Ben looked at Anna. He shook his head and saw the despair flood through her face. Then he looked back at Bozza. ‘Some other time, then,’ he said. He let the rifle drop from his hand. It clattered to the ground at his feet.
He might have expected his victorious enemy to offer some kind of comment at a time like this. But Bozza said not a word. His eyes darted up the canyon. Waiting for his buddies to arrive, the ones Ben hadn’t killed. Ben gave Anna a reassuring wink. Like saying, ‘This is just a temporary setback, we’ll be fine.’ He wished he could be so sure of that himself.
One by one, the others showed themselves. First came the one Ben had missed with his last shot. He slithered and scrambled down the rocky slope to join Bozza, keeping his submachine gun carefully pointed at Ben the whole time. He was a heavy-set guy with greying hair and bulging eyes like an exophthalmic fish. If he’d been one of the assault team back in Ankara, Ben didn’t recognise him without his gas mask.
‘You’re the luckiest man alive,’ Ben said. ‘Better enjoy it while it lasts.’
Popeye held his gun one-handed while he fetched a small walkie-talkie handset out from his jacket, turned it on with a squawk of static and said into it, ‘Mission accomplished, boss. We’re one man down. Iacono didn’t make it, thanks to this piece of scum. Be with you shortly.’
‘Same old Usberti,’ Ben said. ‘Leading from the rear. Letting the expendable grunts do the dying for him.’
‘Stai zitto, bastardo inglese.’
‘That would be “bastardo metà irlandese”,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s get this right.’
‘One more word,’ Popeye warned him, ‘and I’ll shoot you in the balls.’ He put the radio away and then used his free hand to take a set of steel handcuffs from another pocket. Stepped behind Ben, pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of his neck. Grabbed one arm and jerked it behind Ben’s back, then the other. Ben could have broken his spine in two effortless moves, three at most. But Bozza’s pistol was still trained on Anna. Ben felt the bite of cold steel bracelets on his wrists and knew that his window of opportunity had just closed. For the moment.
The third guy to appear was the sniper. He emerged from a fissure between two big rocks on the canyon slope and ambled towards them with his scoped precision rifle slung casually over one shoulder, a bandolier of ammunition draped around the other, as though he’d come prepared to fight off a battalion. Like Bozza and Popeye, he was wearing a black quilted cold-weather jacket, black high-leg combat boots, black gloves and a black beanie hat. As he reached the assembled group he flashed a lurid grin at Anna. ‘Aldo Groppione, al tuo servizio.’ He ran his tongue over his lips.
‘Vai a morire ammazzatto,’ she fired back at him. Italian for: ‘Go and die murdered.’
‘Maledetta puttana,’ Groppione sneered in disgust, then turned a cocky grin on Ben. He pointed at the Mauser lying on the ground. ‘Not bad shooting, from an antique musket.’
‘Not so bad yourself,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll bet you could hit an unarmed man in the chest from a kilometre away in high wind and snow. Taken any trips to Normandy recently?’
Groppione chuckled. ‘That was me, all right. Most fun I ever had with my trousers on.’
‘Shame you got the wrong guy,’ Ben said.
‘Yeah, well, you Brit pricks all look alike. Stupid shit never knew what hit him.’
‘I meant shame for you,’ Ben said. ‘There are consequences for that kind of mistake.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as, first chance I get, I’m going to stretch your neck like a chicken.’
Groppione stared at him. ‘Like a chicken?’
‘That’s what I said,’ Ben told him. ‘You’d better believe it.’
Groppione laughed loudly. ‘You got some coglioni on you, man. I’ll give you that. It’s almost gonna be a shame to have to plug you.’ Turning to Popeye he said, ‘I say we do him here. What do you reckon, Starace?’
Fish-eyed Starace shook his head. ‘You know the boss said to bring both of them in alive if we could.’
‘Yeah, well, what if we didn’t? Accidents happen, right?’
‘You want to piss him off? Nor me. Let’s go.’
Groppione pointed at Anna. ‘You going to cuff her too?’
‘What’s the matter, Groppione? You afraid of a woman?’
‘I like a bitch tied up, know what I mean?’
