The Heretics Treasure

Chapter Twenty-Six

Normandy

It was a long journey home, and it was late when Ben finally arrived back at Le Val by taxi. The moon was full, bathing the cobbled yard in milky light. He paid the driver and stepped out, stretching his legs. Watched the car drive off into the darkness up the long, winding drive.

He looked around him. The homely smell of the wood-burning stove was drifting across from the farmhouse, and there was a light on behind the curtained kitchen window. Across the yard, the trainees’ accommodation block was dimly lit and he heard someone laugh in the distance.

He heard the sound of running paws, and a shaggy shape hurled itself out of the shadows to greet him.

Ben patted the dog affectionately as it jumped up to lick his face. ‘Hey, Storm. Good to see you too, boy.’ And he meant it. It was good to be home. He wearily climbed the three steps to the farmhouse door, turned the big brass handle and stepped into the hallway.

The place was warm and welcoming. Someone had a CD playing in the kitchen. Ben recognised the music. It was one of his own collection: Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. He walked down the flagstone passage and pushed open the oak door. All he could think about was a large glass of red wine, a chunk of local cheese and a hunk of bread.

Brooke was sitting alone at the kitchen table, reading a novel. In front of her was a steaming mug that smelled like cocoa. She looked up as Ben came in. Her hair was damp, as though she’d just got out of the shower, and she was wearing an emerald green bathrobe. It brought out the green of her eyes, something Ben had never noticed about her before.

She put down her novel, and smiled warmly. ‘You’re back.’

‘You’re still here,’ he said.

‘I told you I was going to hang around for a few days, remember?’ She peered at him and her smile faded. ‘Christ, Hope. You look like shit.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Honestly. Your eyes are like two burnt holes in a blanket.’

‘That makes me feel even better,’ he said, making a beeline for the wine rack.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing I really feel like talking about.’ He grabbed a bottle and the opener, and set about tearing away the foil to get at the cork.

Brooke stood up. She came over to him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll do that.’ She pointed at the huge cast-iron pot that was sitting on the range. ‘There’s still some of Marie-Claire’s cassoulet. To die for, I’m telling you. Blew my diet completely. You hungry?’

He slumped in a wooden chair. ‘Like I’ve never eaten in my life.’

Brooke pulled the cork out of the bottle, glugged wine into a large glass and set it down in front of him. He knocked it back, reached for the bottle and refilled it.

‘Bad day at the office, then,’ she said over her shoulder as she ladled a pile of the stew into a saucepan and started warming it over the gas flame.

He didn’t reply. Sat and drank as she served the food onto a plate and brought it over to him. There was concern showing in her eyes.

‘Thanks for this, Brooke,’ he said through a mouthful of the stew. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to be back.’

She sat down beside him at the table and rested her chin on her palm, watching him eat. ‘How come you don’t want to tell me what happened? What took you to Cairo?’

‘I was just helping a friend.’

‘This Paxton guy?’

He nodded.

‘But it’s over now?’

He nodded again.

Brooke snorted. ‘Well, whatever you were doing out there for him, I hope he appreciates it. You should see yourself.’

‘I just need a rest. I’ll be fine in the morning.’ His plate was empty and he drained the last of his glass of wine. ‘So what have you been up to?’ he asked her, abruptly changing the subject.

‘Relaxing, mostly. Waiting for you.’

‘I told you not to wait for me,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Jeff’s been teaching me to shoot. Says I’m good at it.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grunted, reaching for the bottle again.

‘You going to drink the whole thing?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Someone’s been calling for you,’ she said. ‘Phoned three times this evening. A woman.’ She paused, watching his reaction. ‘Someone called Zara. Sounded Australian.’

Ben’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. He set it down heavily on the table. ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

Brooke smiled, raising an eyebrow. ‘Someone you ran into on your travels?’

‘You might say that,’ he replied sullenly.

‘Seemed very anxious to talk to you,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m sure she’ll call again.’ She leaned forward on her elbows. ‘So what’s she like, Ben?’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t play games. You know who I mean. Zara.’

He stared at her. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Whoo. Testy. Must have hit a nerve there.’

‘Leave it alone, Brooke. I’m tired, OK?’

‘Is she pretty? Sounded pretty.’

He stood up, grabbed his glass and what was left of the bottle. ‘I’m going to bed.’ As an afterthought he grabbed another bottle from the rack and tucked it under his arm as he headed for the door. ‘See you in the morning,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be up late.’

‘What if she calls again?’

‘Tell her I’ve died or something,’ he said. Then he banged through the door and climbed the stairs.

He’d been right about the late morning. It was well after ten o’clock when he came plodding down the stairs holding three empties. The two wine bottles, and the whisky he’d washed them down with. His mouth felt thick with the aftertaste of stale booze, and his head was heavy.

It hadn’t been a good night. He’d thrashed about restlessly for a long time, trying to sleep. But it had been no use. He couldn’t stop his mind from whirring around and around in circles, working over all the things that had been happening. Eventually, he’d given up. Sat up on the rumpled sheets and put the light on and just sat drinking until well after five in the morning.

The faces of the three men he’d killed had haunted him long into the night. Even when he’d polished off the second bottle of wine and moved on to the whisky he kept in the wardrobe, he hadn’t been able to still his mind.

