‘I’m flying back to London the day after tomorrow. Call me there if I don’t see you before, OK?’
Outside the sun was shining brightly and the air tasted fresh and sweet after last night’s rainstorm. It felt like it was going to be a hot day. Ben looked around him as he walked across the yard, and on top of all the other things he was feeling, he felt a tingle of apprehension wash through him. He didn’t want to lose this place.
He strode over to the office and walked in to see that Luc Simon’s fax had come through already. He dumped his bag on the floor, tore the single sheet out of the machine and studied it. There were two police mugshots of Don Jarrett, a photocopy of a
Ben folded the paper into his pocket. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the office phone and dialled the number for the bank manager.
Five minutes later he had set up an appointment at the branch in Valognes. Dupont, the manager, was away fishing and couldn’t see him for ten days. That suited Ben fine. He wasn’t in too much of a hurry to find out whether or not he was about to lose his livelihood.
He wondered what Dupont’s reaction was going to be when he told him how much money he needed to raise. As a going concern and with all the work he’d done on the place, Le Val had to be worth at least a million and a half. Business was better than he’d ever anticipated. The facility was bringing commerce to the area. Thanks to his clients and delegates, the local village brasserie had never had it so good. Ben was liked, and he was employing local people. Maybe the bank would look favourably on his needs.
Maybe. Or maybe not. But right now, he couldn’t think about that.
As he was about to leave the office, the phone rang again. Ben knew the voice immediately. Shannon. Screaming at the top of his voice.
‘Motherfucker, you’re going to pay me that fucking money!’
‘How’s the back, Rupert?’
‘I want the fucking money. I want it now.’
‘You can’t have it now.’
‘I want it.’
‘You’ll get it when I have it. That’s the best I can do.’
Shannon went on screaming down the phone about his lost contract, his ruined reputation, his damaged back, that bitch Brooke walking out on him, and Ben’s personal responsibility for all the ills of the world. After about thirty seconds of furious invective, Ben had had enough and took the phone away from his ear. Even at arm’s length, he could still hear the tinny little voice rasping from the receiver. He gently laid the phone handset down on the desk, turned and walked away. Shannon was still screaming at him as he shut the office door.
Something to worry about later.
From the office, Ben went over to the old converted Dutch barn at the side of the house where he kept the Mini, and tossed his bag onto the passenger seat. He’d always been a light traveller. He was carrying just a change of clothing, his well-worn whisky flask topped up with his favourite ten-year-old Laphroaig, two spare packs of untipped Gauloises and a few other travelling items.
In addition to which he’d packed something that Luc Simon wouldn’t have been too happy about.
The pistol wasn’t part of the official weapons inventory at Le Val, every item of which was registered and logged, serial numbers on file everywhere from NATO to the French Defence Ministry. It was a scuffed old plain steel Smith & Wesson automatic that had probably seen criminal use at some point in its life, the serial numbers filed off both frame and slide. The child kidnapper Ben had taken it from didn’t need it any more, the same way he hadn’t needed any food, water or air for the last six years. It had lain at the bottom of Ben’s safe deposit box at the Banque Nationale in Paris for most of that time, and it wasn’t until he’d cleared it out before moving to Le Val that he’d even remembered it was there.
He didn’t expect any serious need for it in Bruges. But in his experience there was only one really effective way of liberating information from someone who didn’t want to talk. There was no need to hurt them, or even to make specific threats. Just the sight of the weapon was usually enough, especially for a bookish type of guy like Don Jarrett.
Luc Simon would be pissed off.
He fired up the Mini, drove out of the barn and across the yard. As he passed the house he glanced over and saw Brooke standing at the window watching him go. She gave a sad little wave.
On the track that led towards the road, he met Silvain Bourdon’s minibus, waved at the driver and pulled to the side to let it by. Bourdon was the local guy whose taxi firm Ben used to shuttle delegates back and forth from the airport at Cherbourg. As the dusty minibus passed by, he could see the pasty faces of the eight insurance brokers who were here for Brooke’s hostage psychology course.
Hating himself for leaving her and Jeff at a time like this, Ben drove on up to the road, passed through the gates and pointed the car east across France for the second time in three days.
Rory woke up in a soft bed. At first he thought he was at home, and it was all a bad dream. That he was going to sit up in bed and see all his things around him, his posters on the wall and his chess computer on the desk, his astrobinoculars on their tripod over the other side of the room, and then look out of the window and see the sun rising over the lake and hear the birds singing in the trees outside and the sound of his Aunt Sabrina’s voice calling his name from downstairs.
But when he blinked away the bleariness and his vision came into focus, he saw where he really was and felt that cold, skin-shrivelling feeling down the back of his neck.
He was in a room he’d never seen before, and he had no idea how he’d got here. He only knew how very, very desperately he didn’t want to be here. The stone walls had no windows, and the only light came from a dull naked bulb that hung from a wire above his head and was covered with spider’s webs and the dried-out corpses of flies.
The other side of the iron bed frame, two men were standing watching him. One was tall with sandy hair, about the same age as his dad or maybe a little younger. The other was shorter, not much taller than Rory, with a ruddy complexion and thick dark hair.
Rory shrank away from them.
‘You’re awake,’ the sandy-haired man said. He sounded English. ‘You’ve been asleep for a long time.’
Rory could feel the bruise in the crook of his left elbow where the needle had gone in. He remembered now. The ship, the sea, the distant islands he’d seen from the deck when he’d managed to get away. The kidnappers who’d chased him. The way he’d managed to toss the stolen phone overboard before they’d caught him and dragged him roughly out from under the lifeboat and shaken him violently, asking him who he’d telephoned; how he’d struggled and kicked and screamed and spat in their faces as they’d held him tight and rolled up his sleeve and the horrible woman had jabbed the syringe into his arm. The last thing he could recall was being hauled back down to that stinking hold and being cuffed to the pipe again. Nothing after that.
He glared at the strangers at the foot of his bed and thought about his secret. He was smarter than they were. Only he knew that he’d talked to Sabrina. She and his dad would have called the cops. There had to be the biggest search of all time underway by now.
‘You assholes had better let me go,’ he said darkly.
The sandy-haired man grinned. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Because my dad happens to be in the Special Forces, and if you don’t let me go home right now, he’s going to hunt you down and take you apart.’
‘Your dad sounds like quite a fellow,’ the sandy-haired man said. ‘But the thing is, Rory, I know you’re making that up. I’ve spoken to your dad. In fact, he and I are very well acquainted. And it might interest you to know that he’s on his way here even as we speak. You’ll be seeing him in no time.’
Rory frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Because he and I have some business to take care of. But that needn’t concern you. All you have to do is sit
