The teenager in the next cell came to. He lifted himself groggily up on his hands and knees, and turned to look at her with bloodshot eyes.
‘I’m Roberta,’ she whispered across the gap. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy was too out of it to respond. He just stared at her. But the stocky guard obviously didn’t want them talking. He took a syringe out of a zipper bag, grabbed the boy’s arm through the bars of his cage and gave him a shot. After a minute the kid was slumped flat again.
‘What the fuck are you giving him?’ Roberta hissed at him.
‘Shut up, bitch, or you’ll get it too.’ Then he went back to ignoring her.
It seemed like hours and hours later when the stocky guard eventually swapped places with the scrawny, bearded man again. Soon after he’d resumed his watch over her, he gave her a tentative smile and she returned it. ‘Hey, you couldn’t get me a glass of water, could you?’ she called over to him. He hesitated, then went to a table where the guards had a jug and a few dusty glasses.
After she drank the water, he seemed to want to hang around closer to her cage. She smiled again. ‘What’s your name?’
‘A-André,’ he replied nervously.
‘André, c’mere a minute. I need your help.’
The scrawny guard glanced over his shoulder, even though there was nobody else around. ‘What d’you want?’ he muttered suspiciously.
‘I lost an earring,’ she said. That much was true. It must have fallen out somewhere between here and the hotel. She pointed down at the shadows of the floor. ‘It fell down there, your side. I can’t reach through the bars.’
‘Fuck you, find it yourself.’ He turned away with a sour look.
‘Please? It’s antique, twenty-four carat gold. Worth a lot of money.’
That got his interest. He hesitated, then slung the submachine gun behind his back and approached her. He dropped to his knees, searching in the dust. ‘Where abouts?’
Roberta crouched down facing him through the bars. ‘Just around there, I think…maybe this way a bit…yeah, round there…’
‘I can’t see it.’ He was scraping around with his fingers, a look of avid concentration on his face. He moved closer to her and she caught the scent of rancid sweat mixed with cheap deodorant, a kind of cold baked-beans smell. She waited until his head was almost touching the bars of the cage. She passed her hands through the bars either side, her heart beginning to race as she thought about what she was going to do. His attention was fixed on the floor. She took a deep breath and then went for it.
In a sudden movement she grabbed hold of his beard with both hands. He wrenched his head back with a stifled shout, but she held him fast. She used her knees against the bars to brace herself. Yanked with all her strength and his bony forehead crashed against the steel cage. He cried out in pain and grabbed at her wrists. Tightening her grip on his beard, she threw herself violently backwards and smashed his head against the bars a second time. He sagged to the floor, stunned but still struggling. She dug her fingers into his greasy hair, bunching up a tight fistful of it, and with the unthinking brutality that comes with desperation she dashed his head repeatedly against the concrete floor until he stopped yelling and struggling. He lay limply with blood oozing from his broken nose.
She let go of him and fell back into the cage, breathing hard and wiping the sweat out of her eyes. She saw the ring of keys on his belt and crawled forward in the dust. She stretched her arm out for it. It was just within reach of her straining fingers and she unclipped it, fumbling clumsily with the fear that someone would come in and catch her. As she tried the different keys on the ring she glanced nervously up at the steel door at the top of the steps.
The fourth key she tried turned the lock. She pushed hard at the steel door to shove the slumped body out of the way, picked up the fallen sub-machinegun and slung it around her neck.
‘Hey, wake up.’ She banged on the bars of the teenager’s cage, but he wasn’t responding. She thought about opening up his cell and carrying him out–but he’d be too heavy for her. If she could get out of here alone, she’d come back later with the police.
She ran across the cellar to the stone steps. Just as she reached the third step, the steel door at the top swung open, and she froze.
The tall man in black appeared in the doorway above her. Their eyes met.
She knew this guy. Her kidnapper. Without hesitating she pointed the SMG at his head and squeezed the trigger.
But he just kept walking down the steps, grinning broadly at her. She squeezed harder on the trigger, but it was stuck or something–the gun wouldn’t work. Three more guards filed through the doorway, all pointing similar weapons at her.
