The Lost Relic

Chapter Seventy-Three

Monaco’s city lights glittered below as Ben ran down the winding cliff road with his bag on his shoulder. He hailed down a cab that took him the rest of the way to the harbour. Sitting on a low wall, he smoked a Gauloise, gazed out across the dark water and listened to the soft lap of the tide against the harbour wall and the jostle of the sailing yachts and catamarans in the marina. A party was in full swing on the lit-up deck of some trillion-dollar megayacht, a band playing, and women in long dresses parading up and down the jetty where it was moored. As he watched them from a distance, Ben thought about Darcey Kane. He’d had no option but to lie to her about meeting Shikov in Berlin, any more than he’d had a choice about shutting her in the cellar. She was too clever and tenacious. And his next move was one he needed to make alone, his way.

Then he thought about what had nearly happened between them. He’d had a choice there, all right.

He sighed and decided to try to stop thinking so much.

Far out to sea, a small aircraft was approaching. Ben watched as the seaplane’s lights descended towards the horizon and it touched down a few kilometres away over the water. Dead on time. Shikov was definitely taking the bait.

Moments later, a fast outboard launch cut across the harbour, and Ben knew it was for him. He walked down the jetty to meet it and two guys ushered him aboard. One of them pointed a Smith & Wesson revolver at the pit of Ben’s stomach as the other frisked him and checked his bag for any concealed weapons. Then the launch motored out of the harbour and out to sea, where the guy with the revolver waved him aboard the waiting Bombardier amphibious aircraft. More silent armed men flanked him as he buckled into a seat. The plane gathered speed, bounced once and then took off.

From the Côte d’Azur, the thrumming, vibrating Bombardier flew overland. Roughly northeast, Ben guessed by the stars, though he didn’t ask, aware he’d get no reply. A long time passed before they finally touched down at a remote private airfield that could have been anywhere between Geneva, Milan or even Zürich. A Mercedes saloon took him and his armed escorts a few hundred metres up the runway as the Bombardier taxied away. A sleek white Gulfstream jet was on standby. Ben was hustled unceremoniously up the gangway and shown to a seat in the back. It was a little more luxurious than the flying boat. Ben spread himself out in the plush leather seat, ignoring his hosts, and closed his eyes.

He lost count of how many hours the jet stayed in the air – maybe six, maybe longer. By the time the Gulfstream dropped below the clouds, they’d passed through a couple of time zones and dawn was breaking over the wild landscape of mountain and pine forest that Ben could see from his porthole.

After a low pass through a wooded valley, the jet dropped suddenly and came down to land on a runway that looked as though it might have been hastily knocked together years before by military engineers. Ben noticed the rocket-pitted concrete and wondered what former European war zone they were in. Georgia, maybe.

As Ben stepped down from the jet, the Georgian plates of the black Humvee parked waiting at the foot of the strip told him his guess had been correct. The same pair of armed goons prodded him down towards the vehicle as its doors opened and another two men climbed out. Neither of them appeared to be Grigori Shikov. Ben guessed that honour would have to wait. The Humvee passenger was holding a stubby Kalashnikov rifle with a folding stock and a long, curved magazine. He barked an order, and one of Ben’s escorts grinned and whipped a cloth hood from the pocket of his jacket. He stepped up to Ben and jerked it roughly over his head. Ben felt a big hand grab his arm, and he was shoved into the back seat of the Humvee.

Then it was more travelling, lurching and bouncing over rough roads as the vehicle headed east into the rising sun, whose glow Ben could see through the material of the hood. The drive lasted another twenty minutes or so; by the time the Humvee paused to pass through a set of gates and then lurched to a halt, Ben’s eyes were tired from straining to make out his surroundings through the hood. He heard the doors opening, and the men hauled him out of the vehicle. They walked him across a stretch of paving, then shoved him through a door into a cool, airy building. Down a corridor, and into another room that smelled of antique leather and gun oil. He was thrust into a chair. Voices all around him. A whiff of foul breath as someone stepped up close to yank the hood off his head.

And Ben found himself sitting across a broad desk, face to face with Grigori Shikov.

