‘I didn’t think so. I’m talking about the three conditions of readiness for a single-action semi-automatic pistol.’
Chris’s smile was wavering, uncertain what to make of this.
Ben went on calmly. ‘Condition one, cocked and locked. You only have to flick off the safety, pull the trigger and I’m dead.’ He pushed his plate away from him, stood up and took a step towards Chris.
‘Careful, I’ll shoot,’ Chris stammered.
‘Condition two, there’s a round in the chamber, but you still need to cock the hammer with your thumb.’ Ben took another step forward.
‘I’m warning you…’
‘Condition three, there’s no round in the chamber at all, and all the weapon’s good for is hammering nails.’ Ben had reached Chris now, and the gun’s muzzle was a few inches from his face. It was beginning to tremble.
‘You’re in condition three, you arsehole. Now give me that before you poke your eye out with it.’ Ben reached out and snatched the .45 from Chris. He checked the magazine. Eleven cartridges. He picked up the fallen haversack. It was light. The money was still there but the guns and spare magazines were gone. ‘What have you done with the other pistols?’ he demanded.
Chris rubbed his hand, turning pale. ‘Tossed them,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Overboard?’
Chris nodded.
‘Idiot.’ Ben tucked the Para-Ordnance into his belt. ‘Leigh, get me whatever maps there are of the French coast. As for you,’ he said to Chris, ‘get back in your cabin and don’t let me see your face again, or I swear I’ll strap you to the anchor and leave you at the bottom of the sea.’
Chris retreated quickly towards the master cabin.
‘Oh, and Chris?’ Ben added.
‘What?’ Chris said sullenly.
‘I did see Outcast. And I thought the score was shit.’
It was a lie, but it hit Chris right where he’d wanted it to.
Chris shut his cabin door. He didn’t come out again.
‘You didn’t have to be so hard on him,’ Leigh said, laying a pile of maps on the table. ‘He was just trying to protect me.’
Ben said nothing. He munched a piece of bacon as he spread a map out and studied the coastline.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Isolde cruised towards the French coast under a clear blue sky as Ben and Leigh brought their things up on deck. Mick the skipper steered the yacht into a deserted little cove a mile or so from Saint-Vaast-La-Hougue, and two hundred yards from shore Ben lowered the dinghy with his and Leigh’s things in it. Then he disappeared down below for a minute as she said goodbye to the skipper on the deck.
‘I don’t know what’s been going on with you and Mr Anderson,’ the sailor said. ‘But good luck, love.’
‘I’ll see you again sometime, Mick,’ she replied, and kissed his bearded cheek.
They climbed down the side and Ben started the dinghy’s outboard motor. He grabbed the tiller and steered the burbling boat away from the yacht. Leigh huddled at the dinghy’s prow, drawing her suede coat around her against the chilly sea breeze. Gulls circled and called overhead.
‘Do you think Chris will call the police now we’re gone?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No, I don’t think there’s any danger of that,’ Ben said, peering towards the shore.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I told him just now that if he did, I’d come back and blow his brains out.’
She frowned and didn’t reply.
A few minutes later Ben was dragging the dinghy up onto the pebbly shore. Across a stretch of beach, beyond some sand dunes, he could see the rooftops and church spire of a coast village. ‘This way,’ he said, grabbing his bag.
They hiked over the dunes and across a piece of rough grassland that bordered onto a golf course. A winding path led them into the heart of the village, and they soon found a little garage where Ben paid cash for a cheap second-hand Citroën.
They set off. Ben didn’t need a road-map. His kidnap and ransom work had taken him to France on more than one occasion, and he knew the country well. He stuck to the back roads. Kept a sharp eye out for police, just in case, but saw nothing.
It was a thirteen-hour drive across the country and into Italy, and they took turns at the wheel. They stopped only for fuel, and ate on the move. It was cold and they kept the car heater on high. They were tired and spoke little.
