The Nemesis Program

  It wasn’t until four-thirty that the nurse returned, grey and worn out, and said in an expressionless voice, ‘Please follow.’

  She led Ben through the corridors, which if anything had grown even more chaotic and depressing in the last few hours. As he followed, his mind was reeling from the knowledge that this could be bad news. Where was she taking him? To some office where he’d be shown her personal effects – watch, shoes, tattered clothing – and made to sign her off as dead?

  The nurse opened a door and waved him through.

  And gave an exhausted smile.

  That smile sent shockwaves through Ben’s whole body. It meant Roberta was all right. He suddenly wanted to hug the poor weary Indonesian woman. ‘Thank you,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘I really thank you.’

  The nurse led him through a dimly-lit ward filled with male patients and pointed out the bed at the end of the row, screened off behind a curtain. ‘She very weak,’ she whispered firmly. ‘Must rest. You not wake her.’

  ‘And the X-rays?’

  ‘She be okay. Must rest. Plenty rest. I go now. You not disturb her, okay?’

  Left alone, Ben self-consciously walked by the other patients in their beds, some sleeping, some peering at him in the semi-darkness of the ward. He stopped at the curtain. Drew back one edge and peered anxiously through.

  She was sleeping. There was a thick dressing over the cut on her forehead and the bruises were livid in places, but some of the colour seemed to have returned to her cheeks and as he stood there, almost too afraid to breathe himself, he saw that her breathing was steady and calm. He stepped closer to the bed, let the curtain swish shut behind him, and kneeled at her side. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said in a whisper. ‘You’re going to be all right. That’s all that matters.’

  He wanted to hold her. Kiss her. He was so confused. But happy, happier in that moment than he’d been in a long time. Victor Craine, the Nemesis Program: all that stuff seemed suddenly very far away.

  ‘None of this should have happened to you,’ he whispered as she slept. ‘You’ll be safe now. I’ll get you taken where nobody can touch you.’ In a surge of tenderness he reached out and delicately brushed away a dark red lock of hair that had fallen across her face.

  Her eyelids parted slightly, then opened wide. ‘Ben,’ she murmured, trying to focus on him. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘I’m here,’ he said.

  She gripped his arm. Her hand felt warm, but she was feeble. ‘Don’t leave me.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he whispered, breaking into a smile. He caressed her hair. ‘I’m staying right here with you until you’re better.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Let them try and stop me.’

  They did try, but he was true to his word. All of the next day, the next night and the day after that, he camped resolutely by her side, eating only when he had to, sleeping in fits in a chair brought to him by the nurse he’d befriended, only leaving the ward when the medical team needed to attend to her. The hospital and its routines became like its own little world. The sole contact with outside were the news reports that leaked into the ward from some of the more mobile inpatients who had been catching up with hourly TV bulletins. The word was that the tsunami had been the worst ever recorded. The death toll was in the tens of thousands and offers of aid were pouring in from all the member states of the United Nations. The disaster had rekindled media buzz about climate anomalies, global warming, solar flares.

  Ben listened to the reports and felt sick.

  All that time he watched Roberta become stronger. Dr Rahardjo visited her bedside now and again, and with each visit his concerns about possible effects of the concussion such as headaches, blurred vision, memory loss, nausea, became less pronounced. By the second evening, he took Ben aside and told him she could soon leave hospital; in any case, he admitted, they badly needed to free up the bed.

  Another occasional visitor was Jack Quigley, who seemed genuinely pleased that Roberta was recovering so fast. While Ben had been at her bedside, Quigley had been busy. The third time he came to the ward he was accompanied by a grave young man who introduced himself as Joe Mulligan from the US Embassy in Jakarta, in charge of ensuring the return passage of all American citizens caught up in the disaster. Mulligan was intelligent and affable, and Ben trusted him. Roberta would be flown to Chicago, where her medical care would resume until she was fully recovered and she could go home to Canada.

  Whether or not Quigley had been pulling strings, Ben would never know and preferred not to ask – but things moved quickly after that, and by the morning of the third day, the arrangements were in place and a jet was on standby at Jakarta airport. Joe Mulligan and a female assistant brought clothes for her to wear. The nurses helped her out of bed and Ben was herded away as she changed. She was getting stronger all the time, but still too weak to walk unaided, and Dr Rahardjo thought it best to restrict her to a wheelchair.

  Then it was time to say goodbye.

  It was Ben who wheeled her from the ward. The hospital was a different place now that the initial crisis of the disaster had been contained. Joe Mulligan and some of his colleagues in dark suits were waiting across the lobby.

  ‘I don’t want to leave,’ Roberta said.

  Ben crouched in front of her chair and clasped her hands. ‘Joe’s people will be with you all the way to the airport and there’ll be someone there to hand you over to the officials at the other end. You’ll be safe there. Nobody can touch you. Then you can go home to Ottawa and get on with your life.’

  ‘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 L
e 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 the
m,’ 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.’