Prisoners now, Ben and Anna were marched at gunpoint up the canyon, then up a winding path through the rocks that took them past the nook where Groppione had set himself up. It was a well-chosen spot, Ben had to admit. The ground was littered with empty cases and screwed-up Power bar wrappers. A busy assassin’s working lunch.
A little way further on, the slope peaked and then dropped away into a barren plateau where the cold wind whipped up little dust devils and rustled the few hardy shrubs that could find a place to grow. Snaking across the plateau’s outer edge was a rough, unmade single-track road, the kind that needed passing places every few hundred yards so that on the rare occasions two vehicles met, they could squeeze by one another.
The nearest passing place was a short walk up the road. Filling its entire length was a stationary vehicle that was an incongruous sight out here in this empty wilderness. It wasn’t a van, or even a lorry. It was an American-made six-wheeled RV the size of a touring coach. Its acres of colourful paintwork were streaked with whorls of dust and dirt from a lot of road miles. It looked as though it must have been parked there for some time, long enough for whoever was inside to make themselves comfortable. Hydraulic slide-out sections were extended on both sides. A haze of warm air was streaming from a heating exhaust vent at the rear. Pull-down blinds screened the inside of every window.
‘Cosy,’ Ben said. ‘A mobile command centre fit for a king. Or maybe just a dead former archbishop. You boys have a hot tub in there as well?’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Popeye said, and prodded him in the back with his submachine gun barrel.
Bozza led the way up to a side door and stepped up an extending metal gangway. The door opened with a whoosh of hydraulics. Ben and Anna were prodded and shoved after him. ‘Welcome aboard, girls,’ Groppione said with a leer.
Warm air and the soft strains of a Bach choral cantata wafted from the RV’s interior as Ben climbed the steps, Anna behind. The inside of the huge motor coach seemed even more cavernous than it looked from the outside. It smelled of leather and new carpeting. Walnut cabinets and faux marble tops reflected the light from clusters of LED ceiling spotlamps. At the very front, the driving cab looked like the bridge of a starship. Between it and the side entrance, a massive swivel armchair upholstered in tan cowhide was turned with its back to Ben and Anna. The chair slowly rotated around to face them.
‘Major Benedict Hope,’ said the familiar voice of the chair’s occupant. ‘Professoressa Manzini. How happy it makes me to welcome you both to my humble domain.’
Chapter 50
Massimiliano Usberti drew himself up and stepped towards them, arms spread as though greeting long-lost friends. He was dressed in an immaculate double-breasted suit tailored from white silk over a black shirt. His hair was carefully slicked back and the gleam of his shoes was as dazzling as the Panerai watch on his thick wrist.
Usberti’s men spread out around him. Groppione stalked over to the driving cab and lounged in an armchair not much smaller than his boss’s throne. The bug-eyed Starace stayed near Ben and Anna, covering them cautiously with his weapon. Bozza was as motionless as a hunter-killer cyborg in standby mode, recharging itself before the next electronic data command sent it back into combat. Hovering nervously in the background stood a tall, stooped, gaunt, bespectacled younger man Ben had never seen before. The way he was standing hinted at some kind of severe spinal curvature. He certainly didn’t have the look of one of Usberti’s typical foot soldiers, either, wearing a shortened version of priestly black vestments and a large silver crucifix on a neck chain.
‘I really hate
being called that,’ Ben said.
Usberti affected a look of surprise. ‘It bothers you to be addressed by your former rank of major? Please accept my sincerest apologies. I must have forgotten what a modest fellow you are.’ Smiling, he turned towards Anna. ‘Likewise, I must confess it had previously slipped my notice just what a truly attractive creature the professor is. No photographer’s lens could accurately capture such radiant beauty. I am honoured and delighted to make your acquaintance in person at last.’
Anna said, rapid-fire, ‘Usberti, ficcati una barca in culo con i remi aparti.’ Or, ‘Stick a boat up your ass with the oars out.’
Ben was impressed. Jeff Dekker himself couldn’t have come up with a more colourful turn of phrase, or said it half as well.
‘Unfortunately, her magnificence is betrayed by the ugliness that spouts from those pretty lips,’ Usberti said, his smile unbroken.
