The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET (172 page)

‘You said you were close to Silvia and Otto, though. They might have helped you get inside the house.’

‘Uh-uh. No way would I have done that to Silvia. She’s a bad liar and Maximilian would have sussed her out right away. But I did try to work on Otto.’ Ruth smiled. ‘Poor, sweet Otto. It was about a year ago, I called him on his mobile, managed to persuade him to leave his golf clubs alone for a few hours. We met up for lunch in Bern, and I told him about these old papers of vague scientific interest that I wanted to look at. All he had to do was to go into Maximilian’s study, open up the safe and photocopy them for me. But Otto’s weak. He got cold feet, backed out. The big soft chicken’s totally dominated by his uncle. So that didn’t work either. Like I said, soon after that we realised we were all out of options. We thought, fuck it, go for it.’

‘Dressing up like Nazis – I take it that was just a red herring for the police?’

She shrugged. ‘We’ve all been active in green circles. Half our names are probably down on police files. They’d come knocking on our door pretty fast if a bunch of greenies started trying to take down the likes of the great Steiner. So we figured that with the Kammler SS connection, the best possible front would be to pass ourselves off as something the complete opposite of what we really were, some kind of neo-Nazi terror group. It wasn’t hard to find the swastika badges. There were eleven of us involved, all committed. The first time, we almost got him. We were unlucky.’

‘I heard what happened.’

‘Then the second time, we had an even better plan. We spent ages working out every detail. But, as I recall,
someone
interfered.’ She shot him a look.

‘I’m glad I did, Ruth. You were risking your freedom, even your life, just because you believed that a bunch of documents written by some obscure Nazi loony almost seventy years ago was the key to saving the planet.’

‘It’s not a question of belief, Ben. These are facts.’

‘I think you’ve been smoking too much of that weed of yours. You’re stacking an awful lot of faith on this mumbo-jumbo.’

‘That’s neat, coming from someone who studied theology. You believe in a god that nobody can prove exists, that nobody’s ever seen, and who never shows himself. I show
you
something real, and you choose to dismiss it without a second thought.’

‘I don’t know
what
I saw just now.’

She snorted, glaring at him, her temper rising fast. ‘Yeah, it’s easier just to close your eyes. Anyway, I don’t care if you believe me or not. You wanted to know why we tried to kidnap Maximilian, and now you know. So maybe now you’ll let me go back home.’

‘To do what? To sell pottery? Or to pin your little Nazi badges back on and try to kidnap him again?’

‘We’re not going to stop trying. This is important.’

‘I don’t like what you’re doing. What if someone had been hurt, or killed? You weren’t shooting blanks that day.’

‘It wasn’t meant to go that far,’ she said. ‘I swear it.’

‘You’re throwing away your life.’

‘I don’t need your approval.’

‘You might think you got away because you were clever, well trained and well rehearsed. The fact is, you were just
lucky. If I’d been properly in charge of a close protection outfit that I’d had the opportunity to train and equip the way
I
wanted instead of just having to make do with amateurs, you and your friends would all be in prison now awaiting sentence. And if you keep trying, that’s what you’re going to come up against. You’re going to get caught, Ruth. Ever been in a cell? I don’t think you’d like it. If you thought Steiner was cramping your freedom, wait until you get a load of Interpol.’ She said nothing.

‘And that’s not all,’ he went on. ‘While you’re running around playing your little games and dabbling in things that should be left well alone, people are being kidnapped and murdered for real. Julia Goodman, the woman you tried to contact?’

Ruth frowned.

‘Dead,’ Ben said. ‘Along with another of her colleagues who was heavily into this Kammler stuff, someone by the name of Michio Miyazaki.’

She’d clearly heard the name, from the way she flinched.

‘And have you heard of a man called Adam O’Connor? He’s missing, and so is his young son. Whoever’s out there doing this stuff is armed and means business, and it’s clear that someone is paying them to take an interest in all this.’

‘Someone like who? Maximilian?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I do know that anyone connected with this Kammler research is a potential target. Which includes you and your cronies, too. You’re way out of your depth. You need to back right off.’

