made their way back down the stairs, and Dorenkamp led them along the corridor they’d come through earlier. The music had stopped. Dorenkamp pointed at a door. ‘The refectory is through there. Gentlemen, if you would like to help yourselves to refreshments.’

As the men went into the room, he turned to Ben. ‘May I have a word?’

Ben already knew what he was going to say. Dorenkamp waited until all the others were through the door, then closed it.

‘Privately, I completely agree with the points you made,’ he said quietly, just above a whisper. ‘But Herr Steiner can be a stubborn man, and once he has made up his mind, he will not change it.’

‘So I’d noticed,’ Ben said. ‘I can be like that too.’

Dorenkamp smiled. ‘So I had noticed. But I would beg you: for the love of God, do not antagonise him.’

Ben returned the smile. ‘I’ll try to keep that in mind.’

Dorenkamp was about to reply, when the sound of approaching footsteps behind them made them turn.

A woman was walking up the corridor to meet them, her heels clicking on the polished floor. She was handsome, mid-fifties. Classic looks, slim and elegant, wearing a black dress and a string of pearls. The glossy, shoulder-length, red-gold hair didn’t look dyed. She greeted Dorenkamp with a warm smile. ‘Good morning, Heinrich.’

‘Good morning, Frau Steiner. May I introduce you to Major Hope?’

So this was Silvia Steiner, Ben thought as he shook hands with her. She seemed altogether more approachable than her husband. But then he noticed something a little odd. It was the way she was looking at him, more quizzical than disapproving. It was over in a second, and he wondered what it meant.

‘Have we met before, Major Hope?’ she asked him.

‘Please, call me Ben. And I’m afraid I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’

‘The major is standing in for Captain Shannon,’ Dorenkamp explained, ‘who regrettably is unable to join us for a while. An unfortunate incident.’

Silvia Steiner raised her eyebrows in consternation. ‘Oh, dear. Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Ben said uncomfortably. ‘Let’s just say he had an inconvenience.’

‘What happened?’

‘It’s a long story.’

Her gaze lingered on him for a few seconds. Ben tried to read her thoughts. Had Shannon told the Steiners what had really happened? He didn’t think so. Not even Shannon could be that unprofessional.

But then the awkward moment passed and Silvia Steiner smiled warmly again. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ Ben said.

‘I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.’ She turned to Dorenkamp. ‘Have you seen Otto around, Heinrich? There was something I wanted to ask him.’

‘I believe he is on the golf course,’ the PA said.

‘Again?’ But her look of exasperation faded quickly. She smiled a last time at Ben, turned and headed back up the corridor, rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

‘Enjoy your coffee,’ Dorenkamp said, pointing to the refectory door. ‘I will see you later.’

Ben watched him go, thinking he didn’t seem like a bad guy. He had a lot to put up with from Steiner. Then he pushed through the door. The refectory was a large dining hall, the walls panelled with ornate oak. On a side table were stacked plates and cups and a stand with a selection of cakes and pastries. Beside it was a large coffee machine that hissed steam and burbled and spat. The coffee smelled good. Ben grabbed a cup and filled it.

The others were milling around the table and talking in low voices while helping themselves to food. Ben carried his coffee over to the window and stood with his back to them, gazing out at the view.

‘What the fuck?’ said a voice behind him, hostile and challenging.

Ben turned slowly. He’d known who it was, and he’d been right. Pete Neville was standing glaring at him, a coffee in one hand and a Danish pastry in the other. ‘What’s the fucking idea of stirring things up, mate?’ he went on.

Ben gave him a look and said nothing.

‘Watch it, Pete,’ Woodcock called out from across the room. ‘He might try and break your arm.’

‘Like to see him fucking try,’ grunted Morgan.

‘So tell us, mate,’ Neville said. ‘What the fuck you trying to do, get us all the boot?’

Ben looked at him. ‘A tip. If you’re going to come on the tough guy, try not to do it when you’ve got custard all over your chin.’

