The Shadow Project

Ben wasn’t in the mood for niceties, but he returned the smile as Dorenkamp seemed to warrant it. ‘Very pleasant, thank you.’

‘Herr Steiner is very much looking forward to making your acquaintance. Regrettably it will not be today. He is tied up in meetings for the rest of the evening.’

‘A busy man,’ Ben commented.

Dorenkamp flashed a grin and chuckled. ‘You have no idea.’

A guy in his early twenties who looked like a valet emerged from a side entrance and walked over to them.

‘Dieter will take your car and have your luggage sent on to your quarters,’ Dorenkamp told Ben. ‘The garage blocks are situated to the rear of the east wing. All fully secure, naturally.’

Ben handed the Mini’s key to Dieter, and watched as his little car was driven off across the gravel and round the side of the chateau. He wondered how anyone was ever going to find it again among the Rolls-Royces, Aston Martins and Bugattis that he imagined filled the garages of a man like Maximilian Steiner.

Dorenkamp smiled again. ‘Now, please allow me to escort you to the guest accommodation, where the rest of your team are waiting for you. They arrived here late this afternoon.’

My team, Ben thought, and cursed himself one more time for good measure. From the opposite direction another member of staff came rolling up in a white golf buggy. Dorenkamp motioned to the back seats. ‘We generally use these for getting around. It is a big place.’

Ben didn’t reply as he climbed into the open buggy. Dorenkamp settled in beside him and the electric vehicle darted off through the grounds with surprising speed. As the sunlight faded, concealed floodlamps were beginning to burn brighter, lighting up the house and grounds. Around the side of the chateau, the view opened up to show more panoramic acres of perfectly clipped lawns, so green that they looked unreal. Ben said nothing, taking in his surroundings as they cut across the estate. In the distance he could see the little flags of a golf course waving in the light breeze.

‘You play, Mr Hope?’ Dorenkamp asked.

Ben shook his head and was about to reply when the buggy rounded another gigantic column and the PA said, ‘And here are your quarters.’

The accommodation was no chateau, but it was still spectacular enough to make Le Val look like a rustic hovel. The ultra-modern building was built into the side of a hill, its roof grassed over and dotted with wildflowers. Its white facade was smooth and undulating, a post-modern complex of caves with huge oval windows. Stylistically it was completely at odds with the chateau itself, but Ben had never seen a building so organically blended into its natural environment.

Dorenkamp noted his reaction with approval. ‘Designed by the architect Peter Vetsch. The inside is extremely well appointed. I don’t think you will be unhappy here.’

The inside was as white as the outside, the lines clean and elegant. The floors were granite tile that had been polished to a mirrored sheen, and the furniture was gleaming oak and white leather. Kandinsky and Paul Klee adorned the walls, and Ben would have bet they weren’t copies. A giant TV and sound system nestled discreetly in an oval wall alcove.

The worst thing about the place was the other occupants. Shannon’s guys had already got comfortable, slouching on the leather armchairs with their feet up on tables and bags, cases, clothing, shoes and magazines scattered about the main sitting area. Their laughter and conversation died down abruptly as Ben and Dorenkamp walked in. Ben met the six pairs of hostile eyes and his first thought was to ask himself why he wanted to cringe with embarrassment on behalf of someone else’s team. Shannon really could pick them.

If Dorenkamp noticed the change in the atmosphere or was shocked by the mess, he didn’t show it. Peeling back the sleeve of his jacket, he looked at his watch.

‘I’m pleased to see you are making yourselves at home, gentlemen. I must return to Herr Steiner’s meeting. Dinner will be brought to you at seven thirty.’

He was about to leave, then seemed to remember something. ‘One other point I should make clear to you all,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘I am unaware whether there are any smokers among you, but I should make it clear that smoking is strictly disallowed anywhere within the estate.’ He pointed up at the ceiling, and Ben saw there was an alarm discreetly blended into the plasterwork. ‘It is very sensitive, and it makes quite a noise, believe me.’ Dorenkamp smiled again. ‘Now, gentlemen, I shall leave you to settle in.’

With Dorenkamp gone, the atmosphere settled quickly into frosty silence as the rest of the team watched Ben resentfully. He ignored them and went about exploring the accommodation. Each team member had his own bedroom with en-suite shower room. There was a communal sauna room, Jacuzzi, and a well-equipped gym with stationary bikes, running and rowing machines, weight bench and racks of dumbbells. The separate dining area had a long table and seven chairs. Everything was neat, precise and laid out with the utmost thoughtfulness.

‘Never had a gig like this before,’ Ben heard Jackson say as he walked back into the living area. ‘Awesome.’

‘Shame Rupert couldn’t be here, though,’ Neville said in a pointed stage whisper that was plainly intended for Ben to hear. Ben said nothing.

Dinner was served promptly at seven thirty by three waiting staff in white jackets. The chicken casserole was simple but smelled great, and with it came five bottles of good wine. Ben filled up a plate, grabbed one of the bottles and went off to eat alone in his room. It might not be helping his popularity with the group any, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He wasn’t here to make friends. No matter what, he knew they’d keep resenting his presence there until Shannon took over. Which couldn’t happen soon enough.

Let’s just get the damn job done, he thought to himself.

Chapter Eleven

At the same moment, Adam O’Connor was walking into a hotel room on the edge of the city of Graz, Austria. He dumped his travel bag and briefcase on the narrow bed, stared out of the window at the flickering neon sign of the bar across the road, then slumped in an armchair and closed his eyes.

Everything had gone exactly as the kidnappers had said it would. The room had been reserved for him, his key ready and waiting. The fat, greasy-looking guy behind the reception desk had taken only the most cursory look at his passport. No paperwork, no register to sign. Just a key and a grunt and a nod towards the lift. He wondered if the whole hotel staff were in on this too. The bastards probably were. He wanted to grab the television and shove it through the window, set the whole damn building on fire, run screaming through the streets.

But he had to do as they said. Now all he could do was wait. Wait and think about his thirteen-year-old son, imprisoned Christ knew where.

The whole journey, he’d been unable to stop thinking that Sabrina was bound to call the cops. What if she did? What if they found out what was happening? Rory would die.

And Adam wasn’t fool enough to imagine that Rory wasn’t going to die anyway, if he just blindly went along with the kidnappers’ demands. He knew enough about the way these things worked to know that things didn’t just go back to normal afterwards.

Which was why, right from the first moment he’d stood there listening to their demands on the phone, he’d made his plans.

Fuck them. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. He was going to get his son out of there unharmed, and he knew exactly how he was going to do it.

Downstairs in the hotel lobby, the fat receptionist picked up the phone and stabbed out the number he’d been given. Two rings, and someone answered. The same voice he’d heard before.

‘The American is here,’ the receptionist said. Then he put the phone down and went back to his internet poker.