The Nemesis Program (Ben Hope) (42 page)

‘I mean, I don’t want to leave without you,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’

‘It’s the only way,’ he said.

She looked at him imploringly. ‘There are so many things I want to tell you.’

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘That’s why maybe this is for the best.’

‘Does that mean I’ll never hear from you again?’ A tear ran down her face. She quickly brushed it away.

He smiled. ‘Of course you will.’

‘No, I won’t,’ she said. ‘I know you, Ben Hope.’ After a pause she said, ‘You’re going after them, aren’t you?’

‘This isn’t over. Like you said, destruction’s the one thing I’m good at.’

‘They’ll kill you.’

‘They tried, remember? I’m still here. So are you.’

Mulligan and his people were looking impatient, glancing at their watches.

‘You have to go now,’ Ben said. He smiled again. Squeezed her hands one last time, then stood up.

‘I wish it could have been different for us,’ Roberta said.

Ben didn’t reply. He bent down and kissed her cheek, then signalled to Joe Mulligan. One of his female colleagues walked over with a smile and introduced herself as Fay Greenbaum. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr Ryder. I’ll be flying with you to Chicago.’

Ben let her go. He watched as the officials wheeled her down the ramp and out to the waiting car.

As they opened the back door for her, Roberta turned to give him a last look and a wave.

But he was already walking away.

He didn’t want her to see him so upset.

In a quiet part of the corridor, he composed himself. Then he went looking for Jack Quigley.

‘You ready?’

‘I’m ready.’

‘Let’s get started.’

Chapter Sixty-One

The next seventy-two hours were a busy time. CIA Special Agent Jack Quigley’s newfound alliance with Joe Mulligan procured a helicopter ride from Padang Panjang all the way southeast across Sumatra to Jakarta on the western tip of Java, and a small but comfortable apartment in the city within a stone’s throw of the US Embassy. The apartment had two phones, and in true American style the fridge was stocked with pizza and canned beers. Ben and Quigley spent two hours gorging themselves on food, another three catching up on lost sleep, and then it was time to get to work.

Ben’s first call was to Le Val, and he spent an hour telling Jeff Dekker what he needed to know and what Ben needed in return, which was for one of the Le Val team to deliver him a package in person as fast as he could get on a plane. Jeff listened and didn’t ask too many questions. He knew Ben too well for that.

‘Well?’ Quigley asked as Ben put the phone down.

‘Says Raoul or Paul will be on their way to Paris within the hour.’

‘I take it you trust these guys?’ Quigley said, cracking open a beer.

‘With my life,’ Ben replied. ‘I’ve known them a long time.’

The same was true of Boonzie McCulloch, the grizzled former sergeant who’d been Ben’s instructor in 22 SAS, his mentor and later his friend. As usual, it was Boonzie’s wife Mirella who answered when Ben called the number of the peaceful smallholding deep in the Apennine hill country near Campobasso. The tough, wiry Scotsman, once the merciless scourge and terror of raw recruits whom it was his personal mission to transform into hardened fighting men, now spent most of his days tending with infinite care to his beloved tomato crop.

‘I go fetch him,’ Mirella said breathlessly when she heard Ben’s serious tone of voice. He heard her in the background calling ‘Archibald!’ Her husband’s regimental nickname had never stuck with her.

A few moments later, the familiar gruff voice came on the line. ‘Benedict ma boy! How’s married life treatin ye?’ Despite all these years of splendid rural isolation in the south of Italy, Boonzie might as well have left Clydebank just last week.

‘Didn’t quite work out,’ Ben said.

‘What? How many days huz it bin? If anyone could bollocks that up, it’d be you, eh? Ye big bawheid.’ Boonzie had always been fairly direct in his manner.

‘Never mind that for now. I need to know something. Is old Lambert still operating out of Marseille? Have you got his number?’

‘What the hell d’ye want to call that mad basturt for?’ Boonzie asked, taken aback. Those who could still remember him and knew what he did for a living nowadays didn’t call the long-ago-retired SAS trooper Loony Lambert for nothing. His speciality was weaponry: everything from small arms of dubious origin to explosives or even military vehicles, no questions asked and shipped with ultimate discretion to the destination of the customer’s choice. His only rule: no animals were to be harmed. Loony Lambert was a devout vegan.

‘I heard it was his birthday,’ Ben said. ‘If you don’t have the number, do you know who else might?’

‘I ken one thing. Naebody calls that heidbanger unless they’ve got a big problem tae fix. You’re up tae something, laddie.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Ben said.

