This eBook novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed therein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Published by Claymore Publishing

An eBook Original 2013

Copyright © Scott Mariani 2013

www.scottmariani.com

Scott Mariani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First published by Claymore Publishing in 2013.

A CIP Catalogue of this book is available from the British Library

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9569226-4-9

Mobi ISBN: 978-0-9569226-5-6

EPub ISBN: 978-0-9569226-6-3

Design and layout by Chandler Design Associates Ltd.

All rights reserved. This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

CONTENTS

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Prologue

Somewhere in Europe

3rd December 2003

DEEP IN THE snowy pine forest, a young girl was running barefoot for her life.

She was almost fifteen. Her name was Kristina Braun, but for the last several months, she’d barely been aware of her own identity.

They had taken it from her.

They would strip your soul away, if you let them. They would steal your mind.

They. She had no idea who it was who’d been holding her captive for so long and doing all these horrible things to her. She only knew that she must get away – and now, suddenly, after all these months of pretending to go along with them while secretly planning her escape, her one chance had finally come.

Except that they had no intention of letting her get away so easily. As she stumbled wildly through the snow, tree branches whipping her face and her bare arms torn by brambles and thorns, she could hear the voices of her pursuers close behind.

‘I see her!’ yelled one of them. An instant later, there was a muffled crack and something thwacked into a pine trunk just a few inches from her. Not a bullet, but some kind of dart. All she could do was keep on running. The trees seemed to thin out ahead. Could there be a road? Could there be a village?

Then, suddenly, there was nowhere to run. She skidded to a halt, teetered on the edge and almost fell, sending a shower of powdery snow down the sheer face of the ravine to the wooded valley far below. There was no road. No village. Just the stark, wintry emptiness of the mountains and forests all around her.

Shuddering with cold and fear, Kristina glanced desperately around her for another escape route. It was too late. The voices of her pursuers seemed to come from all sides. They’d cut her off.

She turned back to face the edge of the ravine. The freezing mountain wind whistled about her.

She knew what these people would do to her if they caught her, if she let them take her back to that awful place. The same thing they’d done to Angie. Perhaps something even worse.

No. She wasn’t going to let that happen.

Kristina closed her eyes. Visualised the faces of her parents. These last months she’d often thought about how frantic and desperate they must be, wondering where she was, sometimes hoping she’d come back, perhaps sometimes thinking they’d never see her again.

And now she knew for sure they never would.

Kristina said goodbye and stepped out into the void.

1

Near St Helier, Isle of Jersey

May 7th, 2004

THE SUN WAS melting into a golden shimmer on the water as another long, warm May day came to an end. As usual, the family who lived in the big house overlooking the bay were eating a late dinner at the long table in the conservatory dining room. As usual, too, these days, the fair-haired boy had said little during the meal. His mother sat opposite him, frowning as he toyed listlessly with the food on his plate.

The boy was twelve, and his name was Carl Hunter. The man sitting to his right with his back to the window wasn’t his real father. And as the boy saw it, this wasn’t a real family. It was a stupid pretend family and it wasn’t the same any more. In all kinds of ways.

Carl laid down his cutlery and shoved his half-empty plate away from him. ‘Finished. I want to go and watch TV.’

‘You’re not finished, Carl,’ his mother said. ‘And there’s pudding to come. I made apple crumble.’

Carl shook his head and started getting up. ‘Don’t want any.’

‘You should ask your mother properly if you can leave the table,’ said the man who wasn’t Carl’s father.

‘Please can I leave the table?’ the boy muttered sullenly.

‘No,’ his mother said. ‘You can’t. This family sits down to eat together.’

Carl let out a short laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘You keep on like that, young man, and you won’t have a TV to watch,’ his mother warned him. Her face was turning paler, like it always did when she was about to erupt.

The man laid down his fork and gently touched her arm. ‘Jessica, it’s okay.’ Turning to Carl, he smiled and said, ‘Hey, you know what I did today? Fixed the plug on your Novag. There was a broken connection inside. I’ve soldered it all up, so it should work fine now. How about that, eh?’

The Novag chess computer was one of Carl’s favourite things, but he’d accidentally damaged the plug a few days earlier. If he was pleased it was fixed, he didn’t show it.

‘What do we say, Carl?’ his mother said. ‘That was very nice of Mike, wasn’t it? Carl, what do we say?’

The boy gave Mike the frostiest scowl he could manage. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

‘It’s on the table in the study,’ Mike said in the same soft tone. ‘Maybe you’d like to go and try it out, hmm? On you go, then.’

The boy left the room without a word. They heard him go stumping off towards the study to retrieve the repaired plug, then a moment later his footsteps on the stairs as he hurried up to his room. The door banged shut.

‘Thanks so much for undermining me like that,’ Jessica Hunter said tersely.

‘I didn’t mean to undermine you,’ Mike told her. ‘And I don’t mean to spoil him, either. But he’s been through a lot, you know? All the changes he’s had to adapt to. Can’t be easy for him.’

Jessica sighed and laid her hand on his. ‘And you’re trying so hard. I’m sorry.’

‘Me too. I’m just trying to be a dad to him, that’s all. I love him as if he was mine.’

‘I know,’ she said, and smiled.

From two floors above, they could hear Carl’s music playing.

‘Oh, I just remembered,’ Jessica said, brightening up. ‘Alison called earlier. We’re invited to a party at their place next Saturday. I said we were free. Already booked the sitter. That okay?’

‘Sounds great,’ Mike said as he started clearing the plates. ‘I’ll fetch the pudding, shall I? You want cream or custard?’

‘Better go easy on the cream,’ she said. ‘Have to get into a size eight by next week.’

He was about to make his usual ‘you’re not fat, Jessica,’ remark when the sudden noise cut him short.

They both froze. Mike dropped the plates on the table. ‘What the—?’

It had come from down the hall.

‘That was the front door,’ Jessica said in alarm, looking at him with big eyes. It was a thick, heavy door. Despite the almost nonexistent crime rate on Jersey, they kept it locked and bolted.

Carl’s music was still blaring upstairs.

Before Mike and Jessica could say anything more, they heard the sound again.

A heavy thump. The splintering of glass. Someone was smashing their way inside the house.

They exchanged horrified glances, then Mike rushed out of the dining room and into the hallway. ‘Stay there,’ he yelled back at her. The crashing had stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

‘Mike! No!’ For a second she stayed in her chair, paralysed by fear. Then she leapt to her feet and ran out of the room after him. ‘Mike?’

Mike was standing in the hallway, staring towards the wrecked front door. There was a man in the entrance. A ragged figure. Crazed-looking. His beard and hair were long and straggly, like a tramp’s. His eyes were wild and his fists were tight around the handle of the sledgehammer he’d used to break the door in.

‘Oh my God,’ Jessica gasped. ‘Drew!’

The sound of music from Carl’s room stopped.

The intruder let the sledgehammer drop from his hands. It hit the shiny hardwood floor with a clang. ‘Hello, Jessica,’ he said in a strangled voice.

Jessica gaped at the figure of her ex-husband. He was barely recognisable. His clothes were dirty and unkempt. He’d gained a huge amount of weight since she’d last seen him, that day in court when the restraining order had been put in place.

Shocked disbelief was quickly turning to rage. ‘Have you gone out of your mind?’ she screamed at him.

‘What do you want, Drew?’ Mike asked, his voice low and steady.

‘I’ve come for Carl,’ Drew replied.

Jessica drew a stunned breath. ‘What do you mean, you’ve come for Carl?’

‘You heard me,’ Drew said. ‘I’ve come to fetch him.’

‘Have you been drinking? Are you completely insane? You can’t come here like this. You can’t come anywhere near Carl. The restraining order, remember?’

‘Dad!’ It was Carl. He was standing rigidly at the top of the stairs. Gripping the banister rail.

‘Come down, son,’ Drew said. ‘I’m taking you away from this place.’

‘Go back to your room, Carl!’ Jessica shouted in a panicky quaver. ‘You hear me? Right now!’

Carl hesitated. Then started making his way anxiously down the stairs. Drew nodded to him. He gave a twisted kind of smile through his messy beard.

‘Carl! Jessica yelled. ‘What did I just tell you?’

The boy glanced at her, then at Mike, then back at his father. He paused nervously on the stairs.

‘You’re upset, Drew,’ Mike said, moving warily towards him. ‘We understand how much it’s hurt you that you couldn’t see Carl any more. But maybe it doesn’t have to be forever. Let’s talk it through like civilized people. Maybe we can come to an agreement.’

‘Agreement,’ Drew snorted in disgust. ‘Like hell we will. Like I’d make an agreement with you.’

‘You’re frightening the boy,’ Mike said. ‘Don’t you care about that, Drew? About his feelings?’ He took another step forward.

‘Don’t you come any closer,’ Drew warned. From the pocket of his jeans, he pulled a gun. It was a small semi-automatic pistol, black, ugly and purposeful, and its stubby barrel was pointing at Mike’s chest. Jessica let out a cry.

‘One more step,’ Drew said to Mike. ‘I’ll blow a hole right through you. I mean it.’

Mike went very still. His gaze fixed on the muzzle of the small pistol in Drew’s hand. It was trembling slightly. Drew was sweating and his breathing was rapid and ragged, clearly teetering on the verge of panic. Mike was very afraid of what might happen if he tipped over that edge.

‘Come here, Carl,’ Drew said, holding out his free hand. The boy paused, then slowly descended the rest of the stairs. ‘Dad—’ he murmured. Drew grasped him by the arm and held him close. Whispered something in his ear. The boy looked up at him.

‘Let him go!’ Jessica screamed. ‘Drew! Please! Why are you doing this?’

Drew wagged the barrel of the gun down the passage that led past the stairs. The door on the right led down to the cellar. It was an old door, solid oak. The ring of a large iron key protruded from the lock. ‘The two of you,’ Drew said. ‘Get in there.’

‘You don’t want to do this,’ Mike said as Drew herded them towards the cellar. ‘You know what’s going to happen. Drop the gun. I said, drop the gun, Drew.’ He spoke softly, calmly.

Drew blinked. He clasped the boy even more tightly to his side. ‘Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Get in there now! You first, you piece of shit. I’m not joking. You get in there now or I’ll shoot you. I mean it. I will.’

‘I’m begging you, Drew . . .’ Jessica sobbed.

‘Open the door.’

Mike turned the key with a sigh. The lock clunked. The door creaked open. Cool, slightly dank air wafted up from the dark space below. He reached slowly up to the light switch and turned it on to reveal the flight of concrete steps leading down to the cellar. There were packing cases and boxes, an old table, stacked chairs. Against one rough whitewashed wall leaned the two bikes that Drew and Jessica had once enjoyed cycling around the island on. Happier times. Now they were gone.

Jessica was frantically weeping as she and Mike descended the cellar steps. Drew watched them from the doorway, still pointing the gun, his arm around Carl’s shoulders.

‘Mummy loves you, Carl,’ Jessica sobbed. ‘You hear me? Mummy loves you!’

‘You harm him,’ Mike warned Drew, ‘and I swear you’ll pay dearly for it.’

Drew made no reply. He slammed the cellar door, shutting off the anguished cry from Jessica. He turned the lock. Left the key in place, sideways so that it couldn’t be pushed through from inside. There were wire coat hangers and all kinds of things in the cellar that could be used to pick the lock.

‘Dad—’ Carl said in a shaky voice.

Drew slipped the gun back into his pocket. He squeezed his boy’s arm tightly. ‘Let’s get your things, Carl. We’re leaving.’

‘Where are we going?’ the boy asked, staring up at him. He could remember all the times in the past when his father had been drunk, sometimes hopelessly inebriated, incoherent, reeking of booze, hardly able to stand. A miserable, heartbreaking sight that Carl had almost become used to.

But not now. Now he could see his father was completely sober.

‘I have it all planned,’ Drew said. ‘Everything.’

2

Fifteen days later

Saturday, May 22nd

BEN HOPE STEPPED out of the rented Ford Mondeo and looked up at the house. The warm sea breeze ruffled his thick blond hair, which he wore a little longer now that he’d been out of the military for almost a year. In the background, he could hear the waves crashing against the rocks. It was a sound that made him think of home.

The house looked just the way it had on the TV news, big and expensive. Not for the first time since he’d got the call, he wondered what would make a well-known, comfortably-off professional photographer decide to break into his former home, hold up his ex-wife and her new man at gunpoint and kidnap his own twelve-year-old son. Ben was keeping an open mind.

He took out his cigarettes, the blue pack of French Gauloises that he was smoking these days. He lit one from the fat orange flame of his Zippo, shielding it from the wind. Clanged the lighter shut, dropped the warm metal in the pocket of his leather jacket and started walking up the winding path between crisp expanses of manicured lawn towards the house.

