The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

  The helicopter began to lift off. Ben could see Clara’s pallid face through the perspex window. Her mouth was open in a scream that was drowned out by the huge noise and the wind.

  He ran across the helipad. The chopper was in the air, driving the snow into a storm of flakes that stung Ben’s eyes. He picked up the fallen .44 but didn’t dare to fire.

  He looked around him in desperation as the hovering chopper spun slowly round on itself. Along the edge of the roof was a stone parapet, about four feet high. He ran to it and leapt up on top of it. He shoved the long barrel of the revolver through his belt and steadied himself with his hands. It was a long way down. The chopper dipped its nose as Glass hit the throttle.

  Ben launched himself. For an instant he was weightless. The floodlit grounds of the mansion were below him. He saw the flashing lights of police cars swarming down the driveway. The party was in chaos.

  He began to fall. Then his flailing hand clasped the cold metal of one of the chopper’s skids. The craft veered to the right, moving away from the house. The thudding wind tore at Ben’s hair and clothes as he dangled in space. He reached up and clapped his other hand onto the skid, kicking with his legs to haul himself up. Below him, the ground spun dizzily.

  Glass felt the chopper unbalanced with Ben’s weight. From the cockpit he could see him hanging there, desperately trying to climb up to the side door. He smiled and turned the chopper towards the house. He couldn’t shake him off, but he could scrape the bastard off.

  In the darkness a chimney stack loomed large. Glass banked hard towards it. Ben had a glimpse of brickwork rushing towards him. He raised his legs clear and the chopper roared over the roof. Glass brought it round again, the G-forces stretching Ben’s arms as he hung on to the skid.

  Glass headed for the roofs again. Ben’s flailing legs raked violently up an incline of tiles, some of them coming loose and tumbling down to the ground below. Glass banked the chopper another time, laughing. One more pass and he’d leave Hope smeared like a bug across twenty feet of stonework.

  But he banked too early. The tail rotor caught the side of the roof with a crashing shower of sparks and twisted metal. The helicopter juddered. The controls went crazy as the craft began to spin away from the house and towards the trees.

  Ben had a foot on the skid now. Reaching out with an effort he clasped the handle of the side door and ripped it open. He threw himself inside the cockpit as the chopper gyrated out of control over the treetops, its lights tracing a wild circle over the snowy green pines and the naked branches of oaks and beeches.

  Glass lunged at him with the lethal syringe. Ben dodged the stab and drove Glass’s wrist against the controls. The needle clattered to the floor. The two men wrestled over the seats, gouging and punching. Ben dug his fingers into Glass’s cropped hair and slammed his face against the dials, and again, and again, until Glass’s forehead was streaming with blood.

  The helicopter was going down, spinning faster and faster. Glass’s fingers clawed at his face. Ben hammered him against the door, punched him in the teeth, slammed his head against the controls again. Glass flopped limply in his seat as the chopper banked violently to one side and twisted downwards towards the treetops.

  Ben heaved on the controls but there was nothing he could do. The chopper spun wildly for another hundred yards before it hit. The rotors disintegrated and flew apart as they sliced into the treetops. They tumbled down, snapping branches raking and tearing at the fuselage, engine stalled, pieces of twisted rotor crashing down with them. Ben was hurled against the floor and the roof as the craft flipped over and over.

  Thirty feet from the ground, the Bell tore free of the lower branches. Through shattered perspex Ben glimpsed the snowy forest floor rushing up to meet them. The impact flung him hard against the instruments. The chopper buried its nose in a snowdrift. Splintered branches and pieces of aircraft rained down.

  Glass was lying slumped across the control console. Sparks crackled from somewhere behind the dials and the strong scent of aviation fuel reached Ben’s nostrils.

  He hauled himself painfully upwards through the dark, smashed cockpit. Above him, Clara was wedged on the back of the front seats. Her lip was bleeding. She desperately tugged at the chain that connected her wrist to the steel tubing of her seat.

  Ben heard the crackle and whoomph and looked over his shoulder. Flames licked at the inside of the glass, searing across the controls and the front seats. In seconds the helicopter was going to blow.

