‘Carl’s got a special talent,’ Jessica said. ‘That’s all there is to it. Anyone who saw him play knows that he didn’t cheat. He wouldn’t have.’
Turning to Carl, the interviewer said, ‘So now, Carl, when you return home after your holiday, you will be able to tell your friends at school that you beat the Spanish chess champion. Were you nervous?’
‘Not really,’ he said, blushing and looking down at his feet. ‘It wasn’t that hard for me to win.’
‘Ugh,’ the real-life Carl snorted, watching himself in disapproval. ‘Talk about snotty.’
‘Shush, Carl,’ Drew said.
‘You certainly made it look easy,’ the interviewer chuckled. ‘What is the secret of your amazing ability?’
‘I sort of knew what he was going to do, before he did it,’ replied the on-screen Carl. ‘That’s how I could beat him so fast.’
‘You mean you could predict what the champion’s every move would be? Surely this must take years of study and practice? But you have only been playing a short time?’
‘I could read his thoughts,’ the boy said nonchalantly.
‘In Spanish?’ the interview replied, making a joke of it.
‘Doesn’t matter what language,’ the boy told her. ‘I can just read people’s minds. Anybody’s.’ He added, ‘Yours too.’
Drew turned off the tape. ‘It’s the truth,’ he said to Ben. ‘Carl has an incredible gift. That’s what I meant when I said he couldn’t get into Mike’s head. Because normally, he knows what people are thinking.’
‘Come on,’ Ben said.
‘You think it’s all bullshit, do you? You’re wrong. Telepathy, ESP, whatever you want to call it, is recognised as a reality. The Russians have been researching it for decades. The Americans too. They take it seriously enough to spend millions. It’s not a joke.’
‘Is it true, Carl?’ Ben said. ‘You can read minds?
Carl shrugged. ‘Not all of the time. Depends.’
‘Okay, then what’s on my mind?’ Ben asked him.
‘You don’t believe us. You think we’re making it up.’
Ben smiled. ‘You don’t have to be a mind reader to figure that one out.’
Carl hesitated for a moment. A defiant look coming into his eye, he said, ‘What you were thinking. Before you brought us back here. You were wrong. And you know you were wrong.’
‘Thinking?’
‘That Dad killed the detective man,’ Carl said. ‘It’s not true. Dad wouldn’t hurt anybody. And he never sent those men to get you, either.’
Ben was stunned. How could the boy have known about those suspicions that had been in his mind at the time?
‘How many men, Carl?’ he asked.
Carl thought for a moment. ‘Three.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I can see them,’ Carl said.
‘Inside my head? What else can you see?’
‘There was a lion,’ Carl said.
‘A lion?’
‘Just its head. Shiny. Like gold.’
Ben remembered the polished brass knocker on the door of the Finley & Reynolds detective agency.
‘Black door,’ Carl said. ‘There was a railing.’
Ben stared at Carl, then at Drew. It wasn’t possible. There had to be a trick. ‘He’s been to Dover. He’s just describing what he’s seen with his own eyes.’
‘How could he have been there?’ Drew replied. ‘I wasn’t allowed to see him, remember? Let alone take him with me. I went to see Paul Finley in Dover by myself.’
‘Then you told him about it.’
‘About my secret visit to the detective agency?’ Drew said. ‘You don’t think I’d have kept that to myself, in case he let something slip? He’s just a boy.’
‘Then how’s he doing this?’ Ben asked. He remembered how Carl had appeared to know he was following them earlier that day in the street. The way he’d turned to stare, picking Ben out of the crowd as if some unseen finger had just pointed down out of the sky to give him away. It had baffled him then. It baffled him even more now.
‘You tell me,’ Drew said. ‘There is no explanation. He just can. He’s special. And Mike Greerson knows it. Don’t you get it yet? That’s what this is all about.’
16
‘TELL ME ABOUT Mike, Carl,’ Ben said.
The boy shrugged. ‘He bought me stuff and he was always acting nice. Wanting to be my friend. But I never liked him much. He was always hanging around me when Mum wasn’t there. Setting me these sort of tests.’
