‘I’ll do that,’ Paxton said.
‘And will you promise me you’ll relocate?’
‘As soon as it’s feasible. I promise. You’re right. I need to think of Zara.’ Paxton paused. ‘Will you be coming back to San Remo, to see us while we’re still here?’
Ben didn’t reply.
‘After what you’ve been through, I’d like you to be my guest here for a few days,’ Paxton said. ‘So would Zara. She seemed very much to enjoy your company. I sometimes think she’s a bit lonely,’ he added wistfully. ‘I’m always up to my eyes in business. She’d love to see you again.’
Ben squirmed. Jesus.
‘Maybe some other time, Harry. If I’m not staying here, I’ve really got to be heading back home.’
‘I’m disappointed,’ Paxton said. ‘I would have liked to be able to thank you in person, show you how truly grateful I am. But I understand you have affairs of your own to attend to. I hope you’ll at least let me wire you the money you lost.’
‘Forget it, Harry. I don’t want it.’
‘You earned it.’
‘I didn’t do much,’ Ben said.
Paxton paused. ‘Keep in touch, won’t you?’
‘See you around, Harry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you.’
Ben ended the call. He sat still for a moment, deep in thought.
‘Right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Time to go home.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Claudel was flicking through a book in his study when he heard the van skid up on the gravel outside. A few seconds later, Kamal came bursting into the villa. Rapid footsteps across the marble floor of the hall. The study door flew open. Kamal stormed into the room, clutching a laptop to his chest. He strode over to the desk and thumped it down, sending papers fluttering.
‘What’s that?’ Claudel asked nervously. He could almost feel the heat of the aggression that was pouring off the man.
Kamal’s eyes flashed with fury. ‘That is your whole life, until you can figure out what’s inside.’
Claudel flipped the lid open and switched on the machine. As he sat poring over the screen, Kamal was pacing up and down, almost manic with rage. He tore a valuable second edition of Gibbons’ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire from a bookshelf and hurled it across the room. It smacked against the wall. The binding burst apart and it fluttered to the floor like a dead bird. ‘I’ll have that bastard’s head on a plate!’ he screamed.
‘What happened?’
‘Three of my men are dead, is what happened.’ Kamal roared the last word. He grabbed a delicate eighteenth-century upholstered chair, threw it down and stamped it into pieces. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ Pieces of wood spun across the study floor.
Claudel looked away. He knew better than to ask too many questions of Kamal when he was in this mood. He returned to the computer, and quickly found the Akhenaten file. His eyes brightened. Then he tried clicking into it.
‘This file is encrypted,’ he said, looking up.
‘I know that,’ Kamal raged. ‘You take me for a fucking idiot?’
Claudel looked back down at the screen and felt a trickle of sweat run down his neck. ‘I’m not a computer person,’ he protested weakly. ‘How am I supposed to crack an encrypted file?’
Kamal stormed over to him with his teeth bared in anger. ‘I don’t care how you do it. You figure this out. Understood?’
Claudel was already running through his options, thinking of all the people he knew who could help. Hisham, he thought. Hisham was good with computers.
But no sooner had the thought occurred to him, than his heart sank again. He couldn’t call Hisham. If he failed, Kamal would just shoot the guy, or worse. Anyone Claudel brought in on this situation was condemned to death. He thought of what had happened to Aziz. He thought about him all the time, couldn’t get the image out of his mind. He’d been having nightmares about it.
No. He was on his own.
He looked desperately up at Kamal. ‘The password could be anything.’
‘Then try everything,’ Kamal said. ‘Starting now.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Normandy
It was a long journey home, and it was late when Ben finally arrived back at Le Val by taxi. The moon was full, bathing the cobbled yard in milky light. He paid the driver and stepped out, stretching his legs. Watched the car drive off into the darkness up the long, winding drive.
He looked around him. The homely smell of the wood-burning stove was drifting across from the farmhouse, and there was a light on behind the curtained kitchen window. Across the yard, the trainees’ accommodation block was dimly lit and he heard someone laugh in the distance.
He heard the sound of running paws, and a shaggy shape hurled itself out of the shadows to greet him.
Ben patted the dog affectionately as it jumped up to lick his face. ‘Hey, Storm. Good to see you too, boy.’ And he meant it. It was good to be home. He wearily climbed the three steps to the farmhouse door, turned the big brass handle and stepped into the hallway.
The place was warm and welcoming. Someone had a CD playing in the kitchen. Ben recognised the music. It was one of his own collection: Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. He walked down the flagstone passage and pushed open the oak door. All he could think about was a large glass of red wine, a chunk of local cheese and a hunk of bread.
Brooke was sitting alone at the kitchen table, reading a novel. In front of her was a steaming mug that smelled like cocoa. She looked up as Ben came in. Her hair was damp, as though she’d just got out of the shower, and she was wearing an emerald green bathrobe. It brought out the green of her eyes, something Ben had never noticed about her before.
She put down her novel, and smiled warmly. ‘You’re back.’
‘You’re still here,’ he said.
‘I told you I was going to hang around for a few days, remember?’ She peered at him and her smile faded. ‘Christ, Hope. You look like shit.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Honestly. Your eyes are like two burnt holes in a blanket.’