  He yanked at the handcuff chain, glinting in the flames. It held fast. Clara’s eyes were bulging, her hair plastered over her face. She strained to tear her little wrist out of the steel bracelet, but it was tight against the skin.

  The flames were catching. Ben clambered down towards Glass’s slumped body and felt in the pocket of his bloody tuxedo for the key to the cuffs. It wasn’t there. The heat was unbearable. A tongue of fire licked Ben’s back, scorching his jacket. There wasn’t time. The chopper was going to explode.

  Over his pain and fear he remembered. The gun. He jerked it out of his belt and pressed the muzzle against the handcuff bracelet that was locked around the seat tube. Fire seared his sleeve. He squeezed the trigger.

  The stunning noise of the .44 revolver cut away all sound. For an instant Ben was disorientated, lost in a surreal world of silence with the high-pitched whine in his ears filling his head.

  Another rolling wave of liquid flame poured across the blackened interior of the chopper and he came to his senses. Clara was free, the broken chain dangling from the cuff around her wrist. They struggled across the cockpit. Ben kicked against the door with all his remaining strength. The door buckled open and he grasped the little girl’s arm and somehow they crawled through the gap just before the fire engulfed the whole cockpit.

  He dragged her stumbling across the snow. Before they’d staggered twenty yards, the forest behind them was suddenly filled with white light. Ben dived behind the trunk of an oak tree, shielding Clara’s little body with his as the fuel tanks ruptured with the heat and the chopper exploded into a massive ball of searing flame. The whole night sky was lit up. Trees burst alight. Burning wreckage spewed in all directions. Clara screamed and he held her tight.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  The Bristol Hotel, Vienna

  Three days later

  Ben walked in off the Kärtner Ring and entered the lobby of the luxury hotel. His clothes felt too new and stiff, and every time he moved a stab of pain jolted his side.

  The place was milling with journalists and photographers. He already knew that Philippe Aragon and a small army of his people had occupied a whole floor as their base for the series of press conferences that the media were screaming for everywhere. The police raid on the von Adler mansion was the biggest news event for years and Aragon was right in the centre of the frenzy. Ben had deliberately avoided TV and radio for three days but even he hadn’t been able to escape it.

  Behind the scenes, Aragon had been pulling more strings in those last three days than most politicians pulled in a lifetime. He had the kind of high-level influence that enabled certain details to be smudged for the media. The deaths at the mansion had been attributed to Kroll’s own people. As for Ben and his team, they had never been there.

  It had taken forty-eight hours to clear up the carnage. Nothing remained of the burnt-out helicopter except blackened fragments scattered across the forest floor by the explosion.

  No trace remained of Jack Glass, either. At the kind of temperature generated by blazing aviation fuel, human tissue, even teeth and bones, would be reduced to fine ash. Ben had seen it before.

  He pushed through the throng filling the hotel lobby and was met by a man in a pinstriped suit. He was around the same age as Ben, but balding and on the scraggy end of thin. He offered his hand. ‘I’m Adrien Lacan,’ he said over the buzz. ‘Philippe Aragon’s personal assistant. Glad you could make it, Monsieur Hope.’

  Lacan escorted Ben throug
h the lobby to the lift. Some cameras flashed as they walked. Ben kept his face turned away. Security men pushed back the journalists who had started crowding them, and they stepped into the lift alone. Lacan punched the button for the top floor and the lift whooshed quietly upwards. ‘It’s insane,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve never known it like this before.’

  Aragon’s plush rooms were bustling noisily with his staff, people coming and going, talking into headsets, the sound of more phones ringing in the background. TV screens were set up on desks playing different news channels while people clustered around to watch. A tall stack of newspapers sat piled on a table, two women sifting through them and scrutinizing the front pages. Ben walked into the busy room and felt several pairs of eyes on him wondering who he was.

  In the middle of it all, Aragon was perched casually on the edge of a desk, flipping through some papers while talking to someone on a mobile. His shirt was open at the neck and he looked fresh and energetic even with the plaster over his eyebrow covering up his stitches. He smiled broadly as Ben approached, ended his call and snapped his phone shut. He laid the sheaf of papers down on the desk and greeted Ben warmly.

