‘Alternatively, it could have been one of the others,’ Luc Simon continued, leaning forward animatedly in his chair. ‘Roth or Grubitz could have caught it from any of them. Which could mean they’re all infected, one way or another. You said yourself, Streicher and his entire team could be dead already, precluding any attack from taking place.’
‘But what if they’re not?’ Oppenheim countered. ‘How much are we prepared to risk on wishful thinking? And then, what if they are dead? The bodies could be anywhere, leaking infection to any living thing that comes into contact with them.’
Luc Simon shrugged. ‘We need to hope for the best, that’s all.’
‘And plan for the worst,’ Ben said. He turned to Oppenheim. ‘What’s our darkest possible scenario here?’
Oppenheim shook his head. ‘Don’t even ask. You don’t want to know.’
‘I can take it,’ Ben said.
‘All right, then. Let’s say this lunatic is indeed still alive out there somewhere, and that he goes ahead with his plans, by whatever means, such as poisoning the water supplies or exploding a dirty bomb or spraying the stuff out of a helicopter. Let’s say he successfully kicks off the beginnings of an epidemic, and that it takes a hold and spreads rapidly, displaying the same extremely aggressive traits we’ve already seen in the two confirmed victims to date. Moreover, let’s say that our worst fears are confirmed, and the disease is resistant to even our most powerful antibiotics. And that we’re unable to produce effective substitute treatments such as vaccinations in time …’
‘Then?’
‘Then Europe might be about to see something it hasn’t seen for six centuries,’ Oppenheim said. ‘The outcome would be nightmarishly predictable. Widespread panic. Desperate crowds swarming the hospitals while others fled the cities altogether in the hope of avoiding the infection, jamming the roads and the transport systems solid. The emergency services strained far beyond capacity. The death toll rising faster than we can count it as the infection spreads exponentially. Thousands dead, virtually overnight. Then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands. People collapsing and dying even as they queue for useless treatments. Within months, or possibly just weeks, the number of dead rising into seven figures and still climbing. Meanwhile, a total breakdown of law and order. Riots and looting breaking out in every major city. Ultimately, police and medical services deserting their posts en masse to look out for themselves and their families. Or sick. Or dead already.’
Oppenheim paused and breathed out heavily. His face took on a pinched look that made it appear even more gaunt. ‘Then, suddenly, silence. No more sirens, no more helicopters in the air. Airports and railway stations, cities and motorways, all deserted. The streets empty, apart from the bodies strewn in the road and the vermin and scavengers come to feast on their rotting flesh.
‘Apocalypse.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Oppenheim’s words hung in the air like a knell of doom. Ben was the one who broke the silence. ‘And then, out of the darkness come Streicher and his followers, ready to gather together the survivors and form a new world with him as its leader.’
‘So his fantasy goes,’ Oppenheim said. ‘If he gets that far. Either way, the damage will have been done. He’ll have won.’
The three men fell back into their separate reflections for a long minute. Finally Ben said, ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘To carry on as before,’ Luc Simon said. ‘To locate Udo Streicher’s hideout and take him down before the worst happens. And this time, it’ll be with our full co-operation. Your way. No interference, no comebacks.’
‘Whatever it takes?’ Ben said.
‘Whatever it takes. Just one condition.’
Ben looked at him suspiciously. ‘Which is what?’
‘I’d like to assign you a partner. One of our top anti-terrorist agents, recently promoted in rank. Someone who already knows the score, who knows Streicher and can identify him on sight. Which is an essential advantage for the success of this mission, I hope you’ll agree.’
‘I need to move fast,’ Ben said. ‘I can’t be lumbered with some by-the-book government type weighing me down every step of the way.’
Luc Simon smiled. ‘I think you’ll find this particular agent is anything but “by the book”. They’ve shown ample evidence of that already. As well as the highest level of skill you could wish for in a partner. Expert in fieldcraft. Top of their class in armed and unarmed combat, if it comes to that. As well as being the only government agent who’s personally known Udo Streicher and survived to tell the tale.’ He turned towards the door and called out, ‘You can come in, Special Agent Valois.’
The door opened.