The last desultory-looking stragglers left over from the army of media who’d been besieging the place since the news had broken two weeks ago were wrapping up their gear to go home. One of them, a wiry guy in a baseball cap and a Velvet Revolver T-shirt, was trying to ignite a cigarette with a match but getting nowhere in the wind. ‘Got a light, mate?’ he asked, seeing Ben’s Gauloise. Ben paused, fished out the Zippo and helped him out.

‘So, you a relative of the Hunters, then?’ the guy asked eagerly, puffing smoke. ‘Friend of the family, maybe? Care to make any comments?’

Ben just looked at him. He could see from the hungry glow in his eyes that he was desperate to milk a few more drops out of the two-week-old story that had already started fading from the news.

‘Or are you with the cops?’ the guy added hopefully. ‘Come on, give us something.’

Ben shook his head. ‘I’m just here to clean the swimming pool,’ he said. He walked on. From behind him he heard one of them say, ‘But they don’t have a swimming pool, do they?’ By then Ben was already climbing the steps to the front door. He flicked away the part-smoked Gauloise and rang the bell twice.

The woman who answered the door was tall, about five-nine, with long chestnut hair. Ben recognised her as Jessica Hunter. He knew she was only thirty-five, but the strain of the last two weeks had made her look older than her years, haggard with worry.

‘Mr Hope?’ she said, peering anxiously at him.

‘Call me Ben,’ Ben said.

Jessica Hunter’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Please, come in.’

Ben followed her into a large, plush entrance hall. It was funny how money had its own smell that always imbued these kinds of places. Jessica walked briskly across to the foot of a broad flight of stairs and called upwards, ‘Mike! Mr Hope is here.’ She turned back to Ben. ‘He’ll join us in a minute. Please, won’t you come into the kitchen? I was just about to make a coffee.’

She led the way into a large L-shaped space that was half kitchen, half breakfast room. Patio windows overlooked a well-tended garden with a tennis court in the distance. At one end of the room, deep wicker sofas covered in cushions faced one another across a low table. At the opposite end, an espresso maker was burbling on a shiny Aga range.

‘So you live in Ireland?’ she said with an effort to smile, just to make conversation and break the ice a little.

He nodded. ‘Galway.’

‘Nice there.’

He replied, ‘I love the sea.’

‘So does Carl,’ she said, and her face tightened at the mention of his name, her brows knitting with emotion as if she might suddenly burst into tears. Collecting herself, she offered Ben a coffee. He declined politely and walked over to the wall where a large framed photo hung. The boy in the picture was eight or nine, sitting on a bike and beaming happily at the camera.

‘His father took that,’ Jessica said, glancing across with a grimace as she poured her coffee. ‘Almost four years ago. It’s the only photo of Drew’s I still have on the wall. I can hardly bear to look at it any more.’ She paused. ‘Do you have any children, Mr Hope?’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘No. No children. No family. It’s just me.’ That wasn’t something he liked to talk about. He pointed at Carl’s picture. ‘I’ll need a smaller, more recent shot of him. Preferably one with you in it too.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘May I ask why I need to be in it?’

‘Because if I have to take him away from his father, having a family photo in my hand that he recognises means you sent me, and that he can trust me. It would also help to have one of Drew.’

She anxiously sipped her coffee, standing facing Ben and leaning against the kitchen worktop. ‘It’s such an incredible relief to hear you talk about finding him. Needless to say, there’s still no word. Nobody’s seen them. I don’t even know what the police are doing.’ She paused, looking at Ben with frightened eyes. ‘You will find him, won’t you?’

Before Ben could reply, a man walked into the kitchen. He was about Ben’s height, just a shade under six feet, and around the same age. Despite the wire-framed glasses and the bookish look about him, he could almost have been Ben’s more sedate, more urbane brother. His fair hair was neatly combed and parted, but there wasn’t much he could do to hide the dark circles under his eyes from anxiety and lack of sleep.

‘I’m Mike Greerson,’ he said, striding over with his hand extended. ‘We spoke on the phone.’ Ben shook his hand. It was a good, dry grip.

‘You’ve no idea how grateful we are to you for coming at such short notice,’ Mike said. He waved towards the wicker sofas. ‘Please, take a seat. You must be tired after your trip.’

Mike and Jessica sat together on one sofa, each with a coffee. Ben sat opposite. Mike Greerson might not be Mr Hunter, but from the way the two of them were sitting close together, fingers interlaced, and thighs touching, it looked very much as if he’d taken Mr Hunter’s place.

‘Let’s recap,’ Ben said. ‘Your son Carl was forcibly abducted from home fifteen days ago by your ex-husband Drew Hunter, who threatened you with a firearm and imprisoned the two of you in the cellar while he made off with the boy.’

‘That’s correct,’ Jessica said in a tight voice.

‘We were locked in there all night,’ Mike added. ‘Until Sally arrived the following morning and heard us banging on the door.’

‘Sally?’ Ben said.

‘Our housekeeper,’ Jessica said. ‘She lives in St Helier.’

‘Is she here at the moment?’ Ben asked.

Jessica shook her head. ‘Nobody’s been allowed into the house since that day. Except the officers dealing with the case, that is. And now you.’

‘The moment we were let out of the cellar, we were on the phone to the police,’ Mike said. ‘To begin with, it looked as if they were being efficient. They were here within minutes, did everything they had to do and set up the trace on the phone. They even combed the island with sniffer dogs. But it’s been over two weeks and they haven’t turned up a single lead or shred of evidence.’

Ben was already familiar with every step the cops had taken to date. They’d done a lot of the things he’d have done himself, checking ports and airports on the assumption that Drew Hunter would have taken his son straight off the island on the evening of the abduction. The ferries to France had been checked, as well as every small boat charter outfit and every light aircraft shuttle service. Blanks had been drawn every which way. The only key development so far in the inquiry had been the discovery of the large cash withdrawal that Drew Hunter had made from the bank just minutes after opening time on Tuesday May 4th, three days prior to the kidnapping. He’d emptied his entire account, walking away with almost sixty grand in a bag, which was all that remained of what had once been a much healthier balance. The only conclusion the police could draw was that this hadn’t been a spur-of-the-moment crime.

‘It’s as if they’d simply vanished into thin air,’ Jessica said, momentarily close to tears again. Sniffing, she went on, ‘We soon realised that the investigation was simply going nowhere. That’s when Mike suggested we call in someone from the outside. Someone who knows about these things. I understand you’re from a military background?’

‘I’ve been out of that coming up for a year,’ Ben said.

‘It isn’t just any old military background, though, is it?’ Mike asked with a knowing kind of tone.

‘It’s not something I really talk about a lot,’ Ben said. ‘I served with 22 Special Air Service. Which gave me experience in covert work and hostage rescue, among other things.’

‘And since that time, you’ve been involved in a number of missing persons cases,’ Mike said. ‘The Italian kidnapping a few months ago, for instance. The girl was returned safely to her family, wasn’t she?’

‘I was barely involved,’ Ben lied.

‘And four kidnappers were jailed, one killed.’

‘Nobody’s going to get killed this time,’ Ben said.

Jessica Hunter looked at Ben imploringly. ‘Does that mean you’ll help us? Please. I’m begging you. We don’t know where else to turn.’

‘I’m here,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

3

‘THANK YOU,’ JESSICA said, her eyes misting. She quickly wiped one of them. ‘You don’t know what it means.’

Ben had some more questions. ‘So as far as you’re both aware, apart from the boy’s natural father, there’s no other suspect involved in this situation?’

‘Drew isn’t a suspect,’ Jessica said. ‘His guilt isn’t in question here. We both saw him snatch Carl away at gunpoint. And of course he’s acting alone.’

‘How long have you two been together?’

‘Six months,’ Mike said.

‘Going on seven,’ Jessica said, squeezing his hand.

‘I take it that Drew wasn’t exactly thrilled with the new domestic situation,’ Ben said.

‘He’s jealous,’ Jessica sobbed. ‘He’s all alone now and he can’t stand it that I’m not. That’s what this is all about. He’s just trying to hurt me by taking away my child.’

‘Seven months,’ Ben said. ‘The divorce was well over a year ago, wasn’t it? Though I understand the marriage had turned sour long before.’

‘You mean when he started drinking,’ Jessica said bitterly.

‘It’s what I read,’ Ben said.

‘Nothing much escapes the reporters, does it? They get into your life like ants. They only care about their story.’ Jessica paused, calmed herself and went on in a wistful tone, ‘Drew hasn’t been content with his life for a long time. I don’t know what happened. He used to be. At least, he seemed to be. He had everything. Successful career, beautiful home. I thought we were a happy family, you know? Thought everything was fine. But obviously he was feeling restless and dissatisfied, deep down. It was about three years ago when he started drinking, and it got quickly worse from there. He’d always been so fit and active, but then he just seemed to let himself go. He stopped exercising, started not caring about the way he looked, or what he ate. He became moody and prone to outbursts of anger. Said what he was doing was bullshit. Said he’d trade it all – the money, the glamorous clients and friends, the cars, toys, all of it – to do what he really wanted to do.’

‘Which was?’

‘Wildlife photography,’ Jessica said. ‘That became his passion. Sneaking up on animals and getting pictures of them.’ She snorted, her anger returning. ‘He didn’t give a damn that there was no money in it, that nobody was going to pay for a long-distance shot of some rare bird or other, even if he could stay sober long enough to snap the bloody thing. Didn’t care that we might end up having to sell this house and live like a couple of paupers for the sake of his dream. He didn’t even care about Carl’s education. He was becoming more and more despondent and spending more and more time drunk, and I mean drunk. I couldn’t take it any more. It simply tore us apart.’

Ben had already noticed the gold Datejust peeking out from under the sleeve of her silk blouse, and the diamond earrings that glittered through her hair. He wondered to himself how much it was the prospect of being married to a much poorer guy that had swung Jessica Hunter’s decision to end it.

‘What do you do, Mike?’ he asked.

‘I’m a development consultant for a specialist optics firm in Europe,’ Mike replied. ‘Custom applications for science and industry. I work mostly from home. But at the moment I’m taking time off to devote myself totally to supporting Jessica.’ He squeezed her hand tenderly.

Ben nodded, and turned back to Jessica. ‘Tell me more about your relationship between you, Carl, and Drew since the marriage ended.’

‘He used to have Carl every second weekend,’ she said, ‘while things were still reasonably amicable between us and before the drinking got completely out of control. But then it did, and the arrangement couldn’t go on. He’d turn up here reeking of booze, slurring his words – expecting me to hand Carl over to him in that state?’ Jessica sighed. ‘He was going more and more downhill. Living like a total slob. Carl said his place was a pigsty and all there was to eat there was frozen pizza and takeaway curry. Bottles everywhere, gin, whisky, vodka. He hadn’t had a job in months and all he did was drink. The last straw was when he crashed the car with Carl in it. He’d tricked me, somehow managing to turn up relatively sober to collect him, and then getting plastered the moment he was away from here. When the police arrived at the scene of the accident they found Drew four times over the drink-drive limit and a half-empty bottle of spirits in the car.’

‘Were they hurt?’

‘Carl had minor bruising, nothing more serious, thank Christ. Drew dislocated his shoulder. That’s when he was banned from driving and I had the restraining order put on him. Of course, I felt bad that it meant taking away his access to Carl completely. But I had no choice. It was the only thing I could do for my son’s safety.’

‘You said Drew had become prone to outbursts. While you were married, did you ever have reason to think that he could harm Carl?’

Jessica shook her head firmly. ‘Never. Despite everything, I always thought he loved him as deeply as I do.’

‘The night of the abduction, did it seem as if he’d been drinking?’

Jessica and Mike both shook their heads. ‘That was the strange bit,’ she said. ‘He seemed completely sober. There was no smell of alcohol on him. He didn’t seem discoordinated at all, and his voice was steady and clear. He knew exactly what he was doing. But he looked crazy.’

Ben asked, ‘Crazy in what way?’

‘I hadn’t seen him since the restraining order,’ Jessica said. ‘He looked like a wild man. I can let you have a copy of the police artist’s sketch, if you want.’

‘That would be helpful,’ Ben said. ‘But if you can describe him to me, that would too.’

‘His hair was all straggly and greasy. He had a beard. His clothes were dirty looking and he’d got so much fatter around the belly. It’s like he’s become a whole other person. A complete stranger.’ Her voice choked up. Her lip began to tremble, and then she burst out weeping. ‘How can a man who says he loves his son kidnap him?’ she said through the tears. ‘What’s he going to do?’

Mike put her arm around her as she dabbed her eyes. ‘I’m never going to see him again,’ she sniffed. ‘I just know it. Drew’s never going to let me see him again.’

