The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

  He looked at his watch. Harry wouldn’t be around for another quarter of an hour or so. He explored the mid deck for a minute or two, marvelling at the wealth of it. Another companionway led upwards through a circular hole in the canopy above him and, fired by curiosity, he climbed up to see what was there.

  He emerged onto the upper aft deck and took in the sweeping view of the sea. The breeze caressed his face and cooled him. He sipped the Scotch. ‘Jesus, Harry,’ he whispered to himself. ‘What a life.’

  Then a sound caught his ear. It was a strange sort of whistle, like something whizzing through the air. He turned to look.

  By the time he spotted the solitary figure standing on the helipad at the far end of the upper deck thirty yards away, she’d already drawn another arrow from the quiver on her belt and fitted it to the bow she was shooting out to sea. It was a strange-looking weapon, almost futuristic, with large cam wheels on its limb-tips, telescopic sight, a complicated assortment of cables and a long stabiliser arm that jutted outwards from the handle like the barrel of a rifle.

  The woman holding it was maybe twenty-eight, slim and lightly tanned, athletic-looking. Her long blonde hair was tied loosely back in a ponytail that blew gently in the breeze. She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless top that exposed the toned muscles of her shoulders and arms.

  Ben couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked cool and composed, completely zoned in and unaware of his presence as she focused on the floating island at least sixty yards away on the end of a long cable. In its centre was a round target face-a gold circle about the size of a dinner plate, tiny at that range, surrounded by red, blue and black concentric rings. The target was rising and falling gently on the swell. He guessed that made for a more interesting challenge.

  He watched as she drew the string back, tension loading up in the bow’s curved limbs, kinetic energy piling up behind the slim shaft of the arrow. All the best shooters he’d seen, the cream of the world’s military marksmen, had that essential quality of stillness. That quiet assurance. It wasn’t pride. It was the ability to lose themselves in the shot, to sublimate their ego completely so that, at the moment of release, they didn’t even exist. Nothing existed except the target and the projectile. And he could see that same Zen-like, almost unattainable magic stillness in this woman as she stood there, oblivious of him watching her, poised like an Amazon against the sunlight, her body in perfect balance.

  She released the shot. The bow tilted loosely in her hand as the tension left it. The arrow whipped through the air, covering the distance too quickly for the eye to follow. Ben shielded his eyes and saw it juddering in the centre of the yellow circle, right next to her previous shot. She certainly was good.

  The woman nodded to herself, her face serene, just a hint of fierce satisfaction in her eyes. She reached for another arrow and brought it smoothly up to the bow.

  Ben wondered who she was.

  ‘That’s Zara, my wife,’ said a voice behind him, as if answering his thoughts. He turned and, for the first time in a decade, he found himself face to face with Colonel Harry Paxton.

  The man hadn’t changed physically, as far as Ben could see. He must have been fifty-four now, but he was still in great shape. He was casually dressed in jeans and a white cotton shirt. His greying hair was cropped short, just as it had been back in his army days. He had only a few lines to show for the intervening ten years. But somewhere behind the eyes, something had changed. There was pain there, some kind of emptiness. Ben had a feeling he was soon going to know more about it.

  ‘She was the Australian Open champion when I met her,’ Paxton said, nodding towards Zara. He smiled tenderly, a little sadly. ‘We’ve been married eleven months now.’

  Ben’s eye lingered on her for just a moment. Then he turned and looked back at his old colonel.

  ‘Hello, Benedict.’ Paxton grasped Ben’s hand and shook it with warmth and sincerity. ‘It’s so very good to see you again.’

  ‘It’s been a long time, Harry.’

  ‘Too damn long.’

  For a moment Ben thought about mentioning Helen. Saying how sorry he’d been to hear of her death. But it didn’t seem right with Paxton’s new wife standing just yards away.

  ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice,’ Paxton said warmly. ‘You’ve no idea how grateful I am to you.’

  ‘I knew you were a keen sailor,’ Ben said. ‘But this is something else. I’m extremely impressed.’

