The Heretic's Treasure

  ‘I should have broken his spine,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe I will.’

  ‘You’ll feel differently when you hear what I have to say,’ she replied. ‘So, will you meet us? I guarantee you won’t regret it.’

  Ben hesitated. ‘You’ve already tricked me once. What makes this any different?’

  ‘I’m sorry it had to be that way, but I had no choice.’

  ‘I have one,’ he said. ‘I can just end this conversation right now.’ He switched off the phone, and the screen went dark.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Jeff asked as Ben started pacing up and down the office. Ben didn’t reply. He stopped pacing and gazed at the phone in his hand. He had to know more.

  He called back.

  She answered on the first ring. ‘Knew you’d call back.’ There was a note of relief in her voice as well as triumph.

  ‘All right. I’m listening.’

  ‘How fast can you get to Paris?’

  He looked at his watch. It was approaching midday. ‘I can be there this afternoon. Three hours, give or take.’

  ‘Call me when you get there. I’ll give you the address to come to.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you later, Valentine.’ Ben ended the call and shook his head, as if to clear it. He let out a long breath.

  ‘Off again?’ Jeff said. ‘More travels?’

  ‘You won’t know I’m gone.’

  Jeff smiled a long-suffering smile. ‘Don’t worry. I can take care of things.’

  They both turned as the door swung open and Brooke walked in. She was wearing a serious expression, and the same black jeans and green combat jacket she’d had on when Ben had picked her up at the airport. The holdall in her hand looked packed. She dumped it on the floor at her feet. ‘I’m leaving now,’ she announced.

  Ben thought he could hear a certain coldness in her voice. ‘I thought you were sticking around for a few more days,’ he said.

  ‘There are things I have to do in London. Better I get back.’

  He shrugged. There didn’t seem any point in arguing with her. ‘I’m leaving for Paris in a few minutes. I can drop you off at the airport on my way.’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘Paris?’ she echoed pointedly. ‘Meeting someone?’

  ‘Yes, I am. But not who you think.’

  ‘I don’t need a lift, anyway. I already called a cab. They’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘Thanks for talking to me earlier, Brooke.’ Ben patted her shoulder. But something was wrong. He felt the muscles tighten and she flinched away.

  ‘Have a wonderful time in Paris,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘It’s not exactly a pleasure trip.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I think I’ll walk up to the gate and meet the cab there. See you next week, Jeff.’ She snatched up her bag.

  ‘Look forward to it,’ Jeff replied. ‘Safe journey home.’

  Then Brooke was gone. Ben watched through the window as she marched across the yard with her holdall on her shoulder. ‘Something’s up with her,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t know what.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Jeff said with a chuckle.

  Ben turned to him. ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, mate. Are you blind or just thick?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You really can’t see it, can you? She has a serious thing for you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You know Brooke. She likes to flirt and joke around. She doesn’t really mean anything by it.’

  ‘Doesn’t flirt with me,’ Jeff said. ‘Wish she would.’

  ‘You’re talking crap. She and I are just friends.’

  Jeff lounged back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head. ‘Whatever you say, Ben. Whatever you say.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  But Ben had more to think about than Brooke. He dashed up to his quarters, packed a few things in a leather overnight bag, and headed back across the yard to a squat brick building between the gym and the trainee block.

  It was no more than a hut. The door was riveted steel, a foot thick, and beside it was a wall-mounted keypad console shielded from the elements under thick plastic. He punched in a number. It was changed every week, and only he and Jeff knew it.

  There was nothing inside the building, just a square hole in the concrete floor and a flight of steps leading downwards. At the bottom of the steps was another heavy door and another keypad. He dialled in the twelve-digit passcode, heard a metallic clunk from somewhere inside the works, pushed the door open and flipped on a light switch.

