They climbed out as the BMW came bounding down the hillside after them. Seeing the dust rising from the crashed Peugeot, the driver braked–too hard, sending the BMW into a sideways skid. It spun, hit another rut, went up sideways on two wheels and rolled, coming to a rest upside down in a great plume of dust.
Its four dazed occupants spilled out. A fat man with blood streaming down his temple fired a pistol at the Peugeot. The passenger window burst and showered Roberta with glass as she crawled for cover.
‘Roberta!’ Ben grabbed the Browning and returned fire, the gun bucking in his hand as his bullet went through the side of the BMW four inches from the fat man’s head. She took cover next to him.
Three of their pursuers dived behind the BMW. The fourth scrambled behind a rock, clutching a short-barrelled shotgun. He fired. The shot blew a ragged hole in the roof of the Peugeot, and Roberta screamed. Ben brought the Browning up again and loosed off four rapid shots. Dust flew up around the prone shooter. Ben’s fourth shot caught him in the upper arm. He rolled out from the cover of the rock, racking the shotgun. Ben fired at him again, and kept squeezing off round after round until he was down and the Browning was out of ammunition. He ejected the spent mag and reached into his pocket for a spare one.
His pocket was empty. He suddenly remembered that all the magazines and ammunition were in his bag inside the car.
Another man came out from behind the upside-down BMW. The gun in his hands was black and oblong, with a stubby silencer and a long pistol-grip magazine. He fired a chattering burst from the Ingram submachine gun which peppered the side of the Peugeot with holes and forced Ben to take cover as he tried to get into the car. The third and fourth shooters were stepping out from behind the BMW, pistols in their hands, cautiously advancing. The man with the Ingram let off another spray, whipping up dust and stones in a line to Ben’s left. Not good.
Suddenly the Ingram had shot itself empty, and the man was struggling to reload it. Ben saw his chance. He reached inside the Peugeot and grabbed his bag. Fumbled with the catches and found what he was looking for. He slammed in a fresh magazine as the man with the Ingram came closer. Throwing his gun arm up over the top of the car, Ben shot him twice in the chest and saw him go down on his back with his legs kicking in the air. The gunman nearest the BMW ran back for cover, snapping a wild shot over his shoulder. His colleague, realizing he was too far from the car, went down on one knee and emptied his 9mm at Ben.
Ben ducked down as bullets whanged past him.
But one caught him. The blow to his right side jerked him round. He righted himself and returned fire. The man came down sprawling with his arms outflung and his pistol tumbling to the ground.
Ben staggered. There was blood everywhere. His vision clouded and suddenly he was gazing up at a circle of treetops and grey sky.
Roberta saw him go down, screaming NO!!! and catching his pistol as it fell. She’d never fired a gun before, but the Browning was easy–just point and squeeze. The last gunman stepped out again from behind the BMW and fired at her. She felt the crack as the bullet zipped past her. With the Browning in both hands she fired back and sent him under cover in a shower of glass. She grabbed her shoulder-bag out of the Peugeot’s broken window.
‘Can you run?’ she yelled at him. Ben groaned, rolled and staggered to his feet. His knees were weak. Another shot rang out. Her wild answering bullet caught the man in the thigh, and with a scream and a spray of blood he fell back behind the car. Now the Browning was empty again and wouldn’t work any more. The injured man came crawling back out with a double-barrelled shotgun. He fired and the Peugeot’s wing-mirror exploded.
‘Come on!’ She grabbed Ben’s arm and they ran down the steep slope. Below them, a rough earth bank led sharply down to a winding country lane. A farm truck carrying a load of hay was lumbering slowly by. In four running leaps they were ten feet right above it and then Roberta threw herself into the air, taking him with her. They sailed through space for a terrifying second. The back of the truck rushed up to meet them–and then they plummeted into the prickly bed of hay, all arms and legs and confusion.
The man with the shotgun hobbled swearing down the slope past his three dead companions. He roared with fury as he watched the truck, with Ben and Roberta in the back, disappear in the fading light.
