The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

  His investigators had had little trouble tracking her down. She’d been pushing eighty by then, leading a solitary and reclusive existence in a rambling old country villa outside Cesena in the north of Italy. So alone. So vulnerable. So easy.

  Shikov could still remember that starlit night when he and his men had paid their visit to her. He recalled the delirious sense of elation he’d felt as they’d smashed their way into the isolated villa, convinced that he’d found his prize at last. He hadn’t.

  What he’d found instead was the cracked, worn old diary, its writing faded with age. For the next twenty-five years, not a week had passed without his returning to re-read it obsessively, like a devout believer drawn to his bible, certain that it contained the key. And he’d been right, in the end. Yet now, just when once again he’d thought he was about to lay his hands on the lost relic of his dreams, his hopes had been dashed a second time in a forgotten Russian cemetery. The map inside the picture frame had been accur ate enough – but someone had got there before him.

  Could the search for the Dark Medusa finally be over?

  Maybe it was, Shikov thought. Maybe he’d be in his own grave before it was done.

  At least he could console himself that he wouldn’t be the only one.

  He picked up one of the duelling pistols. The antique lockwork gave a delicate click-clunk as he cocked the hammer. He held the gun at arm’s length, sighted down its barrel. Pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a dry snap.

  ‘Ben Hope, you are dead,’ he said. And that thought, at this moment, was the only thing in the world that gave him any joy.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Manchester

  Just after midnight, Darcey Kane was escorted from the helipad on the roof of the SOCA regional HQ by plain-clothes agents who checked her name, rank and number into a register and took away her weapon to be logged into secure storage. Less than three minutes later she was whisked into a large, plush office on the top floor, and found herself alone with a man she’d only ever heard of before but never met.

  Sir William Applewood, SOCA’s Senior Director of Intelligence, personally appointed by the Home Secretary, was a heavyset man of sixty-two with skin turned the colour of chalk by the strain of his job. Behind his half-moon spectacles, there were dark rings around his eyes. Maybe the whispered legend that he needed only three hours of sleep a night wasn’t true after all. He glanced up as she was shown into the room, and expressionlessly waved her to a chair across the broad, polished desk from him.

  Darcey stayed on her feet. ‘Sir, I would appreciate an explanation as to why I was snatched away from an operation I’ve been working day and night on for three months, just at the point when—’

  Applewood flashed a steely look at her. ‘Take a seat, Commander,’ he said firmly.

  Darcey shut her mouth and did as she was told. Applewood said nothing more for a few moments while he sifted papers on his desk. She could see the open file in front of him was hers. He scanned the text, his eye lingering on a section here and there with a slight flicker of an eyebrow. It was probably as impressed as he could look. Finally he shut the file, leaned back in his reclining swivel chair and gazed at her over the desk.

  ‘Darcey Kane. Age thirty-five. Joined the force as a constable in April 2000. Rapid promotion, then three years with Merseyside police Matrix rapid response team. From there, graduated to CO19 Specialist Firearms Command. Top of your division for speed and accuracy both on the range and the field. Showed exceptional leadership and decision-making qualities. Fluent in five languages. Proficient in all forms of combat. Extensive experience of hostage and raid situations, eighteen major arrests to your credit. Left the police service at thirty-four to take up present duties at SOCA. How’s your first year with us been?’

  ‘Excellent, sir.’ She felt like adding, ‘Until some arsehole decided to compromise my operation.’

  Applewood’s stare was cold and penetrating, as if he could read her thoughts. ‘You’ve come a long way, Darcey. As you know, we monitor the performance of our agents very closely. Certain people believe you’re capable of a great deal more than your current position allows. They feel we might be wasting your talents.’

  So now she had an inkling of what this was about. She fought back a smile. ‘Certain people, sir?’

