‘Relaxing, mostly. Waiting for you.’
‘I told you not to wait for me,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘Jeff’s been teaching me to shoot. Says I’m good at it.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he grunted, reaching for the bottle again.
‘You going to drink the whole thing?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Someone’s been calling for you,’ she said. ‘Phoned three times this evening. A woman.’ She paused, watching his reaction. ‘Someone called Zara. Sounded Australian.’
Ben’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. He set it down heavily on the table. ‘Shit,’ he muttered.
Brooke smiled, raising an eyebrow. ‘Someone you ran into on your travels?’
‘You might say that,’ he replied sullenly.
‘Seemed very anxious to talk to you,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m sure she’ll call again.’ She leaned forward on her elbows. ‘So what’s she like, Ben?’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play games. You know who I mean. Zara.’
He stared at her. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Whoo. Testy. Must have hit a nerve there.’
‘Leave it alone, Brooke. I’m tired, OK?’
‘Is she pretty? Sounded pretty.’
He stood up, grabbed his glass and what was left of the bottle. ‘I’m going to bed.’ As an afterthought he grabbed another bottle from the rack and tucked it under his arm as he headed for the door. ‘See you in the morning,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be up late.’
‘What if she calls again?’
‘Tell her I’ve died or something,’ he said. Then he banged through the door and climbed the stairs.
He’d been right about the late morning. It was well after ten o’clock when he came plodding down the stairs holding three empties. The two wine bottles, and the whisky he’d washed them down with. His mouth felt thick with the aftertaste of stale booze, and his head was heavy.
It hadn’t been a good night. He’d thrashed about restlessly for a long time, trying to sleep. But it had been no use. He couldn’t stop his mind from whirring around and around in circles, working over all the things that had been happening. Eventually, he’d given up. Sat up on the rumpled sheets and put the light on and just sat drinking until well after five in the morning.
The faces of the three men he’d killed had haunted him long into the night. Even when he’d polished off the second bottle of wine and moved on to the whisky he kept in the wardrobe, he hadn’t been able to still his mind.
When he wasn’t thinking about the things he’d had to do in Cairo, he was thinking about Zara. He thought of the brief time they’d spent together. Seeing her in the little bookshop in San Remo. Running through the rain to shelter from the thunderstorm. The touch of her hand on his arm. Her firm body close to his. Her smile, her laugh, her tears.
Why was she calling him? He dreaded having to talk to her, if she called again. And he knew she was sure to. What if she wanted to meet him? He knew that just the sound of her voice might destroy his resolve-that he’d give in and agree to meet up with her somewhere. That just couldn’t happen.
Part of him was thankful that Harry had agreed to haul anchor and relocate the Scimitar. Zara would be far away, and in time his feelings would diminish. But it also meant he probably would never see her again, and right now he wasn’t sure he could handle that.
He was still feeling racked with the same uncertainty, and hating himself bitterly for his weakness, as he stepped out into the morning drizzle. He was heading across the yard to dump his empty bottles into the recycling bin when he heard Jeff Dekker’s voice call his name.
He turned. ‘Hi, Jeff.’ His voice came out as a croak.
Jeff trotted up to him. The trousers of his fatigues were spattered in mud up to the knee. ‘Glad to see you back. Are you taking the eleven o’clock pistol shooting group?’ He glanced at the empty bottles and looked more closely at Ben’s face. ‘Jesus, mate. You look like-’
‘Like shit. So everyone keeps telling me.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I just need to get my head together. I was thinking of going for a good long run.’
‘You look more like you need to rest.’
‘I’m sick of resting. Running will relax me. Listen, if anyone calls for me-’
‘Like Zara, for example?’ Jeff grinned.
‘Give me a break. Not you as well.’
‘She sounded hot. Anything you’d like to tell me, Ben?’
Ben sighed. ‘Yeah. Mind your own fucking business.’
‘She’s bound to call again,’ Jeff said. ‘You can’t put her off forever.’
‘I don’t want to talk to her. Tell her anything you like. I’ve gone off and joined the Trappist monks, OK?’
‘If she wants to come here, I’m not going to put her off,’ Jeff said. ‘I’m no Trappist monk.’
‘Do me a favour, Jeff Ben walked over to the recycling bin and tossed the bottles in one at a time. He whistled for Storm. The German Shepherd burst out of one of the barns, halted suddenly, stiff and alert, then came running over.
Ben ran his fingers through the dog’s thick coat. ‘Come on, boy. Let’s go and run some of the crap out of our system.’
Two hours of punishment later, as the drizzle turned into sheeting rain over Le Val, Ben and the dog returned to the house bedraggled and soaking. Storm shook himself in the yard and trotted over to his kennel. Ben walked up to the house and went into the kitchen.
Jeff Dekker and the six-strong group for the new Counter Attack Team training course were all sitting around the long table eating lunch. Jeff was in the middle of entertaining them with a funny anecdote when Ben walked in. Faces turned to look. ‘Everyone, this is Ben Hope,’ Jeff said, breaking off his story. ‘Come and join us, Ben. I was just telling them about that time when-’
‘Great to meet you all,’ Ben interrupted him shortly. ‘Have a good lunch. Maybe see you later.’ He strode up to the wine rack, dripping rainwater across the flagstones, and grabbed a bottle. Snatched a cold chicken leg from the platter in the middle of the table and headed for the door. The room had gone quiet and he could feel all eyes upon him, but he didn’t care. He shoved through the door and headed for his quarters.
Upstairs, he dumped the bottle and the chicken leg on his desk, stripped off his wet clothes and left them in a heap on the floor as he went for a shower. He spent a long time under the water, turning it up as hot as he could bear it. Afterwards he towelled himself dry and changed into a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. Flopping on the couch, he munched desultorily on the cold chicken and gulped wine from the bottle. It didn’t do much to take the edge off his mood.
He was just thinking of going downstairs to fetch more Laphroaig from the cellar when his phone rang in his pocket. He dug it out, and his thumb hovered over the reply button for a moment before he decided against answering it. It rang insistently until his answering service kicked in, then went quiet.
You fucking coward, he seethed at himself. It might not even have been her. You never going to answer your phone again?
A few moments later, it rang again. He took a deep breath and answered on the second ring.
He had a message. It was Zara.
Her voice sounded small and timid. ‘Ben, it’s me. Where are you? I’ve called and called.’ A pause. ‘There are things I have to talk to you about. Important things. Call me back soon, all right?’ Another pause. ‘Love you. Miss you.’
Then the robotic voice of the answering service was again in his ear. ‘To listen to the message again, press 1…’
He couldn’t bring himself to delete it. He listened to it again. Decided to call her back. Fuck it.
He was just about to phone her when there was a thumping on his door and Jeff walked in and stood over him with his arms folded.