33
Paris
After the long, hot drive from Rome, Franco Bozza was in no mood for niceties. He filtered the black Porsche 911 Turbo through the traffic of the city outskirts and headed towards the suburb of Créteil. He soon found what he was looking for in a rundown industrial zone on the outer fringes. The disused packing plant stood back from the street, behind rusted iron gates that were locked with a chain. Weeds littered the forecourt. Bozza left the Porsche running and walked up to the gates. The padlock was shiny and new. He took the key from his pocket and unlocked it. Checked left and right that nobody was around, then pushed open the right-hand gate with a grating of rusty hinges. He drove the Porsche through, then locked the gates behind him. The street was empty. Bozza parked out of sight around the back of the neglected building, and walked in through the back entrance that he knew would be left open for him.
The appearance of the tall, broad and silent figure in the long black coat created a chill in the air for the three men who’d been guarding the unconscious Gaston Clément. Naudon, Godard and Berger all knew the Inquisitor’s reputation and stayed as far from him as possible, barely daring even to look at him as the man opened up the black bag he was carrying and laid out the shiny assortment of instruments on a trolley. Some of the implements were obviously surgical, like the scalpels and the saw. They could only guess at the grisly purpose of the bolt cutters, claw hammer and blowtorch.
In the centre of the wide empty space, the old alchemist was hanging naked and limp by his feet from a chain wrapped around a girder. The last item Bozza took out of his bag was the heavy plastic overall. He slipped it carefully over his head and smoothed it down over his body. Then he ran a gloved finger along the row of instruments, deciding where to start. His face was blank, impassive. He picked up a long, sharp probe and twirled it between his gloved fingers. He nodded to himself.
Then the whispering questions began, and the screaming.
A little over an hour later, the old man’s screams had died to a constant babbling whimper. There was a spreading pool of blood under him, and Bozza’s plastic overall and the tools on the trolley were thickly smeared with it.
But this had been a waste of time. The old man was sick and frail, and Bozza could see from the bruises and blood-encrusted gashes on his face that his captors had beaten him into uselessness long before he’d even got there. Now his ravaged body had gone into total shock and the torturer knew there was no point in prolonging the agony. There was nothing to learn from him. Bozza walked to the trolley and unzipped a small pouch. The syringe inside contained a massive dose of the same substance vets used to euthanize dogs. He walked back to the hanging body and jabbed the needle into Clement’s neck.
When it was all over, Bozza turned and looked coldly at the three men. Their anxiety at his presence had diminished, and they were standing in a distant corner of the factory, chattering and smoking cigarettes, laughing and joking about something.
He smiled. They wouldn’t be laughing long. What they didn’t know about his visit was that getting information out of Clément wasn’t the only reason Usberti had sent him here. His orders to ‘clean up the mess’ went further. These three amateurs had bungled their jobs once too often. Gladius Domini‘s days of hiring petty crooks to do its dirty work were coming to an end.
He motioned to them to come over. Godard, Naudon and Berger stamped out their cigarettes, shot serious looks at one another and approached. Their good humour had suddenly evaporated, quickly giving way back to nervousness. Naudon was wearing a weak grin, about to say something.
They were ten metres away when Bozza casually drew out a silenced .380 Beretta and dro
pped them in rapid succession without a word. The bodies slumped quietly to the floor. A spent case tinkled across the concrete. He looked down impassively at the dead men as he unscrewed his silencer and replaced the little pistol in its holster.
Four bodies to dispose of. This time there’d be no traces left.
34
The van drove away in a haze of dust and diesel smoke. The delivery driver was more than happy with the bulge in his pocket, to the tune of 1,000 Euros, that his odd hitchhikers–the short-tempered American woman and her quiet, pale and sick-looking boyfriend–had given him to go the extra kilometres out of his way as far as the tiny hamlet of Saint-Jean. He wondered what that was all about…but then again, what did he care? The drinks would be on him that night.
