Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7) (15 page)

The meeting had been set in late November, after several weeks of furtive phone calls to a hard-found and extremely cagey contact in London who went by the name of Mick. Palms had been greased, generously and diplomatically, in return for which Penrose Lucas had eventually been given a non-negotiable time and place, as well as a serious warning that he should come alone and prepared. Prepared meant ‘bring money’.

Penrose had flown to London in the Lear and hurriedly made his way to his appointment, carrying a briefcase. The location had been a crowded pub in the East End. The man he’d come to see had been sitting at a window alcove table in the corner, nursing a pint of lager and a frown. He was a Londoner, in his mid-to-late thirties, tall and lean, and under his tight-fitting jumper was the hardened physique of a man who worked out seriously and ran ten miles a day. His receding hairline was razored to a stubble and his piercing grey eyes didn’t once flinch away from Penrose from the moment he sat down. His voice was soft, yet managed to be infinitely menacing at the same time. The man’s name was Steve Cutter, and he was the head of a firm called Cutter Security.

Penrose hadn’t come all this way to talk about fitting alarm systems and fancy locks to his new villa in Capri. Cutter was a private military contractor.

The fact was that Penrose could have approached any one of a hundred suit-and-tie corporate PMC outfits in expensive offices throughout London, but he’d chosen to wade through murkier waters in order to secure the services of someone better suited to his purposes. As far as reputations went, Cutter’s outfit was somewhere near the lower end of the spectrum, though not because they weren’t proficient at what they did. The elusive Mick had told Penrose enough about Cutter’s recent involvements to know that he was exactly the kind of hard-bitten professional mercenary he wanted to engage.

Penrose had been terrified of Cutter at first, and even more terrified of the two scowling and deeply intimidating associates who’d appeared from nowhere, each carrying a pint of beer, and sat down either side of him at the table. It was clear that he was no longer dealing with the likes of the deadbeats from Hardstaff & Baldwin in Darlington.

‘This gentleman here is Mr Grinnall,’ Cutter said, motioning to his murderous-looking colleague on Penrose’s right, the one in the tan leather coat. ‘And this is Mr Mills’ – pointing at the other, who was tattooed all the way up to his jawline, all the way down to his wrists and probably everywhere else as well. ‘Now I gather you have some business to discuss, so let’s get started.’

Speaking low so that nobody else could hear him over the noise of the jukebox and the chatter that filled the crowded pub, Penrose had outlined his requirements. They were twofold. First, he wanted personal protection. A suitably armed team on guard, twenty-four hours a day, at his villa in Capri. Second, and most importantly, he needed men of certain skills and experience to help carry out a set of tasks. The job would involve international travel, Penrose explained. All expenses paid, naturally. It would also involve a degree of criminal activity and violence, and the execution of a complex plan which had to be carried out exactly to order.

If any of that worried Cutter, he didn’t show it. He studied the photographs and list of names Penrose had slid between the beer mats and pint glasses on the table. ‘Who are these men?’ he asked tersely. Grinnall and Mills had yet to utter a word. Their faces were blank. Their thick arms lay crossed over their chests, as though waiting to reach out and snap Penrose’s neck like a celery stick at the slightest signal from their boss.

‘They’re people who have something I want,’ Penrose said.

‘These two are fucking priests.’

‘Strictly speaking, only that one is,’ Penrose had said, pointing at the picture of Fabrice Lalique. ‘The other is a Church of England vicar.’ You had to know your enemy.

‘And what about this old fart here?’

‘He’s an American. A very rich American.’

‘Rich as in bodyguards with fucking Uzis?’

‘He shouldn’t be too hard to get to. I’ll leave that part to you.’

Cutter had carefully scrutinised the three targets. ‘What are we talking about here? Money? Drugs?’

‘Neither.’

‘Then what? Something they took from you?’ Cutter fired questions like bullets.

‘Not exactly. Let’s just say I don’t want these people to have it in their possession.’

‘Cut the bullshit. What is it?’

They’ll have to know sooner or later, Penrose had thought. ‘All right. It’s a sword.’

Grinnall and Mills had looked tickled. Cutter hadn’t. ‘A sword.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You can buy all the fucking swords you want off the internet, mate.’