  ‘My hobby became my business,’ Paxton answered modestly, as though it was nothing. ‘I’d always had an interest in designing and building yachts, but it wasn’t until after I retired from the forces that I started getting into it more seriously.’ He waved his arm across the sweeping decks. ‘Scimitar is the flagship of my little fleet. As well as manufacturing products to order for our clients, we run a charter business.’

  Ben smiled at the idea of a yacht this size being so casually termed a ‘product’. ‘You’ve done pretty well for yourself

  ‘As far as business is concerned,’ Paxton replied, ‘I can’t complain. I’ve been lucky.’ A dark look passed across his face, like a shadow. The sad look in his eyes suddenly intensified.

  ‘But you didn’t call me here to talk about business, did you?’ Ben said.

  Paxton sighed. ‘No, I didn’t. You’ve been very kind to come all this way. I owe you an explanation. Let’s go somewhere private. Bring your drink.’ He started down the companionway to the deck below.

  As Ben went to follow him, he glanced back over his shoulder. Zara Paxton was laying down her bow, watching him from a distance. She waved tentatively, and Ben caught the flash of a smile before he looked away.

  The interior of the yacht was even more spectacular than the exterior. Everything was burnished wood, and the carpets were thick and plush. Paxton led Ben through a series of corridors and opened a door. ‘This is my private library. We can talk in here without being disturbed.’

  Ben stepped inside the huge room and gazed around him at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He ran his eye along the spines of books. Shakespeare. Milton. Virgil. Row after row of military history and the age of sail. Where the walls weren’t covered in books, gilt-framed oils of nineteenth-century warships glistened in the sunbeams that streamed through an overhead skylight.

  Paxton motioned to a pair of burgundy Chesterfields. ‘Please, have a seat.’

  Ben sat down. The leather was cool against his back. He sipped his drink and watched Paxton for a moment. The colonel looked as if he was full of things to say, but didn’t know where to start.

  ‘What’s this about, Harry?’ Ben asked softly. ‘You said you needed my help.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was so mysterious on the phone,’ Paxton said. ‘It’s something I can discuss only in person.’ He walked over to a glossy antique sideboard that was covered with silver-framed photos. Some were of sleek white yachts in a variety of exotic locations, but most were family shots. Paxton picked one up, gazed at it for a moment, sighed and handed it to Ben.

  Ben looked at it, wondering what this was about. The picture showed a man in his early thirties, rather bookish, serious-looking. Glasses, thin sandy hair, a slight belly, narrow shoulders.

  ‘My son, Morgan,’ Paxton murmured.

  Ben glanced up in surprise. He’d known that Paxton had a son, but the man in this photo wasn’t what he’d have expected.

  Paxton seemed to read Ben’s thoughts. ‘He took much more after his mother, physically. Our kind of life, the military life, wouldn’t have agreed with him.’

  ‘You talk about him in the past tense.’

  Paxton nodded. ‘I’ve made it quite obvious, haven’t I? That’s what this is about.’ His throat sounded tight with emotion. ‘The reason I asked you to come here is that my son is dead.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ben replied after a beat.

  ‘He was murdered.’

  Ben watched Paxton’s eyes. It wasn’t just pain in them now, but a depth of smoulde
ring rage that was barely under control.

  Paxton let out a long, trembling sigh, visibly struggling to stay calm. ‘Let me get you another drink,’ he whispered. ‘Scotch, wasn’t it?’ He replaced the photo on the sideboard, reached for a decanter and topped up Ben’s glass. He poured one for himself, drained it, refilled it.

  Ben sipped the Scotch and waited for Paxton to go on.

  Paxton slumped heavily in the matching Chesterfield opposite him. ‘Morgan died in Egypt almost two months ago,’ he said. ‘He was found in his rented apartment. He’d been stabbed to death. There were thirty knife wounds in his body.’ Paxton related the details matter-of-factly but his fingers were white against the crystal glass. He gulped back the last of the drink and set the glass down heavily on the table between them.

  Ben watched every movement. He understood all too well what Paxton was going through. His heart went out to him.

