The Shadow Project

Chapter Twenty-Four

By the time Brooke came back downstairs fifteen minutes later, Ben had a map spread out across the table. On the chair was his old green army bag, packed, strapped and ready to go.

‘You don’t waste any time, Hope.’

‘Just twenty-three years,’ he said.

Brooke watched as he traced his route across the map. ‘So where are you heading now?’

‘Belgium.’

‘What, right this minute?’

‘I have another call to make, and I’m waiting for a fax to come through. Then I’m gone. I’ve got a lunch date in Bruges.’

‘Looks like your Interpol guy came up trumps for you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Better hurry, then.’

‘I’ll make it.’ He folded up the map, grabbed the webbing shoulder strap of the bag and started heading for the door.

‘Ben?’ she said hesitantly.

He looked back at her. For a fleeting moment it struck him how good she looked standing there with her hair still damp from the shower. She had nice eyes. Something he didn’t notice often enough.

‘Maybe you’d like me to come along?’

‘What about your lectures?’

‘Jeff could stand in for me, couldn’t he? Just this once?’

‘I don’t know if that would be a good idea, Brooke.’ She looked away, flushing. ‘Shouldn’t have asked. You’re the boss.’

‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘I’d be happy for Jeff to stand in for you, if you needed it. But this is something I have to do on my own.’

She nodded. ‘I understand. When will you be back?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. ‘Soon as I can.’

‘I’m flying back to London the day after tomorrow. Call me there if I don’t see you before, OK?’

Outside the sun was shining brightly and the air tasted fresh and sweet after last night’s rainstorm. It felt like it was going to be a hot day. Ben looked around him as he walked across the yard, and on top of all the other things he was feeling, he felt a tingle of apprehension wash through him. He didn’t want to lose this place.

He strode over to the office and walked in to see that Luc Simon’s fax had come through already. He dumped his bag on the floor, tore the single sheet out of the machine and studied it. There were two police mugshots of Don Jarrett, a photocopy of a Der Spiegel newspaper cutting about his trial and imprisonment for Holocaust denial, and some information hastily jotted down in Luc’s handwriting with the address and location of Jarrett’s regular lunchtime hangout in Bruges.

Ben folded the paper into his pocket. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the office phone and dialled the number for the bank manager.

Five minutes later he had set up an appointment at the branch in Valognes. Dupont, the manager, was away fishing and couldn’t see him for ten days. That suited Ben fine. He wasn’t in too much of a hurry to find out whether or not he was about to lose his livelihood.

He wondered what Dupont’s reaction was going to be when he told him how much money he needed to raise. As a going concern and with all the work he’d done on the place, Le Val had to be worth at least a million and a half. Business was better than he’d ever anticipated. The facility was bringing commerce to the area. Thanks to his clients and delegates, the local village brasserie had never had it so good. Ben was liked, and he was employing local people. Maybe the bank would look favourably on his needs.

Maybe. Or maybe not. But right now, he couldn’t think about that.

As he was about to leave the office, the phone rang again. Ben knew the voice immediately. Shannon. Screaming at the top of his voice.

‘Motherfucker, you’re going to pay me that fucking money!’

‘How’s the back, Rupert?’

‘I want the fucking money. I want it now.’

‘You can’t have it now.’

‘I want it.’

‘You’ll get it when I have it. That’s the best I can do.’

Shannon went on screaming down the phone about his lost contract, his ruined reputation, his damaged back, that bitch Brooke walking out on him, and Ben’s personal responsibility for all the ills of the world. After about thirty seconds of furious invective, Ben had had enough and took the phone away from his ear. Even at arm’s length, he could still hear the tinny little voice rasping from the receiver. He gently laid the phone handset down on the desk, turned and walked away. Shannon was still screaming at him as he shut the office door.

Something to worry about later.

From the office, Ben went over to the old converted Dutch barn at the side of the house where he kept the Mini, and tossed his bag onto the passenger seat. He’d always been a light traveller. He was carrying just a change of clothing, his well-worn whisky flask topped up with his favourite ten-year-old Laphroaig, two spare packs of untipped Gauloises and a few other travelling items.

In addition to which he’d packed something that Luc Simon wouldn’t have been too happy about.

The pistol wasn’t part of the official weapons inventory at Le Val, every item of which was registered and logged, serial numbers on file everywhere from NATO to the French Defence Ministry. It was a scuffed old plain steel Smith & Wesson automatic that had probably seen criminal use at some point in its life, the serial numbers filed off both frame and slide. The child kidnapper Ben had taken it from didn’t need it any more, the same way he hadn’t needed any food, water or air for the last six years. It had lain at the bottom of Ben’s safe deposit box at the Banque Nationale in Paris for most of that time, and it wasn’t until he’d cleared it out before moving to Le Val that he’d even remembered it was there.

He didn’t expect any serious need for it in Bruges. But in his experience there was only one really effective way of liberating information from someone who didn’t want to talk. There was no need to hurt them, or even to make specific threats. Just the sight of the weapon was usually enough, especially for a bookish type of guy like Don Jarrett.

Luc Simon would be pissed off. Get in line, Ben thought.

He fired up the Mini, drove out of the barn and across the yard. As he passed the house he glanced over and saw Brooke standing at the window watching him go. She gave a sad little wave.

On the track that led towards the road, he met Silvain Bourdon’s minibus, waved at the driver and pulled to the side to let it by. Bourdon was the local guy whose taxi firm Ben used to shuttle delegates back and forth from the airport at Cherbourg. As the dusty minibus passed by, he could see the pasty faces of the eight insurance brokers who were here for Brooke’s hostage psychology course.

Hating himself for leaving her and Jeff at a time like this, Ben drove on up to the road, passed through the gates and pointed the car east across France for the second time in three days.