‘Thank you for the lecture. But I’ll take my chances. I can look after myself. I’ve done it for long enough. And I’d rather believe in something, and suffer the consequences, than not believe in anything at all.’ She looked up at him hotly. ‘So can I go now? Or am I your prisoner?’

‘I ought to keep you locked up until you see sense.’

‘Fuck you. You’re just as bad as him.’

He could see the look in her eye. The argument was spiralling out of control, and the last thing he wanted to do was alienate the sister that he’d only just found again. He stepped towards her, put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You know I’d never stand in your way. If you want to go, go. Call Franz and tell him where you are. Or take the Mini. Here. It’s yours.’ He dangled the keys out in front of her.

She snatched the keys furiously out of his fingers, and he realised he’d already pushed her too far.

‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘I’m going to get some rest, and then I’ll leave tonight.’

He pointed over to the trainee accommodation block. ‘Pick any room you want. The sheets are all fresh.’

Without another word she turned away from him, wrenched open the office door and slammed it shut behind her. He watched her strut angrily across the yard, then powered down the laptop and left the office too.

There was no sign of Storm outside. Ben walked alone to the house, feeling frustrated. He was hoping to find Brooke sitting reading in the kitchen. She was becoming more and more part of the place. But there was no sign of her there, nor in the living room.

Then he heard the sound of someone moving around upstairs. Following the sound, he found the door to his quarters open. Brooke was crouched down on the rug, sweeping shards of glass into a dustpan. He saw that she’d been clearing up the debris. Broken chairs were piled in the corner, and the pictures that hadn’t been destroyed were back on the walls. She’d gathered up the bits of broken glass from the smashed frames and propped them up neatly and safely out of the way against the wall near the sofa.

She hadn’t seen him, and he watched her from the doorway. Kneeling there with her thick hair tied back loosely over her shoulders, she looked so serene and calm. He thought of the last time they’d been here together in this room, that evening spent sitting on the rug eating Marie-Claire’s chocolate cake and drinking wine. It seemed so long ago now.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She looked up, and smiled back.

‘Clearing this place up is my job,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

‘Something to do while I stayed out of your way for a while.’ She stood up, dusting off her hands. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. She didn’t wreck quite everything.’

He walked into the room, closed the door behind him.

‘You look shattered,’ she said.

He sat on the sofa, and she walked over and sat next to him. He leaned back, closing his eyes, and for a few precious moments he was able to switch off and enjoy the soothing atmosphere of her presence. When he opened them, Brooke was watching him with a pained expression, like someone bursting to make a confession.

‘Ben, I have something to say.’

He straightened up. ‘What?’ he asked, suddenly worried.

‘I’ve been thinking – and maybe this isn’t the right time to say it – but I’m not sure I should come here any more.’

He was silent as her words sank in.

‘What I said to you in London. About the way I felt. The way I feel. I shouldn’t have said that. But I can’t pretend I didn’t say it, any more than I can pretend it’s not true.’

‘I don’t want you to stop coming here,’ he murmured. He looked in her eyes. Very slowly, he reached out and stroked her soft cheek. Then, even more slowly, with his
heart beginning to thud faster, knowing he was crossing a bridge he couldn’t uncross, he leaned forward and kissed her.

This time, Brooke didn’t pull away from his embrace. They moved closer together. The kisses started off gentle and soft. Then, as their breathing quickened, the kisses became deep and passionate. She reclined back on the sofa, clutching at his clothes, pulling him down on top of her.

And then the door burst open with a juddering crash and two men in black tactical gear carrying silenced Skorpion machine pistols stormed into the room.

In the split second before anything else happened, Ben was already reacting. As he whipped round he locked on to the two pairs of eyes in the black tactical masks and he saw the intent in them. He’d seen that look plenty of times, the deliberately unthinking stony look, like the expression of a shark, that passes across a paid killer’s eyes in the instant before he does his job. The clearing of the mind, removing all doubt, all hesitation, any last vestiges of humanity. No prisoners, no discussions. Gloved fingers were on triggers. Actions were cocked, safeties set to FIRE. The fat, stubby silencers were trained right on them.

