The referee gave the call to fire. Ben worked the bolt, peered through the scope. He could barely see the target. It was such a tiny thing, almost outside the realm of his physical senses but so, so tangible in his mind’s eye that it was the centre of everything.
Fuck it.
He fired. Bolt back, case ejected, bolt forward, next round chambered.
Fired. The rifle bucked like a live thing in his arms. He worked the bolt again. He was lost in a world of his own, deep in the zone. Nothing existed except him, the target and the forces trying to prevent him from hitting it. Even the rifle didn’t exist – it was just an extension of his mind and body.
In that moment, not even Cleaver existed. He let go. Kept firing until his ten shots were spent. Only then did he look to see how he’d done.
He exhaled deeply. There was only one hole in the target. It was a ragged vent where all ten shots had gone in. A perfect score. His heart jumped. He’d won.
Except he hadn’t. The range officers came bouncing back uprange in their golf buggies and the results were announced to the crowd, amid a lot of cheering. Two shooters had come through the final round. Him and Billy Lee Johnson, neck and neck. It was a tie.
The Marine sniper ambled up to congratulate Ben. ‘Pretty hot shooting, friend. Where’d you learn?’
‘The Boys’ Brigade,’ Ben said.
‘Tie-breaker, guys,’ the ref said. ‘How do you want to settle it?’
Johnson grinned. ‘Your choice,’ he said to Ben.
‘Whatever I want?’
Johnson nodded. ‘You call it.’
‘Let’s bring it back a little,’ Ben said. ‘One hundred yards. One shot, best man wins.’
‘One hundred? Are you kidding?’
Ben didn’t reply.
‘Whatever you say,’ Johnson said. He rolled his eyes at the ref, who shrugged his shoulders.
They walked out and set up the targets at a hundred yards. ‘Hold on,’ Ben said. He kneeled down in the grass to tie his shoelace. Johnson and the ref turned and headed back towards the firing line. Ben got to his feet and jogged after them to catch up. As he approached the cordon, he could see the eager faces of the spectators all watching him closely. Miss Vale was still there, and there was Cleaver still at her elbow and still staring coldly at him. Ben returned his gaze all the way to the firing point. Cleaver’s face turned from white to red. Then he broke eye contact and glanced down at his feet.
They took positions. ‘You first,’ Johnson said.
Ben took his time aiming. The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The cicadas were chirping loudly all around, mixing in the warm air with the murmur of anticipation from the crowd.
The trigger broke under his gentle squeeze. The rifle recoiled harshly upwards and back, the image in the scope lost in a blur.
The crowd’s murmur grew in volume as everyone searched the target for a bullet-hole. At that short range, every mark on the paper could be seen clearly with spotting scopes and binoculars.
‘You missed.’ Johnson was grinning. ‘Way, way wide.’
‘Not even on the paper,’ someone called out from the crowd. There was a general mutter of disappointment.
Ben looked back through the scope and smiled.
‘Hold on,’ said another spotter. ‘Look down. He weren’t aiming at no paper target.’
Carl had seen it. He slipped under the cordon and walked over to Ben’s side. His eyes were wide. ‘Holy shit,’ he breathed.
Johnson had seen it too. His face went pale.
In the short grass at the foot of the target, two matches were stuck in the ground a few inches apart. One of them was lit, its pale flame flickering in the breeze.
‘He struck the goddamn match,’ someone yelled.
Carl’s mouth was hanging open, speechless.
The mutter of the crowd became an excited buzz. People were staring at him in amazement. ‘Best shooting I ever saw,’ the ref said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘One in a million. Hell, ten million.’
‘Impossible,’ Johnson said. ‘He lit it when he was over there.’
The ref shook his head. ‘No way. It’d be burned all the way down by now. That’s why you waited so long to fire, right, mister?’ He smiled at Ben.
‘To hit a match at a hundred yards,’ Carl mumbled. ‘That’s one thing. But to strike it and light it ..?’ He blinked and broke into a grin.
‘Your shot,’ Ben said to Johnson. ‘Still one match left.’
