arc of the blow. He didn’t try to block it. He didn’t want anyone getting hurt.
‘What’s wrong with you, Major Hope? Forgotten how to fight?’ Shannon took another swing, and again Ben moved out of the way.
‘You’re being ridiculous, Rupert,’ Brooke shouted. ‘This is supposed to be an exercise, not a bar-room brawl. What’s got into you?’
But Shannon had completely forgotten the exercise. ‘Just like I said, Hope. You’re getting too old and too slow for this, you fucker.’
Ben ignored him and calmly turned away. ‘Enough. Everyone back into position.’ He clapped his hands, twice. Pointed through the open door at Shannon’s trussed-up team. ‘Paul, Raoul, untie them. Let’s go again.’
It was partly the look on Jeff’s face, but mostly Ben’s natural instinct that made him sense the movement behind him.
It happened fast. He half-turned. This time Shannon was flying at him with all his weight and power.
If Ben had done nothing and stayed where he was, the incoming punch was on course to take him on the side of the head. Shannon was a muscular guy, with a broad back and thick shoulders. A blow like that could do considerable damage. Loss of hearing in one ear. Damage to an eye. Or worse.
Naturally, the blow couldn’t be allowed to land. Instead, Ben moved again. And this time he moved at full speed.
Shannon hit the floor with a crash that almost broke through the planks and sent him tumbling down into the foundations. He writhed and rolled and howled in agony, clutching his arm. ‘You bastard!’
Brooke ran over to Shannon and kneeled down beside him. ‘Let me see.’
‘He’s broken my fucking arm!’
She looked angrily up at Ben. ‘What did you do to him?’
Ben didn’t reply. Apart from Shannon’s groans, there was absolute silence in the room. Shannon’s men were lying there staring in horror through the open door at their prostrated leader.
Jeff had his arms folded and one eyebrow raised. Ben caught his look. Jeff didn’t have to say it.
Shannon was still whimpering on the floor.
Ben turned to his assistants. ‘Raoul, call an ambulance, will you?’
Twenty minutes later, there were flashing blue lights in the yard at Le Val as paramedics took Shannon away on a stretcher. Ben watched from a distance, saying nothing, trying not to contemplate what had just happened. He looked on numbly as Brooke climbed into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics closed up the back doors and Ben lost sight of her.
‘Ben?’ said Jeff’s voice behind him, and Ben turned.
‘I’ll go along too. Best you stay here, OK?’
Ben nodded. ‘Fine.’
Jeff held his eye for a moment. It was hard to tell whether he was about to laugh or start yelling at him. Maybe both. Then he ran over to the ambulance and clambered in the front, leaving Ben standing there on his own. A blast of the siren, and the ambulance took off. He watched as it drove out of the yard and started making its way down the long drive towards the gates. He guessed they’d take Shannon to the hospital at Valognes, a few miles away.
There was nothing left to do except wait. Ben slumped on a low wall and lit up a cigarette. Storm, his favourite of the German Shepherds, and more of a pet than a guard dog, came running over and licked his face. Ben ran his fingers through the dog’s fur, genuinely grateful for the company.
He sat on the wall and smoked as Shannon’s team came filing past about thirty yards away, firing hostile looks across the yard at him and muttering among themselves in low voices. They disappeared one by one into the trainee block. Neville was the last to go in, shooting a long stare at Ben before slamming the olive-green door shut with a bang that echoed around the buildings. Paul and Raoul had repaired to the office, maybe awaiting his instructions.
He couldn’t think of any to give them. They might as well go home now.
He blew out a cloud of smoke and ruffled the dog’s ears.
‘Well, Storm, that surely was a fine morning’s work.’
The outskirts of Dublin shrank away in the Saab’s rearview mirror as Adam O’Connor drove southwards into the green countryside. A choral air by the medieval composer Thomas Tallis filled the car from the six-speaker CD player, but Adam hardly heard the music. He was thinking about the deaths of his old friends, and feeling sad. And just a little guilty, too, that he’d allowed himself to lose contact with them.
Michio and Julia and him. Part of Adam missed those days. The three of them might have seemed an unlikely bunch of friends – the sober American professor quietly going crazy with his marital problems, the ebullient, fun- loving Japanese planetary scientist and the brilliant, hard-driving young head of the Applied Physics Department at Manchester University – but it had been great for a while, a refreshing antidote to the daily drag of teaching and research, lectures and seminars and department politics. There’d been a kind of innocent camaraderie between them, almost like schoolkids. From the outside, it might have seemed even stranger that what had drawn the trio together from across the world was their shared interest in an obscure, all-but-forgotten, wartime Nazi engineer and SS general. Hans Kammler had been personally appointed by Adolf Hitler in 1943 to work on some very, very strange things indeed.
Their first meeting had been a chance encounter at a physics conference in Cambridge, just about the driest and most uninspiring series of lectures Adam had ever listened to. He’d actually fallen asleep in the middle of the morning session, until he’d been prodded awake by the grinning little Japanese guy sitting next to him and he’d realised with a flush of embarrassment that he’d been snoring.
When the lecture ended, Michio had laughed about it all the way to the delegates’ lunch. Adam liked him right away, and sat with him. Across from them had been a bright-eyed, attentive and switched-on young British physics PhD who introduced herself as Julia Goodman.
Instant friends. Just one of those moments in life when people seemed to chime with one another. They’d endured the rest of the afternoon’s lectures as a threesome, then got together again for the evening in the bar at the hotel where many of the delegates were staying.
That had been when the ever-smiling Michio had first mentioned the name Kammler to them. He’d kept them up until after midnight in the bar, babbling on about his discoveries. The little guy’s almost hyperactive enthusiasm had been infectious, and it hadn’t taken him long to persuade them that this obscure piece of science history was more than just bizarrely compelling. Adam could still remember the rush of amazement he’d felt, and the look on Julia’s face, when Michio had told them what he reckoned the Nazis had really been into. If you were even half- alive, if academia hadn’t yet dried out your soul, it was the kind of physics that could turn your blood to wine just thinking about it.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Adam had asked Michio. Sometimes the most exciting theories were nothing more than a cool idea waiting to be destroyed by an ugly, inconvenient truth. But even as he’d asked the question, the sparkle in Michio’s eyes told him this was no fanciful notion.
‘I’m more than sure. I know they could make it work.’
‘But the implications of what you’re saying—’ Julia cut in.
‘Blows your mind, doesn’t it?’ Michio had grinned. ‘Get used to it. There’s more.’
And there was. The more Adam and Julia listened to what Michio had to say, the more incredible it seemed. This was pure, beautiful, intoxicating science. Nothing to do with politics or ideology. Science the way it was meant to be. It was easy to forget that the man behind it all was an SS general, one of the minds behind the building of Hitler’s death camps and, in the closing days of World War II, one of the top five figures in the dying Third Reich. Adam had found himself almost obsessively consumed with the Kammler theories, as the months went on. The three of them had started meeting up whenever they could – London, Tokyo, New York – and staying in touch via email in between, mulling over ideas, postulating what-if scenarios. It had become a little gang of three, and they’d