‘Not this one.’

‘So what’s so special about it?’

‘Not your concern.’

‘What does it look like?’

Penrose had had to admit his ignorance on that score. ‘I’ve never seen it,’ he said irritably. What he had done, however, was hire a very expensive and discreet expert consultant to draft up a computer-generated impression of its possible appearance, based on its historical period and provenance. He showed the colour print to Cutter.

‘If you’ve never seen it, how can you be so sure these blokes have it?’

‘Surveillance. Wiretaps. The usual,’ Penrose had replied with brilliantly feigned nonchalance. He felt a rush of empowerment at the words. In truth, he had no idea how the phone taps were done. That was Rex O’Neill’s department, together with the nameless background figures feeding back the information from some invisible source. All Penrose had done was point them in the right direction, and the rest happened by magic.

‘Fair enough. So we’re looking at three men in three different countries. Only one of them can have it. Which, the Yank or one of the priests?’

‘Either him or him,’ Penrose had replied, pointing at the pictures of Arundel and the American. From the tapped phone conversations he was certain the Frenchman was playing second fiddle to the others. ‘But we start with him,’ he’d added, pointing at the photo of Lalique. ‘He goes first. It’s all in the plan.’

For several silent minutes, Cutter examined the plan of action Penrose had brought to show him. It was like no other job he and his boys had ever been hired for before. His face remained completely impassive as he took in the details, but Penrose knew that nobody could fail to be impressed with the thoroughness of his preparation.

There was no mention anywhere of Penrose’s deeper reasons for wanting things carried out the way he did. It was a simple set of instructions. The rest was above Cutter’s pay grade.

And pay grades were the next item to discuss. ‘This is going to cost you a great deal of money,’ Cutter said when he’d surveyed the plan.

‘Money’s the easy part,’ Penrose had said. It was a line he’d taken from a movie. He’d nudged the briefcase towards Cutter under the table. Now he was feeling like a real gangster. The power was rushing to his head and making him feel giddy.

Cutter had opened the case. Not a flicker of expression as his grey eyes scanned the contents. He shut the lid, laid the case beside him on the seat, and thirty grand had changed hands just like that. ‘Call it a retainer,’ Cutter said.

No complaints from Penrose. ‘Mick says you work for six hundred a day.’

‘Six-fifty. In cash. For each man.’

Penrose hadn’t tried to haggle over the cost. ‘I’ll need at least a dozen men, all personally vouched for by you. I assume you can provide the necessary hardware.’

‘For that price we come fully tooled up. Transportation is your responsibility.’

‘Not an issue. You’ll have the use of a long-range private jet, as well as any vehicles you require.’

‘That sounds acceptable. What about accommodation?’

‘Luxurious. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Or in the additional, ah, benefits that will be available.’ Penrose had already given some thought to the benefits. He wanted his personal army to be loyally devoted to him. ‘If things work out, I’ll be in a position to offer you a longer-term contract. This job is just the beginning.’

A flicker of reaction in Cutter’s eyes. Even he couldn’t stay completely deadpan in the face of a deal like this.

‘One more thing. This has to be in motion as soon as possible. Would your outfit be available to start immediately?’

‘I think we just became available,’ Cutter had said.

On the drive back from Petra Norrington’s place to the vicarage, Ben pulled into a lay-by, fished out his phone and punched in the number of Sophie Norrington’s mobile. When she didn’t pick up, he left her a brief message, stressing the need for her to call him back.

The next number he dialled got an instant response. He should have known Darcey Kane’s phone would never be switched off. It wasn’t in her character.

‘Hello, Commander Kane,’ he said.

‘Ben Hope,’ she chuckled, purring with pleasure. ‘I knew you’d finally cave in to temptation and call me.’

‘It’s been the struggle of my life,’ he said.

‘You’re only human.’

‘So how are things, Darcey? Have they thrown you out of SOCA yet?’ As he spoke, he ripped open the envelope he’d taken from Petra Norrington’s desk and pulled out the letter she’d written to the motor insurance company. He nodded to himself. It had all the details he needed.

‘I’m right here at my desk,’ Darcey said. ‘Thinking of you.’