‘Where the hell did you learn to do that?’ Johnson asked.
‘Old army trick.’
‘They don’t learn to do that in my army.’
‘In my army, my regiment, they did.’
The Marine sniper had laid down his rifle. ‘I can’t equal that,’ he said. ‘I’m not even going to try.’ He put out his hand, and Ben shook it.
It was over. Ben quietly packed Carl’s Winchester into its case and gave it back to him. The young guy took it in his good hand, still grinning through his pain.
Back at the cordon, Miss Vale embraced Ben warmly. ‘I thought I was going to faint with tension,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘Someone had better drive Carl to the hospital now,’ Ben said. He felt a presence beside him and looked down to see the petite figure of Maggie, gazing at him admiringly. ‘I’ll take him,’ she volunteered. ‘I think Andy already left. He felt bad about what happened.’
Ben nodded. ‘Thanks. Good to have met you, Maggie.’ He turned to Carl. ‘You take care.’
‘Man, I still can’t believe what I just saw,’ Carl said as Maggie took his elbow. As she led the young guy away towards the parking field, she smiled back over her shoulder at Ben.
Miss Vale was hanging onto his arm, gushing praise. Ben just smiled graciously. Then the ref stepped up. ‘You have to come and collect your award,’ he said to Ben. ‘The press are waiting for you.’
‘Later,’ Ben replied. He was searching the crowd. The space where Cleaver had been standing before was empty. ‘Where’s Clayton?’ he asked Miss Vale.
‘He had a phone call to make. Some pressing matter he just remembered. He’s gone back to the house.’
‘I’ll see you afterwards,’ Ben said.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Clayton and I have some business to discuss.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Up close, the Cleaver house was impressively grand, with a neo-classical façade and tall white stone columns. Ben marched up the steps to the front entrance, walked straight in and found himself in a hallway. It could have been as opulent as Augusta Vale’s, but it had the look of a place that had seen better times.
A woman darted out of a doorway. She looked like staff, maybe a housekeeper or a PA. She saw him and her eyes widened.
‘Where’s Cleaver?’ he demanded.
‘Who are you?’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. But the nervous glance up the winding staircase behind her told him what he wanted to know. He shouldered past her and went striding up the stairs, two at a time, ignoring her protests. Finding himself on a long galleried landing he started throwing open every door he came to.
The fourth door he opened revealed Cleaver at the far end of a room sitting at his desk. Ben slammed the door behind him and walked inside. He glanced around him and saw he was in a study. There wasn’t much furniture in the place, and blank spaces on the walls where paintings had once hung. The room had a sad look about it. Obviously Cleaver had yet to collect his share of the Vale fortune.
Cleaver stood up, a little shaky. There was a bottle of bourbon and a glass in front of him.
‘Time for our little talk,’ Ben said. ‘Had you forgotten?’
Cleaver sank back down into the leather desk chair. Ben sat on the edge of the desk, two feet away from him.
The door burst open, and two big guys in suits came rushing in. They saw Ben and tensed, ready for trouble. ‘Everything OK, sir?’
Cleaver waved his hand at them. ‘It’s all right. Everything’s under control.’
The men shot lingering looks at Ben as they filed out and shut the door behind them.
‘You’re no theology student,’ Cleaver said.
‘I am. But I wasn’t always. We all have our secrets, Clayton. And you’re going to tell me yours.’
‘Or?’
Ben reached into the canvas bag and drew out the .475 Linebaugh. He pointed it at Cleaver’s chest. ‘You just watched me take out the centre of the target at a thousand yards. I’m not going to miss you from here.’
‘All right,’ Cleaver said. ‘Let’s talk.’
‘Where’s Zoë Bradbury?’
‘I really couldn’t answer that.’
‘Think hard. You can still talk with no legs.’
‘I mean what I said. I don’t know where she is.’
‘Don’t test me,’ Ben said. ‘Not wise.’
‘What is it you think I’ve done?’
‘She was blackmailing you. You decided you didn’t want to pay.’