‘What was Carl’s reaction when his father turned up like that?’ Ben asked, steering the conversation back onto neutral ground. ‘Did he seem scared?’

‘I think he was as shocked as Mike and I were,’ Jessica replied, dabbing her eyes.

‘So he didn’t go willingly.’

‘Drew was armed with a pistol,’ Mike said, frowning. ‘Who’s going to argue with a half-crazed man waving a gun around? We did what he ordered. So did Carl. None of us had a choice.’

‘Do you know where Drew could have got hold of a firearm?’

‘I haven’t the faintest clue,’ Jessica replied. ‘He’s always hated anything to do with guns. Said the only thing he’d ever shoot an animal with was a camera.’

‘The police have already been down that route,’ Mike told Ben. ‘They presume he must have obtained an illegal weapon from somewhere. They didn’t find any leads. There isn’t exactly a lot of arms trafficking on the island.’

‘Plenty of places he might have got one in France,’ Ben said. ‘He could have smuggled it back on the ferry, or he could have sailed a boat across himself.’

Jessica shook her head and almost smiled. ‘Drew couldn’t possibly handle any sort of boat on his own. He’s hopeless at anything practical that doesn’t involve cameras, lenses and tripods.’

‘Does he know anyone with a sea-going vessel of any kind?’

‘We had friends with yachts, when we were married. They no longer speak to Drew. In any case, gun smuggling would hardly be their thing. Neither would helping to kidnap a child.’

‘Look, the police have already been over this ground,’ Mike said.

‘And found nothing,’ Jessica added, suddenly on the edge of tears again. ‘Not a trace of my boy. Where is he? Where’s Drew taken him?’

‘Jessica, Mr Hope is here now,’ Mike consoled her. ‘If anyone can find Drew, it’s him. Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see.’

‘Call me Ben,’ Ben said. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at Carl’s room.’

4

WHILE JESSICA STAYED downstairs, pacing and agitated, Ben followed Mike to the boy’s bedroom. It was at the very top of the house, two floors up.

‘Jessica can’t bear to come near this room,’ Mike said. ‘Nobody’s been in since the forensic people. It didn’t take them long to find the DNA evidence that proves Drew was here.’

The door was slightly ajar. Ben swung it open a little wider and stepped into the large bedroom. He walked around, careful not to disturb anything. The bedclothes were rumpled. Drawers had been left lying untidily open where clothes had been pulled out. A lone sock lay strewn on the carpet.

‘What do you see, Mr Hope?’ Mike asked.

‘After he closed you and Jessica in the cellar, Drew brought Carl up here to pack his things up. Looks like it was done in a hurry.’

‘Why would that be?’ Mike asked. ‘He had us locked up good and proper down there. No way could I have smashed my way out, and he knew it.’

‘Maybe he had an appointment to make,’ Ben said.

‘Such as?’

‘Such as whoever he paid to take him and Carl off the island that night. With sixty grand in his pocket, there’d be a lot of people willing to help him, and no questions asked.’

Ben went on walking around the room, taking in details. Apart from its size, it was a more or less a typical room for a kid Carl’s age. Posters were clustered all over the wall around and above the single bed. A bookshelf was filled with books a twelve-year-old boy would read. There were model kits of fighter aircraft hanging on threads from the ceiling. A carefully painted plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex stood on a table next to a Sherman tank. Nearby was a collection of miniature enamel paints and some fine brushes standing in a pot.

‘He likes models a lot,’ Mike explained.

Spotting a small black object lying on the carpet, Ben crouched to look at it. It was a chess piece, a rook.

‘That’s from his chess computer,’ Mike said sadly. ‘I’d just fixed it for him, the night he was taken.’

‘You won’t mind if I hang onto this for now,’ Ben said, picking up the rook and dropping it into one of the small polythene evidence bags he carried in his pocket.

‘No, but any particular reason?’

‘I like to have something of the victim’s. So Carl’s into chess?’

‘Loves it, and he’s an excellent player. Thrashes me every time. Even beats the machine. He’s a very gifted boy. Very gifted indeed.’

Ben noticed the pride in Mike’s voice. It could have been the real father talking. ‘How do you and he get on?’ he asked.

‘He’s a great kid,’ Mike sighed. ‘I’ve tried my best to be a proper dad to him, but it’s hard. I know he resents me. I can’t really blame him for that. It’s normal in a situation like this. It’s always tough on the kids when their parents split up, isn’t it?’ He glanced at Ben, then went on. ‘I was hoping that in time he’d get to know me better. Now I don’t even know if I’m ever going to see him again.’

‘Don’t think that way,’ Ben said.

‘I’m counting on you,’ Mike said with sudden emotion. ‘We have to have Carl returned to us. He’s the most important thing in our lives. And I want that piece of shit Drew caught. I want him—’ Mike swallowed whatever he was going to say next, as if he’d been going to say too much. ‘What now?’ he asked instead.

‘I’ve seen enough,’ Ben replied, and headed for the door.

‘Where will you go from here?’

‘Give me Drew’s address.’

‘The police have already—’

‘I’m sure they have,’ Ben said. ‘I’d still like to take a look around the place.’

‘Carl had a key,’ Mike said. ‘I think Jessica’s got it somewhere.’

‘Then I’d like that too,’ Ben said.

‘I can do that.’

As Ben was leaving a few minutes later, armed with the things he’d asked for, Jessica appeared in the hallway. She’d been crying again and her eyes were puffy and red.

‘Take care. I’ll be in touch,’ Ben said, heading towards the door.

‘Ben?’ she said, and he stopped and turned.

She stepped up to him, reached out and clasped both his hands tightly.

‘Please find him. Find my son. Bring him back.’

5

DREW HUNTER’S ABODE since his divorce from Jessica had been a stark contrast from the family home the two of them had once shared. Ben parked a little way up the quiet street from the modest semi-detached suburban house on the outskirts of St Helier.

He didn’t get out of the car immediately, because nobody could have failed to notice the police patrol car sitting right outside Drew’s place. Ben sat at the wheel of his Mondeo, watching it. He could see the figures of two officers inside, in conversation with one another. With time passing and the kidnap becoming yesterday’s news, he guessed that the cops would be downscaling their surveillance of the place, just dropping by now and again on the off chance that they could catch Drew sneaking back to his address.

As if he’d come near the place with a marked car plonked outside his gate, Ben thought. Not the best strategic policy in the world. But that was why they were the police.

A few minutes later, the patrol car drove away. Ben got out of the Mondeo, walked to the house and let himself in the front door using the key that Mike had given him.

As he went from room to room, he was keeping his eyes open for the telltale signs that Jessica had described and which hopeless drunks always left in their wake. Empty bottles lying about, unwashed glasses perched on every flat surface reeking of stale beer and spirits, dishes piled high in the sink, fast food containers overflowing from the bin.

But there were none of those. The house was tidy, everything in place, everything clean. Even the bed was made. One room was full of expensive photographic equipment, all carefully organised.

Ben spent the next half hour sifting through every piece of paperwork in Drew’s study desk. Utility bills, tax documents, bank statements, insurance. Nothing beyond the mundane. Next, he went through every pocket of every jacket and pair of trousers in Drew’s wardrobe. He found a small folding knife. Not exactly the weapon of a hardcore crook. A camera lens cleaning cloth, still in its packet. A bus ticket. A photography supplies business card. Lastly, there was a little yellow receipt from a business called ‘A Stitch in Time’, which sounded to Ben like a clothes repair shop. Below the place’s address in St Helier was scrawled a collection date for the repaired garment: May ninth. Two days after the kidnapping, meaning that unless Drew was still on the island and crazy enough to go back to pick it up, it was still at the repair shop.

‘A stitch in time,’ Ben murmured thoughtfully as he left the study and continued his search of the house.

Returning to the kitchen, he checked the fridge and freezer. No beer, no vodka. Not even a frozen pizza. Surprisingly for a heavy-drinking deadbeat, it seemed that Drew had been living on organic health foods: tofu, lentils, wholegrain rice and pasta. ‘Jesus,’ Ben muttered to himself. He sniffed inside a plastic container: homemade vegetable soup. Give me army food any day, he thought.

Drew juiced his own fruit juice, too. A large bowl nearby was filled with oranges and grapefruit, some of them turning soft and discoloured with age. In a cupboard, Ben came across packs of dandelion and nettle tea, the kind of stuff hippies and alternative types drank. Along with them, sitting in front of stacked tins of organic butter beans and chickpeas, was a small brown bottle with a dropper top, which he took out and examined. It was some kind of herbal tincture. He wondered what ailment Drew had been using it for. That could be useful information. Sick people generally went to doctors, collected drugs at pharmacies. You couldn’t do that without leaving a trail.

Thinking he might find more of interest in the bathroom cabinet, he went back upstairs to check. There was nothing in the cabinet apart from the usual everyday toiletries. A pack of soap. Band-aids. Nail cutters. A pair of scissors with specks of fresh orange rust on the blades. Ben closed the cabinet door.

Spotting another little brown bottle sitting on a crowded shelf near the bath, next to an empty glass that had probably contained a toothbrush before Drew had packed up and left home, Ben reached across to pick the bottle up. It contained lots of tiny white tablets and bore a simple label that read NUX VOMICA 6X. Ben replaced it on the shelf, then as an afterthought picked it up again. As he did so, his sleeve caught the glass, which dropped off the shelf, hit the bottom of the bath and smashed.

‘Shit,’ Ben muttered.

He was picking up the bits of glass when he noticed the hair clogging up the bath’s plughole. He poked his fingers into the hole, pulled out a pinch of it and examined it. Drew Hunter was fair, like his son, and Ben had been told his hair was long and straggly. This was short and very dark, almost black. Definitely interesting. Ben carefully dropped some strands of it inside an evidence bag, sealed it and slipped it into his pocket.

‘Milk Thistle?’ the woman in the health food shop said some time later, peering through her thick spectacles at the bottle Ben was showing her. ‘Why yes, it’s very popular as a liver cleanser. A lot of customers come to buy it after Christmas and New Year, when they’ve been overindulging a little.’

‘You mean, in drink?’ Ben said, and the woman nodded. ‘Would it help for hangovers, things like that?’ he asked.

‘Also to help support internal organs after a period of abuse,’ she replied.

‘So an alcoholic might use it?’

‘If they were trying to detox themselves,’ she said. ‘Studies have been done that show how it can help regenerate the liver.

‘Sounds like I need some more of it for myself,’ he said dryly.

‘Or people on a crash diet, to help protect against the release of toxins.’

‘And what about this?’ He showed her the bottle of small white pills he’d found in Drew’s bathroom.

‘Nux Vom,’ she said, recognising it instantly. ‘Same idea, only this is homeopathic, not herbal.’

‘Does it work?’

‘Oh, it works, all right,’ she said. ‘Just ask my husband.’

Ben bought another lot of each by way of thanking her for her help, and left the shop thinking about what he’d learned. First, no booze anywhere to be found in Drew’s house. Now this. It looked as if the guy was pretty serious about cleaning himself up and purging the toxic effects of drink from his system.

As he walked up the street towards his car, checking the address for A Stitch in Time, Ben took out his phone and called Jessica at home. She answered on the second ring, as if she’d been hovering nearby waiting for a call.

‘What have you found out?’ she said breathlessly.

‘Was Drew seeing anyone recently?’ Ben asked.

Jessica sounded taken aback. ‘As in, a girlfriend?’

‘One with short hair, very dark brown or black.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d have heard it through the grapevine. Who’d want him anyway, in the state he’s in half the time?’

‘What about friends who might have visited him?’

‘I really don’t know. Most of our friends stopped socialising with him when we broke up. Why are you asking?’

Ben told her about the hair in the bath. ‘But what does it mean?’ she said, sounding baffled.

‘I can’t be sure, of course. But I think he dyed his hair sometime not long before abducting Carl. And cut it, too. There were scissors in the bathroom cabinet. The blades were rusty, like they’d be if you used them to cut wet hair and put them away in a hurry.’

‘But his hair wasn’t short,’ she said. ‘It was long and straggly. I told you, I was shocked by his appearance. And you’ve seen the police sketch.’

‘My guess is that he’d already done the job on himself by then, to save time, and that he was wearing a wig,’ Ben said. ‘And I’d bet that he’s done the same for Carl, too, immediately after the snatch. Maybe at his place but more likely somewhere else, somewhere isolated and private, like a beach hut. Dyeing the boy’s hair wouldn’t have taken long, maybe forty minutes from start to finish.’

‘I can’t even imagine what he must look like with dark hair,’ Jessica said, sounding aghast.