As they crossed the Italian border in darkness a thick fog was coming down, and Ben drove in silence, concentrating on the tunnel that the headlights carved out ahead. Leigh sat with her thoughts, a little drowsy with the heat of the blower. Then she remembered something. ‘Can I have my phone?’
‘It’s at the bottom of the Channel,’ he said. ‘I told you I had to get rid of it.’
‘Well, can I use yours, then?’
‘Who do you want to call?’
‘Pam.’
‘Your PA? Why?’
‘I’ve been gone for days. She’ll be getting worried. Pretty soon people will be thinking something’s happened to me. I’ve got to tell her I’m OK.’
‘Fine, but don’t say where you are, and keep it quick.’ He reached for the phone in his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
Leigh nodded and dialled.
Pam sounded relieved but agitated. Everybody was going apeshit, she said. Where the hell was she? Her agent was in a panic. She’d missed two interviews. The Magic Flute production in Italy was coming up in five weeks, rehearsals were scheduled to begin soon and nobody had heard from her.
‘I know,’ Leigh reassured her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘You’re all over tonight’s papers,’ Pam said. ‘Pictures of you with some guy in Oxford. I’m looking at one here. The headline is “Who’s Leigh’s Leading Man?”’
Leigh tutted irritably. ‘Never mind that.’
‘Good-looking guy,’ Pam said. ‘Wouldn’t mind a piece of that myself. You an item?’
‘Leave it out, Pam.’
‘Ask her if everything’s OK at Langton Hall,’ Ben said.
Leigh took the phone away from her mouth. ‘Why?’
‘Just ask. Do it quickly.’
Leigh asked, and Pam said everything was fine there. The builders had gone in that morning to start work on the rehearsal studio.
‘They didn’t find anything…unusual?’ Leigh asked.
‘No,’ Pam said, sounding confused. ‘Like what? Oh, by the way. Nearly forgot. Someone else called.’
‘Who called? Tell me, I can’t talk long.’
A pause. ‘It’s about Oliver.’
Leigh froze. ‘What about Oliver?’
Ben glanced away from the foggy road.
‘Some detective called from Vienna,’ Pam said. ‘I’ve got his name here-hold on-it’s Kinski. Detective Markus Kinski. Wanted to talk to you. What’s this all about?’
‘Did he say any more?’
‘Didn’t want to talk to me. But it sounded important. He left a number to call. Said it was safe to call him. Are you in some kind of trouble, Leigh?’
‘Just give me the number, Pam.’
Pam read it out. Leigh grabbed a pen from her bag and scribbled it. She reassured Pam again then ended the call and switched the phone off. She thought for a minute. ‘Shit.’
Ben looked round. ‘Well, what did she say?’
‘We’re in the papers. Someone at the Sheldonian must have sent in their snap of us hoping to make a bit of money.’
‘The joys of fame.’
‘It has its downsides.’
‘This is why I was concerned about travelling with you,’ he said. ‘You should have gone to my place.’ He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. ‘Never mind. No use worrying about it. What was that about Oliver?’
She told Ben about the call from the detective. ‘What do you think he wants?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe instead of going to Ravenna
we should drive on to Austria to see him. It might be something important.’
‘Then again, it might be another trap.’
‘Come on, Ben, I can’t go on avoiding the police forever, can I? At some point I’m going to have to go to them. If someone murdered Oliver…’
‘I understand. You want justice.’
‘Yes. I want my brother’s murderer to be brought to trial. Don’t you?’
‘I want my friend’s murderer to pay.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘I don’t trust the system. I do things my own way.’
‘I noticed,’ she said.
‘It’s what works.’
‘My idea of justice isn’t a bullet in the head.’
‘I don’t like it any more than you do.’
‘But that is what you do. Isn’t it?’
Ben said nothing.
There was silence for a while. Leigh watched the foggy road and listened to the rhythm of the wipers.
