The Martyr’s Curse

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The two figures separated in opposite directions from the SUV. The taller, wider silhouetted figure moving towards Ben’s right; the smaller, slighter one to the left. A man and a woman. Ben couldn’t yet see if they were armed, but they were certain to be. It was obvious they were expecting company. Their torch beams cast trembling spotlights that searched slowly around the edges of the roughly circular clearing. If Ben’s hidden position was at the six o’clock mark, the woman was at ten o’clock and her male companion at two o’clock.

Ben remained perfectly immobile, barely breathing, his pulse slow and steady. Stiller than the stillest part of the landscape, yet completely aware of his environment. It was a skill he’d mastered many years ago. In his SAS days he’d come within three feet of the enemy on several similar occasions, without them having the first idea of his presence so close by. Sometimes he’d stayed hidden until the threat moved on. Sometimes it had been he who was the threat, striking out of nowhere with all the speed, aggression and use of surprise that his training had instilled in him.

Tonight was going to be one of those kinds of nights.

The woman’s torch beam swept slowly away from the edge of the clearing and dwelled for a few moments on the burned-out remains of the Belphégor, as if wondering about any possible connection between its being here and her mission. She’d stopped moving. Her male companion was working his way clockwise, probing into the darkness as if studying every leaf and twig. He stepped a little closer to Ben. Five o’clock. Then a little closer still. He was just a yard away through the curtain of ferns. Ben could hear his breathing. He could smell him. He could make out the recognisable boxy profile of the black pistol in his right hand.

The torch in the man’s left hand swept over Ben’s head. The wobbling pool of light hovered a metre above where he was crouched.

And Ben moved. Like a section of the darkness detaching itself from the rest, nothing more than a flitting shadow. Faster than it was possible for a human being to react, the man was gripped and helpless in an inescapable chokehold. The torch dropped out of his left hand and hit the ground with a thud, rolled and lay there, its strong beam projecting tiny stones as giant rocks against the edge of the clearing. Ben twisted the pistol clear of the man’s right fist and let it fall. Spun him around, holding him in front of himself like a gasping, choking human shield. The stubby muzzle of the FAMAS hard up against the base of his skull. Said in a calm, clear voice that cut through the night, ‘Drop your weapon.’

The woman froze for an instant, her torch beam pointed immobile at an empty patch of ground. Ben saw something small and dark fall from her hand and hit the dirt with a thump.

Ben said, ‘Shine the light on yourself. Do it now. Both hands in plain view. Make no mistake, I’ll shoot you.’

The woman hesitantly turned the beam on herself and stood there dazzled and blinking, spotlit like an actress on a dark stage who’d suddenly forgotten her lines. The man in Ben’s grip was gasping for air. Ben let the pressure off his throat, shoved him a few staggering steps towards the middle of the clearing, then swung the rifle up and jabbed him hard in the back of the head with its butt. Steel and plastic connected against bone with a meaty sound. The man let out a grunt and collapsed on to his face, a few yards from the ruined truck.

Ben picked the man’s pistol from the ground and instantly knew from the feel and weight of it that it was a Glock 19: mid-size nine-millimetre semi-automatic, fully loaded. Expensive, professional hardware. Only the very best lowlifes could afford them. He stuck it in his belt and moved towards the woman, training the rifle on her. She was still standing there, lit up like an apparition near the far side of the clearing, blinking and screwing up her face while trying to peer past the bright beam at whatever was happening. He hadn’t been bluffing her. If she tried to bolt, he’d gun her down without thinking twice. He wasn’t given to shooting women. But there were exceptions to every rule.

He studied her as he stepped closer. She looked young, fresh-faced, no more than about twenty-five, twenty-six. Not tall, but athletic in build, muscular without being bulky, light on her feet. Chestnut hair, pulled back in a ponytail under a plain black cap. She was wearing faded jeans and a well-worn Highway Patrol-style black leather jacket.

Ben snatched the torch from her as he got close. A solid aluminium tube, heavy with the weight of four large-cell batteries. As good a club as it was a flashlight. He kept the beam in her face and the FAMAS aimed a little way below, at her centre of mass. At this range it would blow a fist-sized hole right through her, and she seemed to know that. He stepped around her right side and shunted her forward with the barrel of the rifle.

‘Over towards your friend,’ he said. She began to walk stiffly towards the middle of the clearing. Her companion was beginning to stir, clutching his sore head and groaning in misery. Ben paused a step behind the woman to scoop up her discarded weapon. More of the same serious hardware. A Glock 26, same calibre as the other, a streamlined sub-compact model suited to a smaller hand. Ideal for concealed carry. It fitted comfortably in Ben’s hip pocket.

‘That’s close enough,’ he said when the woman was within two yards of her injured companion. ‘Turn round and keep your hands where I can see them.’

The woman stopped walking and slowly turned to face him, with her arms held stiffly out at her sides, fingers splayed and palms to the front as if to say ‘What did I do wrong?’ She blinked in the torchlight and obviously wanted to shield her eyes, but had the good sense not to make any sudden moves. Her face was tight with tension. She flicked a rapid glance down at her companion, who was struggling to get up to his knees.

‘Time for some introductions,’ Ben said. ‘You’re Michelle, is that correct?’

She nodded, grimacing in the light.

‘You have a second name?’

She hesitated. ‘Faban. Michelle Faban.’ She had the same transatlantic way of speaking English that he’d heard on the phone, but she looked as French as her name suggested.

‘And him?’ Ben asked, flicking the torch beam sideways at the man. He was on his knees, head hanging, breathing hard. He was blond, angular in his features. Scandinavian, Ben thought. Or Dutch, or German.