‘I can just picture you sitting there.’

She laughed. ‘Like what you see?’

‘The shoulder holster really matches the colour of your eyes.’

‘You flatterer. Still hanging about in the arse end of nowhere?’

‘Actually, I’m in the UK. Right now I’m sitting in a lay-by somewhere in Oxfordshire. Calling to ask if you could maybe do me a favour.’

‘Interesting. You mean like cancelling all my prior engagements to make way for dinner tonight? My place, eight o’clock?’

‘London’s a little out of my way at the minute, Darcey. I mean more like running a vehicle registration check for me.’

‘I knew it was too good to be true. What a complete and utter fuckhead you are.’

For the first time since the crash, Ben was able to smile. ‘You always were the queen of the sweet-talkers.’

‘You do realise that asking a senior SOCA agent to run a registration check is like deploying the SAS to get a stuck kitten out of a tree?’

‘How about as a friend, then?’

‘Not to mention it’s illegal. Are you trying to get a girl into trouble?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ She paused. ‘All right. But I’ll make you pay dearly.’

‘I wouldn’t expect any less from you,’ he said. ‘Ready to take down this number? We’re looking at a blue BMW 740 saloon.’ He read out the registration from the insurance letter.

‘Copy that.’ Darcey read it back to him.

‘How fast can you turn it around for me, Darce?’

‘I have some bad guys to go after first.’

‘That shouldn’t take you long.’

‘What’s this about, anyway?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Who else is going to worry about you, Hope? Give me an hour or so. I’ll see what I can do.’

Back at the vicarage, Ben slipped the camera memory card into Simeon’s laptop, clicked open the file and watched as thumbnail images of all eighty-seven of Petra Norrington’s photographs filled the screen. He scanned quickly down until he came to the shots she’d taken inside the restaurant. Most of them were useless to him, showing only the walls and decor as background – but the very last image he examined had been taken at the right angle to give a clear view through into the bar area.

And there he was, the BMW owner, sitting alone on a stool with a soft drink in front of him.

Ben zoomed in to take a closer look. It was a good-quality image, sharp enough to make out the man’s features in detail. He was in his thirties, dark-haired, with a long, lean face and a scar over one eye. Though it was hard to judge from the angle of the shot, he seemed to be sitting facing directly towards the table where Ben had been dining with the Arundels.

That in itself proved nothing, but scrutinising the guy’s features and the sharp expression in his eyes as he gazed fixedly at a point off-camera, Ben was certain that he’d deliberately positioned himself to be able to watch Simeon and Michaela. Which strongly suggested he’d also followed them to the Old Windmill.

Ben ran back through the chain of events. The stranger arrives in his BMW, plants himself in the bar and starts paying unusual attention to the threesome in the restaurant. Next, Petra Norrington leaves and gets in her car, reverses it into the front of the BMW, damaging a headlight. There’s a dispute that the stranger is very keen to play down. Shortly afterwards, he slips away, so that by the time the Arundels and their guest have paid for the meal and are setting off for home, the BMW has already gone. Minutes later, a large saloon car with a damaged headlight is seen racing away from the scene of the fatal crash.

Ben couldn’t ignore his gut instinct: that the guy in the picture was the same man who had forced Simeon and Michaela’s car off the road and caused their deaths. He might even have been one of the two who’d broken inside the vicarage later that night. If not, he was their accomplice.

The real question was, who were they all working for?

Ben used the laser printer in Simeon’s study to run off a copy of the zoomed-in portion of the photo, which he folded and slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket. He tried Jude’s number one more time. ‘Come on, answer the bloody thing,’ he muttered as it rang. No reply.

There was only one thing for it. He needed to get to Cornwall, and quickly. He scooped Michaela’s Mazda keys from the little stand in the entrance hall, went outside into the cold and walked along the ornamental flagstone path around the side of the vicarage to the double garage. A plastic remote attached to the Mazda key fob activated the doors. They whirred open, revealing the sleek shape of the MX-5 Roadster.

Ben nodded to himself. It wasn’t a Maserati but it would carry him the two hundred or so miles to the southwesternmost tip of England faster than Le Crock could ever dream of.