‘Aye, I’ll believe that. Where are ye callin from?’

‘Right now I’m in Java. Tomorrow I’ll be somewhere else.’

‘Fuckin’
Java
,’ Boonzie exploded. ‘Listen, I might be gettin’ auld, but I’m no soft in the heid. Ye need help, don’t ye? What did I tell ye aboot that?’

‘You told me to call you anytime and you’d drop everything,’ Ben said. ‘And I appreciated it.’

‘An’ I fuckin’ meant it, an’ all,’ Boonzie warned him. ‘Now fill me in, an’ fast. If ye need help ye’re goin tae say so an’ ye’re fuckin’ gettin’ it whether ye want it or no. Dinnae even think aboot tryin’ tae stop me or ye’re in serious shite. Clear?’

Twenty hours later, the flight from Charles de Gaulle airport touched down at Jakarta. Ben and Quigley drove there to meet it in the black Chevrolet SUV that had been provided for them by Joe Mulligan and looked like a cast-off from the US Secret Service.

But instead of Raoul de la Vega or Paul Bonnard, it was Jeff Dekker who stepped off the plane. ‘Jesus Christ, what happened to you?’ he asked when he saw the healing bruises on Ben’s face. ‘You look like you spilled the wrong guy’s pint.’

‘Never mind me,’ Ben said, stunned. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Jeff pointed at Ben’s face. ‘It’s obviously about time you had someone to watch your back, mate. Whatever it is, count me in.’

‘Not you as well,’ Ben groaned.

Jeff chuckled. ‘As well as who? Let me guess. McCulloch being stubborn again?’

‘Promised if I tried to stop him coming to help, he’d rip my arm off and beat me about the head with the soggy end.’

‘And he wasn’t kidding, I’ll bet,’ Jeff said.

‘No chance. I’ve seen him do it.’

Quigley drove the Chevrolet to the apartment. In the back, Jeff opened up a holdall and handed Ben a brown envelope. ‘Here’s the stuff you asked for.’

Ben inspected the fake passport in the name of John Freeman that had been stored in the armoury room safe at Le Val, a duplicate of the one the Indonesian army officer had confiscated. Along with the passport was a functioning credit card in the same name, and a bundle of cash.

‘All there?’ Jeff said.

‘That’s all I needed from you, Jeff. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park.’

‘Don’t say another word. What’s the plan?’

‘London tomorrow night. Boonzie’s flying into Heathrow to meet us. Then onto New York. After that, I don’t know yet.’

‘Look, mate, I talked to Jude. Have you called Brooke?’

Ben shook his head. ‘When it’s over,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll call her.’

Chapter Sixty-Two

New York City

Two days later, the sun was blazing over Manhattan as a gleaming Lincoln Town Car pulled up. Four men got out and walked briskly westwards down Fulton Street. Their manner was purposeful but discreet, so that none of the passersby and business types on lunch break who thronged the busy sidewalk would have guessed that a team of ex-SAS, SBS and Marine Corps veterans were heading armed into the heart of the financial district to execute a carefully-planned mission.

‘This is it,’ Jack Quigley said as they reached the glass tower with ‘Mandrake Holdings Inc’ in polished steel letters above the entrance.

‘Let’s go,’ Ben said.

They pushed through the doors and strode four abreast across the lobby towards the reception desk. The pretty receptionist looked up as they approached. She’d redone her nails a different shade. Her well-practised smile dropped as she recognised Quigley.

‘Hello, sweet face,’ Quigley said, leaning on the desk and flashing his new CIA ID card. ‘Remember me?’ He pointed at the phone next to her. ‘Better tell your boss I’m back, and I’d like to talk to him.’

The receptionist hesitantly picked up the phone, shooting nervous looks at the four as she stabbed the keypad with a glossy nail.

Quigley pointed across the lobby, past the modernist sculpture pieces and plastic foliage to the door his two escorts had taken him through last time. ‘It’s that way.’

‘Wait,’ the receptionist began as they headed towards it. ‘You can’t—’

But they were already through it. Quigley remembered the way perfectly, and led them along the twisting soft-carpeted corridors, Ben second, Boonzie and Jeff bringing up the rear.

‘Any time now,’ Quigley murmured. They were fully expecting to be intercepted, and it happened right on cue before they reached the scanner and coded security doors. A lift whooshed open and three men in dark suits marched out. ‘Excuse me?’ the burly one in the middle said in a strong voice, raising his hand. ‘Hey. You. Hold it right there.’

