Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7) (16 page)

He went back inside and started gathering up his things. Simeon’s laptop was going to have to come along. Even if the information inside was inaccessible to him, there was no way he could leave it here at the house in case the raiders decided to come back for it. Deciding that the shotgun was coming too, he folded up the stock and stuffed the shortened weapon into his bag. The dog eyed him suspiciously from a few feet away.

‘I suppose you want to come along as well,’ Ben said. ‘Where else are you going to go?’

He was heading outside with the bag over his shoulder and the dog at his heels when his mobile rang. It was Darcey Kane.

‘How are your bad guys?’ Ben asked her.

‘Shitting in their pants,’ she replied. ‘How are yours?’

‘What makes you think I’m after any?’

‘Hmm. I have a feeling you’re up to something.’

‘I don’t know where you’d get a notion like that. Did you manage to trace that number for me?’

‘Of course. But you won’t be pleased. The registration’s a fake. No record of it exists.’

‘You double-checked?’

‘Quadruple. You know me.’

‘Damn,’ he muttered under his breath. But now he knew for sure.

‘Come on, Hope. Spill it. You’re definitely up to something, aren’t you?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Ben said, leaning inside the car to stash his illegal cargo behind the driver’s seat. It would be five years in prison, minimum, if any cop saw what was inside the bag.

‘Then you’re free for dinner tonight. How about Italian instead? It’ll be just like Rome.’

‘Maybe some other time, Darcey. Thanks for the info.’

‘Bastard.’

According to Rex O’Neill’s information, the Lear had touched down at the airfield in Naples forty-two minutes ago. The single-engined Cessna, one of the selection of light aircraft provided by the Trimble Group for them to shuttle men and material between Capri and the mainland, should be arriving shortly. Two cars sat parked at the side of the private airstrip, a Mercedes limousine and a high-performance Audi, both black. Penrose Lucas insisted on black for his whole fleet of vehicles, and the Trimble Group were happy to indulge him.

Inside the Mercedes, soundproof glass screened the driver off from the elongated passenger compartment in which sat Penrose and Rex O’Neill. Penrose stretched out his legs. He didn’t just sit on the plush limo seat, he lounged on it, sprawled across it. The more contact he made with the cool, soft leather, the more kingly and omnipotent it made him feel.

He’d been buzzing with nervous anticipation all morning since seeing the online news report confirming what he’d known in advance was going to happen: the untimely and tragic demise of the Reverend Simeon Arundel and his beloved wife the previous evening in England. The news had almost completely allayed the extreme displeasure that had spoiled Penrose’s day yesterday, knowing that Wesley Holland had somehow managed to slip through the fingers of the team sent out to America to get him. Never mind. Holland’s escape was a temporary hitch. It wasn’t the end of the world.

And at this moment Penrose was in an even more forgiving mood as he anticipated with relish the arrival of his team from England. He couldn’t wait to see the items retrieved from the target’s home.

First Lalique; Penrose was especially pleased with the way that had gone. Then Arundel. All in all, the plan was moving along beautifully. Before long they’d have Holland too, and all three of them would be out of the way. Penrose would finally get his hands on this damned troublesome sword and would have the pleasure of personally seeing it melted down, eradicated before the world even took notice of it. Then he’d be able to forge ahead with his greater plans. The Trimble Group would not be disappointed.

Rex O’Neill was perched on the edge of the seat opposite, silent and tight-lipped as he observed his nominal boss and ruminated over his unspoken misgivings about the man. O’Neill had been opposed from the start to the way the Lalique situation had been handled, and he was increasingly unhappy about the direction things were taking. Lucas was moving far too fast. O’Neill could say nothing. He had his orders, and his job to do.

There were other worries, too. As part of O’Neill’s role as intermediary between Lucas and the Trimble Group, it had been reported to him that morning that the phone surveillance team had intercepted a long distance phone call from Wesley Holland to the landline at the Little Denton vicarage during the early hours. Somebody had answered the phone there, meaning that the vicarage had not, as they’d previously thought, been empty last night. Somebody was staying there – but who?

‘And how is Megan?’ Penrose asked suddenly, with an unpleasant little smile. It was unusual for him to make any kind of small talk, and even more unusual for him to express interest in his assistant’s home life. O’Neill put it down to his uncharacteristically happy state of mind this morning.