‘Tests?’
‘Yeah. Like, he’d show me a photo of someone I’d never seen before and ask me to guess what their name was, where they lived, stuff like that. Or he’d bring out a pack of cards, pick one and ask me to tell him what it was without looking. Sometimes he’d hide something in the house somewhere, a key or a spoon, all kinds of stuff. Then he’d get me tell him where they were.’
‘And could you?’
‘Most of the time,’ Carl said nonchalantly. ‘It was sort of a fun thing at first. After a while I started pretending not to be able to know the answers. I didn’t like the game any more.’
‘Did your mum know that Mike was playing these games with you?’ Ben asked.
Carl shook his head. ‘It was always just the two of us alone.’
Ben lowered his voice and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Carl, I need to ask you an important question. Don’t be afraid to tell the truth, okay? Nobody will blame you. I need to know if there was any other part of these games that you haven’t told anyone about. Did Mike ever do anything, or touch you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?’
Carl flushed. ‘There wasn’t anything like …like that.’
‘All right. I believe you,’ Ben said, withdrawing his hand. ‘I just needed to be sure, Carl.’
‘Okay,’ Carl said.
‘How did Mike act when you pretended not to know the answers to his questions? Did he get angry?’
‘No. He was always quiet. He never yelled at me or anything. He just seemed like he didn’t believe me. He’d leave it alone, then after a while if Mum wasn’t around he’d start trying again.’
‘Tell him about the newspaper cutting, Carl,’ Drew said.
Carl nodded. ‘It was in the summer house.’
‘It used to be my studio,’ Drew explained. ‘Now it’s Mike’s office.’
‘What newspaper?’ Ben asked.
‘The chess game episode in Spain didn’t exactly make national headlines,’ Drew told Ben. ‘But Isabella Saura’s interview with Carl did make it to the local media. Carl found a clipping of the article in Mike’s briefcase. So what the hell was that doing there, eh? And since when did he understand Spanish?’
‘How did you know Mike had it?’ Ben asked the boy.
‘Just had a feeling,’ Carl said. ‘Like there was something about me in the briefcase.’
‘Is that how it works, you just get feelings?’ Ben asked, and the boy nodded. Ben pondered this for a moment, then turned to Drew. ‘So what are we saying here?’
‘We’re saying that this Mike Greerson, though I seriously doubt that’s his real name, doesn’t work for some optics company, or whatever he claims. He works for someone with some kind of special interest in my boy,’ Drew said fiercely. ‘I’m not talking about a benevolent interest. And they’re not getting anywhere near him. Not while I’m alive.’ Drew wrapped a protective arm around his son. The boy didn’t respond. He was gazing into space, as if lost in his own thoughts.
Ben thought for a moment, but he still wasn’t buying Drew’s argument. ‘And your ex-wife just happened to meet this guy who just happened to be interested in Carl?’
‘No, I don’t think she “just happened” to meet him,’ Drew replied. ‘I mean, how do people meet? I first met Jessica at a party. Something like that’s easily arranged.’
‘You mean he was planted,’ Ben said.
Carl’s face had turned paler. He bit h
is lip. ‘Dad—’ he murmured, plucking at his father’s sleeve.
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Drew said firmly.
‘Dad—’
‘Please, Carl. Dad’s talking. Yeah, he was put there, all right. The whole thing was planned, right from the start.’
‘Taking a bit for granted, weren’t they?’ Ben said. ‘It takes two to tango, and Jessica’s her own person.’
‘Oh, you can bet they’ll have had a whole profile on her,’ Drew replied in a tone of barely contained anger. ‘She was lonely. She was on the rebound from a marriage gone to pot. She had a kid to support. And let’s face it, there’s one thing about Jessica. She loves money and nice things. Along comes golden boy, right on cue. Good looks, plenty of cash, solid career. Not a loser like me. If she hadn’t taken the bait, they’d just have kept trying until they managed to get someone else in. Taking over my place. Free to observe Carl every day. Test him. Assess him.’
‘But why?’ Ben insisted.