  ‘Don’t forget you have a press interview at quarter past,’ Lacan warned him. Aragon waved him away and took Ben’s elbow.

  ‘I’m sorry for all this chaos,’ he said. ‘It’s quieter in here.’ He guided Ben through the milling crowd of staff and into a smaller room to one side. He closed the door, shutting out the noise. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.

  Ben watched the politician. He’d bounced back like a fighter. He looked relaxed and confident but there was an edge to him now, a competitive fierceness Ben hadn’t seen in him before. He looked primed and ready for battle.

  ‘You said it was important,’ Ben replied.

  ‘It is. A matter I need to clear up with you before you leave. Your flight’s today?’

  Ben nodded. ‘In a few hours.’

  ‘Ireland,’ Aragon said. ‘I’ve never been. What’s it like?’

  ‘Green,’ Ben said. ‘Empty. Quiet.’

  ‘There’s a part of me that would love to be able to retreat to a tranquil place,’ Aragon said, nodding towards the door and the crazy bustle on the other side. ‘Right now, I’d probably never want to come back. You’re a lucky man.’

  Ben didn’t feel much like a lucky man. ‘You could always just give it all up, Philippe,’ he said. ‘Go back to your old career. Architects don’t attract the wrong kind of attention. They don’t get kidnapped or executed.’

  ‘You talk like Colette, my wife.’

  ‘Sounds like a sensible lady,’ Ben said.

  ‘You like to live on the edge yourself, though.’

  ‘I do what I do.’

  ‘You’ve been a big help to me,’ Aragon said. ‘I won’t forget it.’

  Ben smiled. ‘I didn’t do it for you.’

  ‘I appreciate your candour. But I’m grateful to you nonetheless.’ The politician reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a small white envelope. ‘Which brings me to the reason I asked you to meet me here,’ he said. ‘I wanted to give you this.’

  Ben took the envelope from Aragon’s outstretched hand. His name was printed in neat writing on the front.

  Aragon waggled a finger at it. ‘Open it.’ He leaned on the back of a chair with a look of amused anticipation as Ben tore it open.

  There wasn’t much inside, just a slip of paper. Ben took it out. It was a signed cheque from Aragon’s personal account, and it was made out to Mr Benedict Hope. He ran his eye along the figure. A one with a whole line of zeros after it. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, looking up. ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘I never told you about the reward I was offering,’ Aragon said. ‘One million euros for whoever helped me to find Roger’s killers.’ He smiled. ‘You helped me. We got them. It’s yours. Enjoy it.’

  Ben stared at the cheque. ‘Thanks, Philippe,’ he said.

  Aragon smiled. ‘That’s settled then. Have a pleasant journey home. I expect we’ll meet again.’

  ‘But no thanks,’ Ben finished. He handed the cheque back to Aragon.

  ‘You won’t accept?’

  Ben shook his head.

  ‘You earned it,’ Aragon said.

  ‘Take care of Sandy Cook’s widow and kids,’ Ben said. ‘Give the rest to charity. Do something good with it. I don’t want it.’

  Kinski was at home. It took him a while to hobble to the door on his crutches. ‘Good to see you on your feet, Markus,’ Ben said as he stepped inside the hallway. He was carrying something in a plastic bag.

  Kinski was in a dressing gown. His hair was a mess and he had four days’ stubble growth on his face. His skin was pallid and there were dark bags under his eyes.

  Ben looked around him at the small, modern suburban house. It didn’t look like the home of a big rough guy like Markus Kinski. Everything was too orderly and cared for, neat little vases of flowers on the tables. A woman’s touch about the place. Helga, Ben guessed.

  The detective looked happy to see him. Ben looked down at the heavily plastered leg, stubby bare toes sticking out from the end. The plaster was covered in the autographs of well-wishers.

  Kinski caught his gaze. ‘Itches like crazy,’ he said. ‘The fucking thing can’t come off soon enough.’