‘You’re looking rather well yourself, old boy,’ Ben told him. ‘I have to say, death becomes you. Should try it for real sometime. I could give you a hand with that. In fact, I intend to, and soon.’
Usberti gave a gracious nod. ‘I admire your bravado, Benedict. Am I permitted to call you Benedict? We are old friends, after all. On this occasion, however, your defiant spirit is much misplaced. You know as well as I do that you are outmatched, outgunned and outwitted, with no possibility of escape.’
‘Maybe I just wanted to see if it was really you,’ Ben said.
‘In the flesh, as you see. Rumours of my demise have been, as the saying goes, greatly exaggerated.’
‘And the poor sod they fished out of Lake Como with half his face chewed off was who, another of your old Gladius Domini cult followers? You always did look after your own.’
If Usberti objected to the word ‘cult’ he didn’t show it. ‘I believe the acronymic term used in the British Army is a “Ponti”,’ he said. ‘A person of no tactical importance. One who had the misfortune to bear a striking physical resemblance to me.’
‘Of all the bad luck, eh?’ Ben replied. He flexed his wrists behind his back. The cuffs were tight. They hurt. He cast a glance at the tall, stooped priest. ‘I see you found yourself a replacement for Fabrizio Severini.’
‘This is Silvano Bellini, my new assistant,’ Usberti said.
‘Let’s hope for his sake that he does better than his predecessor,’ Ben said. ‘Otherwise known these days as Prisoner Five-Six-One-Three-Nine.’
Usberti’s eyes narrowed. ‘Interesting that you should know that.’
‘That’s me, full of useful information.’
‘May I ask how you came by it?’
‘Being your partner in crime is a bad deal all round,’ Ben said. ‘They don’t last long, do they? Those that do, end up hating your guts. Severini hated yours so much that he wrote me a letter from his prison cell, warning me that you might be up to your old tricks again. Imagine my surprise that you hadn’t learned the error of your ways and become a reformed character.’
‘A letter,’ Usberti said, pursing his lips. ‘I wonder what could have motivated him to do such a thing?’
‘He said God told him to. Seems that even the Almighty has it in for you these days. Which puts the rest of us into pretty good company.’
Usberti’s tall, gaunt assistant hadn’t uttered a word since Ben and Anna had arrived. He was shifting nervously from foot to foot, looking ever more bent over and staring down at the floor with his brow corrugated by a deep frown. Ben thought that maybe he didn’t like the Lord’s name brought into this. Or maybe the idea of ending up in jail as a consequence of running around with crooks like these had never occurred to him before now.
Anna hadn’t taken her eyes off Usberti since they’d walked in, glaring at him as though she wanted to slit his throat. ‘Where’s Ercan? What have you done with him?’
Usberti looked at her a moment before replying. ‘Oh, he is nearby. And I must say we owe him a debt of gratitude for his contribution to our knowledge regarding the possible whereabouts of the idol. Having seen the fruits of his research, you do not need me to tell you what a truly diligent scholar he is. So diligent, in fact, that he was able to share with us a number of his most recent discoveries that you would not find in his notes. Discoveries of which you are as yet unaware, but which have cast a very important new light on our little quest.’
Usberti paused, smiling at Anna as if inviting her to say something. When all she did was stare at him in hatred, he went on: ‘You did not know, for instance, that within the last few days your associate, dissatisfied with the progress of his research, delved yet deeper into the Persepolis Fortification Archives to unearth fresh information. He additionally made further inquiries from a contact of his, one Dr Serge Munoz of the Joint International Syrian Expedition, currently surveying the ancient city and Roman legionnaire garrison at Al-Rafina. We now learn that the Babylonian renegade Ashar Muranu did not remain long in Harran, though what became of the rest of the family is unknown. Hitherto-unresearched PFA records show that he fled from here to the ancient city of Karkemish, where he established a new base, attracted new followers, and attempted further acts of insurrection against the authorities. It was in Karkemish that, in 515 BC, he was finally caught and executed. There his story ends, while ours is only about to begin.’
‘Ercan told you all that?’ Anna said in disbelief.
