and black concentric rings. The target was rising and falling gently on the swell. He guessed that made for a more interesting challenge.
He watched as she drew the string back, tension loading up in the bow’s curved limbs, kinetic energy piling up behind the slim shaft of the arrow. All the best shooters he’d seen, the cream of the world’s military marksmen, had that essential quality of stillness. That quiet assurance. It wasn’t pride. It was the ability to lose themselves in the shot, to sublimate their ego completely so that, at the moment of release, they didn’t even exist. Nothing existed except the target and the projectile. And he could see that same Zen-like, almost unattainable magic stillness in this woman as she stood there, oblivious of him watching her, poised like an Amazon against the sunlight, her body in perfect balance.
She released the shot. The bow tilted loosely in her hand as the tension left it. The arrow whipped through the air, covering the distance too quickly for the eye to follow. Ben shielded his eyes and saw it juddering in the centre of the yellow circle, right next to her previous shot. She certainly was good.
The woman nodded to herself, her face serene, just a hint of fierce satisfaction in her eyes. She reached for another arrow and brought it smoothly up to the bow.
Ben wondered who she was.
‘That’s Zara, my wife,’ said a voice behind him, as if answering his thoughts. He turned and, for the first time in a decade, he found himself face to face with Colonel Harry Paxton.
The man hadn’t changed physically, as far as Ben could see. He must have been fifty-four now, but he was still in great shape. He was casually dressed in jeans and a white cotton shirt. His greying hair was cropped short, just as it had been back in his army days. He had only a few lines to show for the intervening ten years. But somewhere behind the eyes, something had changed. There was pain there, some kind of emptiness. Ben had a feeling he was soon going to know more about it.
‘She was the Australian Open champion when I met her,’ Paxton said, nodding towards Zara. He smiled tenderly, a little sadly. ‘We’ve been married eleven months now.’
Ben’s eye lingered on her for just a moment. Then he turned and looked back at his old colonel.
‘Hello, Benedict.’ Paxton grasped Ben’s hand and shook it with warmth and sincerity. ‘It’s so very good to see you again.’
‘It’s been a long time, Harry.’
‘Too damn long.’
For a moment Ben thought about mentioning Helen. Saying how sorry he’d been to hear of her death. But it didn’t seem right with Paxton’s new wife standing just yards away.
‘Thanks for coming at such short notice,’ Paxton said warmly. ‘You’ve no idea how grateful I am to you.’
‘I knew you were a keen sailor,’ Ben said. ‘But this is something else. I’m extremely impressed.’
‘My hobby became my business,’ Paxton answered modestly, as though it was nothing. ‘I’d always had an interest in designing and building yachts, but it wasn’t until after I retired from the forces that I started getting into it more seriously.’ He waved his arm across the sweeping decks. ‘Scimitar is the flagship of my little fleet. As well as manufacturing products to order for our clients, we run a charter business.’
Ben smiled at the idea of a yacht this size being so casually termed a ‘product’. ‘You’ve done pretty well for yourself
‘As far as business is concerned,’ Paxton replied, ‘I can’t complain. I’ve been lucky.’ A dark look passed across his face, like a shadow. The sad look in his eyes suddenly intensified.
‘But you didn’t call me here to talk about business, did you?’ Ben said.
Paxton sighed. ‘No, I didn’t. You’ve been very kind to come all this way. I owe you an explanation. Let’s go somewhere private. Bring your drink.’ He started down the companionway to the deck below.
As Ben went to follow him, he glanced back over his shoulder. Zara Paxton was laying down her bow, watching him from a distance. She waved tentatively, and Ben caught the flash of a smile before he looked away.
The interior of the yacht was even more spectacular than the exterior. Everything was burnished wood, and the carpets were thick and plush. Paxton led Ben through a series of corridors and opened a door. ‘This is my private library. We can talk in here without being disturbed.’
Ben stepped inside the huge room and gazed around him at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He ran his eye along the spines of books. Shakespeare. Milton. Virgil. Row after row of military history and the age of sail. Where the walls weren’t covered in books, gilt-framed oils of nineteenth-century warships glistened in the sunbeams that streamed through an overhead skylight.
Paxton motioned to a pair of burgundy Chesterfields. ‘Please, have a seat.’
Ben sat down. The leather was cool against his back. He sipped his drink and watched Paxton for a moment. The colonel looked as if he was full of things to say, but didn’t know where to start.
‘What’s this about, Harry?’ Ben asked softly. ‘You said you needed my help.’
‘I’m sorry I was so mysterious on the phone,’ Paxton said. ‘It’s something I can discuss only in person.’ He walked over to a glossy antique sideboard that was covered with silver-framed photos. Some were of sleek white yachts in a variety of exotic locations, but most were family shots. Paxton picked one up, gazed at it for a moment, sighed and handed it to Ben.
Ben looked at it, wondering what this was about. The picture showed a man in his early thirties, rather bookish, serious-looking. Glasses, thin sandy hair, a slight belly, narrow shoulders.
‘My son, Morgan,’ Paxton murmured.
Ben glanced up in surprise. He’d known that Paxton had a son, but the man in this photo wasn’t what he’d have expected.
Paxton seemed to read Ben’s thoughts. ‘He took much more after his mother, physically. Our kind of life, the military life, wouldn’t have agreed with him.’
‘You talk about him in the past tense.’
Paxton nodded. ‘I’ve made it quite obvious, haven’t I? That’s what this is about.’ His throat sounded tight with emotion. ‘The reason I asked you to come here is that my son is dead.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Ben replied after a beat.
‘He was murdered.’
Ben watched Paxton’s eyes. It wasn’t just pain in them now, but a depth of smouldering rage that was barely under control.
Paxton let out a long, trembling sigh, visibly struggling to stay calm. ‘Let me get you another drink,’ he whispered. ‘Scotch, wasn’t it?’ He replaced the photo on the sideboard, reached for a decanter and topped up Ben’s glass. He poured one for himself, drained it, refilled it.
Ben sipped the Scotch and waited for Paxton to go on.
Paxton slumped heavily in the matching Chesterfield opposite him. ‘Morgan died in Egypt almost two months ago,’ he said. ‘He was found in his rented apartment. He’d been stabbed to death. There were thirty knife wounds in his body.’ Paxton related the details matter-of-factly but his fingers were white against the crystal glass. He gulped back the last of the drink and set the glass down heavily on the table between them.
Ben watched every movement. He understood all too well what Paxton was going through. His heart went out to him.
But he still didn’t understand why the colonel had called him here. ‘What was Morgan doing in Egypt?’ he asked. ‘Did he live there?’
Paxton shook his head. ‘Morgan is…’ He paused, catching himself. Sighed and went on. ‘Morgan was an academic at University of London. He taught history, specialising in Near Eastern Studies. That’s what he was doing in Cairo. He was on a sabbatical, researching something to do with ancient Egypt.’
Ben listened intently.
‘The police think it was an opportunistic robbery gone wrong,’ Paxton continued. ‘Whether he surprised the thieves, or they broke into the apartment while he was there, nobody knows. Or even cares. The Cairo police haven’t caught whoever did it. They’re not even close, and I don’t think they’re going to get results.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Ben said again. ‘I wish there was something I-’
‘There is,’ Paxton said, cutting him off. They locked eyes for a moment, and Ben tried to read the look. The sadness was still there, and the rage. But there was something else. The look of a planner at work, a tactician. The mind working hard through all that pain. Focusing, not folding.
Ben waited for the rest.