‘That’s him,’ Quigley said to Ben. ‘The guy who locked me in the room.’

The man’s eyes narrowed as he saw it really was Quigley. He nodded to his companions and they spread out to block the corridor, ready for trouble. The one in the middle was reaching for the butt of his concealed sidearm when Ben pinned him roughly against the wall, drew a black Steyr automatic from under his jacket and thrust it hard under the jowls of his chin.

‘Trust me, you don’t want to do that,’ he said quietly.

Boonzie and Jeff had whipped out their pistols and had them trained on the other two men. ‘Drop them,’ Boonzie snarled through his droopy salt-and-pepper moustache. ‘Nice an’ easy does it.’

Pale as ghosts, the men delicately drew their sidearms between trembling fingertips and tossed them on the ground.

Quigley scooped the guns up and then turned to the burly guy. ‘Let’s finish that conversation,’ he said in a genial tone. ‘Somewhere nice and private where we won’t be disturbed. Unless you want to call the cops and discuss this in the District Attorney’s office instead. No?’

The man’s eyes bulged. He was too choked to speak with Ben’s gun muzzle pressing against his windpipe, but he managed a quick shake of the head.

‘I didn’t think so,’ Jeff said. Boonzie surveyed the man with a look of disgust and spat on the carpet.

Disarmed and helpless, the three men were frogmarched into an empty office. The air conditioning was whirring softly. At one end of the room was a bank of computers and a row of tall filing cabinets and a bare whiteboard. At the other was a stack of chairs.

‘This’ll do nicely,’ Ben said, covering all three with the Steyr. Quigley locked the door behind them and then walked over to the window and slanted the blinds to give them more privacy. Jeff grabbed three chairs from the stack and clattered them down in a row in the middle of the room. Boonzie unzipped the shoulder bag he was carrying and took out a length of rope and a Ka-Bar fighting knife. Unsheathing the menacing black blade, he grinned at the looks on the men’s faces.

‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ Ben said. When the burly guy hesitated, he grabbed him by his tie and sent him sprawling into the middle of the three chairs. The other two obeyed instantly. Boonzie stepped around behind the chairs, used his knife to slice three lengths from his rope and made short work of trussing the men securely to their seats.

Quigley stood with his arms folded and addressed the one in the middle. ‘Now, before we got interrupted last time, you were just about to tell me all about Triton.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the guy growled. ‘And you people just fucked yourselves by coming in here like this. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.’

‘I think these fellas are a wee bit uptight,’ Boonzie said.

‘Looks like it to me,’ Ben said. ‘How about a drink to loosen things up?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a quart vodka bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he stepped up to the three men as if to offer it to them.

‘You’re fucking nuts,’ said the burly guy, but his tone changed to a squeal of fear as Ben upended the bottle and poured a third of its contents over his head. He did the same for the other two, then tossed the empty bottle away. The men blinked and gasped and shook their heads furiously. The sharp tang of gasoline filled the office.

‘I’m not one for barbaric tactics,’ Quigley said. ‘But my friend here,’ – pointing at Ben – ‘he’s another matter. Once he gets started I really don’t think I’ll be able to call him off. And he always keeps his promises. I’d urge you to bear that in mind.’

‘Still don’t know what we’re talking about?’ Jeff said.

From his other pocket Ben drew out a fresh pack of Gauloises. It wasn’t an easy brand to find in Jakarta, London or New York City. Without a word he peeled off the plastic wrapper, flicked it away, opened the pack, took one out, slipped it between his lips and then clanged open his shiny brand-new Zippo to light it with. The cigarette’s tip glowed brightly as he sucked in smoke.

He wasn’t here to waste time on words. He blew out the smoke and said to the men, ‘I’m going to count to five. Then I’m going to burn you.’

Instant panic. The men kicked and struggled in their chairs, rocking from side to side.

‘One,’ Ben said.

‘Here’s where we’re at,’ Quigley told the three gibbering, gasoline-soaked men. ‘We’re not idiots, so we figure
Triton
is the name of one of Mandrake Holdings’ shipping fleet. Except it doesn’t appear on any register. That’s where you guys come in.’

‘Two,’ Ben said.

‘You’re going to assist our inquiry by telling us all about that ship,’ Quigley said. ‘Registration number, tonnage, personnel, cargo, every last detail. You’re going to show us all your secret computer records, files, the works. You’re also going to oblige us by saying whether there’s a certain gentleman by the name of Victor Craine on board. You might know him better as the Director.’