Читать книгу The Martyr’s Curse - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 14

Ben’s route snaked and twisted like a meandering river all the way down the mountain, in places flanked by lush verges bursting with spring wildflowers, in others teetering on the edge of vertiginous drops with little or nothing in the way of safety barriers. He soon discovered that the truck had steering as vague as a politician’s answers, and learned to take it easy on the narrow bits. The brakes left something to be desired, too, which made interesting work of the frequent hairpin bends on a road made slick with rainwater. The heavy load made the suspension sway on every corner, and sometimes it felt as if the thing might tip over. But he felt happy to be doing this for his companions. It gave him a sense of purpose. Of belonging.

After a couple of miles, the rain stopped and the sun beamed out through parting clouds. Ben turned off the clattering wipers, opened the window and smiled as the fresh breeze streamed in. The trepidation he’d felt about leaving the sanctuary of the monastery began to melt away with each passing mile. Life was all right. It really was. He didn’t even miss his cigarettes any more.

The drive took a little over forty minutes. It was the perfect kind of scenic yet challenging Alpine road that a gentleman of a sporting disposition would have relished tackling in something like a Porsche Cayman or a classic Morgan. But Ben took his time, rumbling along sedately, taking care not to overload the tired old brakes on the long, steep downward straights, slowing right down for the bends. As he drove, he drank in the spectacular views across the valley and let the sunshine soak into his soul. Yes, life was okay. By the time the road had wound its way down to Briançon, he was even getting to like the old demon Belphégor.

Approaching the town, Ben reached for the slip of paper he’d been given showing the directions for the rendezvous point. From the historic part of Briançon, which dated back to Roman times as Brigantium, the modern town sprawled south-westwards. The small industrial estate he needed to find was right out on the edge, and his directions allowed him to skirt around town and approach from the east side. The roads weren’t badly congested, which was a relief to Ben as he’d worried about cooking the clutch in stop-start traffic. He guessed that this must be the quietest time of the year, well out of the snowy season when hordes of skiers descended on Briançon and the town’s population tripled. Not that Ben had seen any from his remote sanctuary, not even when the snow lay thick all across the peaks and valleys and every day brought a fresh blizzard.

Filtering west, he passed a hospital, then a spread-out retail park. He saw a big Champion supermarket, some scattered industrial buildings and a tyre services place next to a garage. A little further on, he found the entrance he was looking for, a green steel gate in a mesh fence leading to a large concreted yard, empty apart from a Renault truck and a silver BMW. A short, badly overweight guy with sandy hair was leaning against the car. Three leaner, younger guys were hanging about the truck. Ben pulled up a few yards away, yanked on the handbrake and turned off his ignition. The Belphégor stuttered and fell silent.

Ben jumped down from the cab. It was approaching midday and the sun was hot and bright, making him shield his eyes. He looked around him as the sandy-haired man ambled up. The mountains were visible in the background, away beyond green hills overlooking the town that were dotted with little white houses and chalets sparkling in the sun.

‘You must be Pierrot,’ he said in French to the sandy-haired man. Pierrot was the rep for the distribution company that handled the monastery beer.

‘You’re not the regular guy,’ Pierrot said, eyeing him.

‘Just standing in,’ Ben said. They shook hands and got down to business. Pierrot’s crew of three quickly, efficiently switched the cargo from the Belphégor to the Renault while Pierrot spread a couple of forms out on the bonnet of the Beemer for Ben to read and sign on behalf of the monastery. Ben examined the small print carefully, checked the payment and bank details were correct, then reviewed everything again and found no problems. He signed on the line and handed the forms back to Pierrot. The man grinned, put the forms into a folder and then opened up the boot of his car.

‘Fait une putain de’chaleur, hein?’ he said, squinting up at the bright sun.

Ben nodded and agreed that it was pretty warm. Maybe if Pierrot lost a few pounds he wouldn’t feel it so much, but Ben kept that opinion to himself. Pierrot had other solutions. From a cooler in the back of the car he produced a couple of chilled bottles of Kronenbourg. He offered one to Ben. Ben shook his head and said no, thanks.

Soon afterwards, the crew finished up, swigged down a cold beer each and then piled into the Renault. Ben watched the truck drive off with its load, followed by Pierrot in his car. That was that. His job was done, his responsibility fulfilled, and it was time to go home. He walked back to the Belphégor. Clambered up into the cab, twisted the ignition key … and nothing happened.

He did it again. Again, nothing happened. Completely dead. Either the battery had suffered a total discharge in the time it had taken to transfer the beer to the Renault, or something more complex and sinister had just happened to the truck’s electrics.

Wonderful.

Ben heaved open the bonnet and peered in at the grimy nest of ancient wiring. He was no mechanic. Like other SAS soldiers he’d had some basic training in fixing vehicles, in case of certain emergency situations on hostile ground that involved commandeering – or just plain stealing – civilian transport that might not always be in top condition. But he had a feeling that the SAS would have continued on foot sooner than give the Belphégor a second look. Set fire to it maybe, if they needed to create a diversion.