  ‘How is she?’ Ben asked as Kinski hobbled down the hallway.

  ‘A little subdued,’ Kinski said. ‘But she’ll be fine. She’s a tough kid.’ His eyes wandered to the plastic bag Ben was carrying. ‘What’ve you got there?’

  ‘I brought her something,’ Ben said. He reached inside the bag and pulled out the big floppy teddy bear he’d picked out in a hurry on his way across town. ‘I hope she likes it.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’ Kinski suggested. He limped to the bottom of the stairs and leaned on his crutches. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Clara,’ he called.

  A door opened on the landing and a little face peeped out. Her eyes lit up when she saw Ben standing there. She ran down the stairs and hugged him tight.

  He was happy to see her smiling again. That lost look had faded from her eyes since the last time he’d seen her. She’d been through a hell of a lot, but maybe her father was right. She was a tough kid.

  ‘I suppose you’re far too grown up and mature for this,’ he said, handing her the teddy bear.

  She clasped it to her chest. ‘I’ll call him Ben.’ She beamed. ‘I have another new friend, too,’ she said brightly. She turned. ‘Can I show Ben, Daddy?’

  Kinski nodded. Clara ran happily up the hall, clutching the teddy. ‘Muffi!’ she called. A Rottweiler puppy, a black ball of fur no bigger than a rabbit, flopped out of the sitting room on clumsy oversized paws and cocked his head to one side, watching Ben with big curious eyes. He had a patch of tan above each one, just like Max.

  ‘Go and play with the puppy,’ Kinski told her. ‘Ben and I need to talk.’

  He led Ben into the kitchen and propped his crutches against the table. He opened a cupboard and took down two tumblers and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. They sat, Kinski’s plastered leg sticking out in front of him. He poured out two full glasses and shoved one towards Ben.

  Kinski groaned, tried to shove two fingers down inside his plaster. Frustrated, he gave up and knocked back half a measure of the bourbon.

  ‘I thought you were on the wagon,’ Ben said.

  ‘Fell off. Takes my mind off this goddamn itching.’

  ‘Aragon told me you’re heading the investigation.’

  Kinski nodded. ‘I get the feeling it’s going to drag on for months. They say it’s the shit-hottest team of defence lawyers anyone’s ever seen.’ He grunted. ‘The fuckers are going to need them.’

  ‘You can cut down the weed,’ Ben said, ‘but the roots go deep. You can’t destroy it.’

  Kinski shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right. Personally I’ll be happy to see some bastards take a fall. That’ll satisfy
me.’

  They drank in silence.

  ‘I’ll never forget what you did for Clara,’ Kinski said quietly. ‘I wish I could have been there to help you.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend Hildegard,’ Ben said.

  Kinski raised his tumbler to his lips. When he put it down it was empty. He let out a long sigh. ‘Ben, when they told me about Leigh—’ His voice tailed off. His stubbled chin sank to his chest.

  Ben laid a hand on the cop’s arm. ‘Thanks, Markus.’

  Ninety minutes later he was leaning back in a soft armchair and looking around him at the luxurious décor of the private clinic’s lounge area. The warm room was filled with plants and flower arrangements. There was a pretty Christmas tree in one corner. Snow pattered lightly against the windows.

  Hidden speakers were playing some kind of musical-box stuff that sounded to Ben like Mozart. He couldn’t name the piece and he didn’t care. He didn’t want to hear any damn Mozart. It made him think of Leigh and Oliver. Suddenly he missed his old drinking flask.

  ‘Hello, Eve,’ he said.

  She paused in the doorway before she smiled selfconsciously and crossed the room towards him. She was wearing a navy tracksuit with a sleeve cut away and her arm in a sling. She was in plaster from her elbow to her fingertips. There were no autographs on her cast.

  ‘How’s the hand?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll play the guitar any more,’ she said as she lowered herself into the armchair next to his. ‘They operated on it. We’ll see. Doesn’t hurt too bad, though. As long as I keep dosing myself stupid on painkillers.’ She smiled. Her face looked tight and pale.

  He shifted round in his chair and winced a little at the sharp pull on his ribs.