Читать книгу The Heretic’s Treasure - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 9

Two hours later the session was over and the weary trainees filed back along the dirt track through the woods to the main buildings. The rain had stopped, and the sun was coming out.

Ben glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better get moving. Brooke’s plane will be coming in.’ It was a twenty-minute drive to the airport. He reached for the Land Rover key in his pocket.

‘I can go pick her up, if you want,’ Jeff offered.

‘Thanks. But I’ve got to go and fetch some crates of wine on the way back. We’re getting low.’

Jeff grinned. ‘And we can’t be having that.’

As the trainees wandered off to get a shower and a change of clothes, Ben left Jeff at the squat block-built office and walked across the cobbled yard to the battered green Land Rover. Storm, his favourite of the guard dogs, came running over from his kennel. Ben opened the back for him, and the big German Shepherd leaped inside, claws scrabbling on the metal floor. Then Ben swung up inside the cab, fired up the engine and steered the Land Rover off down the bumpy track through the gates, turning out onto the main road.

As he drove down the winding country lanes, he thought about the last few months, and how much they’d changed his life.

He could barely remember the young man he’d once been, the youth who’d given up his theology studies to join the British army at the age of twenty. He’d had the devil in him in those days. His relentless pursuit of perfect physical and mental fitness, his torturous determination, had seen him qualify for the super-elite 22 SAS regiment while still in his early twenties. He’d seen bloody conflict in theatres of war around the globe. Over the eight years that followed, he’d battled, sweated and bled his way up to the rank of Major.

But by then he already knew that his time fighting dirty wars for the benefit of shadowy figures in the corridors of power was over. When he’d finally run out of illusions, he walked away from the regiment forever and turned his skills to a higher purpose.

Crisis response consultant. That was a neat euphemism for the freelance work he’d become involved in for the next few years. The type of crisis he responded to was the havoc caused by a criminal industry that continued to grow worldwide at an alarming rate. From South America to Eastern Europe, Africa and Asia-wherever there were people and money, the kidnap and ransom business was booming more than ever before.

Ben hated it. He loathed nothing more than the kind of men who exploited the emotional bonds between innocent people to create suffering and hard cash. He knew their ways and how they thought. He understood the hardness of their hearts, that they regarded human lives as nothing more than a commodity to be traded on.

And in the modern world, everyone was at risk. The predators out there had their pick, and you didn’t have to be rich and privileged to get the call informing you that your loved one had been taken. The trade was so lucrative and so easy to operate that in many countries it had become bigger than drugs. In some cities, even moderately affluent families were foolish not to take precautions to protect their children from the grasp of the kidnappers. The problem was, the payouts available from insurance companies helped only to fuel the flames. It was a situation spiralling out of control. Everyone knew it, but as long as the kidnappers and the insurance companies kept raking in the money, there was little protection for the people that really mattered-the victims.

That was where Ben came in. When people went missing and their loved ones despaired of ever getting them back-when ransoms were paid and kidnappers reneged on the deal, or when the police screwed things up as they often did-that was when those people in need had a last line of resistance they could call on. He knew he’d helped a lot of people, saved lives, brought families back together.

But it hadn’t been an easy life for him. Those years had been a time of sacrifice and pain, driven by the horror of what would happen if he failed to deliver the victim home safe and sound. It had happened to him only once-and it was something he could never forget.

He’d been forced to kill, too. Every time he’d done it, it sickened him so badly he’d sworn it would be the last-but it never was. What tormented him most of all was that he was so good at it.

So many times he’d wanted out. So many times he’d sat on his little stretch of beach near his rambling home on the west coast of Ireland and prayed for a normal life.

But how could he retire from it all and still sleep at night, knowing that people out there were in need of his help? It was both a calling and a curse, and for a very long time he’d felt as though he was simply destined to sacrifice himself to it. He’d tried to walk away-but every time it would call him back, drag him back in, and his heart wouldn’t let him say no. Stability, happiness, relationships, any chance of a normal existence: he’d given up everything for it.