‘Exactly. So it’s possible that they used the ferry after all. Drew’s hideout could have been somewhere en route from your house to the port, so they’d have had time to do the job and still make the last ferry, well before you and Mike got out of the cellar and raised the alarm. That’s how he managed to fool the cops when they reviewed the CCTV footage, because they only had your description of a fair-haired boy and a guy with straggly, sandy hair to go on.’

‘Oh, my god,’ she breathed. ‘That devious . . .’

‘I’ll drop by the house later and let you have the hair sample I collected, so you can pass it on to the cops for analysis. I won’t be surprised if it tests positive as Drew’s. He’s gone about this very cleverly, Jessica.’

A short drive across town, Ben found ‘A Stitch in Time’ down a little alleyway. The bell tinkled as he walked in. The shop was filled with racks and hangers of clothing. A dumpy woman scowled up from behind a sewing machine.

He handed her the little yellow ticket he’d found at Drew’s place. ‘Picking this up for my brother,’ he said.

She only had to look at the name on the ticket and put two and two together: Drew was all over the media and big talk on the island. But the blank look on her face told Ben that she’d either missed the news or didn’t care one way or the other. She browsed through a set of hangers, pulled one out and laid it on the counter. It was a navy blazer, alpaca wool, pricey-looking. The woman showed him where she’d replaced a button and fixed part of the lining, then stuffed the garment in a bag. Ben tumbled coins across the Formica.

‘I might need something repairing myself,’ he said casually. ‘Problem is, I’m going on holiday soon. How long does it take?’

She shrugged. ‘’Bout a week, normally, for a small job like this one.’

‘Great. Be seeing you, then.’

Back at the car, he slipped the blazer out of the bag and looked at it. It somehow didn’t look like the jacket of an overweight slob. Going by the description of Drew, it would have been impossibly tight on him.

Ben slipped off his own leather jacket and tried the blazer on for size. It wasn’t too baggy even on his lean frame. He felt in the pockets. In the left one he found a piece of fluff. In the right one, a crisp and new-looking business card.

The name on the card was Paul Finley, and he was co-partner in a private detective agency in Dover.

6

‘FINLEY AND REYNOLDS Investigations.’

‘Can I speak to Mr Finley, please?’ Ben said to the agency receptionist as he drove. He was heading back to Jessica’s place, to give her the hair sample as he’d promised. The detective’s card lay next to him on the passenger seat.

There was a pause on the line. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ she replied. Ben noticed the edgy tone in her voice.

‘This is very important. When will he be available?’

‘He won’t. I’m afraid Mr Finley is no longer with us.’

‘I see. Do you have a number for him?’

‘He’s dead.’

Now it was Ben’s turn to pause at the unexpected news.

‘May I ask who’s calling?’ the receptionist asked.

‘My name’s Ben Hope. I was calling on behalf of a mutual client. Was Mr Finley ill?’

Her swallow was audible on the line. ‘Mr Finley was murdered.’

‘I’m extremely sorry to hear that. What happened?’

‘He was on his way back from London,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘Waiting for a train. These two thugs attacked him. Took his wallet, but obviously that wasn’t enough for them. It never is these days, is it?’ She sighed. ‘They stabbed him, twice in the chest. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived. Poor Mr Finley.’

‘Did they catch the killers?’

She snorted. ‘Do they ever?’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Nearly three weeks ago. It was late afternoon. Broad daylight. Can you believe it?’

‘What date?’ Ben asked, narrowing his eyes.

‘May third,’ she said. ‘Monday. Why?’

The day before Drew had withdrawn all his money from the bank, Ben thought. Four days before the kidnapping.

‘Perhaps I could speak to Mr Reynolds instead?’ he said. ‘It’s about our mutual client.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr, uh, Hope. There’s no way Mr Reynolds or anyone else at the agency is going to discuss clients’ affairs without prior written consent. Which I take it you don’t have.’

Ben ended the call without saying anything more.

This time, as Jessica Hunter led Ben into the kitchen, he accepted a coffee from her. What he really wanted was some of the single malt whisky in his flask and a cigarette to go with it, but smoking and drinking weren’t quite the thing inside a client’s house. He sat at the breakfast bar and sipped the espresso she made him. Strong, black, no sugar. Coffee with a bit of welly to it, the way he liked. He took out the evidence bag containing the hair sample and laid it in front of her.

‘This is for the police. A little something they missed, and I would have, too, except by chance. Like I said, ten to one they’ll come back saying it’s Drew’s. In which case they have to start mounting a whole new search, if it’s not already too late.’

Jessica picked the sample up and stared at it in horrified fascination. Just then, Mike walked into the room looking weary and drawn, and came to sit at the breakfast bar. ‘Back again so soon,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you’ve only been on the case a few hours and already there’s progress.’

‘Let’s take this one step at a time,’ Ben said. ‘I have a question. Does either of you know of any reason why Drew might have hired a private investigator?’

Jessica was startled. ‘A what?’

‘His name was Paul Finley,’ Ben said. ‘Based in Dover.’

‘What on earth would Drew have wanted with a detective?’

‘There could’ve been a few reasons,’ Ben said. ‘The most obvious being to watch you. It’s not unknown for disgruntled ex-spouses to want to get the dirty on their former partners, especially when there are child custody issues involved.’

‘Get the dirty?’ Mike said, frowning.

‘Incriminating information that might have enabled him to accuse you of neglect, as a way of getting custody himself. Did you two ever go out in the evening, restaurants, nightclubs, and leave Carl on his own?’

Jessica bristled. ‘Absolutely not. I really resent the suggestion. And I’m frankly appalled that this man has been watching us like a couple of criminals.’

‘You won’t have to worry about him any more,’ Ben said. ‘He was stabbed to death in London before the kidnapping took place.’

‘That’s awful,’ Mike said.

‘It happens,’ Ben said.

‘Anyway, we have nothing to hide,’ Jessica said angrily. ‘There’s no question of Carl being neglected or abused in any way. How dare Drew make those allegations? He’s my son. I love him. I’m not the one who’s falling about the place too drunk to take care of themselves.’

‘It doesn’t matter what Drew told the detective,’ Ben said. ‘What matters is that they were in touch in the first place. After Finley died, it’s possible that someone else at the agency took over where he left off. That could mean that Drew was in contact with them right up until he took Carl, and maybe even since. It could help lead us to him.’

‘Did you say they were based in Dover?’ Jessica asked. ‘Will you go?’

‘Can’t hurt to check it out,’ Ben said.

‘What if they won’t talk to you?’

‘I’m sure I can find a way,’ he replied. ‘I won’t be gone for long. In the meantime, the police may have some work to do.’

‘You’re talking about this?’ Mike asked, pointing at the sample bag containing the short, clipped lengths of hair.

Ben nodded. ‘Forget the description you gave to the cops. It’s leading us off the trail. I’m almost certain that we should be looking for a man with much shorter hair, black or close to it. And that’s not all. If I’m right, the police should also change their suspect description from an overweight guy to one of slim-to-medium build. In other words, Drew has radically altered his appearance.’

‘Hold on, we saw him that night,’ Jessica said. ‘Nobody can lose weight that fast. It’s impossible.’

‘That’s true,’ Ben said. ‘But it’s not impossible to fake being fat in the first place. In fact, it’s pretty easily done.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You said that you hadn’t seen Drew for some time before the kidnapping. Not since the episode of the car accident.’

Jessica nodded. ‘That’s right. He was already getting out of shape then.’

‘But between then and the day of the kidnapping, he had plenty of time to lose the pounds. Someone who’s serious could get into good shape in that time.’

‘What are you basing all this on?’ Mike asked, looking doubtful.

‘The clothes in his wardrobe,’ Ben said. ‘Every pair of trousers was a thirty-two waist. Shirts and T-shirts all medium size. Jackets all thirty-eight inch chest. Not whiplash thin, but hardly what you’d call porky either.’

‘Obviously, they were his old clothes,’ Jessica said impatiently. ‘I told you, he was quite slim and fit when we were first married. He wouldn’t have packed those things when he went on the run with Carl, if he couldn’t get into them any more.’

‘That was my thinking, too,’ Ben said. ‘That he’d have taken all his large-size clothes with him, especially if he wasn’t planning on coming back. I assumed he mustn’t have worn the other stuff for quite some time. But then, why keep it? It’s taking up a lot of wardrobe and drawer space. That interested me. Then I saw the way he’s been eating lately. All health food. A man can starve pretty fast on that stuff. No beer, no booze of any kind. He’d been cleaning himself up, even using herbs and homeopathic medicine to cleanse his liver and protect himself from the flood of stored toxins that can be released when people go on a crash diet after a prolonged unhealthy lifestyle. Looks like he was committed to it.’

‘But that’s just a theory,’ Mike said, still perplexed. ‘It doesn’t prove that he actually did lose weight.’

‘No, but it got me interested in finding out more. Not long before the kidnap, Drew took a blazer to be repaired at a little clothes alterations place in St Helier.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’ve just been to collect it.’ Ben opened up his bag, pulled out the blazer and showed them.

‘That was a birthday present for him, years ago, before all the troubles began,’ Jessica said.

Next, Ben took the police artist’s sketch from his pocket. ‘You agree there’s no way the man in this picture could get into that blazer?’

‘I doubt it,’ Jessica said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Right. Then how do we explain why he’d have a missing button and a ripped lining fixed on a jacket he couldn’t wear any more?’

Mike and Jessica looked at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Simple explanation,’ Ben said. ‘He isn’t the man in the picture. He just wants us to think he is. The blazer repair tells us two things. One, he didn’t just fake his hair and beard when he came here for Carl. I think he was all padded up to make himself look overweight, to mislead the police. He could easily have disposed of the padding, the wig and the beard afterwards. Based on how carefully he’s gone about the whole thing, I’d say he burned them.’

‘And the second thing?’ Mike asked intently.

‘The blazer’s been ready for collection since two days after the abduction. The repair took about a week, which tells us Drew took it in about five days before snatching Carl: let’s say the second of May. Now, we also know that four days before snatching Carl, probably the day after taking the blazer in for repair, he withdrew all the money from the bank.’

‘That just indicates he was acting randomly, without logic. Like a crazy person,’ Mike said.

‘No, I think it indicates that the scheme to snatch Carl all came together quite suddenly,’ Ben replied. ‘Why would he have bothered with the clothes repair, if he’d known he wouldn’t be around for the collection date? That suggests he hadn’t been planning the kidnapping for very long. Something triggered him off, and we can narrow down the moment that happened to sometime between his taking the blazer for repair to the time of the cash withdrawal first thing on the fourth of May. That’s a pretty tight window. He was suddenly in a hurry.’

‘But you said he’d been working on losing the weight all this time,’ Jessica said, confused. Doesn’t that sound like he was planning it all long in advance?’

Ben nodded. ‘Like you said, weight loss doesn’t happen overnight. It’s been a medium-term goal for Drew. But I don’t think he was doing it as part of his kidnap plan. He was doing it for the same reason anyone else would. To become healthier, to get himself together, sober up, clean up his act and maybe, in time, be allowed to see his son again. Then something else happened. Something that made him take this sudden drastic action.’

‘But what?’ Jessica asked. Tears were forming in her eyes.

‘That I don’t know,’ Ben said.

‘This is all guesswork,’ Jessica burst out. ‘We’re just sitting here speculating over tiny details, when Drew is out there with Carl, God knows where, and getting further away every minute.’ She was glaring angrily at Ben.

‘They’re not tiny details, Jessica,’ Mike said, putting a hand on her arm. ‘Ben has done some great work here. If this is right, and we can give a much more accurate description to the police, we stand a far better chance of finding them.’

‘I can’t take this any longer,’ Jessica said in a choking voice. Getting up abruptly from her stool, she excused herself and ran from the room, leaving Ben alone with Mike. A door slammed. They could hear the sound of her crying inconsolably from another room.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Mike said. ‘She’s under so much strain.’

‘I don’t blame her for a minute,’ Ben said.

‘I think your ideas make sense,’ Mike said. ‘And I’m also thinking I might know what triggered Drew. Don’t tell Jessica I said this, because it’s a sore subject and I don’t want to upset her any more than she already is. But shortly before Carl was taken, I’d been trying to persuade her to sell up here and leave Jersey. Fresh start, you know? A new life, just her and me and Carl, leaving behind the past and all the painful memories. Not to mention that I wasn’t happy living in the house she’d shared with Drew. Sleeping in the same bed.’

‘I understand,’ Ben said.

‘It’s sensitive, you know? We argued a lot about it. Jessica didn’t want to leave, and thought I was trying to force her unfairly. Now, I’m thinking that what if Carl overheard us arguing? What if he’d mentioned it to his biological father? He could easily have called him behind our backs. Couldn’t that have prompted Drew to want to take him away sooner rather than later, before he lost touch entirely? Maybe it drove him into a panic.’

