Chapter Sixty
Ben awoke on a hard stone floor, shivering with cold and blind in the darkness. His head was throbbing badly. Touching his fingers to the lump on the back of his skull, he felt the crust of dried blood where his captors had clubbed him. He stood up and let his eyes adjust to the blackness, and gradually he was able to make out his surroundings. The stone cell was about eight feet square and windowless. A plain wooden bunk was mounted to one wall, a washbasin and rudimentary toilet to another.
He could tell from the airless, damp atmosphere that he was underground. His pockets had been emptied, but they’d let him keep his watch. Its faintly glowing dial read after 4 a.m., December 24th.
He settled on the bunk and rested his aching head in his hands, trying to empty his mind so that time would pass more quickly. But it was impossible to shut off the endless cascade of thoughts that kept swirling around. He kept hearing Brooke’s voice, and wondering when he might ever hear it again. More than anything, he agonised over Jude, stranded on Martha’s Vineyard. Jude would surely have been able to make his way back to Edgartown, on foot if need be, where he’d be able to make a credit card withdrawal. If he could scrape enough cash together for the ferry back to the mainland, maybe he could phone Robbie from there, or Robbie’s uncle-
Over and over, a hundred different scenarios. One way or another, Jude was all right. He had to be.
The hours dragged by. Ben’s headache eventually diminished, leaving him with the sick nausea of fatigue and worry. 6 a.m., 8 a.m. The cell remained dark. His mind drifted. Slowly, slowly, his eyelids began to droop, his breathing slowed and he finally felt the blessed angels of sleep coming to deliver him to a place of tranquillity…
And then the cell door banged open. Ben jolted upright as three men burst into the small space. ‘Wakey, wakey!’ said a harsh voice. He blinked, certain that he’d been asleep for just a few moments — but a glance at his watch told him it was after 11 a.m. He rose to his feet, stiff from the hard bunk. Two of the guards grabbed his arms and led him towards the dimly lit doorway as the third kept a pistol trained on his chest. They were all wearing heavy jackets and gloves.
For the first time, he was able to see where they’d taken him last night. The corridor leading from the cell was narrow, its rough walls shiny with condensation. The men shoved open a succession of doors, led him around corners and up a flight of steps. He could smell fresh air at last. The man in front opened a final door to the outside, and the morning sunlight flooded over Ben, making him blink. He stood and breathed in the sharp, cold air. He couldn’t believe the surreal sight in front of him.
He was in the grounds of a magnificent mansion, formal gardens stretching away as far as the eye could see. Lawns and summerhouses and pergolas coated in fresh snow. Looking back, he realised that he’d been kept housed in some kind of bunker attached to a cluster of outbuildings and storage sheds.
The roofs and gables of the mansion itself were just about visible beyond a ring of snowy conifers up ahead. There was not a whisper of traffic noise. They were somewhere deep in the countryside.
‘Move,’ said the guard with the pistol at his back. Nobody spoke as they trudged through the snow towards the house and along a broad path that led through an archway and around to the front. It was a millionaire paradise to rival just about any that Ben had seen. They led him through the tall front doorway and into a hall with gleaming wooden floors. ‘You guys had better wipe your feet,’ he said.
‘Shut up,’ said the one in front, and pointed at a door across the hall. ‘Get in there and wait.’
‘What am I waiting for?’ Ben asked, but they didn’t reply as they shoved him inside the room and slammed the door shut behind him.
It was better than the cell, at any rate. He was in a large, elegant drawing room filled with tasteful period furniture, a vast Persian rug spread over the polished floor. There was a fire crackling in the hearth. Ben went over to warm his hands by it, then wandered across to gaze out of the French window at the snow-covered lawns that seemed to stretch for miles to the distant trees. He wondered what lay beyond — a road, a town?
He tried the handle of the French window. It wasn’t locked. There was nobody in sight, and apparently nothing stopping him from walking right out of here. But that was what worried him.