And they’d all remembered to cock theirs.
Bozza snatched the gun away from her. He caught the fist she swung at him, and twisted her arm up tight behind her back. A stab of pain. Another quarter inch and he’d break it. He marched her back to her cell and flung her into it. The barred door clanged shut behind her.
Bozza was filled with desire to cut this woman up, slowly and deliberately. He took out his knife and scraped the blade down the steel bars. ‘When your friend Hope gives himself up to us,’ he whispered in that hoarse, strangled voice, ‘we are all going to have some fun.’
She spat in his face, and he wiped it away with a harsh laugh.
Then she watched as Bozza slit the scrawny guard’s throat and bled him squealing like a pig into the drain in the middle of the cellar.
51
France’s long hot summers, easy pace of life, good food and wine were qualities that attracted a great many retired British folks to leave behind the decaying island empire and resettle in mainland Europe. But not all of the ex-pats who settled there were the usual former solicitors, academics or businesspeople. It had been years since Ben’s old forces friend Jack had left the rain-drenched city of Blackpool and found himself a nice beach house near Marseille. Jack was semi-retired now, but he still had a few clients. His business was electronic surveillance…and a few related things on the side.
The Triumph Daytona blasted down the French coastal road like a missile. It was a two-hour drive to Marseille. Ben aimed to do it in one.
Five hours later he was riding back the other way with a large black hold-all strapped to the pillion.
The broad paved driveway cut between lush lawns to the sparkling glass and white stone façade of the modern building nestling in the trees. On one of the tall stone pillars at the gateway was a shining brass plaque with a cross and the inscription CENTRE FOR CHRISTIAN EDUCATION. Parked outside the building were rows of cars. From where Ben was standing at the gateway he could make out the discreet security cameras that swivelled and scanned the grounds from the foliage. The wrought-iron gates were shut. There was another camera on the wall, with a buzzer for visitors.
The kid would have climbed the wall to get in, which meant that his moped should be outside the grounds somewhere. Ben parked the Triumph a few metres down the road, and walked up and down peering under the bushes and trees. Where the rough grassy bank met the tarmac on the opposite side of the road, he found a light tyre-track in the dirt. The bank led gently up to a clump of thorny bushes and the trees beyond. He followed the flattened grass and found part of a footprint in the earth. Through the greenery he made out something bright yellow. He lifted a leafy branch and found the tail-end of the 50cc Yamaha protruding from the bushes. The registration number bolted to the rear mudguard was the same one Natalie Dubois had given him.
Ben walked quietly back to the Daytona. He’d already figured out his plan. He unstrapped the black hold-all from the pillion seat and laid it gently on the grass. He opened the side panniers of the motorcycle and reached inside for the blue overall and electrical equipment.
The receptionist was just about to take her coffee break when the electrician walked into the plush lobby of the Centre for Christian Education and came up to her desk. He was wearing work overalls and a c
ap, carrying a hold-all and a small toolbox.
‘I thought all the rewiring work was finished,’ she said. She noticed that he had nice blue eyes.
‘I’m just here to inspect it all, mademoiselle,’ the electrician replied. ‘Won’t take long. I just need to check a few things, take a few notes. Health and safety, all that red tape–building regs, you know how it is.’ He flashed her a laminated card, which she supposed was OK although he didn’t quite give her time to read it.
‘What’s in there?’ she asked, nodding at the holdall.
‘Oh, just rolls of wire and stuff. Electrical meter, bits and bobs, tools of the trade. Want to have a look?’ He dumped the bag on the desk and partly unzipped it to show coloured wires poking out from inside.
She smiled. ‘No, that’s OK, I’ll take your word for it. See you later.’