‘Oh, and much more besides. Consequently, it appears that our search must now take us towards Karkemish. A place so steeped in heritage, filled with such ancient wonders. But I would not presume to lecture a learned historian on the subject – perhaps you would like to share your considerable wealth of knowledge with a mere amateur such as myself?’
‘The only thing I share with you, you murdering pig, is the air inside this stinking camper van, so –’ She finished in Italian. ‘– vaffanculo a chi t’è morto!’
Which, roughly translated, was telling Usberti to go and screw the souls of his dead family members. It was hard to tell which offended him more, that or calling the huge luxury RV a camper van. His face purpled for a moment, but he quickly recovered his urbane demeanour.
‘Then you leave it to me to sum up what little I know of Karkemish and its ancient past. Formerly a monumental capital city in north-western Mesopotamia, no more than seventy-five or eighty kilometres from where we stand, to the west and a little to the south. Frequently mentioned both in scripture and in extra-Biblical texts. Once upon a time, an important seat of power for Hittite and Neo-Assyrian dynasties, as well as the site of the defeat of the Egyptian Pharaoh Nacho the Second at the hands of the forces of King Nebuchadnezzar himself, six hundred and five years before our beloved Lord Christ walked this earth. Surely it cannot be a coincidence that Ashar the Babylonian would have chosen such a symbolic location for his last stand against the Persian Empire? And what a fitting resting place for the golden idol crafted in honour of Babylon’s greatest ruler.’
Ben was barely listening to Usberti speak. He was too busy picturing that mental map again. And what he was seeing there wasn’t good news.
Usberti continued: ‘All that remains today, of course, are scattered rubble fields where once stood proud palaces, temples and mighty ramparts. Excavation attempts there have been somewhat sporadic, beginning in 1878 for only three years, then recommenced in 1911 by notable archaeologists including Britain’s own T.E “Lawrence of Arabia”. Sadly, the advent of World War One interrupted these activities with no further resumption until as recently as 2011, when a joint team of Turkish and Italian scholars led by Professor Nicolò Marchetti of Bologna University resurrected the excavation project and campaigned for the ruins of Karkemish to be designated a UNESCO heritage site. However, once again, such worthy efforts were to be hampered by the same endless litany of human conflict and destruction.’
It was the conflict and destruction that Ben had been thinking about, with a sinking heart as he began to realise where Usberti was intending to take them.
Becau
se in modern times the ancient site of Karkemish was overshadowed in every sense by its near neighbour. Just a mortar shot away, straddling the Turkish–Syrian border in one of the most fiercely contested territories of the ongoing Syrian civil war, was Jarabulus.
Ben had had a bellyful of military goings-on during his Army career, and followed little of what was in the news – but he knew enough to know that Jarabulus had been occupied since 2013 by forces of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, better known as ISIL, who had used it as a base from which to lob rockets and shells over the border into Turkey. It was only months since Turkish land forces and troops of the Free Syrian Army had responded in a military push called Operation Euphrates Shield, dropping heavy bombardment on Jarabulus and supported by air strikes from US Air Force jets, in an attempt to oust the militants. The last he’d heard, FSA troops had pressed their advance far enough to storm Jarabulus, only to find the city emptied of insurgents and ISIL forces largely pulled out of the area ahead of their invasion. But all kinds of battles were still being fought over the region as the two sides went back and forth in a desperate effort to take and retake the same old ground.
Not just two sides: it was an increasingly confused nightmare welter of warring factions. New Syrian Army, Free Syrian Army, Democratic Syrian Forces, Syrian Islamic Liberation Front; then there were the Russians, supporting the Assad regime, and the Americans, trying to destabilise it, having themselves a fine little replay of the Cold War. The Abu Amara Brigade, the Jaysh al-Islam, the Jabhat al-Shamiya, the Mujahideen, the Kurdish YPG Militia, and probably a thousand more, all slip-sliding around in an ocean of blood and ever-shifting internal allegiances. It hadn’t surprised Ben to hear reports that British Special Forces units were unofficially roving about in the middle of the big ugly tinderbox that was just waiting to kick off into a third world war, if and when the politicians proved insanely stupid enough to let that happen.
In short, it was the last place he wanted either Anna or himself to be.