And it had cost the life of the one person he’d loved more than anyone. His wife, Leigh, had been murdered by a man called Jack Glass. A man he should have killed. He’d failed. She’d died.

For a long, long time, that had brought Ben to his knees. For a long time, he wanted to die himself.

Then, one night in Ireland a few months ago, while sitting alone on the empty beach, he’d had the idea that changed everything. More than a brainwave, it was like a miracle vision that had kept him awake all night and seemed to breathe life into him. By the next morning, his plans were already coming together.

It was a vision of a special training school, a place dedicated to passing on the skills that he’d acquired through hard experience. There was so much he could teach. As the demand for specialised kidnap and ransom insurance for high-risk business personnel rocketed higher each year, so did the need for trained negotiators to bargain with abductors and help bring people back safely. And, as the ruthlessness and organisation of professional kidnappers soared to overtake that of even the worst of the drug lords, increasingly expert training was necessary to help law enforcement response units deal with certain contingencies that normal agencies couldn’t handle. Then there was the need for bodyguards to learn special close-protection skills to protect their clients from professional kidnappers. The demand for courses in situational awareness and avoidance strategies for people at risk of kidnapping. And more. It was a long list.

So Ben had started calling on former army contacts, mostly Special Forces guys he could trust, talking to people he hadn’t talked to in years. He’d known from the start that some of the courses would involve firearms training. That couldn’t be done in the UK, or his home in the Irish Republic. He had to move.

After a few weeks of searching, northern France had offered the ideal location in the shape of a tumbledown rural property called Le Val. Deep in the Normandy countryside, the old farm was close enough to the international airport at Cherbourg and the town of Valognes to be practical, yet remote enough to allow him to turn the place into the kind of facility he wanted. Over sixty acres of sweeping valley and woodland, accessible only from a long, winding track. The only neighbours were farmers, and the tiny village nearby had a shop and a bar. It was perfect for him.

When the sale had gone through, he’d said a sad farewell to the old rambling house on Galway Bay where he’d lived for many years, and got on a plane.

Now he knew he’d never look back.

In the months since the move, Le Val had been transformed. The renovated stone farmhouse had a large communal room for the trainees, and a huge stone-floored kitchen with a big table where they all ate together at night. Ben himself had always had simple needs, and his private quarters consisted of a modest two-bedroom apartment upstairs.

Meanwhile, new buildings had sprouted up quickly around the large farmyard: the main office, canteen, shower and toilet facilities, a purpose-built gym. Trainees were housed in a basic dormitory building across from the farmhouse. Six small rooms, two bunks to a room, with metal lockers painted olive green. It could have been a military dorm and it was a little rough and ready for some tastes-but there’d been no complaints. People knew they were getting the best. The only concession Ben had made to the softer corporate types, the suits sent to him by insurance companies keen to train up capable kidnap and ransom negotiators, was to build a slightly more luxurious conference room and lecture theatre at the far end of the complex.

But the real focus and purpose of the place was for the more hands-on stuff-the kind of training Ben specialised in, for the kind of people who were serious about learning to deal with extreme contingencies. A number of European military and police units had already signed contracts to come and sharpen up their hostage rescue skills with someone they knew was one of the best in the world. Ben had built two outdoor shooting ranges, one short for pistol and shotgun training, the other for long-range sniper work. The semi-derelict cottage in the woods had been stripped out and equipped with plywood partitions to create a maze of corridors and rooms where teams were drilled in close-quarter battle and live-fire room entry. Some weeks, the school was getting through thousands of rounds of ammunition.