  Applewood raised his index finger at the ceiling, as though pointing to some imaginary floor above. ‘Let’s just say, the gods.’ He allowed himself a brief chuckle, then became serious again. ‘An assignment has landed on my desk tonight that requires an exceptionally gifted agent. I’m in agreement with the suggestion that it might be time to let you spread your wings.’ The cold stare bored into her. ‘What do you think?’

  Darcey’s mind was racing and she could barely sit still. In her mind she was turning cartwheels across the desk. But she controlled herself and remained completely impassive, with her hands folded neatly in her lap. ‘I think I’d like that very much, sir.’

  ‘Thought you would.’ Applewood kicked his chair back from the desk, pulled out a drawer and reached for another file, which he skimmed across the polished surface at her.

  The front of the file was printed with the usual eyes-only heading in bold red capitals that went with a high-level clearance document.

  ‘Operation Jericho?’ she said.

  ‘Read it,’ Applewood replied.

  Darcey flipped the file open. The first thing she saw was the face of the man whose photo was clipped to the top page. Good-looking guy, she thought as she instinctively memorised his likeness. Blond hair, not too short. Strong features. The blue eyes showed a depth of intelligence. And pain, too, somewhere in there. She scanned quickly down the accompanying text, soaking up information. In police evaluation tests she’d shown she could read a complex eighty-page document in under three minutes and retain every single detail. The police psychologists had called it eidetic memory. They’d also done their best to prove she was cheating, until she proved them otherwise.

  She’d got faster since then.

  It took her just a second or two to see that this guy was more than just a pretty face. The military resumé that filled the page was enough to make her purse her lips. She read down the list, flipped the page, read more. Everything was heavily stamped with dire Ministry of Defence confidentiality warnings. There was enough detail of unofficial black ops missions to war zones the British army weren’t even supposed to have been involved in to cause some serious embarrassment within the highest echelons of government. It wasn’t the kind of information that a few decades of Official Secrets Act suppression could dilute enough to be allowed into the public domain. The data in this file would never be seen by anyone outside the corridors of power while anyone remotely connected to it was still living.

  Darcey was extremely aware that in the last few short moments she’d taken a bigger leap up the security clearance ladder than in eleven long years of her career to date.

  The gods, indeed. She’d been chosen. All her hard work had finally paid off and now the doors were opening for her. The feeling was giddying, and her heart began to thump.

  ‘Ben Hope,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Full name Benedict. Age thirty-nine, retired from 22 SAS, rank of major, now resident in France, occupation specialised security consultant.’

  ‘Specialised security consultant,’ Applewood said. ‘Covers a lot of ground, doesn’t it?’ When he grinned he looked like an alligator. ‘I want you to familiarise yourself with this man. He’s your next target. I expect results, Commander.’

  Darcey narrowed her eyes. There was just one small piece of information missing. ‘Why do we want him?’

  ‘You’ll be fully briefed in the air.’

  What might Hope have done to attract this kind of attention, Darcey thought. Her mind sprinted through the possibilities. Terrorism, arms dealing, drugs. Another ex-hero gone rotten. It didn’t really matter how, or why. She was locked on her target. From this moment until the moment he was hers
, he was all she’d care about.

  ‘Where am I going?’ she asked.

  ‘Rome. Naturally you’ll have full command of the operation, answerable only to me. How fast can you be ready?’

  ‘I’m ready now,’ Darcey said.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Not on your life, sir.’

  ‘Then go and get your man, Commander,’ Applewood said. ‘There’s a car waiting for you downstairs. Your plane leaves in exactly twenty-four minutes.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Rome

  Ben was wandering slowly, alone, down a tunnel that went on forever, listening to the faraway echo of his own footsteps. The walls, floor and ceiling of the tunnel were white and bathed in a bright glow that came from everywhere and nowhere. As he walked on and on, he became aware of the strange works of art suspended either side of him. Their colours seemed to jump out at him, swirling, moving, though he couldn’t make out the images or what they signified.

