The Heretics Treasure

Chapter Thirty-One

Ben drove the twenty minutes to the underground parking lot in a daze, and was barely conscious of parking the Mini and stumbling up the concrete steps to his safehouse. He managed to key in the code for the door, and staggered into the flat. The pistol was a hard lump against his hip. He tore it out of his belt and flung it away.

Heading straight for the kitchen, he tore open the cupboard door and snatched one of the bottles of table wine. He stood there balancing it in his hand, for a moment unable to decide whether to open it or hurl it through the window. He opened it. Filled a glass. Paced up and down, fists clenched, wanting to smash something. Wanting to punch the wall until his knuckles were a bleeding mess.

Then he slumped at the table and downed one glass after another. The bottle seemed to empty itself in seconds. He grabbed another and started on that one.

His head was spinning feverishly. It wasn’t the wine or even the fact that he hadn’t slept properly for days. He felt completely overwhelmed by the things he’d just been told.

After a while, he walked in a stupor to the bedroom, fell back on the bed and closed his eyes. He lay there, trying to shut down his thoughts and relax the cramping tension in his muscles.

Slowly, he began to drift. Thoughts blurred. He slept, but it wasn’t a restful sleep. He was back reliving the horror of Makapela Creek once again.

The nightmare unfolded in slow motion. Ben saw the figure walk out of the fire, gun in hand as he gazed down at the man he was about to kill.

But something had changed. Now there were two men standing over Ben and, instead of the faceless, nebulous forms that normally visited him in his dreams, now he could see them vividly. Two men, one African and one European. The black man was powerfully built, wearing khaki fatigues, and the ArmaLite rifle cradled in his arms looked shiny and new and glittered in the firelight.

It was Kananga. He was glancing nervously this way and that, up at the helicopters that were closing in on the mission complex, then across at the dark jungle as though anxious to follow his fleeing men. Let’s get this done, his expression said.

Beside him stood a tall, thin white man in SAS tropical combat uniform. Paxton. Ben was suddenly seeing him for the first time-that face so familiar and yet so alien, half bathed in the red glow of the burning mission. The eyes filled with a strange and terrifying light. The pistol in his fist rose up to point at Ben.

Ben tried to say something, but his words were a muffled echo lost in the thump of the choppers. He saw Paxton smile.

And, behind Paxton, lying in the bloody dirt, propped up on one elbow, his face pale, shaking with the effort of raising his gun one last time, Ben saw Smith. Paxton spun as the dying soldier’s bullet caught his arm, fired back and Smith crumpled into a lifeless heap.

Then Ben was awake, jolting upright on the bed, every nerve in his body jangling. He put his head in his hands and remembered what Brooke had said. You should listen to your dreams. She’d been right. And he was listening now, seeing it clearly for the first time.

It was as though a part of his brain had awoken after a long sleep, dormant memories suddenly leaping into focus. As if, somewhere deep inside, he’d always known the truth but just hadn’t wanted to face it. Easier to repress it from his conscious mind. Easier just to stay in the comfort zone of self-deception.

The realisation left him breathless. He’d been fooling himself for years. He’d been on the verge of killing for this man, so close he could taste it. And Paxton had just been using him, exploiting a debt of honour that had never existed.

As he sat there, his mind spinning, Ben remembered what Wolff had said. Paxton thought someone in your unit was onto him.

His mind flew back, connections firing that had lain in hibernation for years, images flashing up that he’d completely wiped away. He remembered Smith. Saw the man’s face as clearly as though it had happened yesterday.

They’d been in their quarters attached to the Embassy when the sergeant had come up to him. He seemed agitated about something.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he’d said. There’d been no sirs between them.

‘Talk,’ Ben had replied. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s delicate,’ Smith had said. ‘I’m not even sure.’

Then Paxton had appeared in the doorway and suddenly Smith didn’t want to talk any more; he just lowered his eyes and shuffled away. Strange behaviour from the normally confident soldier. Ben had meant to approach him about it later on-but then they’d had the green light for the assault, and everything had started rolling so fast there’d never been another chance. After what had happened next, Ben’s memory had just blanked it out. Until now.

As he sat there on the bed, he thought back to the old Bible story of the conversion of St Paul in Damascus. Once blind, Paul had suddenly been able to see God when scales fell from his eyes. That was how Ben felt at this moment-except it wasn’t God he could see but the face of Harry Paxton in his mind.

And Paxton was going to pay.

Ben’s head was suddenly clear. He burst out of the flat, sprinted like an athlete to the Mini and took off through the night streets. The rain had stopped, and the stars were twinkling over the Parisian skyline.

He cut across the city, back to the house in the suburbs. Parked the car, ran to the door and banged on it loudly.

This time it was Valentine who answered it. She stared at him, bemused.

‘I thought you weren’t coming back,’ she said. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To say I believe you now. And that I want to help, if I can.’

Valentine smiled. For the second time since he’d met her, she went up on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘You’d better come inside.’

‘Is she still here?’ he asked her in the hallway.

Valentine nodded. ‘She’s staying the night here, and going back to San Remo tomorrow.’

Ben didn’t reply. He followed her through to the makeshift operations room. Harrison and Wolff were sitting drinking coffee. They exchanged glances as Ben walked in, and grinned at one another and at Valentine.

‘Glad to have you back,’ Wolff said.

‘Sorry about the neck,’ Ben replied, pointing at the brace.

‘Forget it. You did what you had to do.’

Valentine put her head around a doorway. ‘Someone here to see you,’ she said.

A moment later, Zara appeared. She saw Ben and rushed over to embrace him, eyes shining.

‘I’m sorry I doubted you,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’ve been so blind for so long.’ He turned to Valentine. ‘You want me to work with you?’

‘I was kind of hoping so,’ she said.

‘Then you’ve got your wish. But I have some conditions.’

She blinked. ‘Such as?’

‘I don’t want Zara involved in this any longer. It’s far too dangerous.’

‘Hold on,’ Zara protested. ‘I want to be involved. Nobody’s going to stop me. I’m going back to San Remo in the morning, and I’ll be working from on board the yacht to find out everything I can while Harry’s here on business.’

‘These guys aren’t an official team any more,’ he told her. ‘That means no backup for you if something goes wrong. No extraction plan. No witness programme to hide you. You’ll be completely vulnerable and out in the open.’

‘So will you.’

‘It won’t be the first time for me.’

Zara shook her head. ‘I have to go back. Even if I were leaving him, I’d need to go back for my things.’

‘I’ll get you new things. Anything you want.’

‘My documents.’

‘Easily replaced.’

‘And what about me? Where am I going?’

‘My place.’

‘In Normandy?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll drive you to Le Val in the morning.’

‘But Harry knows where it is,’ she said. ‘You don’t think he’ll come looking for me? I know him.’

‘Harry will have other things on his mind, once I get started on him. And you’ll be safe there. It’s like a military camp, and I have trained men, with guns and dogs. Not even Harry can get in there. You’ll be safe.’ Ben turned to Valentine. ‘Then I’ll come back here, and we’ll make plans.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Valentine cut in. ‘This isn’t the deal. We need Zara on board. She’s an integral part of this. You can’t just take her out of the equation.’

‘Negative,’ Ben said. ‘We do this my way, or you’re on your own.’

Valentine sighed and glanced at Harrison and Wolff. Harrison shrugged. ‘We can’t afford to turn him away,’ he said.

‘OK,’ Valentine said to Ben. ‘It’s a deal. So what happens next?’

Ben took Zara’s hand, felt her warm fingers slip eagerly through his. ‘Let’s go.’