Ben thought about it, and nodded. ‘It’s possible.’

‘And if it’s true, then it means …it means I’m partly to blame. If I hadn’t put that pressure on her . . .’

‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Ben said. ‘It was Drew who took him, remember.’

Mike looked relieved. ‘Thanks, Ben. Keep us posted, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Ben said, opening the door.

‘I really appreciate what you’re doing for us,’ Mike said. ‘I know you’re going to find him.’

Ben just nodded, and left.

7

THE DOVER BASE of Finley & Reynolds Investigations Ltd was situated at the end of a tree-shaded terrace of tall three-storey Victorian houses that were now mostly offices apart from one or two residential properties, on a narrow street on the edge of town. Ben had come across quite a few low-rent gumshoe private dick operations in his time, but Finley & Reynolds wasn’t one of them. A sporty Jaguar was among the cars parked in a railed-off area in front, and a wall plaque engraved with the company name glittered in the late-afternoon sun.

He’d known even before leaving Jersey that these guys wouldn’t talk to him. Improvisation was the key in such cases.

He climbed the steps to the front door, which sported a handsome, gleaming brass lion’s-head knocker below a stained glass window panel. More olde worlde charm, doing a fine job of offsetting the stigma that was hard to detach from the sometimes inevitably seedy domain of private investigations. Ben pushed through the heavy door and found himself in a spacious white lobby filled with artificial plants. A woman smiled at him from behind a desk as he walked over.

He didn’t smile back at her. Instead, he clasped a hand to his cheek and twisted his face as if in terrible pain. ‘Think it’s a bloody abscess,’ he said indistinctly. ‘How quickly can I be seen?’

The woman stared blankly at him for a second, then understood. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said with a frown of sympathy. ‘You’ve got the wrong place. The dental surgery is next door. But I think they’re shut on a Saturday.’

Ben mumbled a tortured apology and hurried out. By the time he’d reached the door, a quick sideways glance had told him the location of the alarm system control box a few feet from the entrance, what type it was and how to disable it. This kind of stuff wasn’t exactly new to him.

But it would have to wait a few hours. Toothache miraculously vanished, the patient walked the half mile back to the bed and breakfast he was staying in. There he sorted through some of the kit he always carried in his bag: the mini-Maglite; the set of locksmith’s picks made to resemble an innocent ring of Allen wrenches; the Yale universal bump key that looked just like an ordinary house key and was disguised on a ring of real ones, capable of opening most locks; and a pair of thin leather gloves. Nothing that could mark him out too obviously as a burglar, should a nosy cop decide to take a look inside his bag.

Ben bided his time quietly until early evening. Having never liked breaking and entering on an empty stomach, sometime after seven he made his way to a nearby pub, ordered a steak and lingered for a long time over a couple of pints of Guinness when what he really wanted was whisky.

He was the last to leave the pub at closing time. From there, he took a long stroll along the seafront, then made his way down onto the beach where he leaned back on a bench and watched the lights twinkling on the water while he chain-smoked the last of a packet of Gauloises. It wasn’t quite his own little secluded stretch of shingled Galway beach, though, and the intrusive Saturday-night thump of music drifting down from a nightclub on the esplanade kept reminding him how he missed his sanctuary in Ireland. When the green glow of his watch dial read one-thirty, he shouldered his bag and began making his way back towards the detective agency.

The parking area in front of Finley & Reynolds’ offices was empty now, the rails gleaming dully by the amber glow of the streetlights. Ben slipped on his gloves as he neared the steps. A plain white van and a couple of residents’ cars sat along the kerbside, but other than that, the street was deserted.

He didn’t pause at the bottom of the steps to glance about, or go darting quickly up to the door. The furtive ones were always the ones who got spotted. With all the casual ease of someone who’d worked there for years and was just popping back late to pick up some documents they’d forgotten, he approached the door and took out his bumper key. If that didn’t work, the lock picks would make fast work of it. Once he was inside, the thirty seconds’ delay before the alarm system sounded would be ample time for him to open up the alarm control box and disable the power and phone wires. He’d reconnect them before leaving, so that nobody would ever know he’d been there. In and out: the SAS way, except without blowing anything up.

The bumper key slid into the lock. He felt the serrations engage in the cylinder. Just one twist, and he’d be in.

But just as the lock was about to open, the side door of the van parked at the kerbside slid open with a scrape and a clang. Three dark figures piled out and instantly raced across the pavement to the steps of the building. Figures clutching impact weapons.

Ben instinctively ducked the object that came slicing towards him. The tapered aluminium shaft of the baseball bat swooshed through empty air where his head had been half a second earlier, and smashed into the stained glass window panel on the door, instantly setting off a high, keening alarm.

‘That’s just great,’ Ben said. But he couldn’t afford to worry about that now. The strike that had just been aimed at him would have killed him if he hadn’t moved fast. And that was upsetting. So was the sight of the knife in the hand of one of the other attackers.

At times like these, Ben didn’t have to think about what to do. Thinking was too long-winded a process. Thinking got you killed. So he simply reacted. Fast. Faster than anything any of the three had ever seen before, or could even have imagined.

In less than a second, he’d gained control of the thick end of the baseball bat and jabbed the handle end hard and fast towards its wielder, aiming at the strip between the eyeholes of the ski mask. The round pommel of the bat hammered into the bridge of the guy’s nose with a soft crackling crunch and sent him sprawling backwards down the steps, knocking down the man behind him. The third attacker managed to dodge out of the way and came at Ben with the knife. Ben saw it coming, that slim little four-inch blade glittering like a tongue of flame under the streetlight as it darted towards his stomach.

With his back to the door and nowhere to retreat, he twisted aside; the knife missed him and the force of the stab sent its sharp tip thunking into the wood. Before the man could wrench the blade free, Ben had broken his wrist. Then, without hesitation, he grasped the collar of the man’s jacket and drove his head so hard into the iron railing alongside the steps that the bars bent.

Ben let him collapse in an unconscious heap, plucked the knife out of the door and turned to face the other two, who’d picked themselves up. The one with the smashed nose was unsteady on his feet and pouring blood from under his mask. The other was brandishing his bat but looking much less sure of himself now that it was all on him to finish the job. Ben saw the fear in his eyes, and knew it was over. With barely a glance at their stricken comrade, the two of them retreated quickly to the van. The uninjured one leapt into the driver’s seat, twisted the ignition and hit the gas. The van took off with a wheel-spinning screech and a roar, and went snaking wildly off up the street.

The alarm went on keening, shrill and insistent. Ben’s plan was already blown – now he had just a short time to press some truth out of his remaining attacker. ‘Wakey, wakey,’ he said, slapping him hard about the face and shaking him. The man’s eyes fluttered groggily open in the holes of the ski mask.

‘Nice to know who your friends are, hmm?’ Ben said to him as the escaping van skidded round the corner out of sight. As the man put up a half-hearted struggle, Ben kicked him all the way down the steps, hauled him roughly upright, slammed him hard up against the wall and ripped the mask off his head. He was about thirty. Crew cut, brutish features, scarred cheek. ‘They find you in the pages of a comic book?’ Ben said.

Lights were coming on in the residential part of the street as the alarm began to draw attention. Time was getting shorter by the instant, and Ben wasn’t going to waste words. The guy gasped in terror as the edge of the blade pressed against his windpipe with just enough pressure to break the first layer of skin. The broken wrist and fingers were all but forgotten now. He looked into Ben’s eyes and saw the look that left him in no doubt: here was someone who would not hesitate to saw his head off if he didn’t talk, and fast.

‘Who sent you?’ Ben demanded. Over the shrilling of the alarm came the sound he’d been afraid he’d hear any moment. Saturday night in Dover with little to do, the cops were on the prowl. The siren wasn’t too far away. They’d be here in a minute.

‘I said, who sent you?’ A little more pressure with the blade. Another layer of skin. The thin trickle of blood looked black in the street light.

‘Hunter!’ the man wheezed in panic, desperately trying to pull back from the touch of the blade.

Ben frowned. ‘Drew Hunter?’

‘Yeah—’

‘Where’s the boy?’ Ben rasped, his eyes just inches from the guy’s. He ground the blade’s edge harder against his throat. Any more, and it would sink in so deep that he wouldn’t ever talk again.

‘Aagh! I don’t know!’

The howl of the siren was drawing close. Ben took his eyes off his captive for an instant and saw the swirling blue halo and the blaze of headlights at the end of the street. Time to leave. He let the guy slide down the wall and slump bleeding to the pavement. Picked up his bag and slipped away round the side of the building just as the police car came tearing into sight. There was a little fenced yard at the back, a screen of conifers between it and the neighbouring property. Ben tossed the knife, vaulted over the fence. Without a sound, he merged into the shadows and was gone.

8

BACK IN HIS digs across town, Ben threw open the window, leaned out and lit a Gauloise. He washed the first deep draw of smoke down with a sip from his whisky flask to quell the last of the adrenaline rush still pumping around his system. There was a small shard of glass in his hair. He picked it carefully out and laid it on the windowsill, gazing thoughtfully at it and trying to understand what the hell was going on.

The anomalies were stacking up. There were more questions than answers, but one thing was for sure: this case was about more than just a kidnapping. If Drew Hunter had sent in a bunch of heavies to take Ben down, it could only be for one reason: to stop him from finding out too much about whatever business Hunter had had with the private detective. But what, and why?

Ben was as expert at following people as he was at telling when he was being followed himself – and he was certain he hadn’t been. Yet somehow, Hunter had known where to find him. The man was full of surprises. Was he also behind Paul Finley’s death? It was a worrying thought. If Hunter was a killer as well as an abductor, then Carl might be in more danger than anyone, even Ben, had anticipated.

More certain than ever that the files of Finley & Reynolds held an important key to all this, he resolved not to leave Dover until he knew more. And when he returned there the following night he’d be ready for the unexpected.

Ben awoke the next morning knowing that today was going to be a waiting game. He gulped down breakfast and then spent a while in his room, going over his case notes in an attempt to make sense of them. Around lunchtime, he returned to the beach, biding his time, quietly smoking, watching the tide. Waiting was a skill he’d perfected in the SAS. He’d learned how to remain still for long periods, outwardly so calm that an observer might think he was in a trance – while mentally he was ultra-alert, aware of everything around him and analysing a thousand details at once.

It was afternoon when his phone rang. It was Jessica, sounding in a high state of agitation. ‘Where are you?’

‘Still in Dover,’ he replied. ‘Something came up.’

Strange that she didn’t seem interested to ask what, he thought. In the next moment, he understood why.

‘We heard from Carl.’

Ben’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, heard from him? When?’

‘He phoned us. Just half an ago.’

‘You talked to him?’

‘No,’ she groaned. ‘We weren’t here. We were only gone twenty minutes, to get some shopping because there wasn’t a scrap of food left in the house. When we got back, there was a message on the answer machine. We’d only just missed him. We tried calling the number back but it didn’t come up. It sounded like a mobile.’

‘He didn’t say where he was calling from?’

‘He wasn’t on the line long enough. We called the police right away. They’re working on tracing the call. Ben, you’ve got to get back here.’

This changed everything.

‘I’m on my way,’ he said.

‘The police just left a few minutes ago,’ Jessica told him when he arrived at the house just over three hours later. He wasn’t entirely sorry to hear that he’d missed them. Cops were as uneasy in his presence as he felt in theirs. It wasn’t a harmonious relationship he had with them, never had been, never would be.

‘There have been developments since I called you,’ she said. Jumpy with contained excitement, she led him into a huge, plush living room where a phone sat on a low table. Moments later, Mike joined them. ‘Ben, thank Christ you’re here. Sorry we had to call you back from Dover so urgently, but under the circumstances . . .’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Since we called you earlier, lots. The mobile number turned out to be a foreign one. Interpol are involved now. They’ve traced the phone’s owner. It’s registered to a man called Barberini. Gianni Barberini. Apparently, he’s a doctor in Turin.’

‘A dermatologist,’ Jessica corrected him.

‘What do the police make of it?’ Ben asked.

‘They seem as baffled by it as we are,’ Mike replied. ‘Last we heard, they were still trying to track down this Dr Barberini’s whereabouts. He’s not at home. They said he was away at some conference, or something. We’ve been waiting for more. And hoping you could make sense of this.’

‘Let me hear the message,’ Ben said.

Mike replayed it from the answerphone. The line was a bad one, with an echo and lots of background noise. ‘Mum? It’s me,’ said a boy’s voice.

‘That’s definitely him?’ Ben asked Jessica, and she gave a quick, certain nod.