Silvie looked as Ben had never seen her before. The battered biker jacket and faded jeans were gone, replaced by a smart dark grey trouser suit. Designer, for all Ben knew. It wasn’t his particular area of knowledge, but whatever it was, she looked good in it. Capable, professional and more attractive than he’d realised when they’d been on the run together. Maybe he just hadn’t had time to notice before. Her hair was loosely tied back and she was wearing just enough make-up to be discernible.
Neither of them quite managed to keep the smile off their face as she stepped into the room.
‘Congratulations on your promotion, Special Agent,’ Ben said. ‘You must have hooked a pretty big fish.’
‘Huge,’ she said.
‘It seems we’ll be working together on an equal footing from now on.’
‘As opposed to kidnapper and hostage?’
‘My apologies for the harsh treatment.’
‘No harm, no foul,’ she said. ‘I can take the knocks.’
If Luc Simon was wise to the play-acting between them, nothing showed on his face. Nothing except the pallor and sunken eyes of a man under a great deal of stress. He yawned and said, ‘It’s nearly three a.m. Dr Oppenheim and I have to leave shortly. A car has been arranged to collect the two of you.’
‘Where are we going?’ Ben asked.
‘To the Crowne Plaza hotel in Lyon. Your new temporary base. It’s an Interpol perk. I trust you’ll be comfortable there.’
‘Very temporary,’ Ben said.
‘Whatever your requirements,’ Luc Simon said, ‘I can have everything ready by morning.’
‘It won’t be a long list,’ Ben said. ‘A new watch, to start with. Omega Seamaster automatic, steel, with the blue dial, like the one your medicos put in the trash.’
‘Why not trade up to a Rolex Submariner?’ Luc Simon said without skipping a beat. French tax euros at work.
‘The Omega’s always done a good job for me,’ Ben said. ‘And I’ll need a car. Something rugged, up to a bit of punishment. Big enough to kip in, too, if it comes to it. That’s if Special Agent Valois doesn’t object to roughing it a little.’
Silvie said, ‘I’m a big girl.’
‘I was thinking,’ Luc Simon said. ‘There’s a fellow in Briançon who seems to have mislaid a H1 Hummer, except he seems rather vague about the details. Name’s Omar Adeyemi. A friend of yours, by any chance?’
Ben said nothing.
‘The Hummer is in the police pound. I get the impression Monsieur Adeyemi isn’t in a desperate hurry for it back. I can have it released to you with one call.’
‘Then do it,’ Ben said. ‘And lastly, I wouldn’t mind that FAMAS back. And the Browning, minus the GPS tracking gizmo inside.’
‘Consider it done,’ Luc Simon said. ‘On the understanding that you won’t go shooting the place up.’
Ben looked at him. ‘I thought we agreed. My way.’
It took the Frenchman a moment to get the humour. He smiled. ‘It’s good to be working with you, Ben. We can stop this bastard.’
‘Let’s not get too excited about our chances,’ Ben said. ‘The trail’s cold. We’re out of leads. All we have left is an empty safe house that’s now part of a biohazard evac zone, and a couple of dead men. I’m good at what I do, but I can’t
work miracles. We’re going to have to do this the hard way. Go back to the drawing board and start again, looking for any little thread that can lead us to where Streicher’s hiding out.’
‘It’s your call.’
‘Has he got any surviving family?’
‘None,’ Luc Simon said. ‘Parents died within eighteen months of one another. The father of leukaemia aged sixty-nine, the mother of acute heart failure at only sixty-two. No siblings, no children, no former spouses.’
‘The footwear empire?’
‘Sold off cheap for two hundred million to an Italian conglomerate in 2006,’ Luc Simon said.
‘What about Streicher’s private dental practice in Geneva?’ Ben asked. ‘Strikes me as the kind of place you could set up a makeshift laboratory.’
‘He quit that line of work years ago,’ Luc Simon said. ‘The building now operates as a cosmetic plastic surgery practice. Belonging to a Dr Emil Zucker, who was very startled to receive a visit from our agents. He thought they were tax auditors.’
