The Lost Relic

Chapter Twelve

There was a limit to how much Ben could discuss about fine art, but it turned out that Donatella shared his love of Bartók’s music and that was what they were talking about when Gianni came up to complain he was thirsty. While she fussed over the boy and went to the refreshments table to get him a glass of fruit juice, Ben stepped casually across to the window and gazed out at the grounds and the woods that surrounded the property. He noticed the white Mercedes van parked up outside, which hadn’t been there before. It looked like a builder’s van, well used and streaked with road dirt. Whoever had left it there while he and Donatella had been talking had disappeared out of sight.

Ben didn’t give it a second thought as he stood sipping his drink, surrounded by the growing buzz of conversation. The refreshments room was filling with people, wine being poured, the finger food rapidly disappearing from the table. The sullen teenage girl was moping alone in a corner, huffing in exasperation whenever her parents came within a few metres of her. Ben could hear Donatella in the background talking to her boy, and decided that now was the moment for him to make his excuses and get away. She was a charming host, Gianni was a sweet kid and he wasn’t sorry to have spent a while with them, but he needed to get back to his own affairs.

Just then, someone bumped into him from behind and a voice said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Ben looked around to see Mr Dashing, the Robert Redford-a-like, standing there with half a canapé in his hand and the other half partially chewed in his open mouth. Ben felt the wetness against his skin. He glanced down at the big dark red patch all down the front of his denim shirt and realised he’d spilled wine over himself. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, dripping.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Mr Dashing repeated.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Donatella joined him at the window. She was frowning at the slim phone in her hand. ‘I just tried to call Fabio to see what was happening, but I can’t get through. My phone’s gone dead.’

‘Battery?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, puzzled. ‘Fully charged, and I’m getting good reception. It just doesn’t—’ She stopped and looked down at his shirt. ‘What happened? You’re covered in wine.’

‘Just an accident. Not a big deal. It’ll dry.’

She shook her head. ‘You should go and wash it out before it stains. There are toilets in the foyer but you’ll find a bathroom upstairs, on the first floor.’ She wrinkled her nose at the stain. ‘Really, I think you should. It’s a nice shirt.’

Ben was about to explain that a spot on his shirt didn’t bother him in the least – but he relented, thinking he didn’t want to be soaked in alcohol and smelling like a brewery when he went to find a hotel later. He excused himself and made his way back out through the glass corridor.

Anatoly Shikov was perfectly calm as he led the way into the building. Spartak Gourko followed close behind him, then Rocco Massi, both clutching their bulky AR-15 rifles. Rykov was the last man in, and locked the door behind him.

The entrance foyer was deserted now that all the guests had been shown inside the exhibition, which disappointed Anatoly. He’d been anticipating the squeals of terror from the women at the desk as eight masked and heavily armed men suddenly burst in to blow their cosy little world apart. He’d wanted to see the fear in their eyes, knowing that they were in his power.

It didn’t matter. The fun would begin soon enough. Anatoly did a final check of his machine pistol, and then turned to his guys. ‘Let’s get started,’ he said in Russian.

Ben soon found the bathroom near the first floor landing, at the end of a shadowy passage. The door was ajar. He walked in to find an elderly gentleman he recognised as the husband of the woman in the blue dress, stooped over the marble sink. The old fellow’s walking stick was propped up against the surface next to him as he washed down a handful of pills with a glass of water. Ben apologised for interrupting him, but the elderly man smiled and replied that he was just leaving. ‘Il mio cuore,’ he said, showing Ben the tube of heart pills. ‘The doctor says I have to take these every couple of hours, or I’ll die pretty soon. Then again, what does he know? Maybe I’ll outlive the bastard.’

The elderly man introduced himself as Marcello Peruzzi. They exchanged brief small-talk about the exhibition. ‘My wife doesn’t think much of it,’ Marcello said ruefully. ‘But then she always hates everything. Married fifty-two years,’ he added, and Ben wasn’t quite sure whether he meant it with pride or bitterness. With a wave of his hand, Marcello turned towards the door and started making his wobbly way back towards the stairs. Ben asked him if he needed any help, but Marcello assured him he could manage fine, thanks.

The bathroom was large and plush, with French windows leading out onto its own little balcony with a view of the grounds. Once he was alone, Ben went over to the sink and stripped off his wine-stained shirt. The TYRELL Genetic Replicants T-shirt under it was only slightly wet, and he decided it didn’t need washing.

He had the shirt bundled under the hot tap and was rubbing the dark red stain out of the material when he heard the first gunshots blasting out from somewhere down below.

And then came the screams.