  But he still didn’t understand why the colonel had called him here. ‘What was Morgan doing in Egypt?’ he asked. ‘Did he live there?’

  Paxton shook his head. ‘Morgan is…’ He paused, catching himself. Sighed and went on. ‘Morgan was an academic at University of London. He taught history, specialising in Near Eastern Studies. That’s what he was doing in Cairo. He was on a sabbatical, researching something to do with ancient Egypt.’

  Ben listened intently.

  ‘The police think it was an opportunistic robbery gone wrong,’ Paxton continued. ‘Whether he surprised the thieves, or they broke into the apartment while he was there, nobody knows. Or even cares. The Cairo police haven’t caught whoever did it. They’re not even close, and I don’t think they’re going to get results.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ben said again. ‘I wish there was something I—’

  ‘There is,’ Paxton said, cutting him off. They locked eyes for a moment, and Ben tried to read the look. The sadness was still there, and the rage. But there was something else. The look of a planner at work, a tactician. The mind working hard through all that pain. Focusing, not folding.

  Ben waited for the rest.

  Paxton didn’t keep him waiting long. ‘You must be wondering why I called you here. The fact is, there’s something I want you to do for me.’

  Ben was silent. He could feel his neck and shoulders tensing up with anticipation.

  ‘As you can tell, I’m not happy with the outcome of the police inquiry,’ Paxton said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how sloppy and inept they’ve been.’

  Ben had no trouble believing it-but he kept quiet.

  Paxton went on. His voice was calm and controlled, his jaw set. ‘As far as they’re concerned, Morgan was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. These things happen every day, and they appear not to be pursuing it. Just one of those things.’ Paxton paused and looked hard at Ben. ‘And that’s why I need your help. Justice hasn’t been done.’

  Ben waited. He was scared of what was coming.

  Then Paxton came out with the thing he’d been dreading.

  ‘I want you to go to Cairo,’ he said. ‘I want you to find whoever did this to my son. And I want you to kill them.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘You were really unlucky,’ Marla Austin was saying to Kerry. They were in the Scimitars VIP stateroom, far away from the library in which Ben and Paxton were talking. ‘San Remo’s normally a safe place. You don’t hear of women getting attacked, as a rule.’

  Kerry was reclining on a huge bed as Paxton’s PA bustled around her. ‘I still can’t believe the way he handled those men,’ she murmured, eyes half shut. ‘He was so…’ her voice trailed off.

  Marla smiled at her from the foot of the bed. ‘He certainly sounds like quite a guy,’ she said. ‘Now, you need to get some rest. You’ve had a nasty shock. I think your new friend and Mr Paxton will be talking for a while. I’ll come back in an hour or so to check on you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kerry slurred in a sleepy voice.

  And I do think you should maybe see a doctor when you get back to port. Just to be sure. All right?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘See you later, then. Rest yourself, OK?’ Marla unfolded a blanket that was lying on an armchair. She laid it over Kerry. ‘And if you get cold, there’s a sweater there for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kerry murmured again. ‘See you.’

  Marla tiptoed across the vast Oriental rug and slipped out of the stateroom. She shut the door quietly behind her and went about her business.

  Inside the huge opulent room, Kerry lay on the bed with her eyes shut. She listened to the sound of Marla’s footsteps disappearing up the passageway.

  Once she knew she was alone, she opened her eyes and sat up straight, sweeping the blanket off her.

  She scanned the room, alert and focused. The sleepy look was gone. She swung her legs off the bed and stood up. Strode across the room to where Marla had carefully laid her shoes and handbag. She picked up the bag, opened it and took out her asthma puffer.

  She gazed at the little blue plastic pump for a second. Her eyes ran up its length to where the aluminium tube poked out of the top. Gripping the end of the tube between finger and thumb, she gave it a tug and it separated from the plastic body. She laid the plastic part on the chair next to her and turned the aluminium part over in her fingers.

  It was the exact same size and weight as the medical product it was disguised to look like. The only difference was that, instead of containing a compressed solution of Salbutamol, the tube was hollow and housed a tiny electronic device. She shook it out. Coiled up with it was a miniature earpiece on the end of a thin wire. She fitted the mike into her ear and activated the device.

