The Babylon Idol

Chapter 66

SAS, SBS, US Navy SEALs, French GIGN, Israeli Sayeret Maktal and a dozen others: the sphere of Special Forces meant a lot of different things to a lot of different people across the globe.

For some, whether they chose to pit themselves against the challenge and seriously aspire to be all they could be, or whether they just dreamed about it and stuck posters on their bedroom wall, it was the epitome of warrior cool. For others of a different political bent, the shadowy military elites represented the ultimate embodiment of the dark, sinister forces that ruled the world.

But of all the many things that Special Forces might have been or seemed, to those chosen few within the circle it was, above all else, a family. Once you were in, you were in for life. Loyalty was all, the bonds of brotherhood sacred. Guys would do anything, break any rule, take any risk, to protect their own. It didn’t matter if you were still in, or if you’d been out for decades. All that mattered was to have paid your dues as part of that tight-knit community — to have lived with them, trained with them, broken bread with them, fought and bled with them, shared in the sorrow of fallen comrades or the elation of victory. Together, as one.

And Ben Hope had been an integral part of that family for many years. Almost the same span of time had passed since he’d eventually quit and walked away; but in that period of his life he’d done things that, whether he liked it or not, had earned him the reputation of a legend in the eyes of young warriors like Tuesday Fletcher and a hundred others. His name was mentioned with awe and reverence by a generation of Special Air Service soldiers who’d never met him. And it was remembered with fierce pride by those who’d had the experience of serving alongside him.

Soldiers like veteran trooper Rab ‘Tinker’ Taylor, currently engaged on his fourth tour of duty as a platoon commander in the savage, blood-drenched nightmare that the apparently never-ending civil war had made of the beautiful land of Syria.

Small world, indeed.

The four-man SAS unit had tended to the two injured travellers while waiting for an emergency CASEVAC chopper to whisk them to safety. Ben’s identity had been formally confirmed via the Ministry of Defence while he was unconscious on the operating table at the US Army Unit Base Camp’s military hospital in Damascus, before being flown to the UK for further treatment. The close-knit SF network had quickly cranked into action, doing what it did best. Strings had been pulled, corners cut, the usual authorities neatly left out of the loop, the usual complications associated with two Western travellers found wandering and mysteriously injured with neither passports nor ID in the middle of a foreign war zone studiously avoided.

As for the matter of the bodies of various known members of the Italian crime fraternity, together with a now twice-dead former Vatican archbishop and an off-the-radar Europol agent, scattered in their wake, the report Ben would later submit to the SAS chiefs in Hereford would be filed away in the deepest recess of classified military records, never to be seen again.

That was that — and this time, it really was.

Twelve days after leaving Syria, and two days after Ben was released from hospital, Anna Manzini was flown home to Italy. Ben last saw her as she boarded the military transport plane at RAF Lakenheath.

‘Now I’ll always have something to remind me of our time together,’ she said, holding up her bandaged left hand.

‘How is it?’ he asked.

‘It doesn’t hurt so much any more. It feels a little strange, a little lighter. Perhaps not the ideal way to lose weight. But I’ll get used to it. What about you?’

‘Hardly much pain,’ he lied. ‘Just stiffness, really. I’ll soon be able to ditch the walking stick.’

‘We were lucky,’ she said. ‘If you can call it that. I’ve learned my lesson. No more adventures for me.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say it.’

‘Writing books is safer. And I can still do that with nine fingers, from the comfort of my villa. It’s a good thing I didn’t make my career as a concert violinist.’ She paused, looking at him, knowing she wouldn’t see him again for a long time, if ever. ‘Are you going home too?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m going home.’

‘No more adventures for you either. You have to promise.’

‘That’s one promise you know I can’t make,’ he said.

‘I didn’t think you could.’ She kissed him, and held him tightly for a long moment. ‘Stay safe, caro mio. Whatever the future holds. And remember—’

‘Remember what?’

‘If you ever find yourself in Florence, you must give me a call.’

He said nothing more. Just smiled, then stood back and gave her a last wave as the RAF guys closed up the hatch. The plane taxied into position. Minutes later, Ben watched it take off into the wintry English sky.

‘And home we go,’ he murmured to himself when it was gone.

To find what awaiting him, he didn’t yet know. In between trying to call Roberta Ryder to give her the all-clear, he’d left three messages on the voicemail of Dr Sandrine Lacombe, asking after Jeff’s condition and telling her he’d be back in France tomorrow evening. He was still waiting for Sandrine to reply. And that worried him. It worried him a great deal.