Roberta was still picking bits of hay out of her hair after their uncomfortable night in the barn. The farmer whose truck they’d jumped on had never noticed his passengers. After the bumpy ride through the country lanes he’d backed the truck up into the barn and then disappeared. Roberta had sneaked down and hunted around until she’d found a rough old blanket to cover Ben with. He was shivering and in a lot of pain.
She’d spent most of the night sitting watching him and worrying that she should have got him to a hospital. Two farm cats had found them and snuggled up next to her in the deep bed of hay. She’d fallen asleep sometime after three, and it seemed like only minutes had passed before the dawn cries of a rooster had woken them. They’d crept away before the farmer appeared.
It had taken hours to get to Saint-Jean, and the afternoon sun was beginning its downward curve. The village seemed deserted. ‘This place looks like it hasn’t changed much in the last few centuries,’ Roberta said, looking about her.
Ben was slumped against a dry-stone wall, head hanging. He looked pretty bad, she thought anxiously. ‘You wait here. I’ll go see if I can find someone who can help us.’
He nodded weakly. She touched his brow. It was burning, but his hands were cold. The pain from his side was making it hard for him to breathe. She stroked his face. ‘Maybe there’s a doctor in the village,’ she said.
‘Don’t want a doctor,’ he muttered. ‘Get the priest. Get Father Pascal Cambriel.’
For the first time in her life, Roberta found herself praying as she walked through the empty street. The road was bare earth, crumbly from lack of rain. The ancient houses, dirty in a way that would have looked squalid anywhere but the south of France, seemed to lean against each other for support. ‘If you’re up there at all, Lord,’ she said to herself, ‘then please let me find Father Pascal.’ She was suddenly chilled at the thought of being told he was dead, or no longer there. She quickened her step.
The church was at the far end of the village. Beside it was a little graveyard and beyond that a stone cottage. She could hear the cosy sound of hens clucking from the shelter of an outbuilding. A dusty and well-used old Renault 14 was parked outside.
A man walked out from between two houses. He looked like a labourer, his deeply lined face like leather from years of working in the harsh sun. He slowed as he caught sight of her.
‘Monsieur, excuse me,’ she called out to him. He peered at her curiously, quickened his pace and disappeared into one of the houses, slamming the door in her face. Roberta was shocked–and then it dawned on her that a tousled and grimy foreign woman with a bloodstained shirt and ripped jeans might not be a typical sight in these parts. She hurried on, thinking of Ben.
‘Madame? Je peux vous aider? said a voice. Roberta turned and saw an elderly lady, dressed all in black with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. A crucifix hung from a chain around her wrinkled neck.
‘Please, yes, I hope you can help me,’ Roberta answered in French. ‘I’m looking for the village priest.’
The old lady raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes? He is here.’
‘Is Father Pascal Cambriel still the priest of this village?’
‘Yes, he is still here,’ she said, smiling a gap-toothed smile. ‘I am Marie-Claire. I take care of his house.’
‘Will you take me to him, please? It’s important. We need help.’
Marie-Claire led her along to the cottage and they went in. ‘Father,’ she called. ‘We have a visitor.’
The cottage was a humble abode, sparsely furnished yet giving off an air of immense warmth and security. The evening fire was ready for lighting, logs piled on twigs. At a plain pine table were two simple wooden chairs, and at the other end of the room was an old couch covered with a blanket. A large ebony crucifix hung on one whitewashed wall, and there was a picture of the Pope beside an image of the Crucifixion.
There were creaky, uneven footsteps on the stairs, and the priest appeared. Now seventy, Pascal Cambriel was having a little difficulty walking and he leaned heavily on his stick. ‘What can I do for you, my child?’ he asked, casting a curious eye over Roberta’s unusual appearance. ‘Are you hurt? Has there been an accident?’
‘I’m not hurt, but I’m with a friend who’s not well,’ she said. ‘You’re Father Pascal Cambriel, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
She closed her eyes. Thank you, Lord.
‘Father, we were on our way especially to meet you when my friend was injured. He’s sick.’