‘Because a gift like that makes him incredibly valuable to certain people who might want to exploit it,’ Drew said. ‘Think about it.’
Carl was looking increasingly agitated, still plucking at his father’s sleeve and trying to get his attention.
‘I am,’ Ben said. ‘I’m thinking this would have to be a very highly organised conspiracy. As for who on earth would take such an interest in something like this—’
‘They’re a team of some kind,’ Drew said. ‘That’s who Mike was meeting up with, reporting to them, keeping them updated on his observation of Carl. They’re his colleagues. His fellow agents, or something. I’m well aware of how crazy it sounds, but I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. I know it’s the truth, and I’m damn sure that Paul Finley uncovered something about it before they got to him.’
‘They?’ Ben said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Yes, they,’ Drew said forcefully. ‘This is their mission. They’ll do whatever it takes. They want Carl.’
‘For what?’ Ben asked, still deeply unconvinced. ‘Drew, for what?’
But Drew didn’t reply. He’d broken off from the conversation and was gaping at his son in sudden alarm.
The boy had turned white with fear. He was trembling violently and staring fixedly into empty space with a look of dread, as if at some terrifying apparition that only he could see.
‘They’re coming,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘They’re here.’
17
NOBODY SPOKE FOR a moment. Carl’s face was set in a look of terror.
And in the silence, the door chimes sounded melodiously in the hallway. Carl flinched as if struck.
‘Carl, what are you sensing?’ Drew asked him urgently, shaking him. But Carl just shook his head, apparently speechless with fear.
The chimes sounded a second time, more insistently.
‘You two get in there,’ Ben said, motioning at the door to the next room. He stood, taking Barberini’s .25 from his pocket. Drew’s eyes widened at the sight of the gun.
His jaw tight, Ben walked out into the hallway. He trod stealthily up to the door and put his eye to the security peephole.
Two men were standing outside the door, dressed in matching light blue overalls and caps. One was clutching a toolbox.
Ben silently cursed himself for the stupidity of the anticlimactic relief that flooded through him. It was nothing, after all that. Why had he let himself be lulled by the kid? He slipped the pistol back into his pocket. Undid the security chain, slid open the deadlocks and opened the door. ‘What do you want?’ he asked the men in French.
‘Maintenance,’ said one. The other, clutching the toolbox, just smiled.
‘Now’s not a good time,’ Ben told them.
The maintenance man shook his head. ‘Gotta come in. We’ve had a report of a leaky pipe in this apartment. You the proprietor?’
‘Leaky pipe?’ Ben said.
‘Yup, leaking pretty bad. It’s coming through the ceiling below. If we don’t fix it right away it’s gonna cause a lot of damage.’ The guy held up a key. ‘We’re authorised to enter whether anyone’s at home or not.’
‘Hold on,’ Ben said. Leaving the door ajar, he turned and walked back down the hallway. Drew and Carl had emerged tentatively from their hiding place. Carl looked even more terrified than before.
‘False alarm,’ Ben said. ‘Building maintenance. Come to fix your leaky pipe. Time we were out of here anyway.’
Drew stared at him. ‘But there’s no leaky p—’ he began.
Ben heard no more.
The silenced gunshot sounded like a muffled clap in the hallway behind him. A magnesium-flare flash filled his head, and suddenly the floor was racing up to smash him in the face as his knees crumpled and he fell forwards.
He couldn’t move. A black tide of mist swelled up to obliterate his vision. All he could hear was the high-pitched whine in his ears that drowned out the sound of Carl’s screams. He was only dimly aware of the blue-clad men stepping over his prone body and striding into the room …Drew and Carl backing away …Drew with his hands raised, yelling soundlessly …The inaudible pistol shot hitting him in the chest and slamming him into the wall as the other man in blue grabbed Carl and dragged him screaming away from his fallen father . . .
A long time after – or perhaps not? – Ben resurfaced from the dark lagoon of unconsciousness. One eye fluttered open, then the other. Gazing unfocusedly at close range into a pool of blood. This wasn’t what the afterlife should look like, he thought.