‘Mum, I’m …I’m okay,’ Carl blurted, speaking in hesitant snatches over the background noise, which sounded to Ben like voices, as if the boy had been calling from the middle of a crowd of people. But there was another noise too, distorted and hard to identify. A kind of screech, followed by what sounded like a muffled bang. Ben couldn’t make it out at all.

‘I just wanted to say …I love you, mum. I—’ Carl’s voice was lost for a second amid some kind of commotion. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said suddenly. And there the message ended.

Jessica was looking fraught and gnawing at her thumb. ‘That’s all there is,’ Mike said anxiously. ‘What do you make of it, Ben?’

‘It’s definitely some kind of public place,’ Ben said. ‘Indoors, and crowded. A bar, maybe, or a café. But that other sound …let me hear it again.’

Mike replayed the message. Ben closed his eyes, concentrating hard on the strange noises in the background. They seemed to be coming from further away, which meant they must have been pretty loud. ‘What is that?’ he muttered to himself.

‘The police think it might be fireworks,’ Jessica said. ‘The high-pitched screech, then the loud bang. What else makes a sound like that?’

‘Maybe,’ Ben said. ‘But in the middle of the day?’

‘They have technicians working on it,’ Mike said. ‘Apparently they can separate out the frequencies or something, and use filters to clean them up.’

Ben looked at his watch. It was getting late, but there was still time if he hurried. He pulled out his car key.

‘Where are you going?’ Mike asked.

‘Italy,’ Ben said.

9

IT WAS GETTING towards midnight by the time Ben’s flight touched down at the Aeroporto di Torino in the middle of a rainstorm. As he was leaving the airport, Jessica called again.

‘They found Barberini,’ she said, and for a second Ben thought she was going to tell him that he was dead, too. ‘Found him?’ he asked.

‘I mean, they have him. He turned up at his home in Turin at eight o’clock this evening, and the Italian police were waiting for him there. They took him for questioning. As far as we can tell, they’re still talking to him.’

‘Any feedback yet?’ Ben asked as he spotted the car rental place across the way and began heading for it, head down through the lashing rain.

‘They’re keeping us updated. I don’t think he’s been charged with anything. It’s been confirmed he was on the list of delegates at that conference, and his alibi checks out. He totally denies any involvement in the abduction. Says he’s never heard of Drew or Carl, and doesn’t know anyone from Jersey. But listen to this.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘They found fingerprints on his phone. The police faxed Interpol a set of Carl’s taken from his room, and we had a call twenty minutes ago saying they’re a match. So Barberini’s lying. He was involved.’

‘Or else Carl just used his phone to make the call,’ Ben said. ‘With any luck, we’ll soon find out. I’m in Turin now.’

‘Turin?’ Jessica said, sounding perplexed. ‘But I thought Drew had taken Carl to Milan. That’s where the call was from, wasn’t it?’

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Ben said, and cut her off.

At nearly twelve-thirty a.m., a very resentful and sullen Dottore Gianni Barberini was finally released from police questioning, demanding to be taken home in an unmarked car so that his nosy neighbours wouldn’t take him for some kind of a damned criminal. The pouring rain just pissed him off all the more. All the way from the Posto di Polizia to his villa in one of the more affluent neighbourhoods of the city, he grumbled sourly at the plain-clothes driver, who was just as irritable as he was for having to ferry this arrogant prick home, and made no reply.

It was ten to one by the time Barberini climbed wearily out of the car and tramped up his long, curving driveway, cursing the rain and glancing up at the master bedroom windows to ensure that Germana hadn’t stayed up waiting for him. The lights were all off – thank God. His wife could be a terrible bitch if she was disturbed late at night. In fact, he reflected sourly as he approached the house, she’d been a terrible bitch for most of the miserable thirty-two years he’d been married to her.

Rather than risk waking her and face all kinds of wrath and yet more goddamn inquisition that night, he made for the separate entrance to the suite of rooms he used for his private dermatology practice here at the villa. Above it was his little sanctuary, his personal den, where he often slept on the sofa bed after working late, or sometimes just to get away from Germana. He loved it in there, undisturbed, just him and his collection …He paused at the door, fumbling keys with one eye on her window, dreading that her bedroom light might come on at any moment. Where was the key? Ah – got it.

‘Gianni Barberini?’ said a voice behind him.

Barberini whirled around and his eyes opened wide at the sight of the stranger standing there. He hadn’t heard anyone sneak up behind him. The guy had moved like a ghost. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded indignantly.

‘Someone who’s going to ask you a few questions.’

Barberini glared at him. The blond-haired stranger didn’t look much like an Italian. Didn’t sound like one, either. He spoke the language fluently enough, but the accent was foreign. A Swiss, maybe? A Kraut? ‘What’s the matter with you people? I’ve just spent the last seven hours giving my statement over and over. That not enough for you bastard cops?’

‘I’m not a cop,’ Ben said. ‘But some people say I’m a bit of a bastard, so you’d best get talking to me before I start to get nasty.’

Barberini stared at Ben for a moment, the cocksure belligerence in his eyes turning to uncertainty.

‘Lead the way,’ Ben said, motioning towards the door.

Barberini hesitated, then did what he was told. They walked through a comfortable little waiting area into the consulting room, then through that to a nicely decorated office lined with medical certificates and books. At the far end of the office, an open-tread stairway led upwards to the floor above.

‘We can talk in here,’ Barberini said nervously as they emerged in his den.

Ben looked around him at the room. ‘Very cosy. So this is your little hobby room, is it?’

‘Look, whoever you are, I don’t know anything about a missing kid. I swear it. I’m telling the truth, just like I told the cops. I got the rail tickets to prove it. Hotel bill. Everything.’

‘You were in Milano for a conference?’

‘Yeah, for two days. A European Society for Pediatric Dermatology seminar. Top of the agenda was the latest research from Kiel University into infantile haemangiomas.’

‘You can spare me the jargon. I take it you weren’t one of the speakers?’

‘No, I was just attending it. First day was good. Afterwards I spent the evening with Davide Gagliardo, a medical colleague from Bologna. He’s already corroborated my story. Second day wasn’t so interesting, so I left for a while and went to a coffee bar for a break. I called my wife from there to tell her not to wait up for me tonight because I’d be home late. I didn’t think it would be so fucking late.’

‘Go on with the story,’ Ben said, with just enough menace in his voice to keep Barberini on edge.

‘Anyway, so that’s why I had my phone out, see? I’m sitting there finishing my coffee, then I see this guy at the next table eating a cannoncini alla crema – that’s a pastry.’

‘I know what it is,’ Ben said, eyeing him coldly. When people recounted their stories in this much elaborate detail, they were usually full of shit.

‘Right. I’m thinking how I’d like one of those myself. The waiter’s right across the room and I’m in a hurry, so I go over to the counter to order one. Left my stuff at the table. My back was turned maybe a minute, maybe two. When I come back, I notice how the phone isn’t where I left it, like someone had moved it. I thought maybe a waiter or someone had nudged it as they passed by.’

‘So you wouldn’t know if a twelve-year-old boy picked it up while your back was turned?’

‘Hey, listen. The place was full of people. I didn’t even see a kid, let alone speak to him or have anything to do with him, okay? That’s the whole truth, and I’ve got evidence to back up all of it. The first I heard about this kidnapping business is when I got home tonight and the police were waiting for me.’ Barberini’s face was flushed. ‘That’s it. You’ve heard all there is to hear. So now would you kindly leave my home, before I call the cops? Hey, be careful with that. It’s extremely valuable. Please, put it down.’

As Barberini had been talking, Ben had gone over to one of several trophy cabinets that lined the walls of the Italian’s little den. Except they weren’t filled with trophies. From the moment they’d come in, Ben had noticed the large collection of old motor racing memorabilia that cluttered the room. ‘What, this?’ he said innocently, holding the racing helmet he’d picked off a display unit.

‘Yes, that,’ Barberini said, turning pale. ‘It’s the helmet Mario Andretti wore when he won the South African Grand Prix in 1971.’

‘Really?’ Ben lobbed it casually across to him, like a ball.

Barberini leaped forward with a squawk to catch the helmet, and clutched it to his breast as if he’d just rescued a holy relic from the barbarian hordes. ‘Don’t mess with my collection,’ he muttered.

It was far from being the only holy relic in the room. On one wall was a giant signed poster of Ayrton Senna. A steering wheel was encased behind glass, with a photo of a beaming, goggled Jim Clark in the cockpit of a sixties’-era Lotus. A whole corner was dominated by a vintage twelve-cylinder Ferrari demonstration engine on a stand, part of its casing cut away to reveal its lovingly oiled innards. Pictures everywhere. Cars, cars, cars. You could almost smell the high-octane fuel and burning rubber and hear the shriek of high-performance engines revving sky-high.

Ben was putting it together in his mind. ‘Quite the racing car freak, aren’t you, doctor? You must spend a lot of time and money on this stuff.’

Barberini reverently replaced the precious helmet on its unit and turned angrily to face Ben. ‘Never mind what I am,’ he blustered. ‘You haven’t even told me who you are. You better show me some ID. What right have you got to come in here, asking me all these questions and manhandle my property like that?’

‘I never did think it was fireworks,’ Ben said.

‘Fireworks?’ Barberini snarled at him. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. But there’ll be some fireworks in a minute if you don’t get out of my house.’ He stamped over to a desk, yanked open a drawer and pulled out something small and black.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Ben said, eyeing the little Beretta .25 auto that Barberini was pointing at him.

‘And I wouldn’t come a step closer,’ Barberini said with a twisted smile. ‘Unless you want a keyhole in your belly.’

10

BEN STOOD VERY still, staring at the gun.

‘Not so tough now, are we?’ Barberini chuckled.

‘You can’t shoot me,’ Ben said.

‘Want a bet? Self defence. The cops will drag you to the morgue and give me a medal. One less scumbag in the world.’

‘No, I mean you can’t shoot me because the safety’s on,’ Ben said, pointing. ‘Let me show you how it works.’ In two steps, he’d walked up to the gaping Barberini and twisted the gun sharply out of his hand.

‘Aagh! You son of a whore! You broke my finger!’

‘You’re a doctor,’ Ben said. ‘You should know it’s not broken. Now this,’ he went on, holding up the tiny pistol, ‘is what we call a mouse gun. Probably wouldn’t have pierced my jacket. Not very accurate, either. I’ll bet I couldn’t even hit that signed Ayrton Senna poster from here. Let’s have a try.’ He flicked off the safety catch and took careful aim.

‘Please!’ Barberini cried out. ‘Not that! It’s irreplaceable!’

‘I imagine so,’ Ben said. ‘All right, then let’s see if we can put a dent in a Ferrari flat-twelve cylinder head. I doubt it, personally.’ He pointed the gun at the engine on the stand.

‘No! I beg you!’ Barberini was virtually crying.

Ben lowered the pistol. ‘Not that either? Then tell me, doctor. How was the Grand Prix?’

There was a moment’s dead silence in the room. Then Barberini, ashen-faced and trembling, said, ‘I know who you are now.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, I do. You’re not searching for any missing kid. You’re a fucking private eye. Germana hired you, didn’t she? My darling wife. And I suppose you know all about Claudia?’

Ben shook his head. ‘I’m not interested in some pretty young thing you ran off to meet when you were pretending to be in Milan and getting one of your doctor buddies to cover up for you. The hotel bill – that was a nice touch, by the way. Fooled the police, at any rate.’

‘Then what do you want?’ Barberini moaned, nursing his twisted finger.

‘Not all your story was a lie, I’ll give you that,’ Ben said. ‘I believe that you were in a café. I believe you turned your back for a moment, and that the boy happened to be there and took the opportunity to use your phone. But you weren’t there by yourself, and you weren’t at any conference. While the boy was calling on your phone, there was a noise outside. Hard to tell what it was at first. It was a car crash, and no ordinary car, either. Sounded like quite a smash. Was the driver badly hurt?’

Barberini knew there was no longer any point in pretending. ‘He walked away from it,’ he muttered. ‘A few cuts and bruises. He was lucky.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Ben said. ‘Now, I can easily find out what Grand Prix took place this afternoon within driving distance of here. But you’re going to save me the trouble. Aren’t you, doctor?’

‘Monaco,’ Barberini groaned, shoulders sagging. The admission was obviously a lot more painful than his twisted finger.

‘You were in Monaco this afternoon?’

‘Yeah, yeah. You got me. I wasn’t in Milan. I never went to the conference. You were right, I got my pal Davide to cover up for me so I could spend some time with Claudia and catch the GP. We were at medical school together. I cover for him, sometimes.’

‘So he’s another one who cheats on his wife,’ Ben said.

‘Look, you don’t know Germana,’ Barberini protested. ‘She makes my life a misery.’