52
Place du Peyrou, Montpellier
The unmarked van pulled up in the square at one minute to eleven. As arranged, Ben was waiting for it by the Louis XIV statue. The rear doors burst open and four large men spilled out. He raised his arms in surrender as they encircled him. A pistol was shoved in his back and he was frisked. He was unarmed. They bundled him roughly into the van, and made him sit between two of his captors on a hard bench. The rear windows were painted over, and a wooden partition sealed the cab off from the back and hid any view of the outside world. The van lurched away and the clattering diesel engine reverberated in the metal shell. ‘I don’t suppose anyone would care to tell me where we’re going?’ he asked, wedging his feet on the wheel-arch opposite him to keep from sliding across the bench. He wasn’t expecting a reply. As they sat in silence, four cold pairs of eyes, a Glock 9mm, a Kel-Tech .40 calibre and two Skorpion machine pistols were all trained steadily on him.
The bumping, rattling journey lasted about half an hour. Judging by the way the van was bouncing around, they must have left main roads behind and headed out into the country. That was what he’d expected. Eventually the van slowed to a crawl, turned sharply to the right, and crunched over gravel. Then onto concrete. A lurch, and down a steep ramp. Then it stopped and the rear doors opened.
More armed men. A torch shone in Ben’s face. Harsh orders were spoken and he was dragged out of the van and landed heavily on his feet. They were in an underground car-park.
With gun barrels in his back, he was prodded and pushed up a short flight of stone steps. They walked into the darkened building, through dim corridors. Torchlight darted from behind him. At the end of a narrow corridor was a low doorway. One of the guards, the bearded one with the Skorpion, rattled keys and unfastened padlocks. The heavy door swung open and in the flashing light he saw it was iron, riveted, armoured.
A flight of stone steps led down to a cellar. The echoing voices of his guards told him that it was a big space. Torchlight reflected off stone pillars. And something else, a glint of steel bars. At the far end of the room he thought he saw a face peering blinking at the bright lights.
It was Roberta.
Before he could call to her, he was shoved towards another doorway. An iron bolt ground open. A door creaked and he was pushed into the cell. The door slammed shut behind him and the bolt ground home.
In the darkness he explored his surroundings. He was alone in the cell. The walls were solid, probably double-bricked. No windows. He sat on a hard bed and waited. The only light was the dim green glow of his watch.
After some twenty minutes, around midnight, they came for him, and he was led at gunpoint back through the cavernous cellar.
‘Ben?’ It was Roberta’s voice, edged with fear, calling him from far away. She was silenced by a harsh word from a guard standing near her cage.
Up through the dim corridors. A flight of stairs. More light as they approached the first floor of the building. Through a doorway, and he blinked in the sudden glare of white-painted walls and strong neons. They steered him up another flight of steps, along a corridor and through a door into an office.
At the far end of the office, a large grave-looking man in a suit rose from behind a glass-topped desk. Ben was nudged in the back by a machine-gun barrel, shoving him across the room.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Bishop Usberti.’
Usberti’s broad, tanned face broke into a smile. He spoke with a heavy Italian accent. ‘I am impressed. But it is Archbishop now.’ He motioned to Ben to sit in one of the leather chairs by the desk, opened a cabinet and took out two cut-crystal brandy glasses and a bottle of Rémy Martin. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘How civilized of you, Archbishop.’
‘I would not like you to think we treat our guests badly,’ Usberti replied graciously as he poured them each a generous measure and dismissed the guards with an authoritative gesture of his free hand. He caught Ben’s eye as he watched the guards leave the room. ‘I hope I can trust you not to try any of your tricks while we speak in private,’ he said, handing Ben his glass. ‘Please remember that there is a gun pointed at Dr. Ryder’s head at this very moment.’
Ben didn’t show any glimmer of response. ‘Congratulations on your promotion,’ he said instead. ‘I see you left your garb at home.’
‘I should be the one to congratulate you,’ Usberti replied. ‘You have the Fulcanelli manuscript, do you not?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Ben said. He swirled the cognac around in the glass. ‘Now why don’t you let Dr. Ryder go free?’
Usberti laughed, a deep rumble. ‘Go free? My plan was to have her killed once I had the manuscript.’
‘You kill her, I’ll kill you,’ Ben said quietly.