It was all so overwhelming, so alien. She felt as though she was spinning away from reality, wandering without a map or a compass. At times she could hardly believe any of this was really happening. She thought about the life she’d left behind, the people and the routine that were back there in the real world waiting for her. They seemed a million miles away. Her life had been hectic, crazy, a constant blur of travel and endless rehearsals and performances, one opera house and hotel after another. But it had been organized and safe.
Now all that had fallen apart. Would things ever go back to the way they’d been? Where was this going to end? She rested her head in her hands.
Ben passed her the flask. ‘Have some.’
‘I think I will.’ She took several long sips. ‘You get used to this stuff,’ she said, passing it back to him.
‘Tell me about it.’ He drank some as well.
She felt a little better. ‘So what about this Detective Kinski?’ she said.
‘If you want to see him, we’ll see him. But first we need to find Arno. Maybe he can help us to make some sense out of this mess.’
They reached Ravenna sometime after ten in the evening and found a little pensione in the outskirts. Ben checked in as Mr Connors and let them assume Leigh was his wife. They didn’t ask for papers and were happy with cash up front. The landlady took them up the stairs. She unlocked a door, handed them the key and left them alone.
The room was small and simple. ‘Only one bed,’ Leigh said. It was a double, and it took up most of the space.
‘I just asked for a room,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know.’ He dumped his haversack on an armchair and opened a creaky wardrobe. There were some spare blankets in it. He threw them down in a heap on the floor. ‘I have to be in the same room as you, Leigh. I can’t sit outside your door all night.’
‘You don’t have to sleep on the floor,’ she said. ‘We can share the bed. If you want to, that is.’
‘Chris might not be too pleased about that,’ he replied, and immediately wished he hadn’t said it.
She frowned. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Nothing. Forget it. I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s no big deal. I’ve slept on a million floors.’
‘No, what did you mean about Chris?’
‘Let’s not talk about it.’
‘You’re talking about what happened on the Isolde, aren’t you? What did you think you saw?’
‘Look, it’s none of my business what goes on between you and Chris.’
‘Nothing at all goes on between us.’
‘OK, that’s fine.’
‘It’s over between me and Chris,’ she said. ‘It’s been over for years.’
‘You seemed to be getting on pretty well together.’ He knew he was saying too much, digging himself into a hole and sounding a lot more like a jealous lover than he cared to admit.
She flushed. ‘It wasn’t what it looked like.’
‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me.’ He pulled a bottle of wine out of his bag and started opening it. ‘Want some?’
She shook her head. ‘You drink it. And I’m not justifying myself.’ She sighed. ‘All right, it’s true that Chris wants to get back together with me,’ she admitted. ‘That’s what you saw. But the feeling is definitely not mutual, and it’s not going to happen.’ She kicked off her shoes and reclined on the bed. ‘When it’s over, it’s over. It’s never a good idea to go back.’ She glanced at Ben.
He blew the dust out of a glass on the bedside table and filled it with wine. Knocked it back and filled it up again. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s never a good idea to go back.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bordeaux, France
Earlier that evening
The auditorium was packed and bustling. The lecture was being held at Bordeaux University’s Faculty of Politics and Economics. It was open to the public and people were standing in the aisles. Attendance figures were unprecedented. The organizers couldn’t remember the last time a talk by a rising politician had generated so much intense excitement.
There were police and security everywhere outside under the gentle snow. Barricades had been erected for Philippe Aragon’s motorcade to pass through, and massive crowds had gathered to cheer and wave banners. The police had managed to cordon off the estimated two hundred shaven-headed neo-fascist demonstrators who had come to yell and wave their swastikas in protest. One of them had tried to set fire to an effigy of Aragon before the police had grabbed him and bundled him into a van. A scuffle had broken out, and media crews rushed in to get a shot as three cops were dragged away bleeding and a dozen more battered protesters were arrested.