‘That makes me feel even better,’ he said, making a beeline for the wine rack.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing I really feel like talking about.’ He grabbed a bottle and the opener, and set about tearing away the foil to get at the cork.
Brooke stood up. She came over to him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll do that.’ She pointed at the huge cast-iron pot that was sitting on the range. ‘There’s still some of Marie-Claire’s cassoulet. To die for, I’m telling you. Blew my diet completely. You hungry?’
He slumped in a wooden chair. ‘Like I’ve never eaten in my life.’
Brooke pulled the cork out of the bottle, glugged wine into a large glass and set it down in front of him. He knocked it back, reached for the bottle and refilled it.
‘Bad day at the office, then,’ she said over her shoulder as she ladled a pile of the stew into a saucepan and started warming it over the gas flame.
He didn’t reply. Sat and drank as she served the food onto a plate and brought it over to him. There was concern showing in her eyes.
‘Thanks for this, Brooke,’ he said through a mouthful of the stew. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to be back.’
She sat down beside him at the table and rested her chin on her palm, watching him eat. ‘How come you don’t want to tell me what happened? What took you to Cairo?’
‘I was just helping a friend.’
‘This Paxton guy?’
He nodded.
‘But it’s over now?’
He nodded again.
Brooke snorted. ‘Well, whatever you were doing out there for him, I hope he appreciates it. You should see yourself.’
‘I just need a rest. I’ll be fine in the morning.’ His plate was empty and he drained the last of his glass of wine. ‘So what have you been up to?’ he asked her, abruptly changing the subject.
‘Relaxing,
mostly. Waiting for you.’
‘I told you not to wait for me,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘Jeff’s been teaching me to shoot. Says I’m good at it.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he grunted, reaching for the bottle again.
‘You going to drink the whole thing?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Someone’s been calling for you,’ she said. ‘Phoned three times this evening. A woman.’ She paused, watching his reaction. ‘Someone called Zara. Sounded Australian.’
Ben’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. He set it down heavily on the table. ‘Shit,’ he muttered.
Brooke smiled, raising an eyebrow. ‘Someone you ran into on your travels?’
‘You might say that,’ he replied sullenly.
‘Seemed very anxious to talk to you,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m sure she’ll call again.’ She leaned forward on her elbows. ‘So what’s she like, Ben?’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play games. You know who I mean. Zara.’
He stared at her. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Whoo. Testy. Must have hit a nerve there.’
‘Leave it alone, Brooke. I’m tired, OK?’
‘Is she pretty? Sounded pretty.’
He stood up, grabbed his glass and what was left of the bottle. ‘I’m going to bed.’ As an afterthought he grabbed another bottle from the rack and tucked it under his arm as he headed for the door. ‘See you in the morning,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be up late.’
‘What if she calls again?’
‘Tell her I’ve died or something,’ he said. Then he banged through the door and climbed the stairs.
He’d been right about the late morning. It was well after ten o’clock when he came plodding down the stairs holding three empties. The two wine bottles, and the whisky he’d washed them down with. His mouth felt thick with the aftertaste of stale booze, and his head was heavy.
It hadn’t been a good night. He’d thrashed about restlessly for a long time, trying to sleep. But it had been no use. He couldn’t stop his mind from whirring around and around in circles, working over all the things that had been happening. Eventually, he’d given up. Sat up on the rumpled sheets and put the light on and just sat drinking until well after five in the morning.
The faces of the three men he’d killed had haunted him long into the night. Even when he’d polished off the second bottle of wine and moved on to the whisky he kept in the wardrobe, he hadn’t been able to still his mind.
When he wasn’t thinking about the things he’d had to do in Cairo, he was thinking about Zara. He thought of the brief time they’d spent together. Seeing her in the little bookshop in San Remo. Running through the rain to shelter from the thunderstorm. The touch of her hand on his arm. Her firm body close to his. Her smile, her laugh, her tears.
Why was she calling him? He dreaded having to talk to her, if she called again. And he knew she was sure to. What if she wanted to meet him? He knew that just the sound of her voice might destroy his resolve-that he’d give in and agree to meet up with her somewhere. That just couldn’t happen.
Part of him was thankful that Harry had agreed to haul anchor and relocate the Scimitar. Zara would be far away, and in time his feelings would diminish. But it also meant he probably would never see her again, and right now he wasn’t sure he could handle that.
He was still feeling racked with the same uncertainty, and hating himself bitterly for his weakness, as he stepped out into the morning drizzle. He was heading across the yard to dump his empty bottles into the recycling bin when he heard Jeff Dekker’s voice call his name.
He turned. ‘Hi, Jeff.’ His voice came out as a croak.
Jeff trotted up to him. The trousers of his fatigues were spattered in mud up to the knee. ‘Glad to see you back. Are you taking the eleven o’clock pistol shooting group?’ He glanced at the empty bottles and looked more closely at Ben’s face. ‘Jesus, mate. You look like—’
‘Like shit. So everyone keeps telling me.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I just need to get my head together. I was thinking of going for a good long run.’
‘You look more like you need to rest.’