‘Then run up the list of names of Streicher’s known followers,’ Ben said. ‘Starting with this Hannah Gissel. Somewhere down the line there’ll be a weak link, someone who knows something or who can at least lead us to someone else.’
‘You think those avenues haven’t already been thoroughly investigated?’ Silvie said.
‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Then the trail gets thinner still. All we have is two gangrenous corpses and a list of ghosts.’
‘Not quite all,’ Silvie said. She turned to Luc Simon. ‘Have you told him about Donath?’
‘I was about to get to that,’ Luc Simon said.
‘Who?’ Ben asked.
‘Miki Donath was one of Streicher’s closest associates,’ Luc Simon explained to Ben. ‘Born in Dresden in 1976. Served in the German army for sixteen years, nine of them in the KSK, Kommando Spezialkräfte. Speaks fluent French and English. He seems to have been recruited to the Parati while still on active service. Left the military in 2010, and the following year is believed to have been part of the team put together for the abortive Korea mission. Returned to Europe as a diehard core member of the Parati, dealing in illegal weaponry on the side. We think he also supplied a large quantity of arms and ammunition to Streicher’s people, hence the close rapport between the two men. In April 2013, Donath was suspected of the murders of two rival small-arms dealers in Berlin, but the charges didn’t stick due to lack of evidence. Back in Switzerland, he was arrested five months later for his involvement in the brutal gang rape and mutilation of a thirteen-year-old girl in Lucerne.’
Ben felt his fists tighten. He clenched his jaw and let the Frenchman go on.
‘On that occasion, the evidence against him was plentiful. He’s currently serving a fifteen-year sentence at a low-security prison in Altdorf, though he may not be there much longer. From what I gather, there have been some issues with his behaviour towards other inmates.’
‘Has anybody been there to speak to him?’ Ben asked.
Luc Simon nodded. ‘Jürgen Ganz of the FIS, the Swiss Federal Intelligence Service, sent a pair of agents to interview him. That’s the term they prefer, by the way. The concept of interrogation doesn’t go down well with the liberal penal system there.’
‘Result?’ Ben asked, though he already knew the answer.
‘Donath’s a tough nut, pretty much as you’d expect from someone with his background. The agents came away with nothing. He wouldn’t even speak to them.’
‘I’d like to have a try,’ Ben said.
‘Your way?’
‘Whatever works.’
Luc Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry, Ben. Whatever exceptional leeway I’m authorised to grant you extends strictly within EU territory only. As far as Switzerland is concerned, being outside the Union, there are very specific limitations to be observed. If we’re seen to overstep the mark even in the slightest degree, there’ll be hell to pay. I can get you in to see him, no problem. But absolutely no forceful tactics will be permitted in the handling of the prisoner. I hope I’m being totally clear about this.’
‘So you’re saying we can’t waterboard him,’ Ben said.
‘I hope you’re kidding. He’s not at Guantanamo Bay, Ben. And the Swiss penal system authorities pride themselves on their focus on progressive, humane social rehabilitation, as opposed to anything that carries even the faintest whiff of punishment. It’s all about therapeutic communities and supervised holidays, windy walks and horse-riding in the countryside. What other approach could turn hardened criminals into responsible citizens?’
‘They’re way ahead over there,’ Silvie said, with a blandly neutral expression.
‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s go and ask him nicely, pretty please with icing on top, if he happens to know where his old pal Udo is hanging out these days.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
Luc Simon and the enigmatic Dr Jean-Pierre Oppenheim left, and a pair of large, taciturn twenty-something security goons in dark suits escorted Ben and Silvie outside to the waiting car, a long, low, black government Citroën DS5 with smoked windows, the same model that the President of France was chauffeured around in. The night was dark and damp. The first goon got in the front of the car alongside the driver while the second showed Ben and Silvie into the back. Ben could see the lump under his jacket where he was concealing a small submachine gun, maybe a Skorpion or a Micro Uzi, next to his ribs. The second goon stepped away from the car and muttered something into a radio. The driver took off and drove fast through the secret science facility’s maze of buildings. They reached an armed checkpoint brightly illuminated by floodlights on tall masts. The security guy whirred down his window and flashed a pass at the guards, and they were waved briskly through two sets of tall steel-mesh gates. The night closed in around the speeding car.
‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ Silvie said, too softly to be heard up front.
‘I’m glad you are too,’ Ben said. He could see her eyes shining in the darkness and the play of a smile on her lips. Very tentatively, she reached out and her fingertips touched the back of his hand.
Nothing more was said until they reached the hotel. The Interpol ticket got them straight past the desk and into the lift to their rooms, which were part of a double suite that was spacious and comfortable and a far cry from the roadside motel room they’d shared two days earlier. More spacious and comfortable than were strictly necessary for the interests of national security, Ben thought, but at least he wasn’t footing the bill. The two bedrooms were at opposite ends, separated by a lounge and open-plan adjoining dining area. There was a large fruit bowl on the dining table. Elegant lighting. Vases of flowers filled the room with sweet perfume. Ben walked over to the bedroom door at the lounge end and peered inside. There was a double bed and a small en suite bathroom, and a mock-Persian rug and French windows that looked as if they led out to a balcony.
A canvas and leather travel bag sat at the foot of the bed. He unzipped it and saw it was full of female clothing. Neatly folded blouses. Lacy underwear. A light, delicate and insubstantial pale silk nightdress that seemed to be more holes than material. He quickly shut the bag, feeling like he was intruding.
Silvie’s room, evidently. The Interpol guys had thought of everything. He stepped back out of the room and closed the door. At the far side of the suite, Silvie was coming out of the other bedroom. ‘This one’s yours,’ she said. ‘That horrible musty old green sack is in there.’
They approached each other and stopped two steps apart in the middle of the suite. There was a strange awkwardness in the air. As if neither of them knew just what to say, like a couple of gauche teenagers hovering tentatively around one another, each terrified of making any kind of move.
‘It’s late,’ Silvie said. ‘I suppose we should get some rest. Nothing much we can do until morning, anyway.’
Ben wasn’t remotely tired. He’d had enough enforced rest during his twenty-four-hour quarantine to last him a week. He�
�d be counting the night down, one minute at a time, until he could press on again with what he had to do.
‘See you in the morning, then,’ he said. Neither of them moved, as if neither wanted to be the first to turn away and head for their own bedroom. As if there was something stopping them.
‘Well, goodnight,’ Silvie said.
‘Goodnight, Silvie.’
More awkward seconds passed as they stood there in the middle of the huge suite.
She raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Why do you suppose they put us together, anyway?’
‘Bureaucratic efficiency,’ he said.
‘Don’t you just love it?’
‘More tax euros at work.’
‘Whatever. It’s nice to be here with you.’
‘Go and get some sleep,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’
‘I’m not really that sleepy,’ she said.
He said nothing.
‘There’s bound to be some wine in the minibar. Maybe something a little stronger. Care for a midnight drink?’
‘It’s long past midnight,’ he said. ‘Besides, I more or less quit.’
She was just a couple of paces away, looking up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite make out. Her hair was shining in the suite’s soft lighting. There was a glow in her eyes, a half-smile on her lips.
He suddenly could imagine how easy it would be to step forward those two paces and kiss her. The thought startled him. But it also appealed to him. Too much. Too damn much. He tried not to let her see him swallow.
‘Goodnight, Silvie,’ he said again, and this time he managed to turn and walk to his room. He opened the door and slipped inside without looking back. Clicked it shut behind him.
His room was just the same as hers, except for the baggage and fresh clothes that had been left there waiting for him. He’d miss the old leather jacket. In its place was a black synthetic military-style number, with a pair of jeans and a change of underwear. He turned off the main light and dimmed the bedside lamp to its lowest setting, just a halo of light, like a candle’s. Sat on the bed and gave his bag a playful nudge with his foot. ‘Horrible musty old green sack, indeed,’ he murmured. Some people just didn’t understand. He reached inside and found that they’d left him his cigarettes. Considerate, those Interpol guys. Aside from the fact that they’d quietly relieved him of the remainder of the stolen money. Maybe that was what was paying for the rooms.
The Martyr’s Curse (Ben Hope, Book 11) Page 29