‘I did pay,’ Cleaver protested. ‘I paid the money without hesitation. And I’ll pay the rest, when I get it. Just like I said I would. I’m a man of my word.’
Ben raised the pistol to the level of Cleaver’s head and cocked it. The metallic clunk filled the silence of the room.
Cleaver’s brow beaded with sweat as he stared down the muzzle of the revolver. ‘She’s in trouble, right? Something’s happened to her?’
‘You’re asking me that?’
‘I never laid a finger on her,’ Cleaver insisted. Panic was edging into his voice. ‘All I did was get some of my guys to follow her.’
‘All the way to Greece. I know the rest.’
Cleaver frowned. ‘Pardon me?’
‘I’m tired of games.’
‘You said Greece. What’s Greece got to do with anything?’
‘Greece is where you planted the bomb to kill Charlie Palmer,’ Ben said. ‘Where you had your agents murder Nikos Karapiperis and snatch Zoë. Let me tell you something. Kaplan and Hudson are dead.’
There was a look of blank incomprehension on Cleaver’s face.
‘And I saw what your people did to Skid McClusky’s legs,’ Ben added.
Cleaver held up his hands. ‘Hold on. You are making one big mistake here. I never heard of any Kaplan and Hudson, or Charlie Palmer or Nikos whatever. I don’t know anything about Skid McClusky’s legs. The only place I sent my guys was round to Augusta’s to spy on that little brat screwing around.’
Ben hesitated. When you pointed a gun at someone who wasn’t used to it, and you showed you were serious about firing it, what generally came out was the truth. Cleaver had the look of a man who was genuinely frightened and sincerely spilling out his heart to save his life. Yet what he was saying seemed impossible. ‘What are you talking about, Cleaver?’
‘Look, can you just take that gun away,’ Cleaver said. ‘I can’t talk with a goddamn gun in my face.’
Ben uncocked the revolver and lowered it a little.
Cleaver cleared his throat and took a long sip of his bourbon. He paused to wipe the sweat off his brow.
‘Tell me exactly what’s been happening,’ Ben said.
Cleaver gave a deep sigh. ‘You know about the money I’m getting from Augusta. I don’t know how you know, and I won’t ask.’
Ben nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Augusta has an awful lot of money,’ Cleaver said. ‘She’s a billionaire. Now, she’s a fine Christian lady and she offered me that hundred million out of the kindness of her heart. But she doesn’t just give it away. She can’t. Most of it’s tied up in holdings and trusts and real estate. It isn’t like there’s some bottomless pit of dollar bills that she can dip into whenever she wants.’
‘And so, when Zoë Bradbury turned up again, you were scared she might change her mind.’
‘Damn right I was scared,’ Cleaver said angrily. ‘That girl is the most cunning and manipulative little bitch I’ve ever had the misfortune to know. One minute I’m about to get all this money, the next here’s this spoiled brat from England dropping hints about funding she needs for this project and that dig and that research trip. And here’s Augusta, with no kids of her own, talking about her like she was the daughter she never had, and how special and wonderful she was, and all that crap. You do the math. I really thought I was going to lose out in a big way.’ Cleaver knocked back another slug of bourbon. ‘Then when I finally met the brat, I could see that all she was after was Augusta’s dough. That big talk was all lies. She just wanted it for booze and good times. She’s nothing but a gold-digger.’
‘Takes one to know one,’ Ben said.
Anger flashed in Cleaver’s eyes. ‘What, you think I should have refused Augusta’s generosity? It’s been years since the book came out. All the money’s gone, and a lot more besides. I’m deep in debt. You have no idea what it costs to run an operation like mine – and well, maybe we did overstretch ourselves a little.’
‘It looks like you’ve been selling off the art and furniture,’ Ben said.
‘I have. Things have been awful difficult. Augusta was offering me a lifeline. I had to take it. I’d have been crazy not to.’
‘Cut the crap and tell me what you did.’