The silence of the room gave way to a flurry of muted gunfire, like the ripping of corrugated cardboard, as both shooters opened up simultaneously. But by then, Ben had Brooke shielded with his own body and he was kicking out with his legs while hurling his weight against the backrest of the sofa. Bullets thunked into its wooden frame as it toppled over backwards. Their bodies sprawled on the floor as a swarm of splinters and ripped pieces of foam flew around them.

There weren’t many good things about being on the wrong end of a Skorpion Vz61 submachine pistol in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. But even the most effective
shooter couldn’t do much about the combined effect of a rapid 850-round-a-minute rate of fire with the limited capacity of its standard ten-round box magazine. One quick dab of the trigger, a flurry of recoil against the shooter’s palm, and the machine would have rattled itself empty. In a shade under three-quarters of a second, it was all over. That made the compact Skorpion an ideal assassination weapon. Walk into a restaurant with one under your jacket, go striding up to the target’s table as he sits there innocently chewing on his
steak au poivre
, and before anyone knew what was happening the job was carried out and you were walking out of the place with a corpse in your wake. And a quick, clean assassination was exactly what these guys had had in mind for Ben and Brooke.

The problems arose when that opening gambit failed to claim its victim; and they intensified considerably when the intended victim was within arm’s reach of an improvised weapon of their own and had the reflexes and the instincts to press their advantage while the assassins were too busy dropping their empty magazines and slamming in new ones to notice that the odds had shifted against them.

As Ben rolled across the carpet he found himself a foot away from the broken picture frames that Brooke had gathered up. His fingers closed on a big triangular shard of glass and he skimmed it like a Frisbee, across the top of the overturned sofa and straight at the shooter on the left, a fraction of a second before the guy was able to let off another burst of fire.

The glass whirled sideways through the air and caught him on the side of the neck, where the flesh was exposed between the collar of his combat vest and the ski mask. Its jagged edge ripped through the jugular vein like the blade of a meat slicer. The man’s mouth opened into a screaming
red hole in the mask and his left hand flew across his body to the gaping slash in his neck that was already spraying a livid jet of blood across the room. His knees crumpled under him and the muzzle of his Skorpion flailed out wide. As the shock almost instantly started shutting down his central nervous system, nerve endings overloaded with signals from the brain, his fingers twitched involuntarily.

And touched off the trigger of his weapon just as it was pointing at the other shooter’s side. The weapon jerked under recoil, twisting upwards as though it had a life of its own. Ten rounds of 9mm raked the second shooter from thigh to chest, punching through every major organ on its way up. The man was dead before he hit the carpet.

The shooter with the slashed neck was the second to fall. He rolled and writhed and screamed as blood jetted under high pressure from his wound.

Even before he was down, Ben was up and over the upset sofa. He leapt across the room and landed in a crouch. Snatched up the fallen Skorpion that was still loaded and cocked. The guy he’d sliced was quickly bleeding to death. The rug was saturated with a spreading red stain, and squirts of blood were still pulsing weakly from the severed artery.

Ben could have made it easy for the guy, used the Skorpion to bring a quick end to the pain and terror of his last few moments of life. But having a loaded weapon in his hand was more important than showing mercy to his would-be killer.

Brooke was clambering out uncertainly from behind the fallen sofa. Ben ran to her. She was unhurt but visibly shaken as she gaped in horror at the bodies on the floor, the guns, the blood. He took her in his arms and held her tight for a second, both of them way beyond words.

Then he thought of Ruth and his guts turned to ice.

*  *  *

Just a minute before, Ruth had been sitting on the bed in her room, talking to Franz on the phone. She could tell from his voice that he’d been sick with worry.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner.’

‘Where the hell are you, Luna?’

‘France. Don’t worry, it’s all fine.’

‘You were kidnapped by this fucking maniac and now you tell me it’s all fine? Have you any idea—’