Neville quickly wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

Ben turned to address them all. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, people. I’m CO here, and you’re going to answer to me and follow my lead.’

The team watched him sullenly.

‘And from now on, Neville,’ Ben said, ‘you keep your mouth shut. If you speak to me, it’s in reply to a direct question. Otherwise I’ll shut it for you. Understood?’ He finished his coffee and put down the empty cup. ‘Now, Neville, you’ve just earned yourself a job. Go and collect the popguns from Rolf. Take them over to our quarters. Check everything’s working and get them ready for this afternoon. You’re responsible for them from now on. Any complaints, mate?’

Neville didn’t say a word.

‘Better,’ Ben said. Then he walked past them all and left the refectory.

Chapter Sixteen

Ben spent a little while before lunch wandering about the estate, checking things over and familiarising himself with the layout. Peacocks strutted over the immaculate green lawns. Attached to the château’s west wing was a large glass-domed conservatory filled with exotic plants, with an ornate fountain in its centre and a bronze statue of the Roman sea god Neptune standing amid the waves, his trident pointing upwards. Ben stopped to look at it, then walked on. Bees hummed around the flowers in the formal gardens. Gardeners in white uniforms were mowing the velvety turf of the tennis courts. Through a gated archway Ben could see the neatly-trimmed entrance to a maze. The sky was blue, and even with the mountain breeze the sun was beating down hard.

A little further on, he heard angry shouts in the distance, and followed the sound to see a man he instantly knew was Otto, heir to the Steiner fortune, storming angrily across the golf course. In a business suit, he might have passed for a younger version of his uncle, but the check trousers, the brightly coloured golf shirt and the jaunty white cap on his head made him appear faintly clownish. A miserable-looking caddie stumbled along after him. Otto turned and started raging at him, then grabbed a club from the golf bag, threw it clumsily at him and screamed at him in German to fuck off.

Any other time, Ben might have smiled to himself at the spectacle. Not today. The whole situation was a mess. He didn’t want to be here, sandwiched between a prickly despot and a team of idiots. All he wanted was to be back home at Le Val. Even the idea of sitting at the desk doing paperwork seemed deeply attractive at this moment. And he’d brought the whole thing on himself.

Ben watched Otto stamp off towards his private villa, then turned and carried on, thinking about what a difference there was between the two Steiner men. He wondered how they got on.

As he walked, he spotted a building that made him stop and look. Nestling in among the trees, its stained glass windows caught the sunlight.

It was a little grey stone chapel. If the Steiners had had it built specially for them, it was the best reproduction of an eighteenth-century church that Ben had ever seen. He felt himself drawn towards it. Pushed open the studded oak door and walked in.

It was cool inside, and his footsteps echoed off the tiled floor. He wandered up the aisle, between the rows of glistening pews, and stopped in front of the altar. The light from the stained glass windows shone down on him. He looked up at the statue of the crucified Jesus on the back wall behind the altar. Sighed and closed his eyes.

He hadn’t prayed for a long time.

Lord, I know you and I have had our differences. I know I’ve been inconstant and done a lot of bad things.

He paused.

But please give me the strength to see this through. Give me the patience not to tell them all to go to hell, drive straight

back to Le Val and make sure Rupert Shannon spends the next year sucking his meals out of a tube.

He opened his eyes. It hadn’t quite come out the way he’d intended. A little dark, perhaps. But it would have to do, and he hoped God understood. He turned away from the altar and walked back up the aisle feeling just a little lighter. Maybe prayer was good for you after all.

As he headed back towards the house, he heard the piano again. This time he recognised the piece. Bartók. Harmonically dissonant and jarring on the ear, it was the kind of music he liked. And Silvia Steiner played it beautifully, as though she really understood it.

The music was drifting from a pair of open French windows. He walked towards them, paused to listen and peered inside.

