‘You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?’
‘Look for my sister? Of course I am. I have to.’
The percolator was spitting and bubbling. He grabbed a mug, poured out Brooke’s coffee, added a dash of cream the way she liked it, and set it down in front of her. ‘I know what you think about this,’ he said as he sat down beside her. ‘But finding people is something I do well.’
‘If anyone can find her, you can.’ She paused to sip some coffee. ‘Oh, that’s good. But the real question is, Ben, what are you going to find?’
Ben stared at his hands on the table.
Brooke went on, her voice soft and gentle. ‘First, most likely, if you track down this woman, she isn’t going to be your sister at all. She’s going to turn out to be some crazy stranger who just happens to resemble the image you have of Ruth in your mind, the age she would have been now. Wishful thinking is a powerful force.’
‘I wouldn’t say it’s wishful thinking to believe that my little sister came back from the dead as a Nazi.’
‘That brings me on to the next bit. The worse bit. What if, by some bizarre chance, this person really is your sister? She won’t be the little girl you remember. She’ll have changed. Whether it’s wearing a swastika badge or joining some kind of cult, you have to ask what makes an intelligent person gravitate to this type of extreme behaviour. You don’t know what kind of mental or physical trauma she might have been through, what kind of people she’s been associating with and what severe psychological disturbances she could be experiencing. She’ll be someone you don’t recognise. She might not even remember you.’ Brooke paused. ‘I’m sorry. I’m laying it on thick, and I don’t want to hurt you. It’s just that you need to understand, for your own sake as much as hers.’
‘Everything you say makes perfect sense,’ Ben said. ‘But I won’t change my mind. I’m going after her anyway.’
She nodded and took another sip of coffee. ‘I knew that’s what you were going to say. But promise me that if you find her, and she really is who you think she is, that you’ll let me get involved. I mean, professionally. You’re both going to need help to get through this.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a deal. And thanks. You’re a real friend.’
‘And you’re a real worry.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Time to make the first call of the day.’
‘Who to?’
‘There’s a guy I know at Interpol. Luc Simon. He might be a place to start. I heard he’s high up the food chain these days. He was a cop in Paris when he and I worked together.’
‘Worked together?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Blowing up buildings, taking down bad guys. It was never an official thing. We had a kind of understanding.’
‘I won’t even begin to ask,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m going for a long, hot shower.’
As she left the room, Ben walked over to the phone and dialled the number for the Interpol General Secretariat in Lyon. After giving his name and details to an endless series of receptionists and secretaries who seemed hellbent on preventing him from being put through to the person he wanted, he persisted and finally heard the familiar voice on the line.
‘It’s been a long time,’ Simon said warmly. ‘I didn’t think I was going to hear from you again.’
‘Neither did I, for a while there. You’re a difficult man to get to talk to these days. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. Commissioner. Pretty impressive.’
‘I gather you’ve moved on yourself since we last talked. You’re a respectable businessman now.’
‘A regular tycoon. But I was calling about something else. I need your help.’
‘Fire away. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘What do you know about neo-Nazis?’
Simon grunted. ‘Plenty. It’s a growing problem across Europe. You only have to look at the statistics for visitors to Hitler’s birthplace to see the rise. We have extreme far-right groups sprouting up like toadstools all over the place – France, Holland, Austria, Italy, everywhere. Why do you ask?’
‘What about Holocaust deniers?’
Simon thought for a moment. ‘Well, a lot of our shaven-headed, armband-wearing friends make no effort to decry the Holocaust. In fact, some of them would be all too happy if it had been ten times worse. But then you have this diverse splinter group, associated with the neo-Nazi movement but in some ways quite distinct, who want to persuade the world that Hitler never really did these things and that the historical account has been fixed to vilify him.’
‘And he was actually a great guy, he loved his mum, etc, etc.’
‘You get the idea. Quite a strong little subculture going on there.’