The facility had been tough to set up. Apart from the arduous building work he’d had to jump through a thousand hoops and wade through a jungle of red tape to get the clearance for live-fire weapons training. There’d been official permissions to obtain from the French and British governments, from NATO, from everybody. He’d been buried in paperwork, glued to phones and knee-deep in mud and rubble for three months. He’d never been more thankful that his SAS days had left him fluent in several languages, including French, allowing him to wrangle with the local authorities until his voice was hoarse.

But no sooner had the authorities finally greenlit the operation, enquiries started flooding in from everywhere. The diary had filled up fast and stayed that way for the last four months. Ben was in business, and he knew it was something he should have done a long time ago.

As he drove, he overtook a tractor that was ambling down the country lane. He waved, recognising Duchamp, one of the local farmers, at the wheel. The old guy waved back. Ben got on well with him, and had spent a lot of time in his farmhouse talking over bottles of excellent homemade cider. His visits to Duchamp’s place invariably ended with him loading up the Land Rover with cases of the stuff. Duchamp’s brother was the local butcher who supplied the meat for Le Val, and one of his cousins, Marie-Claire, came in to cook for the trainees.

When summer came, Ben was planning to hold a massive hog-roast for all the locals. He liked these people, their straightforward philosophy of life, their total attunement to nature, and the way they didn’t ask too many questions about his business. They didn’t care about the secrecy, the sound of gunfire, the barbed wire or the ‘KEEP OUT’ signs on the high wooden gates. As far as they were concerned, the facility at Le Val was just a glorified adventure tourism place for corporate types-and if they were happy, Ben was happy.

Approaching Cherbourg, he pulled up in the airport car park and left Storm sitting inside as he walked across the tarmac towards the arrivals building.

The woman he was coming to collect was Dr Brooke Marcel, a clinical psychologist and expert in hostage psychology who had been attached to police Special Operations in London for nine years. Ben had first met her back in his SAS days, when he’d attended one of her lectures and been impressed with her sharp mind and depth of insight. She’d been one of the first people he contacted when he was starting up his centre. Every few weeks, he flew her out to France to lecture the trainees-which, being half French on her father’s side, suited her perfectly. He enjoyed her company and always looked forward to her visits.

He pushed through the glass doors into the arrival lounge. The London flight had just come in, and a small crowd was trickling through towards the car park and taxi ranks.

Brooke waved as she caught sight of him. She was wearing tight black jeans and a green combat jacket, and carrying a sports holdall. Her wavy auburn hair bounced as she walked. Ben noticed a couple of guys throwing appreciative glances at her. As he approached, she smiled and kissed his cheek. ‘What a surprise,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Normally Jeff comes to fetch me.’

‘Jeff likes you too much. I don’t want him getting too distracted.’

She chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. Jeff’s a nice guy, but he’s not my type.’

‘So you’re not into tall, dark and handsome.’

Brooke shot him a mischievous smirk. ‘I prefer tall, blond and handsome.’

He ignored that. ‘Let me take your bag.’ He took her holdall and they walked out to the car park.

‘So how’s business?’ she asked as they drove.

‘Business is good. How’s London?’

‘As ever,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘I’m getting tired of it. Been there too long. Need a change.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘Speaking of which, I’ve taken a few days off. I needed the break. OK with you if I hang around here a few extra days?’

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Stay as long as you want.’

On the way back Ben made a brief detour to the local vineyard to pick up some cases of wine. With the Land Rover loaded up, they headed back to Le Val.

‘My God,’ Brooke exclaimed as they drove through the gates and up towards the house. ‘You finished it.’

Ben glanced at where she was pointing. ‘The new gym? The roof went on two days ago.’

‘Every time I come here, some new building has sprung up. Don’t tell me-you did it yourself

‘Not all of it. Just the walls and the flooring. I couldn’t lift the roof beams on my own.’

‘You’re crazy. Remember, all work and no play…’

‘Makes Ben a dull boy?’

‘Or breaks his back. You don’t need to do it all, Ben. Let your hair down a bit. Enjoy yourself a little. You’re not forty yet.’