Bolted to the flatbed behind the cab was a tool locker. Nothing more than a metal box, battered and dented and speckled with rust, about four feet long by about two feet wide. Ben jumped up on to the flatbed and crouched down, hooking eight fingers under the flaky edge of the locker lid to lift it. The hinges were near solid with rust and old paint, and it gave a creak as it opened. He looked inside, and what he saw made his mind up not to bother trying to fix the truck himself. There was a removable compartment containing an assortment of spanners that looked as if they’d spent decades at the bottom of a river. The lower compartment contained no jack, no tyre irons or wheel-nut wrench, only a coil of greasy old rope and a pair of bolt croppers.

All of which was about as useful as having no tools at all.

The other thing Ben didn’t have was a phone. The only items in his pockets were his wallet and the little bottle of Père Antoine’s tonic that he was currently working his way through. However liberating the joyful technology-free monastic lifestyle might feel up there on the mountain, it had its practical shortcomings down here in the big, bad world.

Remembering the garage he’d passed a little way back down the road, he began walking.

Within five minutes, he was standing on the forecourt talking to a jovial guy in a grease-stained overall, explaining his situation. Within ten, he was riding back in a tow-truck to where he’d left the stricken Belphégor. The mechanic hooked it up and they towed it the short distance to the garage where more guys in overalls came to stare and grin as if they’d never seen anything like it before. Which, Ben realised, they probably hadn’t. After a quick inspection, the mechanic in charge gave Ben the prognosis on the electrical system. The word he used was ‘foutu’. Not exactly a technical term. Not a very encouraging one, either, until the mechanic pointed to a rusted heap in the corner of the yard and told Ben that he should be able to cannibalise some parts from it.

Four hours, he assured Ben. Four hours tops, and the old Belphégor would be back in action.

Until then, there wasn’t a lot Ben could do. Even if he’d had a phone, he couldn’t call the monastery to tell them he’d be late coming back and not to worry. Not that they worried unduly about much, generally. They would have said it was in God’s hands. For all practical purposes that was the only way Ben could see it, too.

So, there it was. Four hours to kill. It wasn’t the end of the world.

He took a note of the garage’s number and set out on foot towards town. The walk took him thirty minutes, by the end of which lunchtime had been and gone and he was hungry and thirsty. A few sips of Père Antoine’s tonic did a little to quell the thirst. Ben still didn’t know what it contained. He put the bottle back in his pocket and checked the contents of his wallet for the first time in months. In all that time he’d spent not a single penny, so there was still plenty of cash inside. Now to find a place to eat.

Briançon was a pretty place. Parts of the old town had once been heavily fortified, to defend the region from an attacking Austrian army. However many centuries ago that had been, Ben didn’t know for sure – but when you lived in a medieval monastery, everything seemed recent and modern by comparison. He walked through narrow, winding grey-stone streets and up steep paths and steps, looking for a bistro or a sandwich bar. The streets were busy. Lots of colour, lots of noise and life. He wasn’t used to it any more. It was a rhythm you had to get readjusted to, in the same way he’d often had to get back in synch with normal life after spending long periods away on military operations in jungles or deserts, back in the day.

Rounding a corner, Ben saw parasols and tables out on the street. This was the kind of bistro he’d been looking for, where he could get a snack like a croque-monsieur and a Perrier water. It looked like a welcoming place. A waiter with a tray was weaving efficiently among the tables. One table was occupied by an animated white-haired group who looked like a tourist party. At another was a middle-aged professional guy in suit and tie, maybe a local businessman or a bank manager, reading a newspaper. At another sat a couple, not old, not young, in their thirties. They were clasping hands across the table and obviously in love. The guy was heavily built, in jeans and a polo shirt. The woman was wearing a light sleeveless top and shorts and sandals, and had her back to Ben.

There was another table nearby that was empty. He walked towards it. His plan was to stay a while, watch the world go by, bide his time while the mechanics were doing their bit and then slowly wander back to the garage to pick up the truck. There was no hurry. No pressure. He felt relaxed and easy about the whole thing. The monastery had taught him to feel that way.

As Ben approached the café terrace, he did a double-take at the woman sitting with her back to him and suddenly halted dead in his tracks as if he’d been shot. He felt himself go very cold. He stood there, staring.

Her auburn hair was thick and loose, falling down in curls between her shoulder blades and moving nicely when she did. Her shoulders were slightly burned, a touch too much sun on her fair redhead’s skin. Everything about her was stunningly familiar. He was certain he recognised the curve of her slim back. Her elegant posture, the way she had her ankles crossed under the chair as she leaned forward talking about something and gesticulating with her free hand. The fingers were tapered and delicate. She wore no rings.

A million emotions suddenly flooded through Ben’s mind, stinging him like electric shocks. His hands began to shake. He blinked. It was her. He couldn’t believe it.

She was oblivious of his presence, but as Ben went on staring, the guy she was with began to take notice of him.

Ben walked a few steps closer. His legs felt wobbly. He reached out to touch her shoulder. The guy she was with narrowed his eyes and looked to be about to say something, but Ben spoke first.

‘Brooke?’