Читать книгу Valley of Death - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 12

Once Ben had relented and said yes, he had to move fast. As Phoebe departed in the taxi his first job was to break the news to Jeff and Tuesday that something had come up and he had to leave immediately. ‘Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this, guys.’

Neither of them could get over Brooke being married, but their concern overrode their surprise. ‘What’s your take on the kidnap?’ Jeff asked. He’d sobered up as sharp as a fighter pilot, his own worries forgotten. His eyes were full of concern.

‘The usual,’ Ben said, rubbing thumb and fingers together. The universal sign for money.

Jeff raised an eyebrow. ‘Writing plays must pay a hell of a lot better than I thought.’

‘Family wealth. A lot of it, or so I’m told.’

Tuesday said, ‘I can’t see Brooke marrying into money. Not her style.’

‘No,’ Ben agreed. ‘That’s what I thought, too. Maybe I was wrong about her, but that’s not important now. What matters is getting Amal out of this.’

‘You want us to come along?’ Jeff asked. Ben knew from repeated experience that his friends were both perfectly prepared to drop everything, clients and all, to be at his side in a time of need. But this was a personal thing, and Ben wanted to face it alone.

He shook his head. ‘Thanks, but—’

‘I get it. Call if you need us, okay?’

Next, Ben threw some clothes and personal items into his old green canvas bag, then spent exactly forty-five seconds under the shower, changed and pulled on his boots and grabbed his bag and jacket, patted the dog and ran out to the barn where he kept his BMW Alpina. It was a fast car, which was very much needed to shave time off his journey to Paris and catch the 23.00 flight. Seconds counted.

Here we go again, he thought as he sped out from the gates of Le Val and accelerated hard away with the BMW’s twin beams carving a tunnel into the darkness. It was like a curse. Every time he tried to settle into a steady routine, another crisis would come out of the blue to turn his life upside-down once more. He was worried for Amal, but what troubled him almost as much was the prospect of meeting Brooke under these circumstances. He lit up a cigarette, shoved on a jazz CD and turned the stereo system up full blast to drive that haunting prospect out of his thoughts. The Zoe Rahman Trio, playing ‘Red Squirrel’.

He was scorching eastwards along Autoroute 13 at over 150 kilometres an hour, passing Rouen and about halfway to Paris, when his phone rang. He answered it on the hands-free, muting the music.

It was Phoebe. Cherbourg to London was only a thirty-five-minute flight and she was already back in the UK.

‘It’s all arranged,’ she told him. ‘You’re booked on the flight, first class, naturally. Ticket will be waiting for you when you get there.’ She gave him a code number to write down. ‘It’s a direct flight, no stopovers. You land at Indira Gandhi International at ten thirty-five tomorrow morning, local time. There’ll be a car to pick you up from the airport.’

‘And the visa?’

‘Just like I told you, not a problem.’ It seemed that Amal had an uncle with high-up Indian government connections influential enough to cut through the bureaucracy and open up a magic VIP portal through which Ben could waltz unimpeded. It was his first whiff of the Ray family’s status. He suspected it wouldn’t be the last.

‘You don’t know how much this means to Brooke,’ Phoebe said.

So much that she can’t call me herself, he thought. Again, he had to shove that bad thought out of his head. She probably wasn’t looking forward to the meeting any more than he was. ‘How’s she doing?’ he asked.

‘Three guesses how she’s doing. Her husband’s missing. She doesn’t know if he’s dead or alive. She’s a mess.’

It had often struck Ben as curious that so many of the women in his life had the title of ‘Dr’. But they were all different kinds of doctors. Dr Roberta Ryder was an American with a biology PhD. Dr Sandrine Lacombe made her living fixing broken bodies and patching up gunshot victims, as she’d done for Jeff Dekker when Ben first met her. While Dr Brooke Marcel had earned her credentials as an expert in psychology, specialising in studying the devastating effects that violent abduction, incarceration and living under constant lethal threat in the most appalling conditions imaginable, for months or even years, could have on the human mind. Nobody understood hostage psychology better. That was how Brooke had come to be employed at Le Val as a visiting lecturer, helping specialist operatives gain insights into the minds of those they might be sent in to rescue.

Brooke also had enough knowledge of the kidnap game to be all too aware of just how bad it was for its victims. There was a high chance she’d never see Amal again, and she knew it. Little wonder she was a mess.

Ben asked, ‘I’m assuming there’s still no ransom demand?’

‘Nope. Zero contact from these shitty bastards who’re holding him. That can’t be a good thing, can it?’

Ben chose not to answer that. ‘And no more progress reports from the police or the private investigator?’

‘If there had been, I would have told you.’ Phoebe’s tone was snappish. He put it down to stress and didn’t blame her for it. She paused, then said in a softer voice, ‘Please say you’ll get Amal back, Ben.’

It was foolish to make promises in this situation. But he did it anyway. ‘I’ll get Amal back.’ One way or another. In one piece, or in several. He kept those dark thoughts to himself as he ended the call.

Ben pushed the car harder into the night. He made it to Charles de Gaulle airport in just over three hours without getting pulled over for speeding, which meant the French traffic police must be slacking on the job. As Phoebe had said, the ticket was ready and waiting for him at the check-in desk. He impatiently whiled away the time before his flight was called, and then he was stretched out on a plush seat in a half-empty first-class section with a glass of single malt scotch, straight, no ice. The benefits of luxury travel. With eight hours ahead of him in which he had nothing much to do except try not to think about meeting Brooke again, the whisky would be the first of several.