  He was inside Le Val’s armoury room. All around him were racks of weapons, stored in accordance with high-security regulations. He walked over to a steel safe and unlocked it with a long key from the ring he was carrying. The safe was filled with an assortment of pistols and revolvers. He reached inside and lifted one out, an old standard-issue military Browning Hi-Power 9mm. He laid it on a nearby table, reached back inside the safe and took out two magazines and a box of 9mm ammunition.

  Even as he’d been talking to Kim Valentine, he’d decided that there was no way he was walking unarmed into a strange address in Paris to meet people he already knew weren’t who they said they were. There’d been enough surprises.

  He just couldn’t figure it out. Ever since Valentine’s call he’d been working through the pieces in his mind, and coming up with nothing but questions. Who was she? Were these people interested in Morgan Paxton’s research? Connected with Kamal? Somehow, he didn’t think so. This was something else.

  He quickly loaded thirteen rounds into each mag. He slotted one into the butt of the pistol, the other he slipped into the left pocket of his jeans. Then he put the pistol in the other pocket, picked up the cartridge box and left the armoury.

  Behind the farmhouse was the converted Dutch barn that was now the garage block. He pulled open the weathered wooden doors and sunlight sparkled off the striped green bodywork of the Mini Cooper inside. As he chucked the overnight bag onto the back seat, he felt a pang of loss for his old army bag. He’d had that for years. He got in the car, stuffed the pistol and ammunition into the glove compartment, fired up the engine and spun the wheels on the gravel as he drove out of the yard.

  Twelve-forty. He’d be in Paris by four.

  He was there by quarter to. As he cut and slashed his way through the heavy traffic on the city’s Périphérique outer ring road, he called Valentine. She gave him an address in the suburbs. He knew the area.

  ‘Be here at six,’ she told him. ‘We’ll be waiting.’

  Two hours to kill. That suited him. He headed east through the city. Hit Boulevard Haussmann, took a right onto Boulevard des Italiens and headed for his old flat. It had been a long time since he’d been there. The place was simple, functional to the kind of extreme only a soldier could tolerate, but it had served him very well in its day. At one time he’d seen it as his safe-house, his doorway to Europe. Now it was just a symbol of the life he’d left behind-or was trying to. He’d been meaning to come back to Paris anyway, whip the place into order and put it on the market.

  He didn’t even know if anyone would want it. Its location was ideal, tucked away down an alley close to the heart of the city, but the only way into the place was through an underground parking lot, up a murky back stairway, and through an armoured security door. Not exactly a cosy family home.

  The flat felt cold and unlived-in when he got there, and everything was covered in a light coating of dust. He fired up the heating system and spent a few minutes cleaning the place up. He’d no intention of spending much time in Paris. This was going to be a flying visit-one night only, find out what Valentine had to say to him, and then straight back to Le Val in the morning. After that, he never wanted to think about any of this ever again.

  Checking the kitchen cupboards, he found he still had a few tins of food and an unopened pack of Lavazza ground coffee. Better still, three bottles of the red table wine he used to buy from the grocery store down the street. br />
  He drank three cups of strong black coffee and smoked a couple of Gauloises. Then it was time to make a move.

  The address in the suburbs surprised him somewhat. It turned out to be a shabby little place in a shabby little street, the last in a row of terraced houses next to a disused filling station where a rusted Esso sign creaked in the breeze. The neighbouring house was obviously derelict, boards over the windows and the door nailed up. The sky was grey, and rain was threatening as Ben parked the car a little way up the street.

  He flipped open the glove compartment and took out the Browning. Racked the slide of the pistol, chambering the top round, and clicked on the safety. Shifting forward in the driver’s seat he slipped the gun into his belt, behind the right hip, where it was covered by his leather jacket. He stepped out of the car, feeling the light patter of raindrops on his face.

  He walked up to the house and knocked on the door. After a few moments there was the sound of footsteps from inside, and the door creaked open.

  Ben knew the guy standing in the doorway. He was the smaller of the two men who’d been on the beach in San Remo. The one who’d run away.

  ‘Stolen any good handbags recently?’ Ben asked him.