‘That’s what I’m interested in. Anyone in particular stand out?’
‘Before I say any more, Ben, I have to ask you why you want to know all this.’
‘Personal interest,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing you’d like to share with me?’
‘I’d rather keep it to myself, Luc.’
‘Only I seem to remember the last time you and I were in contact, you left a bit of trouble in your wake. Like dead men and bullets all over Paris.’
‘That was then, Luc. I’ve settled down now.’
‘Maybe. But some people never change.’
‘Trust me. I just want to talk to someone about a wartime document, written by someone called Kammler.’
‘That’s it? A document? You don’t want to take the document from them, or anything like that?’
‘No, I already know where it is. I just want to ask some questions. Nice and easy, nothing sinister.’
‘So why not talk to whoever has it? Why go looking for someone else?’
‘Long and boring story. Let’s just say I’m not flavour of the month with the owner. Plus, I don’t think he knows much. So, are you going to help me or not?’
Simon was quiet for a moment, and Ben could almost hear him thinking. ‘There are a few prominent Holocaust deniers we keep an eye on,’ Simon said. ‘Now and then we pick one up for racial assault or firearms charges. It’s not exactly top secret. These guys attract a lot of attention, if you know where to look.’
‘So you wouldn’t be risking anything by telling me a name or two.’
‘I could tell you more than one or two,’ Simon said. ‘But here’s the problem. I don’t know exactly what you want from them, but I do know the way you work. I give you this information, you’re going to start kicking down doors. They’re not going to like that, and when they try to get in your way it’s going to end with you wiping the floor with them. As a result of which, people like me will have to go in and clean up the mess. I’m not sure I like that idea.’
‘You went out on a limb for me before, Luc.’
‘And half of France got shot to pieces.’
‘That won’t happen this time.’
Simon paused again. ‘Let’s say I trusted you and gave you some names. It’s not going to take you very far. These guys’ thing is violence against the weak, stamping about chanting slogans, getting swastikas tattooed on their foreheads, breeding pit bulls and sawing off shotguns. Fine, it might satisfy you to kick some asses, but if it’s historical information you’re after, I have someone in mind who I think would be a lot more use to you.’
Ben smiled into the phone. The idea of meeting these characters with swastikas on their foreheads appealed to him. Just the kind he’d enjoy pressing information out of. People like that knew other people, giving him a whole network he could take down if necessary. He’d dealt with that type before. But first things first, and it sounded as if Simon had something interesting here.
‘Go on.’
‘There’s a guy called Don Jarrett. A fellow countryman of yours. I think you’ll be interested in him.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Let me start off with who he was. Back in the seventies and eighties, he was a very well-respected historian and author. Third Reich expert of the highest order, apparently. Bu
t then he started getting a little too pally with some of the old Nazi officers he hung about with for his research. He was seen at a lot of far-right rallies and his name went down on the list of people to watch. Then, a few years ago, he stepped up his profile by writing a book claiming that the Nazi Final Solution against the Jews was a fabrication, a con trick by governments. When he tried to back up the book sales with a European lecture tour, he was arrested in Germany, charged with illegally denying the Holocaust, and put in jail for three years. Only served half that, but while he was inside his wife left him, he lost his job and his home in England, and when he was released he went into exile. These days he keeps his head down and isn’t a threat, though we still like to keep an eye on him. Bit of a loner, and a real cold fish. He might not be willing to talk to you. But if you could absolutely promise me that there’d be no trouble—’
‘Where do I find this Jarrett?’ Ben cut in.
‘I’m waiting for that promise first. That you’ll go easy, and be discreet, and all of those things that’ll make me happy. Or else no dice.’
‘Everybody’s got me making promises today.’
‘Still waiting.’
‘All right, I promise,’ Ben said.
‘I hope I’m not making a big mistake here.’
‘I won’t lay a finger on him. Unless he makes the first move, in which case I swear to hide the body really, really well.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Come on, Luc.’