  He hit against something he couldn’t see. Reached his hands out and sideways and groped around until he realised there was a glass wall blocking his path. He could go no further. Narrowing his eyes, he peered through to the other side – and saw the figure standing there. A man in a mask. They gazed at one another, and then the man seemed to smile. He had a gun in his hand. In front of him were two kneeling, huddled shapes – or it could have been a hundred. Ben knew that the man intended to harm them. He thumped against the glass and yelled as the man raised the gun, taking aim at the kneeling figures; but no sound came out, and he was suddenly powerless and trapped as more glass walls seemed to press in from all sides. The man in the mask laughed as he pulled the trigger. His victims were screaming now.

  The gun boomed. And again. A deep thud that reverberated through the walls. The victims went on screaming and screaming.

  Ben woke suddenly and jerked upright in the darkness, blinking away the fog of sleep. For a few instants part of his mind seemed unwilling to detach itself from his nightmare – and then he realised he really could hear voices shouting, and the heavy thumping that was coming from beyond the rectangular strip of white light that outlined the door.

  Reality was suddenly sharp and clear. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was 1.14 a.m. He was still fully dressed, wearing his shoes. He must have fallen asleep on the bed.

  ‘Polizia!’ yelled a voice from outside. The next thump on the door was a shattering crash that splintered the frame. The lock was still holding, but another impact like that and they’d be in.

  Three options. One, stick around and find out what they wanted. Two, grab the .45 Ruger and start blasting holes in the door. Ben glanced back at the open window as another massive thud filled the room. He decided he preferred the third option. He snatched up his jacket and slipped it on.

  The door crashed open in a shower of splinters. Armed police burst in, yelling and waving their pistols.

  Before they’d even stepped over the threshold, Ben was already out of the open window, dropping down out of sight below the ledge and shooting out his right hand to grab hold of the bracket of the neon sign fixed to the wall a metre away. It held his weight. As he hung from it, his legs kicking in space, he could hear the cops crashing about in the hotel room. More yells. Another loud thud as they burst into the bathroom. Probably expecting to find him in the shower.

  He glanced down. It was a pretty long drop to the street below, about seven or eight metres. The pavement seemed about an inch wide. Traffic rolled by, skirting around the two police Alfa Romeos that were pulled up outside the hotel entrance.

  All he had to do was get down to the street before someone spotted him. He guessed that would happen within about the next fifteen seconds. He scrabbled the toecaps of his shoes against the wall, trying to get a purchase on it, but the stonework was covered in a smooth render that offered no footholds. Two metres to his right, an iron drainpipe was solidly attached to the wall. If he could get to it . . .

  But it was too far to reach. He dangled helplessly. Any second now, the cops would be at the window.

  Two more police-marked Alfas came screeching around the street corner and skidded to a halt outside the hotel. The doors flew open and four more Carabinieri scrambled out clutching pistols. They made straight for the hotel entrance.

  All they had to do was look up.

  ‘I told you we should have taken a right back there!’ Gary Parsons seethed at his wife from behind the wheel of the six-berth motorhome as it lumbered through the night traffic. ‘Christ, you’re the one with the map!’

  ‘This thing’s all wrong,’ his wife Annabel complained, flapping the unfolded map across the dashboard. ‘I’m telling you I followed it perfectly—’

  ‘How can it be wrong? It’s a fucking map, for God’s sake. You read it, it tells you where to go. How hard can it be?’

  ‘Don’t yell like that. You’ll wake the kids.’

  ‘We should have been at the campsite hours ago,’ he grumbled bitterly. ‘Now we’re lost in the middle of Rome, thanks to you. I think I’m perfectly justified in yelling.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ his wife said, pointing, as they passed a lit-up hotel entrance that was swarming with police.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  They both shut up as they heard a soft thump from somewhere above them.

  ‘What was that?’ she said.

  ‘Dunno. Sounded like something landed on the roof.’

  ‘Or you’ve gone and hit something, more like,’ she said archly.

