The Lost Relic

Chapter Twenty-Five

The moment he climbed into the Shogun, Ben could tell that the cops had been through every inch of the vehicle. Just the subtle telltale signs that only a professional could discern, like the grubby prints all over the dashboard, the sweet wrapper in the rear footwell and the undone straps on his old green army bag. His leather jacket was still on the passenger seat where he’d left it, but with consummate skill, whoever had checked out the contents of his wallet had replaced it in the wrong pocket. At least they hadn’t managed to lose his air tickets, or dipped their fingers into the thick wad of banknotes he preferred to carry rather than use cards. The driver’s seat had been adjusted for someone with legs about the length of a mandrill’s. Ben made himself comfortable, then fired up the engine and drove out of the forecourt of the Carabinieri headquarters. The armed guards waved him laconically out of the gate.

The night was warm, and Ben rolled down his windows as he drove out into the street. He felt tired. It was late, but in Rome it was never too late to find a hotel. All he wanted right now was to get to bed and close his eyes and wipe the last few hours from his memory forever.

In the glow of a streetlight a few metres away, three people were hanging about a parked silver Renault Espace. Two guys, one unshaven with spiky hair and a loud shirt, the other chubby in a denim jacket, talking to a tall, attractive brunette. The men were both smoking and the three were sharing a joke about something. The woman’s laughter carried across the street.

As Ben drove out of the police HQ and the gates closed behind him, he noticed the chubby guy glance his way through the Shogun’s open window, narrow his eyes in recognition and then tap the woman on the arm and mutter something in Italian that might have been ‘here he comes’. The woman and the spiky-haired guy turned to stare at him; then the spiky-haired guy quickly threw down his cigarette and crushed the butt with his shoe, ducked into the back of the Espace and came out with a lightweight TV camera that he slung over his shoulder like a surface-to-air missile launcher, while the chubby one produced a set of earphones and a boom mike. They all came striding across the street towards the approaching Shogun, and Ben had to brake to avoid running them down.

The woman held up her hand. ‘Excuse me?’ she called out in English. ‘Signor Hope? Silvana Lucenzi, TeleGiornale 1 News.’

Ben swore under his breath. Lario’s grip on secrecy was about as refined as his men’s hostage rescue skills. He waved the crew out of the way, but they circled the car and wouldn’t let him pass. The spiky-haired guy aimed his camera through the Shogun’s open passenger window at Ben while the woman came up to the driver’s side, smiling in that rapacious way ambitious reporters had when they were hot on the trail of an exclusive.

‘Signor Ben Hope? You are the hero of the gallery robbery. Can I have an interview?’ She put her hand, with long pink nails, on the door sill and trotted along beside the Mitsubishi as he nosed between them, trying to get past without running over their feet. That was all he needed. Art gallery hero cripples TV reporter.

‘You have the wrong person,’ he said in an American accent. ‘Hugo Braunschweiger, US Embassy attaché.’

‘How did it feel to be facing death, Signor Hope?’ she asked, evidently not fooled. Ben could see the camera’s auto-focus lens zeroing in on him for a response. He stabbed the window control and the woman jerked her hand away as the glass wound up. He put his foot on the gas, forced the three of them aside and roared off down the street. In his mirror, Silvana Lucenzi pulled a face and waved her arms in frustration at her colleagues.

The streets of Rome were never asleep. Ben was immune to the spectacular sights as he drove by the illuminated Colosseum and up Via Fori Imperiali. A few cafés were still open, people sitting drinking in the beautiful evening. Lovers walking arm in arm, sports cars zapping through the streets and impetuous young guys on noisy little motorcycles popping wheelies to impress girls. After a couple of misses, Ben found a hotel with vacancies near the Piazza Venezia and wearily carried his bag over to the reception desk and booked a single room. The woman behind the desk seemed uninterested in him at first; then she suddenly looked at him more closely, frowned and cocked her head.

Uh-oh, he thought, seeing the look of recognition dawn on her face. Don’t tell me.

But she did, wide-eyed with animation and waving her incredulous colleagues over. Within seconds a whole group of women had gathered to stare at him as though he’d landed from Jupiter. Was he really the same man they’d just seen on the TV news? The one who’d helped the police to rescue the hostages from the masked gunmen? He was a real live hero. What was happening to the world? What could ordinary, innocent people do, without such heroes to step in and save them from evil men?

An angel, the eldest of the women said, gazing at him adoringly. ‘Siete un angelo.’

Ben escaped as politely and as quickly as he could before anybody proposed marriage, and rode the lift to the third floor. The room was small and neat. He dumped his things on an armchair, peeled off the ill-fitting shirt Lario had given him and put on a fresh light blue cotton one from his bag. He turned the lights down low and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes, and rolling over on his side. A lump in his pocket pressed into his leg. It was his phone. He sat up and dug it out. When he tried to switch it on, there was no response. The badly cracked screen and dented keypad offered some clue as to why. Ben guessed his tumble down the fire escape hadn’t done it any favours.

Another reminder he didn’t need of that day’s events. It was impossible to shut out the constant replays that kept running round and round inside his brain. He tossed away the broken phone. His head was spinning with fatigue, but he knew he couldn’t sleep.

The mini-bar had two miniatures of blended whisky. Infinitely better than nothing. He poured both into a tumbler, grabbed his cigarettes and Zippo from his jacket pocket and leaned out of the window, watching the lights of the night traffic and the architecture lit up gold across the city. He finished the rough-tasting liquor too fast and wished for more, then thought it was probably just as well the room didn’t come with a litre of the stuff. He kept smoking and staring out of the window. By the time he was properly wound down and ready for sleep, it was nearly four in the morning and the first glimmers of dawn were rising over the seven hills of Rome.