After a couple of drinks he ate a light meal from the excellent first-class menu, then had a couple more drinks, then closed his eyes. Still thinking about it. Then again, as long as he was preoccupied with one thing, he couldn’t feel so bad about the other.

He fleetingly wondered where Sandrine was at this moment, and what she was doing. Then he wondered how he’d feel if, say, a couple of years into the future, he heard that Sandrine had married some guy and that he, Ben, was now just a distant and semi-forgotten part of her past. He wasn’t sure how much it would hurt him. Maybe a little. But not the way he was hurting now. Maybe that was how love was measured, he thought: by how brutally it could rip your heart out and feed it through a blender. By that definition, he knew that he must still feel more than he’d realised for Brooke Marcel.

No, not Brooke Marcel, he corrected himself. She’d be Brooke Ray now.

Brooke Ray.

Shit. Time for another drink. Eight hours was plenty of time to sober up.

Eight hours later and fully sober, Ben stepped out into the hazy Delhi sunshine with his bag on his shoulder and began taking in the sights and colours and smells of India. It was mid-morning, local time, and cooler than he’d expected – only about 30°C and rising as he crossed the tarmac towards the arrivals terminal.

Then again, his expectations were a little vague. He’d travelled the whole world several times around, missing only a few spots, but India nonetheless wasn’t a country he knew well. His last visit had been a brief stopover en route to Indonesia, the very same trip that had triggered the end of his relationship with Brooke. It seemed ironic that he was returning here now, under these circumstances.

They say nothing prepares you for the dirt, poverty and chaos of India, but the airport was clean and modern and well organised. Ben passed under a big sign welcoming the new arrivals to the country and was approaching the immigration counter when a well-dressed man with swept-back white hair and a clipped moustache intercepted him with a smile and a handshake, and introduced himself as Vivaan Banerjee of the Indian Foreign Office.

The government man led Ben away from the crowds to a private room, where he made pleasant small talk while checking Ben’s identification papers. ‘This is just a formality,’ he kept insisting as he apologetically asked for signatures on a couple of official documents, and Ben had the strangest feeling of being inducted into some old boys’ club. It was another whiff of the Ray family’s power and influence. Who needs a travel visa, when you have friends in the right places?

With a flourish Banerjee produced an ink stamp and set about vigorously thumping the signed documents as though there were cockroaches lurking under them. Then he grasped Ben’s hand like a long-lost friend and wished him a pleasant stay in India. Ben wondered if Banerjee knew why he was really here, and if that was the reason why the official seemed to be studiously avoiding any mention of the current crisis affecting the Ray family. Maybe now Ben was in the club, the police would be ordered from on high to turn a blind eye if the hunt for Amal got rough.

After he finished with Banerjee, Ben headed for the exit. Phoebe had said there would be a car to pick him up at the airport. As he was walking through the busy lobby, past a life-size statue of two Asiatic elephants penned behind a railing as though they might suddenly rampage and start flattening the public, a young Indian guy picked him out from the crowd and came hurrying over.

‘Mr Hope? Delighted to meet you, sir. My name is Prem Sharma. I work for the Ray family. Please, come this way.’

Prem was about thirty, slender and handsome, with expressive dark eyes and thick black hair. He wore a light grey suit, nicely tailored, silk shirt, expensive watch, quality handmade shoes. His employers clearly paid him well. He carried Ben’s battered canvas bag as diligently as if it had been a Ralph Lauren suitcase and led him outside to a gleaming black Mercedes-Benz S-Class Maybach Pullman limousine longer than some river barges Ben had seen. Yet more evidence of the wealth Brooke had married into.

Prem smiled as he noticed Ben looking at the car. ‘Its previous owner was a former president of India,’ he explained. ‘The most luxurious limousine in all of Delhi, as befits the Ray family’s most important guests. It has a twelve-cylinder biturbo engine producing more than six hundred horsepower. Fully armoured, naturally.’

Ben couldn’t tell if Prem was just bragging, or trying to sell it to him. ‘Naturally. And are we likely to come under attack today?’

Prem replied, ‘I would say that is doubtful. But one can never be too careful. In such an event, we would be protected from any kinds of small arms fire and grenade blasts. The vehicle is also sealed against chemical weapon attacks.’

Ben said, ‘Handy. But what if they shoot the tyres out?’

‘Oh, it will continue to run on four flat tyres for approximately five kilometres,’ Prem replied.

‘Then it looks like we ought to make it to our destination in one piece,’ Ben said. Prem stowed his bag in the vastness of the boot before he smartly walked around to the rear door and held it open for his passenger.

Under different circumstances, Ben might have been faintly amused at being treated like some visiting dignitary. He ignored the offer and opened the front passenger door instead. ‘I prefer to ride up front, thanks.’

‘As you wish,’ Prem replied with a smile, and shut the rear with a soft clunk. Ben settled into the cool, creamy passenger seat, as spacious and comfortable as his first-class armchair on the plane.

So far, it had been an easy trip. The tough part lay just around the corner.