wild bluff. The Russian had only to ask one hard question, and it was over. Ben knew he needed to steer the conversation away fast. ‘So do you want it or not? I have other buyers interested.’
‘How is this possible?’ Shikov asked. ‘It’s possible because I’m smarter than you,’ Ben said.
‘I want it,’ Shikov said. ‘You must meet me. We will talk.’
‘Right. And then you’ll have your men kill me, for Anatoly.’
‘My son was a worthless piece of shit,’ Shikov said. ‘So was Tassoni. The egg means much more. Trust me. I am a businessman. But I also must trust you to come alone.’
‘You think I’d bring the cops?’ Ben said. ‘Think again. I’m a fugitive, wanted for murder. Tassoni might have been a shit, but he was an important shit.’
‘Then we have a deal. You give me what I want, I give you what you want. The egg, for your life.’
‘Not good enough. I need to disappear after this, Shikov. I want money.’ As he talked, Ben carried the phone into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.
From outside the door, Darcey could hear him talking but couldn’t make out the words. She paced, chewing her lip and wondering why he’d shut her out like that. After a minute or so, he’d gone quiet. The phone rang again, and she heard him answer it and talk a while longer. Almost twenty more minutes went by before he finally emerged from the bedroom and she attacked him with questions.
‘Well?’
‘We set up a meeting,’ Ben said. ‘We figured halfway house. Berlin.’
‘What was all that about money?’
‘To make it believable that I really have the egg. Nobody would let it go for free.’
‘Who called you afterwards?’
‘Shikov lost his signal for a minute. He called back.’
‘This RV in Berlin. A precise location?’
Ben nodded.
‘You’re not thinking of going?’
Ben didn’t reply.
‘It’d be madness, Ben. Don’t you see? This is perfect. I’ll call Applewood. We’ll spring the biggest trap in history and stick Shikov in a cage where he belongs. Anybody tries to fuck with us, we have
Ben grinned at her. ‘You know, you’re right.’
‘Damn right I’m right.’
‘Let’s celebrate. Did you say there was champagne down in the cellar?’
‘Enough bottles to knock out the whole of Monaco,’ she said.
‘You go and fetch one. I’ll grab two glasses from the kitchen.’
‘Now you’re talking, Ben Hope.’ Darcey trotted down the passage and unbolted the little door that led down to the wine cellar. She skipped down the concrete steps. The cellar was like a maze. Tall racks surrounded her, filled from floor to ceiling with row after row of dusty bottles. She drew one out, brushed away cobwebs. A vintage Moet. This would do just fine. As she ran her eyes over the label, she was thinking about when the bottle was empty and how she was going to haul Ben back in the bedroom and . . .
The cellar door banged shut. She heard the creak of the bolt sliding home.
‘Ben!’ she yelled. She flew up the steps, still clutching the bottle.
There was something on the top step that hadn’t been there just a moment ago. A dinner plate, and on it a whole roast chicken, cellophane-wrapped, cold from the fridge. Next to that was a two-litre bottle of mineral water. Propped against the bottle was a scrawled note that said simply:
Darcey beat against the cellar door. ‘Let me out, you bastard!’
But Ben was already gone.
Monaco’s city lights glittered below as Ben ran down the winding cliff road with his bag on his shoulder. He hailed down a cab that took him the rest of the way to the harbour. Sitting on a low wall, he smoked a Gauloise, gazed out across the dark water and listened to the soft lap of the tide against the harbour wall and the jostle of the sailing yachts and catamarans in the marina. A party was in full swing on the lit-up deck of some trillion-dollar megayacht, a band playing, and women in long dresses parading up and down the jetty where it was moored. As he watched them from a distance, Ben thought about Darcey Kane. He’d had no option but to lie to her about meeting Shikov in Berlin, any more than he’d had a choice about shutting her in the cellar. She was too clever and tenacious. And his next move was one he needed to make alone, his way.
Then he thought about what had nearly happened between them. He’d had a choice there, all right.
He sighed and decided to try to stop thinking so much.
Far out to sea, a small aircraft was approaching. Ben watched as the seaplane’s lights descended towards the horizon and it touched down a few kilometres away over the water. Dead on time. Shikov was definitely taking the bait.
Moments later, a fast outboard launch cut across the harbour, and Ben knew it was for him. He walked down the jetty to meet it and two guys ushered him aboard. One of them pointed a Smith & Wesson revolver at the pit of Ben’s stomach as the other frisked him and checked his bag for any concealed weapons. Then the launch motored out of the harbour and out to sea, where the guy with the revolver waved him aboard the waiting Bombardier amphibious aircraft. More silent armed men flanked him as he buckled into a seat. The plane gathered speed, bounced once and then took off.
From the Cote d’Azur, the thrumming, vibrating Bombardier flew overland. Roughly northeast, Ben guessed by the stars, though he didn’t ask, aware he’d get no reply. A long time passed before they finally touched down at a remote private airfield that could have been anywhere between Geneva, Milan or even Zurich. A Mercedes saloon took him and his armed escorts a few hundred metres up the runway as the Bombardier taxied away. A sleek white Gulfstream jet was on standby. Ben was hustled unceremoniously up the gangway and shown to a seat in the back. It was a little more luxurious than the flying boat. Ben spread himself out in the plush leather seat, ignoring his hosts, and closed his eyes.
He lost count of how many hours the jet stayed in the air – maybe six, maybe longer. By the time the Gulfstream dropped below the clouds, they’d passed through a couple of time zones and dawn was breaking over the wild landscape of mountain and pine forest that Ben could see from his porthole.
After a low pass through a wooded valley, the jet dropped suddenly and came down to land on a runway that looked as though it might have been hastily knocked together years before by military engineers. Ben noticed the rocket-pitted concrete and wondered what former European war zone they were in. Georgia, maybe.
As Ben stepped down from the jet, the Georgian plates of the black Humvee parked waiting at the foot of the strip told him his guess had been correct. The same pair of armed goons prodded him down towards the vehicle as its doors opened and another two men climbed out. Neither of them appeared to be Grigori Shikov. Ben guessed that honour would have to wait. The Humvee passenger was holding a stubby Kalashnikov rifle with a folding stock and a long, curved magazine. He barked an order, and one of Ben’s escorts grinned and whipped a cloth hood from the pocket of his jacket. He stepped up to Ben and jerked it roughly over his head. Ben felt a big hand grab his arm, and he was shoved into the back seat of the Humvee.
Then it was more travelling, lurching and bouncing over rough roads as the vehicle headed east into the rising sun, whose glow Ben could see through the material of the hood. The drive lasted another twenty minutes or so; by the time the Humvee paused to pass through a set of gates and then lurched to a halt, Ben’s eyes were tired from