‘I’m sick of resting. Running will relax me. Listen, if anyone calls for me—’
‘Like Zara, for example?’ Jeff grinned.
‘Give me a break. Not you as well.’
‘She sounded hot. Anything you’d like to tell me, Ben?’
Ben sighed. ‘Yeah. Mind your own fucking business.’
‘She’s bound to call again,’ Jeff said. ‘You can’t put her off forever.’
‘I don’t want to talk to her. Tell her anything you like. I’ve gone off and joined the Trappist monks, OK?’
‘If she wants to come here, I’m not going to put her off,’ Jeff said. ‘I’m no Trappist monk.’
‘Do me a favour, Jeff Ben walked over to the recycling bin and tossed the bottles in one at a time. He whistled for Storm. The German Shepherd burst out of one of the barns, halted suddenly, stiff and alert, then came running over.
Ben ran his fingers through the dog’s thick coat. ‘Come on, boy. Let’s go and run some of the crap out of our system.’
Two hours of punishment later, as the drizzle turned into sheeting rain over Le Val, Ben and the dog returned to the house bedraggled and soaking. Storm shook himself in the yard and trotted over to his kennel. Ben walked up to the house and went into the kitchen.
Jeff Dekker and the six-strong group for the new Counter Attack Team training course were all sitting around the long table eating lunch. Jeff was in the middle of entertaining them with a funny anecdote when Ben walked in. Faces turned to look. ‘Everyone, this is Ben Hope,’ Jeff said, breaking off his story. ‘Come and join us, Ben. I was just telling them about that time when—’
‘Great to meet you all,’ Ben interrupted him shortly. ‘Have a good lunch. Maybe see you later.’ He strode up to the wine rack, dripping rainwater across the flagstones, and grabbed a bottle. Snatched a cold chicken leg from the platter in the middle of the table and headed for the door. The room had gone quiet and he could feel all eyes upon him, but he didn’t care. He shoved through the door and headed for his quarters.
Upstairs, he dumped the bottle and the chicken leg on his desk, stripped off his wet clothes and left them in a heap on the floor as he went for a shower. He spent a long time under the water, turning it up as hot as he could bear it. Afterwards he towelled himself dry and changed into a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. Flopping on the couch, he munched desultorily on the cold chicken and gulped wine from the bottle. It didn’t do much to take the edge off his mood.
He was just thinking of going downstairs to fetch more Laphroaig from the cellar when his phone rang in his pocket. He dug it out, and his thumb hovered over the reply button for a moment before he decided against answering it. It rang insistently until his answering service kicked in, then went quiet.
You fucking coward, he seethed at himself. It might not even have been her. You never going to answer your phone again?
A few moments later, it rang again. He took a deep breath and answered on the second ring.
He had a message. It was Zara.
Her voice sounded small and timid. ‘Ben, it’s me. Where are you? I’ve called and called.’ A pause. ‘There are things I have to talk to you about. Important things. Call me back soon, all right?’ Another pause. ‘Love you. Miss you.’
Then the robotic voice of the answering service was again in his ear. ‘To listen to the message again, press 1…’
He couldn’t bring himself to delete it. He listened to it again. Decided to call her back. Fuck it.
He was just about to phone her when there was a thumping on his door and Jeff walked in and stood over him with his arms folded.
‘What was that all about?’ he demanded.
Ben looked at him blankly.
‘Jesus, Ben. What’s got into you? The way you behaved in fro
nt of those guys.’
‘They’re ex-soldiers, Jeff. They’re not a bunch of social workers.’
‘They’re our clients, Ben. That’s what they are. Remember that business you used to run?’
Ben didn’t reply.
‘I’ve never seen you like this before, mate,’ Jeff said. ‘I don’t know what the fuck’s going on inside your head, but you need to snap out of it sooner rather than later.’
Ben just sighed and looked down at his feet.
Jeff glared at him a second longer and then left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The following morning
The acres of woodland around Le Val were deep enough to lose yourself in, and Ben meant to do just that. He knew all the little tracks and paths through the forest. Some of them had been there forever, probably created by deer and wild boar, and some of them he’d made himself. Over fallen trees and up earth banks, across the stream and through dense ferns, he ran until his body was screaming for rest.
In a tiny clearing in the forest was one of the features of Le Val that he loved most-the ruin of an old church dating back to the thirteenth century. There was nothing left but a few crumbled stone walls and the remnants of a tower where generations of doves had made a home for themselves. At its foot was a slab of stone nestling among the wildflowers, where he liked to sit and think, listening to the doves burbling and cooing in their nests. That was where he headed now, with the dog trotting along behind him.
He sat and listened to the sounds of the forest. Everything was so tranquil. It was a beautiful spring morning. The sky was blue above the trees, and the birds were singing. He should have been happy. This place was his home now.
He knew he had to get a grip on himself. Jeff had been right. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to start neglecting his business and everything he’d worked so hard to build was going to slip through his fingers.
But the way Ben was feeling right now, he wanted to shy away from everything. He felt empty inside. He didn’t want to have to deal with people, or have to take care of all those thousands of little tasks that just last week he’d have attended to with enthusiasm.
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 115