‘All right. Jarrett has an apartment in Bruges. He eats lunch at the same café in the middle of town, same time, every day. You’ll find him there. Let me have your fax number. I need to go and talk to someone right now, but give me twenty minutes and I’ll send over what you need.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
By the time Brooke came back downstairs fifteen minutes later, Ben had a map spread out across the table. On the chair was his old green army bag, packed, strapped and ready to go.
‘You don’t waste any time, Hope.’
‘Just twenty-three years,’ he said.
Brooke watched as he traced his route across the map. ‘So where are you heading now?’
‘Belgium.’
‘What, right this minute?’
‘I have another call to make, and I’m waiting for a fax to come through. Then I’m gone. I’ve got a lunch date in Bruges.’
‘Looks like your Interpol guy came up trumps for you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Better hurry, then.’
‘I’ll make it.’ He folded up the map, grabbed the webbing shoulder strap of the bag and started heading for the door.
‘Ben?’ she said hesitantly.
He looked back at her. For a fleeting moment it struck him how good she looked standing there with her hair still damp from the shower. She had nice eyes. Something he didn’t notice often enough.
‘Maybe you’d like me to come along?’
‘What about your lectures?’
‘Jeff could stand in for me, couldn’t he? Just this once?’
‘I don’t know if that would be a good idea, Brooke.’ She looked away, flushing. ‘Shouldn’t have asked. You’re the boss.’
‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘I’d be happy for Jeff to stand in for you, if you needed it. But this is something I have to do on my own.’
She nodded. ‘I understand. When will you be back?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. ‘Soon as I can.’
‘I’m flying back to London the day after tomorrow. Call me there if I don’t see you before, OK?’
Outside the sun was shining brightly and the air tasted fresh and sweet after last night’s rainstorm. It felt like it was going to be a hot day. Ben looked around him as he walked across the yard, and on top of all the other things he was feeling, he felt a tingle of apprehension wash through him. He didn’t want to lose this place.
He strode over to the office and walked in to see that Luc Simon’s fax had come through already. He dumped his bag on the floor, tore the single sheet out of the machine and studied it. There were two police mugshots of Don Jarrett, a photocopy of a Der Spiegel newspaper cutting about his trial and imprisonment for Holocaust denial, and some information hastily jotted down in Luc’s handwriting with the address and location of Jarrett’s regular lunchtime hangout in Bruges.
Ben folded the paper into his pocket. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the office phone and dialled the number for the bank manager.
Five minutes later he had set up an appointment at the branch in Valognes. Dupont, the manager, was away fishing and couldn’t see him for ten days. That suited Ben fine. He wasn’t in too much of a hurry to find out whether or not he was about to lose his livelihood.
He wondered what Dupont’s reaction was going to be when he told him how much money he needed to raise. As a going concern and with all the work he’d done on the place, Le Val had to be worth at least a million and a half. Business was better than he’d ever anticipated. The facility was bringing commerce to the area. Thanks to his clients and delegates, the local village brasserie had never had it so good. Ben was liked, and he was employing local people. Maybe the bank would look favourably on his needs.
Maybe. Or maybe not. But right now, he couldn’t think about that.
As he was about to leave the office, the phone rang again. Ben knew the voice immediately. Shannon. Screaming at the top of his voice.
‘Motherfucker, you’re going to pay me that fucking money!’
‘How’s the back, Rupert?’
‘I want the fucking money. I want it now.’
‘You can’t have it now.’
‘I want it.’
‘You’ll get it when I have it. That’s the best I can do.’
Shannon went on screaming down the phone about his lost contract, his ruined reputation, his damaged back, that bitch Brooke walking out on him, and Ben’s personal responsibility for all the ills of the world. After about thirty seconds of furious invective, Ben had had enough and took the phone away from his ear. Even at arm’s length, he could still hear the tinny little voice rasping from the receiver. He gently laid the phone handset down on the desk, turned and walked away. Shannon was still screaming at him as he shut the office door.