‘OK. Whenever she was around Augusta, little Miss Bradbury’d be acting all virtuous. Long skirts, high collar blouses. Just dripping with good ol’ Christian piety, like butter wouldn’t melt. But I knew she was screwing around all over town. I knew what she was getting up to behind Augusta’s back, and right under her roof, with the likes of Skid McClusky. To name just one of her many conquests while she was in Savannah.’
‘Your men told you this?’
Cleaver nodded and mopped more sweat. ‘I had a few guys follow her around. I knew I’d get some dirt on her. And it wasn’t hard to dig up. She was sneaking her fellas into the carriage house. More than one at a time, sometimes.’
Ben guessed where this was leading. ‘So you got your guys to catch it on video. And you used it to turn Miss Vale against her.’
‘Augusta never knew who sent the tape,’ Cleaver said. ‘It was from a well-wisher. She never mentioned it to anyone. But I could tell it soured her. Next time I was there for dinner with her and Zoë, there was this atmosphere. That’s when I knew my plan had worked. The money was mine again for sure.’
‘But then Zoë turned on you,’ Ben said.
‘She guessed I had something to do with the change in Augusta. A while later, when she’d left the US and I thought I’d never hear her name mentioned ever again, I got a call.’
‘I know. Twenty-five grand up front, and ten million later.’
‘Then you know everything,’ Cleaver said. ‘I paid, and I’ll pay more. No problem.’
‘Just like that? Why?’
‘Why do you want to know? I’ve told you the truth. I’m ready to pay her the money. If something’s happened to her, it’s got nothing to do with me. Now, sir, if you don’t mind, I think this conversation is over. I have business to attend to.’ Cleaver started getting to his feet.
‘Stop. You’re not going anywhere.’ Ben raised the gun again.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I want the rest. I want to know about the prophecy.’
Cleaver slumped back down in his chair. ‘So that’s why you were so keen to talk prophecies last night.’
‘What was in the box that Skid McClusky delivered to you?’
‘Just a fragment of pottery. Nothing more.’
Ben remembered what Tom Bradbury had told him that day in Summertown about Zoë’s discovery of ancient pottery fragments. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why pay ten million for a piece of pottery?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Cleaver said.
‘You’re not leaving here unless you do.’ Ben cocked the
gun. ‘And you’d better believe it. So talk.’
‘I had it carbon dated,’ Cleaver replied wearily. ‘It was the right age.’
‘The right age for what?’
Cleaver looked up at him abruptly. ‘The right age to have been around when the Book of Revelation was written.’
Ben stared and blinked. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘She let me see one tiny piece,’ Cleaver said. ‘She still has the rest of it.’
‘The rest of what?’
‘The rest of the evidence. She says that she found a collection of pottery tablets engraved in Ancient Greek, going back to biblical times. She says they prove beyond any doubt that St John wasn’t the author of Revelation.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s it. That’s all I know about them. She didn’t give me a lot to go on. But I have to believe she means what she says, and that it’s true. I can’t afford not to.’
‘You don’t sound very sure of your ground,’ Ben said.
‘All right. All right. I’ll level with you. You’ve seen my book. You know what it’s about.’
‘That John the Apostle spoke to you.’
Cleaver nodded and made a face.
Ben smiled. ‘You’re trying to tell me that John didn’t really speak to you.’
‘No, of course he didn’t,’ Cleaver muttered. ‘How the hell could he? He’s been dead for nearly two thousand years.’
‘I didn’t really think he had, Cleaver.’
‘I only said it to give me an angle,’ Cleaver said desperately. ‘An edge over all of the other End Time preachers out there.’
‘You mean the honest ones,’ Ben said. ‘The ones who aren’t just taking everyone for a ride.’
‘Whatever. But everything I’ve built is based on that book. All of this.’ Cleaver gestured at the view from the window. ‘Millions of Americans buying into the idea that I have a direct line to St John. That he personally vouched for the truth of all the prophecies that he wrote in the Book of Revelation. And now that little bitch says she’s dug up something that could screw it all up for me. The evidence that theology scholars have been looking for for centuries to end the debate about who the real author of Revelation was.’
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 82