‘His name’s Breslin,’ she said. ‘Kurt Breslin.’

‘Michelle, you’re going to shine the light on Kurt while I frisk him. Think you can manage that without doing anything silly?’

She nodded.

‘I hope so,’ Ben said. ‘Because if you even think about trying to take a swipe at me, I’ll know before you’ve made a move. And you’ll be dead.’

She nodded again, and he handed her the heavy torch. He said, ‘On your feet, Kurt. I didn’t hit you that hard.’

Breslin slowly, warily, pulled himself upright and stood there unsteadily in the brightness of the torch beam. The woman trained the light on them while Ben quickly went through her companion’s pockets. The man’s features were tight and angry in the white beam. Ben found nothing of interest, except a switchblade knife and a roll of duct tape. A few euros in any hardware store, one of the handiest accessories in a kidnapper’s toolkit. He confiscated both the tape and the blade. ‘Now it’s your turn, Kurt. Same goes for you. It’s not a good time for clever ideas.’

The woman handed over the torch. Breslin gritted his teeth in rage and held it steady while Ben patted her down. Up close, he could smell her subtle perfume. He did the job quickly, then snatched the torch from Breslin and backed away a step so he could shine the light on the two of them together. He kept the rifle in a one-handed grip at waist height, the muzzle wavering between them.

‘Now let’s talk,’ he said.

‘Where’s Dexter?’ the woman asked.

Ben stuck the torch under his gun arm so it stayed pointed at them while he slipped out his phone. He turned it on and scrolled one-handed to the mugshot picture file he’d taken of the dead man shortly before burning the truck. He flashed the picture at the woman. ‘Look familiar?’ he asked.

Michelle Faban flinched and her eyes clouded briefly. ‘You killed him,’ she said, tight-lipped, staring into the light.

‘No, he was dead when I found him,’ Ben said, putting the phone away. ‘He had a couple of nine-millimetre bullets inside him. Something tells me he had it coming. But my friends didn’t. Someone’s going to pay for what happened to them, and right now you’re top of my debtors’ list.’

She frowned, narrowing her eyes, trying to peer at him more closely. ‘You were there, at the monastery?’

‘I should have been,’ Ben said. ‘I live there. Or I did, until you people came along.’

‘You’re no monk,’ she said.

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Every plan has a flaw,’ Ben said. ‘That’s who I am. The guy you didn’t account for. The small oversight that’s come back to bite you on the arse. You’re going to wish I were a monk.’

‘You’re getting this wrong,’ she said. ‘You need to let me explain.’

‘That’s exactly what you’re going to do,’ Ben said. ‘You and Kurt here. It’s just us. We’re all alone out here. Shout for help, nobody’s going to hear you. Nobody’s going to come and rescue you. A bit like the situation at the monastery, except now you’re on the receiving end. That doesn’t feel so good, does it?’

‘Let me explain,’ Michelle Faban said again.

‘I think Kurt should open the discussion,’ Ben said. ‘He hasn’t said a word yet.’

Breslin didn’t speak, just stood there breathing hard, every muscle tensed. Ben could see the tendons in his neck standing out like cables.

‘You’re a real tough guy, aren’t you, Kurt?’ Ben said. ‘Or trying to look like one, at any rate. So tell me, tough guy. How many of my friends did you kill?’

Breslin still said nothing. But the answer was there in his eyes. As if at the mention of them, he couldn’t help but replay the events of the previous morning in his mind. Relishing them. Savouring them.

So Ben shot him.

The crashing boom of the rifle shattered the stillness of the dark. Night birds exploded in alarm from the treetops. Breslin caught the bullet precisely where Ben had been aiming, at the middle of his chest. The high-velocity round burst his heart and lungs apart. The force of the impact slammed him down on his back as hard as being hit by a freight train. He was dead while he was still in mid-air.

Ben turned the gun to point at the woman. She was frozen in shock, eyes wide open. Flecks of Breslin’s blood were spattered on the side of her neck and face that had been closest to him.

‘I’m not going to waste a lot of time here,’ Ben said quietly. ‘You’re either going to give me some answers, or I’m going to put you down next to your friend and leave you both here for the rats.’

Michelle Faban looked down at the dead body. She seemed to have recovered quickly from the shock. The sight appeared not to bother her unduly, nor the blood on her. Ben even thought he saw a flicker of satisfaction pass over her face.

‘It’s all down to you now, Michelle,’ he said. ‘Better talk to me.’

‘Did you have something to do with that?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the burned-out truck.

‘You’re a quick study,’ Ben said. ‘Smarter than your friend. The brains of the operation.’

‘He wasn’t any friend of mine,’ she said. ‘He was a degenerate piece of trash. I’m glad you shot him. I’ve wanted to do it myself, many times.’

Ben stared at her over the top of the rifle. ‘Is this how you think you’re going to talk your way out, by appealing to my sense of empathy?’

Michelle Faban gave a shrug. ‘I suppose not,’ she said. ‘I suppose you might as well shoot me too. Because now I’m not so sure if you’re going to believe what I’m about to tell you. Just know that if you do shoot me, you’ll open up a world of trouble for yourself that you can’t imagine.’

‘I don’t know, I can imagine quite a bit,’ Ben said. ‘But as for believing you, you have nothing to lose by trying me.’

She shrugged again. ‘Okay. I wish I could show you some official ID. Under the circumstances, you’ll understand that’s not a practical option for me right now. I’m not really Michelle Faban. That’s an undercover identity. My real name is agent Silvie Valois of the DGSI.’