‘I suppose Davide says the same about Mrs Gagliardo,’ Ben replied. ‘The fact is, I really don’t give a shit about your domestic affairs. But I’m betting Germana would be interested to know what you’ve been up to. I know she’s at home, because I saw her at the bedroom window earlier. So unless you want me to go and wake her up and have a little chat with her, you’re going to tell me exactly where you were when the crash happened this afternoon in Monaco.’

11

IT WAS LESS than a three-hour drive from Turin to Monaco, especially the way Ben drove, and at that time of night the motorway was virtually deserted. He called Jessica’s number from the road.

‘Sorry to wake you in the wee hours,’ he said when she picked up.

‘I wasn’t sleeping anyway. I hardly do these days.’

‘Any more news?’

‘Carl hasn’t called again. Nothing from the police. What’s happening at your end?’

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Is Drew a race fan?’

‘Horses?’

‘Cars.’

‘No, he could never stand motor racing.’

‘What about Carl?’

‘Never expressed an interest. Why are you asking? Have you found something?’

‘Get some sleep, Jessica. You sound knackered.’ Ben ended the call and went back to wondering what the hell Drew Hunter was doing in Monaco. And how a kidnapped boy had been able to walk into a café and make a phone call to his mother. This case was getting stranger by the hour.

‘Fuck it,’ he muttered to himself as the car sped into the night. There was nothing for it but to keep pushing on and see where the trail led him.

*

The tiny principality of Monaco, all two square kilometres of it, went about achieving its enviable record as the safest and most crime-free corner of Europe, even of the world, by means of a virtual police state. The heavily armed cops didn’t tolerate vagrants, any more than they would look kindly on unshaven, slovenly-looking former British Special Forces soldiers kipping in their cars with the remnants of a flask of malt whisky between their knees and a “borrowed” .25-calibre semi-auto pistol in their pocket. Sometime before dawn, Ben found a secluded spot in the wooded hills overlooking the small city and its moonlit harbour, and settled back in his reclined driver’s seat for a couple of hours’ nap.

By the time he’d awoken, feeling none too refreshed, cleaned himself up as best he could, revitalised himself with the first Gauloise of the day and driven down into the winding streets of Monte Carlo to find a parking place, the place was already buzzing. Yesterday’s Grand Prix was now winding up, but in the aftermath of the huge annual event the streets were still crowded and crackling with the excitement of thousands of spectators from all over Europe and beyond. Crews of race personnel were busily dismantling the crash barriers that lined the streets; in just a few hours one of the most famous race circuits of all time would revert back to being simply one of the wealthiest and most fashionable resorts in the world.

Ben now knew the exact spot where the Argentinian driver Enrique Hernandez had spun off the track and totalled his McLaren, in what had been the only real dramatic incident of yesterday’s Grand Prix. Debris from the accident was still being gathered up and loaded onto a trailer as he walked by. The crash had happened on the approach to a hairpin bend at the end of a narrow straight that ran within sight of the harbour. Anyone living in the snazzy apartments overlooking the narrow street would get a stunning view of the race, if they could stand the din of the cars rocketing past below their balconies.

Ben walked on. It was warm. The scintillating morning sunshine glared off the white buildings. Blue sky, blue water, lazy yachts and whispering palm trees. The place must have had some real allure once, he thought, before it had become a haven for the self-consciously rich who lived only to flash their toys, their tans and their starvation-diet bodies, immaculately groomed and preened down to the last designer thread. He knew he stood out like a sore thumb here among the beautiful people. Every second vehicle was a Rolls or a Lambo. Perhaps inspired by the thrill of the Grand Prix, all the moneyed young bucks were out in force, cruising the drag in their aviator shades, arms dangling from the windows of their gleaming red sports cars and trying to look all aloof and studly for the preternaturally large numbers of attractive young females on the street.

Fifty metres up from the crash site, right on the hairpin bend for which Hernandez had been braking when he lost control, was the café from where Carl Hunter had made his brief phone call home. Scantily clad women in sunglasses and men with gold watches the size of wagon wheels were taking their morning coffees and champagne breakfasts at parasol-shaded tables on the pavement outside.

Ben flicked his unfinished Gauloise into a vacant ashtray, strolled into the bustling café and glanced about. He approved of the John Coltrane jazz playing in the background; other than that, the place was way too glitzy for his tastes, but he hadn’t come here to appreciate the decor. Second alcove on the right: that was the table where Gianni Barberini had been necking distractedly with his girlfriend when Carl had managed to snatch the mobile phone from the table for a few moments.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a waiter.

‘Maybe,’ Ben said. ‘Were you working here yesterday?’

‘Sure. It was crazy.’

Ben took out the photo of Carl to show him. ‘Did you see this boy? He may have dark hair now.’

The waiter peered closely at Ben. ‘Police?’

‘Scotland Yard,’ Ben said, and flashed an old military pass at the guy. ‘What about this man?’ he asked, taking out the photo of a slightly younger and much slimmer Drew Hunter that Jessica had given him. ‘Again, dark hair now. We think he may be living locally.’

‘What’d he do, default on his taxes?’ the waiter asked with a grin.

‘Terrorist bomber,’ Ben said.

‘No shit.’ The waiter studied the pictures for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Can’t say they look familiar to me.’

‘Think I might show these to a couple of your other staff here?’

‘Sure, no problem. See Valérie over there? Go ask her.’

But Ben drew a blank with Valérie and the other three members of staff he quizzed. He downed a quick espresso at the bar, then walked back out into the sunshine and gave a sigh.

‘Fine,’ he murmured aloud. ‘Then we do this the hard way.’

The hard way was to go hoofing it door-to-door, and just keep trying until, with any luck, someone recognised either Carl or Drew from the photos. It was gruelling and time-consuming work, but Ben didn’t have a lot of choice. The only question was where to start. He glanced left, glanced right, and began making his way back down the busy street towards the apartment buildings near the crash site.

He walked briskly, deep in thought. He passed a boutique. Then a little charcuterie. Next door was a bakery, emanating the wonderful odour of fresh baguette still warm from the oven. A man stepped out of the bakery, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt. He was slim and clean-shaven, with dark glasses and a Panama hat. He had a shopping basket in one hand and a couple of baguettes wrapped in brown paper tucked under his arm. His son followed him out of the bakery, a pre-teenage boy who looked like any other Mediterranean kid: tanned, black hair.

They were Drew and Carl Hunter.

12

BEN BARELY PAUSED in his stride, even though every nerve in his body was jangling like an alarm bell at the sight of them. Covering his reaction perfectly without a flicker of emotion showing on his face, he walked on a few steps and then paused and gazed in the bakery window, ostensibly to admire hungrily a rack of ornate chocolate-laced delicacies on display.

Drew and Carl passed within just a couple of feet of him and then went walking on up the street. Ben waited a few tantalising seconds, watching them from the corner of his eye as he allowed a little distance to come between himself and the pair, then moved away from the window and began to follow them.

They didn’t seem to be in a hurry, just ambling along at a pace that allowed Ben to merge into the slow-moving crowds about twenty yards behind. Watching them, they could have been any father and son on earth. Nothing whatsoever in Carl’s body language suggested any of the unease or distress Ben would have expected to see in a kidnap victim. What was going on?

But he didn’t have long to dwell over the matter. Because without warning, Carl turned, picked Ben out of the crowd of people and looked right at him.

Ben’s heart skipped a beat. Again, he managed to cover up his reaction, avoiding eye contact and pretending to be gazing at something across the street. For two seconds that felt like minutes, he could feel the boy’s eyes on him.

Finally, Carl turned away and kept walking alongside his father, who didn’t seem to have noticed anything.

It must be a fluke, Ben thought. Okay, so maybe he didn’t quite fit the Monaco image and looked a little rougher, a little less manicured, than the typical good citizen of the place. But surely he didn’t stand out that much. There was no way anyone, let alone a twelve-year-old kid totally untrained in the art of counter-surveillance, could jump to the conclusion or have any inkling that they were being trailed.

He went on following them. Now father and son were in conversation about something. Ben relaxed, certain that he hadn’t been spotted after all.

And then Carl turned again. This time, he whirled around very quickly, too suddenly for Ben to look away until it was too late.

Carl stared right at him. He seemed to know. But how? Had the boy phoned Jessica again that morning? Had she let slip about Ben?

Carl started nudging his father and tugging at his sleeve, pointing back in Ben’s direction. ‘Oh, shit,’ Ben said, and turned to peer in another window. But it was pointless. He was blown.

Drew turned and looked in the direction Carl was pointing, right at Ben. He frowned questioningly down at the boy. The boy nodded up to him, as if to say ‘I’m sure’. Now they were both staring at Ben. The game was up. Fear was in the air. Drew Hunter dropped his shopping basket and his baguettes where he stood. He grabbed his son by the arm, and they took off.

‘Shit,’ Ben said again, and broke through the slow-moving pedestrians to give chase. Drew and Carl dashed across the street, weaving between honking traffic. Ben went after them. Too late, he saw a motorcycle bearing down on him, tried to dive out of its way and lost his footing, falling and grazing his knee. The rider braked hard. Too hard. With a screech, the front wheel locked and washed out from under the machine as it toppled over with a scraping clatter. The rider tumbled to the road, but sprang up again almost instantly, and Ben could see he wasn’t hurt. No time to hang around and help the guy straighten his bent handlebar. Drew and Carl were getting away.

Cursing and ignoring the pain from his scraped knee, Ben ran on after them. People stared and pointed. The motorcyclist yelled after him. Ben lost sight of the father and son among a crowd of shoppers, then saw them again, fifty yards further up the street, battling against the tide of pedestrians. Drew had lost his hat, revealing the black-dyed hair beneath. There was nowhere they could run. Ben sprinted up the road, avoiding the pavement. He could catch them.

A guy in a florid shirt was getting into a white open-top Ferrari that was parked at the kerbside. Drew grabbed him by the collar, spun him away from the car, snatched the key from his hand and leapt behind the wheel, dragging Carl in with him. The car roared into life and took off with a squeal, leaving snakes of rubber on the road and its owner standing bellowing and shaking his fist.

The Ferrari came belting down the street towards Ben, and he bounded onto the kerb to get out of its way. He caught a glimpse of the boy gaping at him from the passenger seat as the car streaked past, heading back the way they’d come, towards the straight and past the scene of yesterday’s crash.

Ben stood in the gutter, helplessly staring at the disappearing car. People were looking and pointing in alarm. The Ferrari’s owner was screaming murder. It wouldn’t be long before the police turned up, bristling with weaponry.

Ben had little chance of catching Drew now, but went sprinting down the street after the Ferrari anyway, yelling at frightened pedestrians to get out of his way and making them scatter. Ahead, a little old woman emerged from a fashion boutique laden with boxes, and he almost ran right into her. ‘Watch where you’re going, asshole!’ she shrieked at him. Across the pavement, a chauffeur in uniform and cap was opening the back door of a stately Rolls Royce to let her in. Its engine was purring softly.

‘Thanks for the ride,’ Ben said to her, and before the chauffeur could stop him, he jumped into the Rolls and floored the accelerator. The car was ungainly but powerful, and Ben was pressed into the red leather of the driver’s seat under the acceleration. The swinging open back door scraped a lamppost and crashed shut. Glancing in the mirror, he could see the little old woman and the chauffeur standing speechless on the pavement.

The Ferrari had long since vanished around the hairpin bend at the bottom, past the café. Ben gunned the Rolls down the straight at full throttle, overtaking everything in sight as if he was trying to re-enact the Grand Prix. But it was no racing car. As soon as Ben entered the bend and felt the heavy bodywork begin to pitch on its soft suspension, he knew it was about to go into a slide. He eased off the gas and changed course, clipping the corner and mounting the kerb. There was no avoiding the empty café tables in his path. The Rolls trampled several of them down. Another flew up onto the bonnet, smacked off the windscreen and went tumbling in his wake.

He hit the gas again as the road straightened up ahead. Still no sign of the Ferrari. Unless—

Yes, there it was, a long way up the road, speeding past the traffic. Ben was still in the chase. As he raced after it, he saw its brake lights flare as it stopped for a red light. Drew wasn’t exactly schooled in the art of urban high-speed pursuit, which only helped even the odds a little in Ben’s favour. The Rolls quickly caught up. He was thirty yards behind the Ferrari when the lights changed and he heard the rasp of its exhausts before it took off again like a bullet fired from a rifle.

The Rolls sped through the junction after it, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car as Ben held the pedal to the floor and struggled to keep this overpowered barge in a straight line. The Ferrari was a shrinking white dot in the distance. There was no way Ben could stay with it. He saw it vanish around a right-hand bend a hundred and fifty yards away, and knew that might be the last he’d see of it.

He couldn’t afford to lose Drew and Carl. Not now that they knew he was after them. They’d simply go to ground and he’d never find them again.