She was sitting at her concert grand in a large white room. A little way from the piano stool a gilt harp, and nearby a cello case was lying on the floor. There was a sofa piled with cushions, that looked as though people actually sat on it. In one corner was a messy stack of music books and manuscripts, and tatty rugs were arranged ad hoc on the floor. Flowers and plants spilled out of vases everywhere. Ben sensed that this was Silvia Steiner’s personal haven, cosy and inviting, untainted by her husband’s cold, rigid formality.

She noticed Ben standing there in the window, lifted her hands from the keys and smiled. ‘Hello again.’

‘Please don’t stop,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I was just listening to the Bartók.’

Her smile broadened. She got up from the piano stool and walked round the side of the instrument towards him. ‘In this house, most people keep their distance when I’m playing Bartók. Especially Max. He says it makes him feel tense and uncomfortable.’

‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I find it relaxing.’

She laughed, and considered him for a moment with the same curious look she’d given him before. ‘You’re an unusual man,’ she said.

‘Not so unusual,’ he replied.

‘I’m sorry my husband spoke sharply to you earlier on.’ Catching Ben’s expression of surprise, she added, ‘Heinrich told me. You know, Max has been under a lot of stress lately with all that’s been happening. These awful terrorists. Pressure of the business. Family problems.’ She looked out of the window, across the golf course to where Otto had been a few minutes earlier, and Ben thought he could see a look of sadness pass over her face. ‘Max isn’t normally difficult to deal with,’ she went on. ‘He’s really a wonderful man.’

Ben found that hard to believe. ‘I understand that Herr Steiner is under a lot of stress. It’s perfectly normal, in these circumstances.’

‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ she said. ‘You seem like a very kind, decent person.’

Ben didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He glanced down at his feet.

‘I believe you live in France?’ she asked.

‘Normandy.’

‘But you’re English.’

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Half English, half Irish. Before I moved to France I had a place in Galway, by the sea.’

‘How beautiful. You must miss it.’

‘I do, sometimes. But life moves on.’

‘It certainly does.’ She sighed. For an instant she seemed far away, then caught herself. ‘Are you sure we’ve never met?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Quite sure?’

‘Pretty sure. Why?’

She shook her head slowly, as if trying to place him. Her eyes seemed to search his. ‘It’s strange. Somehow I feel that I know you. You seem terribly familiar to me.’

‘I have a good memory for faces,’ he said. ‘If we’d ever met, I would remember.’ He smiled. ‘Now I’d better leave you to your music. I have to get back to my work.’

After he’d finished his rounds of the estate and made all the mental notes he needed, Ben went back to the security team’s quarters. He got there just as lunch was being served. Once he’d checked that Neville had sorted out the Flash-Balls as instructed, he grabbed a ham salad baguette and a bottle of mineral water and went back to his room to eat alone once again.

As he ate, he could hear the laughter of the others over the blare of the TV. He shut the noise out of his thoughts, still angry with himself. When he’d finished eating, he picked up his phone and dialled the number for Le Val. Jeff answered.

‘How are things going?’

‘Not much to report,’ Jeff said. ‘Brooke’s still here, getting ready for her lecture. She thought she might as well hang around.’

‘I ought to be there,’ Ben said glumly. ‘I should be taking care of things.’

‘It’s just a bunch of insurance brokers wanting to be taught about hostage psychology and ransom negotiation techniques,’ Jeff said. ‘Nothing we can’t cope with ourselves. You sit tight and we’ll see you when we see you.’

‘Any word on His Nibs?’

‘Still in hospital. I reckon the bastard’s malingering there. Getting paid for doing fuck all. Private room at our expense, probably ordering champagne round the clock. I tell you, he’s having a whale of a time with this.’

It wasn’t what Ben wanted to hear.

Just after one, the team filed back outside, carrying their clumsy weapons. There was no conversation between them as they made the ten-minute walk to the circular concrete helipad at the west side of the estate.

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