  The guy didn’t react. He shut the door and led Ben down a hallway. The inside of the house didn’t look any better than the outside. Wallpaper was hanging in strips from the walls of the empty rooms and the carpets were threadbare.

  ‘Cosy little place,’ Ben said.

  ‘This way,’ the guy said. They came to a door and he pushed it open.

  The other side of the door was the kind of operations room that a very small team running on a minuscule budget would set up. The three beaten-up armchairs and the old desk in the corner looked as though they’d been rescued from a skip. The desk was covered in clutter-papers, a collection of phones, a whirring notebook computer. A couple of cameras, one with a long lens. A couple of open aluminium cases on the floor contained an assortment of audio surveillance equipment. In the middle of the room, a Formica slab resting on two beer crates made a low table covered in plastic cups and the remnants of a fast-food meal. The place smelled of instant coffee and stale bodies and damp carpet. The blind was drawn down over the single window. The atmosphere reminded Ben of various police stakeouts he’d seen-only twice as depressing.

  And he still didn’t have a clue who these people were.

  Seated in one of the armchairs was another man he’d seen before. A big guy, broad shoulders, heavy arms folded across his chest. His neck was enveloped in a foam brace and his posture was stiff and awkward, as though it still hurt to move. His eyes were rimmed with red from pain.

  The smaller guy went and stood with his back to the window. Ben walked into the room and gazed from one man to the other. ‘Where’s Valentine?’

  ‘She’s here,’ said a familiar voice. Ben turned.

  ‘So we meet again,’ she said.

  She stood framed in the doorway of a small kitchen. Her hair was brushed down flat against her head and tied back tightly, the way it had been on the video call. The vulnerable feminine look he’d seen in San Remo had disappeared. Her face was drawn and pale, and the jeans and navy jumper looked slept in. ‘Thanks for coming. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘You can get me an explanation,’ Ben said.

  Valentine nodded. ‘I owe you one. And I’ll tell you everything. But first, let me introduce you to my colleagues.’ She pointed to the big guy in the armchair. ‘This is Udo Wolff.’

  Wolff nodded stiffly to Ben.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ Ben said.

  ‘This is Jimmy Harrison,’ Valentine said, pointing at the small guy who was standing by the window. And we need your help. I’m glad you came. You want to sit down? This is going to take a while.’

  Ben moved over to one of the armchairs and sat down with his legs out in front of him and his arms folded. ‘I’m listening,’ he said. ‘This had better be worth it.’

  ‘It is,’ Valentine replied. ‘But you’re not going to like it. Get ready for some big shocks.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  She stepped across to the desk. On top of the pile of papers was a brown A4 envelope. She reached inside and took out a large photo print. She didn’t look at it as she walked over to Ben and passed it to him.

  He studied the glossy colour print carefully. It wasn’t very nice to look at. The photo showed a woman, or what was left of a woman. It was worse than the pictures of Morgan Paxton’s body-a lot worse. She was naked and looked as though she’d been passed through a combine harvester.

  ‘You’re looking at Linda Downey,’ Valentine said. ‘She was the fourth member of our team.’ She paused, swallowed. ‘And she was my friend.’

  He handed the picture back to her. There was complete sincerity in her eyes. And other things, he thought. Anger, maybe fear, too.

  ‘You might be wondering who did this to her,’ Valentine said. And what this has to do with why you’re here.’

  ‘I’m wondering,’ Ben said.

  Valentine tapped the picture with her fingertips. ‘The person who did this to Linda is called Berg. We don’t even know if that’s his real name. Whoever he is, he’s totally off the grid and untraceable. But we do know the name of the man he works for. The man on whose orders he did this.’

  Valentine laid the photo face-down on the desk, as though she couldn’t stand looking at it any more. There was tension in her jawline.

  ‘Berg’s employer is Colonel Harry Paxton,’ she said.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ben stared at Valentine for a long moment. ‘I think you’d better explain yourself more clearly. Just exactly who are you, what do you want from me, and what are you trying to say?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I just wanted you to see the picture. I wanted you to know the kind of man Harry Paxton really is. But let me back up a couple of steps and start at the beginning.’