‘She’s fine, thank you. A little nervous as the weeks go by. It’s our first, so …’ O’Neill shrugged.

Penrose felt slightly disgusted, but covered it well. ‘When is the child due?’

‘Not for another three and a half months.’

‘You must be looking forward to it,’ Penrose said.

‘We both are, very much.’ O’Neill smiled, visualising his wife’s face and wondering what she was doing right now. He so wished he could be with her at home in London. It was still hard to believe that such a beautiful and smart young woman could have seen anything in a man like him, fifteen years her senior and obsessively glued to a job he could tell her so little about. The eleven months of their marriage had been the happiest of his life. He was determined to spend more time with her, but knew that his long-overdue leave wouldn’t be granted him for a good while yet.

His thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the Cessna coming in to land. ‘They’re here,’ he said to Penrose, who sprawled up out of his seat with a jerk, threw open the car door and clambered eagerly out.

The Cessna came down over the trees. It touched down with a yelp of tyres and taxied to a halt a few metres from the waiting vehicles. Beaming, Penrose marched across the runway to meet its occupants. The hatch opened and Steve Cutter emerged, followed by Dave Mills.

Penrose’s face fell when he saw the state of them. Cutter had a thick wad of dressing taped to his forehead and an ugly split and swollen lip. Mills’s cheek was bruised and scuffed from jaw to eye and he was moving stiffly. Neither displayed the body language of men returning victorious from a successful operation. Cutter’s expression confirmed it.

Penrose’s happiness evaporated instantly. A drumming pulse started up in his left temple that he knew would quickly grow into a painful migraine. ‘What happened?’ he blurted in the short moments of numb surprise before the fury took him.

‘We didn’t get the gear,’ Cutter said miserably.

‘So I gathered,’ Penrose growled. The first pang of the headache made his left eye twitch. ‘Where are all the others?’ The plan had been specific. Two men to raid the vicarage, the rest of them to stand guard nearby.

‘Still in position,’ Cutter said.

The Cessna pilot was turning the aircraft round for takeoff, and the rising engine note lanced through Penrose’s head. ‘We’ll talk back at the villa,’ he barked, then turned on his heel and marched back to his limousine, white-faced with anger, as Cutter and Mills climbed painfully into the Audi.

‘
One man?
’ Penrose screamed when Cutter had explained what had happened at the Little Denton vicarage. The two mercenaries were standing by the desk, looking sullen. Rex O’Neill was by the window, hands clasped behind his back and remaining silent. Penrose paced dementedly. The migraine was in full force now and the painkillers weren’t working. He needed something stronger.

‘Just what I said,’ Cutter repeated. ‘One man.’

Penrose stopped pacing and glowered at him. ‘So it wasn’t the A-Team who stopped you carrying out your job,’ he bellowed, waving his arms. ‘It wasn’t the U.S. bloody Marines.’

‘No.’

‘How could you possibly screw this up? What was he doing there?’

‘He just appeared. Like he was staying in the place.’

‘A visitor?’

‘We were told the house would be empty,’ Cutter said.

O’Neill listened quietly in the background. Whoever had foiled the robbery had also been there to take the phone call from Wesley Holland some time later. Who was this person?

Penrose’s shouts dropped to a hoarse rasp as he went on harrying Steve Cutter. ‘Maybe I’m the only one around here who can see straight. Maybe it’s time for a little refresher session. Remind me. Are you and I in business together?’

Cutter sighed. ‘Yes.’

‘And in this business relationship, what role would you say I play?’

‘You’re the boss,’ Cutter said.

‘Meaning what?’

‘You’re in charge. You tell us what to do.’

‘That’s right!’ Penrose shouted. ‘I’m in charge. Why? Because I’m the one with the ideas. I’m the one who’s worked out this whole plan. This very, very
important
plan. And I’m the one with all the money.’

Cutter made no reply.

But Penrose was far from finished. ‘Now, remind me: who exactly in this business relationship are you?’

Cutter shifted from foot to foot, starting to get restless. He needed to remind himself of the perks of this job. More cash than he and his team had ever pulled in before. The poshest quarters they’d ever been put up in, by far. All the whisky and beer and wine they could guzzle, and all the whores from the mainland they could sate themselves with. If it hadn’t been for those minor benefits, he’d have smashed this little upstart’s teeth down his throat right where he stood. ‘The guy you hired,’ he said tersely.