He laughed as he pulled up in front of the farmhouse and killed the Land Rover’s engine. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘I have an idea. Didn’t you tell me you had an apartment in Paris?’

The small, spartan flat had been a gift from a client years ago, after Ben had rescued his child from kidnappers. ‘It’s hardly an apartment, Brooke. And I’ve been thinking of selling it anyway. What did you have in mind?’

‘Well, since tomorrow’s the last day of the course, maybe when I’m done lecturing we could jump in that shiny new Mini Cooper you never seem to use and head over there. It’s just a hop and a skip up the road. A couple of days in Paris will be good for you.’

He hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on. Jeff can manage without you here, you know. It’ll be fun.’

He stared at her. ‘You and me together in Paris?’

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. ‘Why not?’

‘My place only has one bedroom.’

She didn’t reply as Ben stepped down from the Land Rover, threw open the back door and grabbed her bag. Storm jumped out, tail wagging, and headed for the barns.

After Ben had carried her bag inside and Brooke had gone to freshen up, he went over to the office to attend to some paperwork and check with Jeff that the trainees were happy and feeling looked after.

Jeff told him that he was taking the guys out in the van that evening, for a steak-frites and a few beers at the village brasserie. ‘You fancy coming along too?’ As he said it, he was opening drawers and sifting through papers.

Ben shook his head. ‘Another time. What are you looking for?’

‘The bloody number for those security-fence guys.’

‘4642891,’ Ben said instantly.

‘How do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Remember numbers like that.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just can. Always could.’

‘Beats me,’ Jeff said, picking up the phone.

Dark was falling by the time Ben and Brooke sat down to eat in the farmhouse kitchen. Dinner was a rustic beef and olive stew with rice, and a bottle of the red wine they’d picked up earlier.

‘I still can’t believe how quickly you’ve got this place up and running,’ she said. ‘You’ve done an amazing amount in such a short time.’

‘I might need you to come over more often, if things keep moving at this rate. Can you make it back here again in two weeks’ time?’

‘Love to. I like it here. I feel at home.’

‘Me too.’

She cocked her head, resting her chin on her hand, watching him. ‘You know what, Hope? In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you like this. You actually look happy.’

He smiled. ‘You know what? I actually think I am.’

Brooke was about to answer when the phone rang from the kitchen sideboard. Ben tutted.

‘Why don’t you leave it? If it’s important, they’ll call back.’

‘Better answer it.’ He stood up and went to grab the phone. ‘Hello?’ He glanced at Brooke, as if to say, this wont take a minute.

But then he heard the voice on the other end of the line. It shook him to the core, instantly transported him back.

It was a voice he hadn’t heard for a long time, and hadn’t expected to hear again. He took the phone into the adjoining study and shut the door behind him.

When he came out five minutes later, Brooke saw the frown on his face. ‘Is everything all right, Ben?’

He made no reply, and instead went back over to the sideboard, took out a bottle and a glass, cracked the seal and poured out a large measure. He suddenly remembered Brooke and grabbed a second glass. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered distractedly. ‘Want some?’

‘Sure. Something wrong?’

For an instant it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her, but he decided against it and shook his head. ‘It’s fine. Nothing.’

‘I can see it’s not nothing,’ Brooke said. ‘Bad news?’

‘I told you. It’s not important.’ He handed her the Scotch. Drained his own glass in a gulp and slumped in his chair at the table. There was silence between them. He refilled his glass. She’d barely started her first.

‘Hey, where did the conversation go?’ she said with a laugh.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. He looked at his watch. ‘Listen, it’s getting late. I’m a little tired. Maybe I’ll turn in.’

‘I’ll take care of the dishes.’

‘Leave them. I’ll deal with it in the morning.’ He stood up, scraping his chair over the flagstones.

‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she said. ‘Sweet dreams.’

But he barely registered it as he walked slowly out of the kitchen and headed for the stairs to his apartment.