‘I said my plan was to kill her,’ Usberti replied. ‘I have changed my mind about that.’ He swivelled his glass on the desktop, watching Ben curiously. ‘I have also decided not to have you killed, Mr. Hope. Subject to certain conditions, I should add.’
‘That’s very magnanimous.’
‘Not at all. A man like you can be useful to me.’ Usberti smiled coldly. ‘Though I will confess it took me a while to see it. At first I watched in rage as, one by one, you threw off my men and all my attempts to dispose of you and Ryder. You have proved hard to kill. So hard, that I began to think that such a man is too valuable not to turn to one’s own advantage. I want you to come and work for me.’
‘You mean work for Gladius Domini?’
Usberti nodded. ‘I have great plans for Gladius Domini. You can be a part of those plans. I will make you a rich man. Come with me, Mr. Hope. Let us take a walk.’
Ben followed him out of the office into the corridor. The armed guards were flanking the door, and walked a few paces behind them, their weapons trained on Ben. They stopped at a lift. Usberti pressed the button and from somewhere below them there was a whoosh of hydraulics.
‘Tell me, Usberti. What does all this have to do with the Fulcanelli manuscript? Why are you so interested in it?’ The lift doors opened with a whirr and they stepped in, the guards still following.
‘Oh, I have been interested in alchemy for many, many years,’ Usberti replied. He reached out with a blunt finger and prodded the button for the ground floor.
‘Why?’ Ben asked. ‘To suppress it because it was heresy?’
Usberti chuckled to himself. ‘Is that what you think? On the contrary, I wish to make use of it.’
The lift came to a smooth halt and they stepped out. Ben looked around him. They were in a large brightly lit science lab operated by some fifteen or so technicians who were busily attending to scientific equipment, writing up charts and sitting at computer terminals, all wearing white labcoats and the same serious expression.
‘Welcome to the Gladius Domini alchemical research facility,’ Usberti said, with a wide gesture. ‘As you see, it is a little more sophisticated than Dr. Ryder’s establishment. My teams of scientists work in shifts, all around the clock.’ He took Ben’s elbow and led him around the edge of the lab. The muzzles of the machine guns were still carefully trained on him.
‘L
et me tell you a little about alchemy, Mr. Hope,’ Usberti continued. ‘I do not suppose you have ever heard of an organization called the Watchmen?’
‘Actually I have.’
Usberti raised his eyebrows. ‘You are remarkably well-informed, Mr. Hope. Then you will know that the Watchmen were an élite group in Paris, formed after the First World War. One of their members was a certain Nicholas Daquin.’
‘Fulcanelli’s apprentice.’
‘Indeed. As you may know, then, this brilliant young man learned that his teacher had discovered something of enormous importance.’ Usberti paused. ‘There was another member of the Watchmen who was interested in Fulcanelli’s discovery,’ he went on. ‘His name was Rudolf Hess.’
53
At that moment the man known to certain people only as Saul parked his Mazda two-seater convertible outside an old empty warehouse on the outer edge of Paris. The night was cool. The stars twinkled above the city lights. He checked the time and kicked his feet, waiting.
The briefcase in his hand was filled with banknotes amounting to a quarter million US dollars, the sum the caller had demanded in exchange for what he claimed to possess: the Englishman Ben Hope, captured, bound and gagged. Usberti would be pleased when he found out what Saul had got for him.
Naturally, the money was counterfeit, obtained from one of Saul’s Gladius Domini sub-agents. The cash was only a diversion anyway. Even though it was fake, Saul had no intention of handing it over to anyone. In a concealed holster under his jacket was a compact .45 auto. He intended to make use of it once he’d picked up the goods. Or if it should turn out that there weren’t any.
Saul still couldn’t figure out this business with Michel Zardi. They seemed to have underestimated him. First he’d managed to evade assassination, then he’d somehow contrived to lure several of Saul’s best men to their deaths, and now he was claiming to be holding the Englishman Ben Hope? He never would have imagined that a little nerd like Zardi had that much guts and talent.
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 25