The old man wore a light grey suit that was stretched too tightly across the bulk of his shoulders and broad back. His large, rough hands, like a manual worker’s hands, were curled into fists on the leather desktop. His eyes were set far apart, hooded underneath scowling brows and boring into Ben’s. To Shikov’s left stood a younger man, late forties, balding, wearing a suit, glasses and a nervous frown.

The big, broad, grizzled old man stared at Ben for a long time. Ben returned the stare, while in his peripheral vision he’d already counted the other men standing in the room in a loose semi-circle either side of him. In addition to the two heavies who’d accompanied him on the jet, there were the other two from the Humvee and another pair he was seeing for the first time. As far as he could tell, all the men were carrying concealed pistols. The Kalashnikov rifles were more obvious, and two of them were pointed right at Ben’s head. He sat very still.

‘You know who I am,’ Shikov grated.

‘I know who you are,’ Ben answered.

Shikov motioned to the man at his side. ‘This is my associate, Yuri Maisky.’ Then he turned and cast a heavy glance at Ben’s bag, which had been turned upside down and left sitting on a chair across the room. ‘It seems you are travelling light, Mr Hope,’ he rumbled.

‘We’ll do this the way we discussed on the phone,’ Ben said. ‘You give me half the money up front. Then I take you to where I left the egg and we exchange for the rest.’

Shikov let out a long breath, with the look of a patient teacher speaking to a slow-witted child. ‘I could have these men extract whatever information I need from you.’

‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had a man tortured,’ Ben said, glancing over at Maisky, whose frown had deepened as he stood listening. ‘But if anything happens to me and I don’t make a phone call sometime in the next couple of hours, my colleague will know something’s wrong. The only place you’ll ever see that egg then is in your dreams.’

Shikov’s eyes bored deeper into Ben, as if scanning the contents of his mind. Ben maintained eye contact. After a few seconds, Shikov nodded slowly. ‘Very well. Show him, Yuri.’

Maisky motioned for Ben to get up. With the rifles still trained on his head, Ben followed the man across the room to a marble-topped sideboard, where an attaché case lay closed on its side. Ben stood facing Shikov while Maisky rolled the combination locks on the case.

‘I counted it personally,’ Maisky said. The latches flipped open. Ben pulled the case towards him. Slowly raised the lid. Ran his eye across the bound stacks of banknotes neatly arranged inside. He took out one of the bundles, then another, riffled them with his fingers.

‘Well?’ Shikov said, breaking the silence. ‘This will do just fine,’ Ben said. He nodded at Maisky. Then reached into the hollow space among the stacks. His fingers brushed cool steel. His fist closed on the grip of the big Colt .45 automatic pistol hidden inside. It was cocked and locked and he was just going to have to trust there was a round in the chamber. He thrust the muzzle of the pistol against the inside of the attaché case lid and squeezed the trigger.

The gun jolted in his hand and the boom of the shot filled the room like an expanding wave. The heavy bullet ripped through the case and caught the nearest of Shikov’s riflemen in the chest. By the time the man had gone pitching backwards across the study, Ben was already dropping into a crouch behind the antique sideboard and bringing the Colt to bear on the second rifleman.

A wonderful thing, the element of surprise. Even with his Kalashnikov lined up and ready to go, the guy didn’t have time to compute what was happening quickly enough to squeeze the trigger before Ben’s second round punched through his skull and sent him sprawling to the rug. Two down. As the room erupted in chaos, pistols were being pulled and a lot of bullets were about to start flying.

But Ben wasn’t alone. Yuri Maisky had reached into the pocket of his suit and brought out a compact handgun. He took wild aim and the little gun barked. The guy who’d driven the Humvee went down.

The Colt in Ben’s hand boomed three times more in quick succession.

Maisky snapped off two more rounds of his own.

Then, in the space of a heartbeat, the room fell from deafening mayhem to dead silence. Shikov’s six men were scattered lifelessly across the floor. The hole in the attaché case lid was still smoking.

Ben looked at Maisky. Until the moment he’d opened the case, he hadn’t known whether he could really count on the Russian’s help. The man stood uncertainly, the adrenalin tremor making the gun shake in his hand. Ben could see from the look in his eyes that he’d never shot a man before.

Shikov hadn’t moved from his desk. His jaw hung open as he stared from Ben to Maisky and back again.

‘I’ll bet you’re wondering what the hell just happened, Grigori,’ Ben said.