‘And why did I do that, and pay you all this money?’

‘Because my team are the best,’ Cutter said, looking him in the eye.

‘The best in the business,’ Penrose yelled. ‘Your very words. So what am I to think when my cherry-picked elite team fail not once, but twice in a row to get me what I want? First you tell me that your cretin Grinnall let Holland get away—’

‘Terry Grinnall will find him,’ Cutter said.

‘And now, when all you had to do was walk into an unoccupied house in some sleepy village and pick up a few simple items, you come back empty-handed and all beaten up, telling me you screwed up because of—’ he searched for the right words ‘—because of some
vicarage guest
? What did he do, throw a prayer book at you?’

Cutter shook his head. ‘He wasn’t an ordinary vicarage guest. Somebody skilled. Somebody trained.’

‘But you just told me
you
were the best!’ Penrose screeched. ‘What the hell was stopping you going back there after him and finishing him?’

‘My orders were to carry out a quick, clean job, not create a war zone,’ Cutter said.

‘What I
want
,’ Penrose exploded, ‘is every last one of my enemies stamped out and crushed. Do you understand?’

Rex O’Neill felt like saying something, but he held back and kept his mouth shut.

Cutter gave a shrug. ‘Sure.’

Penrose stormed across to his desk, ripped open a drawer and took out a large pistol. Cutter, Mills and Rex O’Neill all stared at the gun. Penrose walked back over to Cutter, gnashing his teeth, and pointed the weapon at his chest. He loved the cool steel of the pistol in his hand. So many years he’d longed for a real gun. Now he could have all the real guns he wanted. This one was a Coonan .357 Magnum automatic. Rare and beautiful, smooth stainless steel with gleaming walnut grips and an eight-shot capacity. He played with it constantly. ‘No. I mean, do you really, really understand?’ he screamed. ‘Because if not I’ll put a bullet in you right now and hire someone who can do a better job of this for me. In fact,’ he added, ‘perhaps I ought to just shoot you anyway, as a punishment. Shall I? Shall I?’ He raised the pistol to Cutter’s face.

Cutter gazed calmly into the man’s eyes. He could easily rip the gun out of Penrose’s hand, and the arm out of the socket with it.
You are crazy
, he thought. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly.

Penrose glowered at him, breathing hard. A vein was popping in his forehead. His carefully coiffured hair was sprawling in all directions. After twenty long, silent seconds, he lowered the gun. ‘Pleased to hear it. I want this man dead, whoever he is. I don’t care if you have to raze half of England to the ground to get him. I just want you to get him. Nobody is going to stop me. Nobody!’

O’Neill had kept his mouth shut until now, but couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘If I could remind you, Mr Lucas, my employers have been quite clear that they want this kept as quiet as possible. I thought that was understood.’

Penrose balked in horror at his words, then turned on him. ‘Your employers also recruited me to run this operation, yes? Me, not you. That was also understood.’

A number of possible replies occurred to O’Neill. Most of them centred on the theme of ‘Yes, but the Trimble Group never realised they were taking on a raving bloody maniac’. But considering the circumstances and the Coonan .357 that was still clutched tightly in Penrose’s fist, he wisely chose not to voice them. Shortly afterwards, he left the room and returned to his own office within the villa complex while Cutter and Mills were dismissed back to their quarters to lick their wounds and await further instructions.

Penrose Lucas spent quite a few minutes pacing and seething alone. He pulled out a large holdall from under the desk, unzipped it and lifted out the stacks of banknotes he kept in there. Counting the money sometimes soothed him – but not this time, and as the migraine just kept worsening he was compelled to retreat to the bedroom to lie down.

After an hour in the blacked-out room with a mask over his face and five codeine tablets washing through his bloodstream, he emerged and turned on his computer, intent on finding out all he could about Simeon Arundel’s mysterious and peculiarly talented guest.

Thanks to Rex O’Neill and the team behind the scenes whose names and faces Penrose neither knew nor wanted to know, he had unlimited access to police reports and a host of other data, some of it official, some of it not, concerning his victims before and after their deaths. He’d scanned through them already, but as he perused the files again now he paid much more attention to detail.