‘This is serious.’ Pascal frowned.
‘I know what you’re going to say, that he should see a doctor. I can’t explain right now, but he doesn’t want one. Will you help?’
‘In any case, there is no doctor here any longer,’ Pascal told her as they bumped back down the street in his Renault. ‘Dr Bachelard passed away two years ago, and nobody has taken his place. No young people want to come to Saint-Jean. It is a dying place, I am sorry to say.’
Ben was semi-conscious when the priest’s car ground to a halt on the village outskirts. ‘My Lord, he is very sick.’ Pascal limped over to Ben’s slumped form and took him by the arm. ‘Can you hear me, my son? Mademoiselle, you will have to help me get him into the car.’
Roberta, Pascal and old Marie-Claire nursed Ben up the stairs of the cottage, into the priest’s spare bedroom. He was laid in the bed and Pascal unbuttoned his bloody shirt. He winced at the sight of the wound across Ben’s ribs. He said nothing, but he could see that it was a gunshot wound. He’d seen them before, many years ago. He felt with his fingers. The bullet had passed straight through the muscle and out the other side.
‘Marie-Claire, would you kindly fetch hot water, bandages and disinfectant? And do we still have any of that herbal preparation for cleansing wounds?’
Marie-Claire tiptoed dutifully off to attend to her task.
Pascal felt Ben’s pulse. ‘It is very fast.’
‘Will he be OK?’ Roberta was drained of all colour, her fists balled at her sides.
‘We will need some of Arabelle’s medicine.’
‘Arabelle? Is she a local healer?’
‘Arabelle is our goat. We have some antibiotics from when she suffered a hoof infection some time ago. I am afraid that is the limit of my medical prowess.’ Pascal smiled. ‘But Marie-Claire knows much about herbal remedies. Many a time has she helped me, and other members of our little community. I believe our young friend here is in good hands.’
‘Father, I’m so grateful to you for your help.’
‘It is my duty, but also my pleasure, to give service to the needy,’ Pascal replied. ‘It has been some time since this room was last used to tend to a sick man. I believe it must be five, even six years, since the last injured soul found his way to our village.’
‘It was Klaus Rheinfeld, wasn’t it?’
Pascal stopped what he was doing abruptly and turned to give Roberta a penetrating look.
‘He is sleeping,’ Pascal murmured as he came down the stairs. ‘We will leave him for a while.’
Roberta was fresh from her bath and wearing the clothes Marie-Claire had given her. ‘Thanks again for your help,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what we’d have done…’
Pascal smile
d. ‘There is no need to thank me. You must be hungry, Roberta. Let us eat.’
Marie-Claire served a simple meal–some soup, bread and a glass of Pascal’s own wine, pressed from his little vineyard. They ate in silence, the only sound the rasping of the crickets outside and a dog barking in the distance. From time to time the priest would reach out and take a split log from a basket and throw it into the fire.
After the meal was over Marie-Claire cleared the table, and then said goodnight before returning to her own cottage across the street. Pascal lit a long wooden pipe and moved to a rocking chair by the fireside. He turned out the main light so that they were bathed in the flickering orangey glow from the fire, and invited her to sit opposite him in an armchair. ‘I think we have some things to discuss, you and I.’
‘It’s a long and strange story, Father, and I don’t even know all there is to know. But I’ll do my best to explain the situation to you.’ She told him what she knew about Ben’s assignment, the danger it had led him into, the things that had happened to her, her fears. Her account was rambling and disconnected. She was terribly weary and her body ached.
‘I now understand your reluctance to see a doctor,’ Pascal said. ‘You are afraid of being reported and falsely accused of these crimes.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘My child, it is getting late. You are exhausted and must rest. You shall sleep on the couch. It is actually very comfortable. I have brought you down some bedclothes.’
‘Thanks, Father. I’m certainly exhausted but I think, if it’s all right with you, that I should sit up with Ben.’
He touched her shoulder. ‘You are a loyal companion to him. You care for him deeply.’
She was silent. The words struck her.