Ben heard the door open behind him and turned to see a man walk in. He was in his sixties or early seventies, large and imposing with a strong presence that seemed to fill the room. He wore small wire-framed glasses and a dark suit that looked expensively tailored to hide his bulk. His hair was grey, thin oiled strands carefully combed across his scalp. His eyes were pale and watery, and fixed on Ben as he shut the door softly behind him.
Ben wondered who he was. The gravity of his demeanour gave the impression of an elder statesman, someone used to giving orders and making important decisions.
The man crossed the room towards him.
‘Benedict Hope.’ His voice was deep and resonant. His accent was that of an upper-class Englishman who’d spent a lot of time in Europe, with traces of German, or maybe Swiss. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. He proffered his hand. ‘You can call me Mr Brown.’
Ben just looked at the hand. ‘Brown,’ he said. ‘The colour of bullshit.’
The man didn’t seem offended. ‘You understand that I can’t reveal my real identity.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where I am, either.’
‘A friend’s house,’ Brown replied casually, withdrawing his hand. ‘It’s just his holiday place. He was happy to let me use it for the occasion. I’ve flown in from Europe this morning specially to meet you.’
‘You needn’t have troubled yourself,’ Ben said.
Brown crossed the rug to a large antique globe on a stand, that slid open to reveal a drinks cabinet. He lifted out a bottle, peered at it over his glasses, and nodded approvingly. ‘Care for a drink? I always take a glass of pale sherry before lunch. It helps the digestion.’
‘Thanks for the offer,’ Ben said. ‘But I don’t drink with murderers, as a rule.’
‘I was afraid you might be under that misconception,’ Brown said as he poured himself his sherry. He took a sip and smacked his lips with pleasure.
Ben was wondering how many blows it would take to ram the sherry bottle down the guy’s throat. Maybe later. First he wanted to know the truth behind all that had happened. ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘My friends were killed in a car crash that was caused by one of your agents, a man called Vincent Napier. Your people threw the priest Fabrice Lalique off a bridge and made it look like suicide. I’ve been chased halfway around the world by professional gunmen trying to kill me. I saw your thugs shoot Wesley Holland and burn down his house. And you’re telling me that’s all a misconception.’
‘What happened to Mr Holland was highly regrettable,’ Brown said. ‘And, I might add, purely accidental. We might have had some difficulty persuading him to keep his mouth shut under the circumstances, but rest assured we had no intention of letting him come to harm.’
He paused for another small sip of sherry, then set the glass down. ‘That’s enough for me. Get heartburn if I overdo it. As for the rest,’ he went on, ‘I’m afraid you’re quite wrong. Vincent Napier wasn’t working for us, at least not directly. We didn’t arrange fake suicides or car accidents, and we have never purposely deployed a single one of our agents against you. In fact your presence on Martha’s Vineyard came as a complete surprise.’
Ben said nothing. He was thinking how easy it would be to grab the thin, delicate sherry glass, break it and use it to slice this lying bastard’s throat wide open.
‘I understand you must be feeling very upset,’ Brown said, eyeing him closely. ‘You consider me to be the architect of some grand conspiracy scheme hell-bent on obtaining an ancient relic, killing anyone who stands in the way.’ He grunted with amusement. ‘I’m afraid that’s a rather far-fetched notion, Mr Hope. In truth, I don’t give a damn whether Holland’s trinket is the genuine article or not. It’s just a piece of old iron as far as I’m concerned.’
Ben narrowed his eyes and stayed silent.
‘You’d like an explanation,’ Brown said. ‘I certainly owe you one, and I’ll be as open and honest with you as my position allows me. I head an organisation that very few people have ever heard of, for the simple reason that its existence was never intended for public knowledge. This organisation goes by the name of the Trimble Group. It was founded many years ago by some very influential men whose names I’m sure you’d recognise, though you’d find no mention of it on any official record. Needless to say, there never was a Trimble either.’
‘Let me take a wild guess,’ Ben said. ‘We’re talking about a secret government agency?’
Brown made a casual gesture. ‘We’re all chess pieces on the same board, cogs in the same machine, and all