When he wasn’t thinking about the things he’d had to do in Cairo, he was thinking about Zara. He thought of the brief time they’d spent together. Seeing her in the little bookshop in San Remo. Running through the rain to shelter from the thunderstorm. The touch of her hand on his arm. Her firm body close to his. Her smile, her laugh, her tears.

Why was she calling him? He dreaded having to talk to her, if she called again. And he knew she was sure to. What if she wanted to meet him? He knew that just the sound of her voice might destroy his resolve-that he’d give in and agree to meet up with her somewhere. That just couldn’t happen.

Part of him was thankful that Harry had agreed to haul anchor and relocate the Scimitar. Zara would be far away, and in time his feelings would diminish. But it also meant he probably would never see her again, and right now he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

He was still feeling racked with the same uncertainty, and hating himself bitterly for his weakness, as he stepped out into the morning drizzle. He was heading across the yard to dump his empty bottles into the recycling bin when he heard Jeff Dekker’s voice call his name.

He turned. ‘Hi, Jeff.’ His voice came out as a croak.

Jeff trotted up to him. The trousers of his fatigues were spattered in mud up to the knee. ‘Glad to see you back. Are you taking the eleven o’clock pistol shooting group?’ He glanced at the empty bottles and looked more closely at Ben’s face. ‘Jesus, mate. You look like-’

‘Like shit. So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I just need to get my head together. I was thinking of going for a good long run.’

‘You look more like you need to rest.’

‘I’m sick of resting. Running will relax me. Listen, if anyone calls for me-’

‘Like Zara, for example?’ Jeff grinned.

‘Give me a break. Not you as well.’

‘She sounded hot. Anything you’d like to tell me, Ben?’

Ben sighed. ‘Yeah. Mind your own fucking business.’

‘She’s bound to call again,’ Jeff said. ‘You can’t put her off forever.’

‘I don’t want to talk to her. Tell her anything you like. I’ve gone off and joined the Trappist monks, OK?’

‘If she wants to come here, I’m not going to put her off,’ Jeff said. ‘I’m no Trappist monk.’

‘Do me a favour, Jeff Ben walked over to the recycling bin and tossed the bottles in one at a time. He whistled for Storm. The German Shepherd burst out of one of the barns, halted suddenly, stiff and alert, then came running over.

Ben ran his fingers through the dog’s thick coat. ‘Come on, boy. Let’s go and run some of the crap out of our system.’

Two hours of punishment later, as the drizzle turned into sheeting rain over Le Val, Ben and the dog returned to the house bedraggled and soaking. Storm shook himself in the yard and trotted over to his kennel. Ben walked up to the house and went into the kitchen.

Jeff Dekker and the six-strong group for the new Counter Attack Team training course were all sitting around the long table eating lunch. Jeff was in the middle of entertaining them with a funny anecdote when Ben walked in. Faces turned to look. ‘Everyone, this is Ben Hope,’ Jeff said, breaking off his story. ‘Come and join us, Ben. I was just telling them about that time when-’

‘Great to meet you all,’ Ben interrupted him shortly. ‘Have a good lunch. Maybe see you later.’ He strode up to the wine rack, dripping rainwater across the flagstones, and grabbed a bottle. Snatched a cold chicken leg from the platter in the middle of the table and headed for the door. The room had gone quiet and he could feel all eyes upon him, but he didn’t care. He shoved through the door and headed for his quarters.

Upstairs, he dumped the bottle and the chicken leg on his desk, stripped off his wet clothes and left them in a heap on the floor as he went for a shower. He spent a long time under the water, turning it up as hot as he could bear it. Afterwards he towelled himself dry and changed into a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. Flopping on the couch, he munched desultorily on the cold chicken and gulped wine from the bottle. It didn’t do much to take the edge off his mood.

He was just thinking of going downstairs to fetch more Laphroaig from the cellar when his phone rang in his pocket. He dug it out, and his thumb hovered over the reply button for a moment before he decided against answering it. It rang insistently until his answering service kicked in, then went quiet.

You fucking coward, he seethed at himself. It might not even have been her. You never going to answer your phone again?

A few moments later, it rang again. He took a deep breath and answered on the second ring.

He had a message. It was Zara.

Her voice sounded small and timid. ‘Ben, it’s me. Where are you? I’ve called and called.’ A pause. ‘There are things I have to talk to you about. Important things. Call me back soon, all right?’ Another pause. ‘Love you. Miss you.’

Then the robotic voice of the answering service was again in his ear. ‘To listen to the message again, press 1…’

He couldn’t bring himself to delete it. He listened to it again. Decided to call her back. Fuck it.

He was just about to phone her when there was a thumping on his door and Jeff walked in and stood over him with his arms folded.

‘What was that all about?’ he demanded.

Ben looked at him blankly.

‘Jesus, Ben. What’s got into you? The way you behaved in front of those guys.’

‘They’re ex-soldiers, Jeff. They’re not a bunch of social workers.’

‘They’re our clients, Ben. That’s what they are. Remember that business you used to run?’

Ben didn’t reply.

‘I’ve never seen you like this before, mate,’ Jeff said. ‘I don’t know what the fuck’s going on inside your head, but you need to snap out of it sooner rather than later.’

Ben just sighed and looked down at his feet.

Jeff glared at him a second longer and then left the room, slamming the door behind him.