  Gary looked in the mirrors, then craned his neck out of the window, thinking the high top of the vehicle must have snagged a streetlight or a road sign that he’d failed to notice while they’d been arguing. But he could see nothing. He damn well hoped he hadn’t damaged the new satellite dish.

  His wife said, ‘Better stop and see what you’ve done.’

  ‘I’ve got nowhere to pull over,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘Can’t you see I’m in the middle of traffic? Look at all these police cars. You want me to get bloody arrested?’

  ‘Stop yelling!’

  ‘This is all your fault!’

  The couple went on arguing as the motorhome lumbered on by the hotel and continued up the street.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Ben lay pressed flat against the broad white expanse of the motorhome roof, feeling the vibrating thrum of the diesel engine through his body as they rolled away from the hotel.

  Not exactly the ideal getaway vehicle. The thing couldn’t be doing more than thirty kilometres an hour, and he was plastered across the top of it for all to see. He craned his head to look behind him. Over the top of a large cargo storage box and two kids’ bicycles lashed to a luggage rack he could see the window of what had been his hotel room until just a moment ago. Dark silhouettes of the cops were milling around in the lit-up windows. Nobody was pointing after him, shouting ‘There he goes!’. As long as they all stayed focused on the inside of the room for another few seconds, he was clean away.

  The motorhome kept moving, and Ben kept his gaze fixed on the receding hotel window. Nothing happened. Then, as the vehicle reached the corner of the street, it turned sharply to the left and he held on tight to the luggage rack to stop himself sliding sideways. These things hadn’t been designed with roof passengers in mind. He looked back once more as the side of a tall building blocked the hotel and the parked police cars from view.

  Nobody came round the corner in pursuit. It wasn’t the most elegant escape ever made, but it was the end result that mattered. Ben imagined the police storming about the place, wondering where the hell he’d disappeared to, kicking in doors all through the hotel and arguing with the receptionist who’d be insisting that the guest hadn’t left the building. In different circumstances it might have made him smile. Maybe he could smile about it later, once he knew what all this was about. Maybe Roberto Lario had decided to have another polite chat about the gallery robbery. More likely, it had
something to do with the late Urbano Tassoni.

  The joys of celebrity, Ben thought. Someone must have spotted him going into the politician’s place and recognised him from the newspapers or TV. Just great.

  Two hundred metres further up the street, he felt himself sliding towards the bulky overcab section of the roof as the motorhome braked for a red light. ‘This is my stop,’ he muttered as he scrambled back towards the rear of the vehicle, looking for a way down. An aluminium access ladder ran down from the roof. He swung nimbly over the edge, climbed down the narrow rungs and dropped to the road as two young guys in a little Fiat pulled up behind. The lights turned green and the huge white boxy motorhome rumbled off, a giant fridge on wheels with British plates and a big GB sticker on the back.

  Ben stepped aside to let the Fiat pass. The two young guys inside were staring at him, and one of them tapped a finger to his temple and said something to his friend that was probably ‘These Brits are crazy’.

  Ben didn’t hang around waiting for them to recognise him, too. He ran across the road and began walking fast up the pavement, past closed shop doorways and windows. The streets were mostly empty, which made him feel conspicuous and vulnerable. Another police Alfa sped by, lights flashing.

  He paused and turned away from the street to gaze at a bright boutique display. Just a casual window shopper out for a night stroll. Then he realised the window was full of half-naked female mannequins modelling lacy underwear, and moved on quickly. The pervert thing wasn’t an ideal way to avoid police attention.

  The Alfa passed on by. Ben kept walking. But then, fifty metres down the road, it suddenly pulled a screeching U-turn and came back after him. He broke into a run, the clapping echo of his footsteps loud in the empty street. The car chased him. A squeal of brakes; he heard its doors open. A voice yelling ‘Alt! Polizia!’

  Ben ran faster. Music was thumping from an alleyway up ahead. He darted into it, and the music got louder.