  Somewhere miles above the earth, the GPS signal was instantly rerouted.

  She knew her accomplices would already be listening on the other end, keenly waiting for her to report. It was all going smoothly so far.

  ‘I’m on board,’ she whispered.

  ‘Copy,’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘I’m going to take a look around.’

  ‘Go easy,’ said the voice. ‘Don’t get caught.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said softly. ‘Out.’

  She switched off the device, plucked the earpiece out of her ear and wound the wire around two fingers. She stuffed everything back inside the hollow Salbutamol bottle, and replaced it in the plastic body of the asthma pump. Slipping the pump in her pocket, she walked towards the door and opened it a crack. She peeked out into the corridor, glanced left and right. Nobody around. She slipped out into the passage. Her heart was thudding.

  She knew she had to move fast. But she knew exactly where to go.

  Chapter Nine

  Ben and Paxton stared at each other in silence for a long moment.

  Ben’s glass was empty. He rotated it thoughtfully on his knee for a moment. Searched for the right words.

  ‘I’m not a hitman, Harry,’ was all he could answer.

  Paxton reached for the decanter and refilled their drinks. ‘It’s a small community, our little world of ex-officers. Especially when it comes to men with your background. I’ve heard things on the grapevine. I know what you’ve been doing since you left the regiment. You didn’t go into business, like me. Not conventional business, anyway. You tracked people down.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘You’re making me sound like a bounty hunter. I found missing people. Kidnap victims, children mostly. That’s what I did. And I certainly didn’t do contracts.’

  ‘But people died,’ Paxton said, gazing at him steadily. ‘At least, that’s what I heard. Perhaps I was misinformed.’

  Ben winced inwardly. ‘No, you heard right. People died. But not like this.’

  ‘Will you hear me out?’

  Ben sighed. ‘Of course. Go ahead.’

  Paxton stood up and went over to one of the paintings on the wall. The gilt-framed oil depicted a naval battle, two sailing warships ripping into each other broadside on a stormy sea, jets of flame bursting through billows of white s
moke, sails hanging in tatters. He gazed at it pensively as he went on.

  ‘Let me tell you about my son. He was very unlike me. He was a man of intellect and philosophy, not a man of action. And I think he had problems coming to terms with that. He tried to follow in my footsteps, but it just wasn’t him. He was a timid sort of man. That’s not to say he didn’t have talent. Somewhere inside him, I believe there was even the potential to be brilliant. But he wasn’t ambitious. He had no drive, never really shone. Sometimes that frustrated me, and he knew it. Perhaps I was guilty of being too hard on him. I bitterly regret that now.’

  Paxton turned away from the painting. ‘Because the fact is,’ he went on, ‘that Morgan had one overriding passion in his life, which I never understood. It all started when he stumbled on something in the course of his research.’

  ‘Stumbled on what?’ Ben said, wondering where this was leading. He was still reeling from Paxton’s request.

  ‘You have to understand the academic mind,’ Paxton replied. ‘These aren’t men who seek glory. It’s hard for you and I to relate to that. They’re men whose joy in life lies in things that we might consider trivial.’ He paused. ‘Morgan’s great passion was a discovery he’d made to do with ancient Egypt. Some sort of papyrus relating to a minor political or religious upset that happened three thousand years ago. He told me a little about it, though to be honest I don’t remember the details. It’s not the kind of thing that would interest me, personally. But it meant a great deal to him.’

  ‘And this was what he was researching in Cairo?’

  Paxton nodded. ‘He’d been working on it for a long time. When the opportunity arose to take a sabbatical year, his plan was to stay in Egypt for a few months. And so he’d taken all his research material with him. But when his body was found, all his belongings had been taken. They took his watch, his phone, his wallet and his camera. Even some of his clothes. And his briefcase, his laptop, everything. Which means that all his research is gone. It was all for nothing. All the effort he poured into it, the passion he had for it. All gone, because of some murdering little lowlife who thought he could make a bob or two passing on stolen goods.’