  Ben just watched her coldly. Harrison and Wolff were silent.

  Valentine pointed at the two men. ‘Until five weeks ago, the three of us were special agents with Interpol.’

  Ben kept gazing at her steadily.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘That’s something I can easily check. I know people in Interpol. I’ve got a few connections.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Valentine said. ‘Feel free to check up on us. I’ll give you the exact details of people we worked with, section chiefs we were answerable to, names of departments, the colour of the wall tiles in the toilets at the General Secretariat in Lyon.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to make some calls,’ Ben said. ‘But let’s just say for the moment that I believe you. I still don’t understand why I’m here listening to this.’

  ‘You’re here because Harry Paxton’s not who you think he is. Because it’s time you knew the truth.’ Valentine paused. ‘Let me tell you about the real Harry Paxton. He’s an arms dealer. He’s been trading illegally in weapons for more than a decade. He sells to anyone. Terrorists, mass murderers. He’s given power to despots across the world. Fuelled war crimes and genocide in just about every war zone going. Africa, South America, Asia, the Middle East, you name it. He’s smart, ruthless and will kill anyone who stands in his way. The reason we’re here in Paris is that he’s due to arrive tomorrow afternoon for a meeting with one of his business associates at the Georges V hotel. It could be a break for us. We’re going to follow the bastard everywhere he goes.’

  There was a long silence. Anxious looks passed between Valentine, Wolff and Harrison.

  Ben stood up. ‘I don’t have to listen to this. You’re talking complete bullshit. There’s no way Harry Paxton is an arms dealer. It’s insane.’

  ‘Sit down, Major Hope. Hear us out.’

  But Ben was already walking to the door.

  Then a voice made him stop dead in his tracks.

  ‘Listen to her, Ben. She’s telling the truth.’

  He turned slowly, and for a mom
ent he was speechless.

  It was Zara. She stood in the doorway from which Valentine had emerged before. She looked anxious, tense. The black T-shirt and jacket she was wearing made her face seem even paler than it was.

  But she still looked beautiful. He took a step towards her. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, incredulous.

  ‘I’m with them,’ she said, motioning at the three agents. ‘I’ve been helping them. Harry thinks I’m visiting a sick friend in Rome.’

  As Ben gaped at her, his mind was sprinting backwards through all the things that had happened. The time in San Remo, when they’d been followed. Now he understood why Zara had seemed so unconcerned about it. ‘You were in on this the whole time?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s true about Harry. He isn’t who you think he is.’

  ‘And there’s more,’ Valentine said. ‘A lot more. I really think you need to sit down and listen.’

  Ben didn’t know what to say. He felt dazed as he walked back to his chair and sat down.

  ‘Thank you,’ Valentine said. ‘I mean it. I know this is hard for you.’

  It was getting dark in the room as evening fell outside the window. Valentine walked over and flipped a light switch. A bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling lit up with a weak glow that made the room seem even gloomier.

  ‘Let me get this right,’ Ben said. ‘You know all this about Harry, yet he’s a free man. Why isn’t he in jail now?’

  ‘Like I said, he’s smart,’ Valentine answered. ‘He always stays a step ahead of the game, and nobody’s ever been able to catch him. He uses his yacht charter business as a front, shipping arms consignments all over the world. Any idea how much cargo one of those superyachts can hold?’

  ‘A lot,’ Harrison said.

  A fuck of a lot,’ Wolff added.

  ‘Interpol have been watching him for a long time,’ Valentine went on. ‘The bastard has been my whole life for two years. But we just couldn’t get anything concrete, and our superiors pulled the plug on the investigation. They said if we pushed it any further, it was going to look like harassment. So, case closed. That was six weeks ago.’ She smiled grimly. ‘His SAS training came in handy, I imagine. He goes in, does the business, gets out and it’s like he was never there. You must know all about that, Major.’