Henri Juste, the University Chancellor, smiled for the cameras as he walked out from behind the heavy curtains and made his way across the stage. Behind the podium, Aragon’s Party slogan L’Europe REDECOUVERTE stood fifteen feet high on a giant screen. It encapsulated Aragon’s policies perfectly. A new Europe, a rediscovered land. Ecological. Green. Filled with hope and promise. The flags of the united European states were on display. In the wings and the control centre above the auditorium, armed security personnel scrutinized monitors and scanned the crowd.
Now, ranks of officers gathered tensely on standby behind riot shields, batons and tear gas at the ready. Well away from the trouble, television crews and newspaper reporters were out in force and hoping for blood.
Juste reached the podium. He raised his arms and the hum of excited chatter from the packed theatre dwindled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Our speaker tonight needs no introduction. No modern political figure has ever risen to prominence or gathered such overwhelming public support so surely and so quickly. He has been hailed as the Brussels JFK. A pioneering environmentalist architect. A philanthropist who has personally donated millions to protect the underprivileged. A tireless campaigner for the improvement of educational standards. At forty-one, the youngest ever candidate for the Vice-Presidency of the European Commission. His audacious policies and progressive vision of a truly integrated Europe, and his goal to rid Europe of its dependence on nuclear energy, have placed him firmly at the forefront of European politics. Ladies and gentlemen: Philippe Aragon.’
The Chancellor stepped away from the podium and extended his arm as Philippe Aragon walked confidently out onto the stage. A hundred cameras focused. Five hundred people were on their feet. Tall and elegant, the young politician was wearing a well-cut suit and no tie. He waited until the applause had dwindled, and then he began his speech.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for coming here tonight.’ Behind him on the high screen, the big slogan disappeared and the crowd murmured as a new image flashed up. It showed the far-right protesters outside. Shaven heads. Swastikas. Ugly faces frozen in expressions of hatred.
Aragon smiled. ‘And I also want to thank our neo-Nazi friends outside for showing up.’ He let this register for a beat, and then went on. ‘By their very presence here tonight they help me to make my
case. Ladies and gentlemen, we are told we already have an integrated Europe.’ He paused again as the crowd laughed. His smile was gone now. He swept the audience with his eyes. ‘The truth can be seen all around us,’ he said. ‘Europe is sinking under a tide of nationalistic fear and greed. But we can recover her. Together we can build a united Europe. A clean Europe. A free Europe. A Peoples Europe.’
The crowd roared its approval. Behind Aragon, the image of the neo-fascists disappeared and the strident slogan flashed up in its place to mark his words. L’Europe REDECOUVERTE. The applause got even louder.
Watching on her monitor backstage in a comfortable reception room, Colette Aragon sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup and smiled at her husband’s perfect control of his audience. Party staff and plain-clothed security personnel milled around her. Across the busy room stood Louis Moreau, the former GIGN counter-terrorist police response unit commander whom she’d appointed as her husband’s private head of security. She didn’t have much faith in the government agents. Moreau took his job extremely seriously. The lights glistened on his shaven head as he stood with his arms folded, scrutinizing the bank of screens that showed the crowd from different angles.
Colette stood behind her husband publicly, every step of the way. He was a good man. But privately, she wished he’d give all this up and go back to architecture. It wasn’t just the mayhem and madness of constant travelling and press interviews. Even Philippe hadn’t been prepared for how fast his political career had taken off. Colette knew that as his popularity grew, he would become more of a target. At public events like this, even the heaviest security presence couldn’t guarantee his safety. They couldn’t frisk everyone at the door. All it took was a fascist fanatic in the audience with a pistol in his pocket.
She shivered. She’d never believed that the incident last January in Cortina had been an accident.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Near Ravenna, Italy
When Leigh woke the next morning, Ben was already into his ninth phone call. The local directory didn’t have a listing for a Professor Arno, so he was having to try each Arno in turn. He’d worked his way down half the list before deciding to give up and pay a personal visit to the music institute where the old scholar had taught.
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 44