Then maybe he wasn’t dead. But when he tried to push himself up to his knees, the searing agony in his back and shoulder made him think he should be. The spasm of awful pain made him cry out. Instantly, his heart was thudding. Every movement, every breath, was a torment.
Now he could see that there was blood everywhere, all around him, spreading thickly on the marble floor, soaking into the rug. But not all of it was his. Drew’s body was a few feet away, sitting half-propped against the wall, staring at him lifelessly. A trickle of blood from his mouth was quietly dripping down to add to the pool between his legs. Two bullet holes were punched into his chest.
Ben gritted his teeth and staggered to his feet, only for extreme nausea and agony to double him up and almost make him collapse again. He leaned against the wall for support, leaving a jagged smear of blood along it as he tried to fight his way towards the door. He had to … get out …of here. Had to … find Carl.
Ben’s last memory was of the men taking him. The boy had been right. They’d come for him.
And Ben had let them do it.
A wave of crippling weakness made him stop, leaning heavily against the wall, his chest heaving as he fought to breathe. The air was thick and foul. What was that he could smell? His nostrils twitched. He tried to focus. His half-conscious mind telling him it was something important.
Gas. That was what it was. The reek of it filled the room.
Ben slowly turned. Blinked as he registered the sight of the heating timer control on the wall. The plastic cover had been removed. Exposed wiring.
And like the thudding of his heart, he heard the ticking of the countdown.
Move! shrieked a voice inside his head. He turned and staggered for the glass doors leading out onto the balcony. Crashed through the doors and swayed on his feet, blinking in the bright sun, fighting the rising blackness that threatened to overcome him at any moment.
He grasped the rail of the spiral iron staircase that led upwards. Marshalling all his strength he dragged himself up it like an injured spider. Now he found himself on a rooftop garden. He ran, stumbled, almost fell flat, somehow kept on running, then was tumbling into space—
And the whole penthouse apartment erupted in a firestorm behind him.
18
Jersey
Three weeks later
IT WAS MORNING. Jessica Hunter sat alone in her empty kitchen. She blinked, feeling that she wanted to cry. But she’d cried so much already,
and for so long, that now the well was dry. There was nothing left but the aching, desolate rawness she felt inside.
With an unsteady hand, she picked up the glass of vodka from beside the half-empty bottle on the breakfast bar surface in front of her. Closed her eyes and knocked back a stinging mouthful, then let the glass slip out of her hand back onto the surface. Beside the bottle was a small framed picture of Carl. She picked it up, gazed at it – and that was when the flooding tears finally came again.
Suddenly aware of a presence, she turned. She gasped when she saw the lean, silent figure in the doorway. How long had he been standing there, watching her?
‘You,’ she breathed.
He said nothing.
‘I thought you were . . .’ her voice trailed off and she just looked at him. She’d never seen him look this way. So still, so quiet, with a fire in his eyes that made her almost afraid.
Ben took a step closer. He stooped and picked up the crumpled three-week-old edition of Le Monde from the floor, to glance at the headline and the photo of the devastated apartment building belching smoke into the sky over Monte Carlo. The movement made him wince as a sharp jolt of fresh pain shot through him; and for an instant his memory drifted back, reliving the suffering of the last weeks like a nightmare daydream. The escape over the rooftops and through the chaos of Monte Carlo in the wake of the explosion. Stealing the car. The interminable fevered agony of the drive across the Italian border and northwards into Switzerland, to the tiny mountain village near Mont Blanc and the home of his old comrade, retired ex-SAS medic Frankie Gallagher.
Frankie might be every bit as crazy as they said he was, but he still knew how to get a bullet out. The nine-millimetre full metal jacket had clipped Ben’s left shoulder blade on entry and bounced diagonally to plough a channel deep into his shoulder, stopping just a whisker from the collarbone. The surgery hadn’t been easy. He’d refused to let himself pass out until he’d seen Frankie drop the flattened one-hundred-and-forty-seven-grain FMJ and six bone fragments from his bloody forceps into a surgical dish. An experience Ben wouldn’t forget in a hurry – but still preferable to facing the kinds of questions he’d have been asked in any hospital.
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