Something to worry about later.
From the office, Ben went over to the old converted Dutch barn at the side of the house where he kept the Mini, and tossed his bag onto the passenger seat. He’d always been a light traveller. He was carrying just a change of clothing, his well-worn whisky flask topped up with his favourite ten-year-old Laphroaig, two spare packs of untipped Gauloises and a few other travelling items.
In addition to which he’d packed something that Luc Simon wouldn’t have been too happy about.
The pistol wasn’t part of the official weapons inventory at Le Val, every item of which was registered and logged, serial numbers on file everywhere from NATO to the French Defence Ministry. It was a scuffed old plain steel Smith & Wesson automatic that had probably seen criminal use at some point in its life, the serial numbers filed off both frame and slide. The child kidnapper Ben had taken it from didn’t need it any more, the same way he hadn’t needed any food, water or air for the last six years. It had lain at the bottom of Ben’s safe deposit box at the Banque Nationale in Paris for most of that time, and it wasn’t until he’d cleared it out before moving to Le Val that he’d even remembered it was there.
He didn’t expect any serious need for it in Bruges. But in his experience there was only one really effective way of liberating information from someone who didn’t want to talk. There was no need to hurt them, or even to make specific threats. Just the sight of the weapon was usually enough, especially for a bookish type of guy like Don Jarrett.
Luc Simon would be pissed off. Get in line, Ben thought.
He fired up the Mini, drove out of the barn and across the yard. As he passed the house he glanced over and saw Brooke standing at the window watching him go. She gave
a sad little wave.
On the track that led towards the road, he met Silvain Bourdon’s minibus, waved at the driver and pulled to the side to let it by. Bourdon was the local guy whose taxi firm Ben used to shuttle delegates back and forth from the airport at Cherbourg. As the dusty minibus passed by, he could see the pasty faces of the eight insurance brokers who were here for Brooke’s hostage psychology course.
Hating himself for leaving her and Jeff at a time like this, Ben drove on up to the road, passed through the gates and pointed the car east across France for the second time in three days.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rory woke up in a soft bed. At first he thought he was at home, and it was all a bad dream. That he was going to sit up in bed and see all his things around him, his posters on the wall and his chess computer on the desk, his astrobinoculars on their tripod over the other side of the room, and then look out of the window and see the sun rising over the lake and hear the birds singing in the trees outside and the sound of his Aunt Sabrina’s voice calling his name from downstairs.
But when he blinked away the bleariness and his vision came into focus, he saw where he really was and felt that cold, skin-shrivelling feeling down the back of his neck.
He was in a room he’d never seen before, and he had no idea how he’d got here. He only knew how very, very desperately he didn’t want to be here. The stone walls had no windows, and the only light came from a dull naked bulb that hung from a wire above his head and was covered with spider’s webs and the dried-out corpses of flies.
The other side of the iron bed frame, two men were standing watching him. One was tall with sandy hair, about the same age as his dad or maybe a little younger. The other was shorter, not much taller than Rory, with a ruddy complexion and thick dark hair.
Rory shrank away from them.
‘You’re awake,’ the sandy-haired man said. He sounded English. ‘You’ve been asleep for a long time.’
Rory could feel the bruise in the crook of his left elbow where the needle had gone in. He remembered now. The ship, the sea, the distant islands he’d seen from the deck when he’d managed to get away. The kidnappers who’d chased him. The way he’d managed to toss the stolen phone overboard before they’d caught him and dragged him roughly out from under the lifeboat and shaken him violently, asking him who he’d telephoned; how he’d struggled and kicked and screamed and spat in their faces as they’d held him tight and rolled up his sleeve and the horrible woman had jabbed the syringe into his arm. The last thing he could recall was being hauled back down to that stinking hold and being cuffed to the pipe again. Nothing after that.