It was time for a short cut. Ben saw the little sidestreet flashing up on his right and took the gamble, turning into it with a squeal of tyres and roaring through the narrow space between the houses. Never mind the no vehicular access sign. If his hunch was right, this would cut off a corner and he’d have a sporting chance of catching the Ferrari at the other end.

Or perhaps not. The sidestreet came to an abrupt end up ahead.

‘Christ,’ Ben muttered as he went to hit the brakes; then he saw it wasn’t a cul-de-sac. It was a steep downward flight of steps, bisected down the middle by an iron hand railing.

There was nothing for it. Ben steered right for the steps, keeping his foot down hard on the gas. The brink flashed towards him, like the edge of a waterfall that was about to tip his boat vertical and send it plummeting down to the bottom. He aimed the big square nose of the Rolls at the gap between the iron railing and the stone wall. Felt his front wheels run out of road; then they seemed to fall into space for a second before hitting the steps with a violent jolt that almost pitched Ben through the windscreen. The space between the railing and the wall was perhaps half an inch wider than the Rolls. With a screeching rending of handbuilt coachwork on stone on one side and solid iron on the other, the car hammered unstoppably down the steps.

All Ben could do was hang on. He braced himself for impact as the bottom of the steps raced closer. The Rolls crunched down at a forty-five-degree angle, bouncing all over the road in a shower of sparks, trailing its badly twisted front bumper and leaving the shattered remains of a headlight behind it. Ben sawed wildly at the wheel and stamped on the accelerator. If the old tank was as solid as it felt, it could take a little abuse. This was nothing.

And there was the Ferrari, dead ahead. Ben’s gamble had paid off. He smiled grimly as he saw Drew glance back with a look of astonishment. ‘You don’t get away that easily, matey boy.’

Moments later, they were approaching the limits of town and roaring into the hills. The last of the buildings gave way to verdant countryside, the road twisting upwards between the trees as they climbed over the town. Once again, the Ferrari’s huge speed advantage quickly began to tell as it shrank smaller and smaller into the distance ahead. Ben swore. Drew was going to leave him far behind, and that would be it. Then all hopes of catching him would have to be pinned on the French and Italian police.

Ben clenched his jaw as he finally lost sight of the tiny white speck of the speeding sports car. He eased back on the throttle, and the Rolls engine settled down to a smooth purr. The chase was over and he’d lost.

13

BEN WAS WONDERING what the hell to do next when he rounded the next bend, tighter than the others, and saw smoke drifting on the breeze up ahead. His heart began to thump.

Piled into a tree at the side of the road was the buckled wreckage of the Ferrari, deep trenches cut into the verge where it had skidded out of control. The twisted-up tyre marks were all over the Tarmac.

Drew Hunter was sitting on the grass near the wrecked car, blood trickling from a cut on his temple. Carl was bent over him, apparently quite unhurt and dabbing attentively at his father’s wound with a handkerchief. They both turned to look as the Rolls appeared. Ben saw Drew lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder, as if to say, ‘I’m sorry, son. I tried.’

Ben screeched to a halt. He had to push hard against his battered driver’s door to open it. ‘Carl, are you okay?’ he called out.

‘I’m okay,’ Carl replied in a small voice. There was resentment in his eyes as he looked at Ben.

‘You’re all done, Drew,’ Ben said as he walked over to them. ‘It’s time to go home and face the music. Jessica wants her boy back.’

‘Jessica sent you?’ Drew said. He staggered to his feet as Ben approached. He reached into his trouser pocket and came out with a pistol.

‘Not you as well,’ Ben said. He could have got Barberini’s .25 auto out a lot faster and put half the magazine into Drew, but his job was to take the guy back to Jersey, not shoot him. Besides, something about Drew’s gun didn’t look right. Ben snatched it from him, without twisting any fingers this time.

Just as he’d thought. It weighed nothing in his hand. Pressed tin and plastic. It was just a non-functioning replica, little more than a toy, totally harmless and, at least to a trained eye, absolutely unrealistic. ‘You kidnapped your son with this?’ Ben said in bemusement. He didn’t understand. How could a man with a toy gun be the same guy who’d hired heavies to kill him? The same guy who’d orchestrated the stabbing of Paul Finley?

‘I didn’t kidnap him,’ Drew retorted. ‘I rescued him’.

‘Tell that to Jessica and all the cops who’re hunting for you,’ Ben said.

Drew shook his head in defeat. ‘I can’t believe you found us.’

‘The moral is, don’t phone home. Calls have a habit of being tracked.’

‘Don’t what?’ Drew said. ‘Nobody phoned.’

‘It was me,’ Carl admitted, flushing.

Drew looked at him. ‘Oh, son, what have you done?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Carl muttered guiltily. ‘I just missed mum so much. Just wanted to talk to her . . .’ He sniffed, looking as if he was about to cry.

‘It’s okay, son,’ Drew said, and clasped the boy tightly for a moment. ‘It’s okay. I understand. Daddy doesn’t blame you.’

‘I hate to break up a family scene,’ Ben said. ‘Now let’s go.’

‘You don’t realise the harm you’re doing,’ Drew said to him in an agony of emotion.

Carl was peering at Ben, a strange look in his eyes. ‘Dad, I think he’s all right.’

‘Stop messing around,’ Ben said. ‘I’m here to take you back. Carl, you have to go home. Your father’s in quite a bit of trouble.’

Drew shook his head and put his arm tightly around Carl’s shoulders. ‘Please. You can’t do that. You can’t let him go back there. If you could only understand …wait, what are you doing?’

Ben had taken out his phone and was dialling. ‘You want to talk to your ex-wife?’

‘Don’t do that!’ Drew cried out. ‘Please!’

Jessica answered. ‘I have them,’ Ben told her. ‘Both of them. Carl’s safe and sound.’

There was an explosion of relief and joy at the other end of the line. Ben smiled to hear it. ‘I’ll be bringing him home to you soon. Stay near the phone, I’ll call again en route.’ He ended the call.

‘Why did you do that?’ Drew groaned. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

‘It’s my job. To find you and take you back.’

‘You fool. You have no idea . . .’

Ben motioned at the Rolls and snapped his fingers. ‘Enough. In the car,’ he commanded.

‘No,’ Drew said.

‘Don’t be stupid, Drew. You’ll get in the car, if have to stuff you in the boot. You really want to do this the hard way?’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Drew pleaded. ‘That’s all I ask. I’ll explain everything to you. Then you’ll know why I can’t let my boy go back there. I just can’t.’

‘You’ve got ten. Starting now. I’m listening.’

‘Ten, then. But not here,’ Drew said.

‘Here’s as good as anywhere.’

‘No, no. We have to go back to the apartment,’ Drew insisted. ‘You’ll understand. Trust me. Please.’

14

THE POLICE SIRENS ululating over Monte Carlo signalled that the cops were furiously searching for the stolen cars and the thieves who’d made off with them in broad daylight. Their transport was just a little too conspicuous, so rather than risk getting caught Ben ditched it in a backstreet right on the edge of town. He and his two charges walked a little way and then hailed a taxi to take them to Drew’s apartment.

Ben knew he was being soft by letting Drew bring him here, but there was no possibility now that the guy could make a break for it and hope to get away from him again. The man seemed so forlorn and broken that Ben couldn’t bring himself to play hardball with him. If Drew had something to say, he at least deserved a few minutes to get it off his chest before he was carted home to face justice.

The apartment wasn’t exactly a typical desperado hideout. A penthouse crowning an exclusive block overlooking the harbour just a couple of minutes’ walk from where Ben had found the two of them, it was as palatial in size as it was luxurious. The place had more antiques than Sotheby’s, and some of the Oriental rugs draped over the polished marble floors were probably worth as much as the Rolls Royce Ben had trashed that day.

Seeing Ben’s surprised look, Drew explained that the apartment belonged to a former client, Prince Al-Naseem. Some years ago, Drew had travelled to Saudi Arabia to do a photo portrait of his prized pair of hunting goshawks. The Prince had been impressed enough with the result to grant him free use of the luxury apartment in Monaco whenever he needed it. ‘I never told Jessica about it,’ Drew sighed. ‘Never thought I’d ever use it.’

‘You’ll get your chance to tell her before too long,’ Ben said. ‘Now, ten minutes. Remember?’

Sitting on a plush sofa with Carl next to him, Drew took a deep breath and began to tell his story.

‘If Jessica’s hired you, then you probably know all about me. I was a drunk. I admit it. I was a bum. It’s not something I’m proud of. And when Jessica started seeing that Mike character, I got even worse. Like a fool I went and got myself so sloshed that I crashed the car that day. For the first time,’ he added, shamefaced, touching the fresh cut on his brow.

‘Wasn’t your fault, Dad,’ Carl said softly.

Drew lovingly caressed his hair. ‘Maybe not this time, son. I’m not much of a getaway driver. But the first time was my fault and I hate myself for it.’ He paused. ‘Carl, why don’t you go and play with your chess set while I talk to this man?’

‘Dad . . .’

‘Please, Carl.’

With the boy reluctantly gone from the room, Drew was able to speak more freely. ‘I felt like drowning myself after the accident. I’d not only risked Carl’s safety, the repercussions were devastating. Next thing I knew, Jessica had the restraining order slapped on me and I couldn’t even see my boy any more. Maybe I was being irrational. I know I was. But I blamed him for it.’

‘Mike?’ Ben asked.

Drew nodded. ‘That fucker was the reason I’d hit the bottle so hard this time. I wanted some kind of revenge. So even though I was banned from driving, I bought an old banger for cash, no tax or insurance, and started hanging about the house. I’d hide in the trees and spy on the place with binoculars. Saw him playing with my boy in the garden. I knew Carl didn’t like him either. He’d told me so. I suppose that could have been a consolation to me, but it just made me feel worse knowing that this slimy prick had taken my place. My role. My life. It was like he’d erased me, like I didn’t exist any more.’

Drew paused to reflect sadly. ‘God, I was so down, I could’ve just drunk myself into the ground at that point. But then, I don’t know, I just somehow focused. Look at this guy, I thought. What’s he got that I haven’t got? The answer was obvious. He was better looking than me, he was thinner than me, and he was probably a damn sight richer than me now that I’d squandered most of my money. Not to mention that he wasn’t a pitiful stumbling piss-artist, either. So I realised what I had to do to better myself. I poured all the booze down the drain and vowed I’d never touch another drop. Same with all the junk food. Off with the beard, the hair. I started exercising like crazy to lose weight, tried to eat right.’

‘And you started on the detox medication,’ Ben said.

‘You knew about that? It’s true. Christ, I’d have done anything to better myself. As time went by, I kept hanging about the house. Couldn’t help myself. I looked so different I don’t think they’d have recognised me, but I still made sure they never spotted me. I’d noticed the way Mike would often go off on his own for hours at a time, and I got this idea in my head that I should follow him and see what he was up to. I became obsessed with the idea that he was cheating on Jessica, seeing some other woman on the island. It made me so furious. I might have been a shit husband, but I’d never once been unfaithful in all the years we were married. I hatched a plan that if I could catch the scumbag at it, I could get him out of the picture. Then maybe, just maybe, Jessica would see how I’d changed and she’d take me back in and I’d have my family again.’

Ben could see the raw emotion on Drew’s face. He was being completely sincere.

‘So I started tailing Mike. And I found out where he was going. He wasn’t seeing another woman. He was meeting up with men.’

‘Meeting men?’ Ben echoed. ‘You mean—?’

‘Uh-huh. Well, that was my initial thought, at least. They’d meet up in cafés, on the ferry. I took pictures with a long lens. There were two different men, but it was always a one-on-one meeting. I never saw them going into hotel rooms or anywhere private like that, but I was sure there was more to it. That’s when I brought on board a detective from the mainland.’

‘That would be Paul Finley in Dover?’

Drew glanced at Ben in surprise that he knew. ‘That’s right. The agency specialised in divorce and custody cases, infidelities, that kind of stuff. If someone was cheating on their wife or partner, they’d know about it. I went to Dover and hired them on the spot. I was convinced that we could nail Mike, and that Jessica would throw him out. Anyway, a while went by without contact. Then Finley phoned me to say he’d seen what I’d seen. He was keeping track of Mike’s mysterious little meetings. But he’d managed to get closer than me, and he didn’t think it was a gay thing at all. He said he thought Mike was passing information to these guys.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘Finley couldn’t tell. At least, not at first. Time went by and I didn’t hear anything from him. Then one day, he called me. Sounded excited, and anxious too. Said he’d found something out. Something very strange and disturbing. Those were his words. He wouldn’t say any more over the phone. What he did say was that he believed it had something to do with Carl.’

‘With Carl?’ Ben said, narrowing his eyes.

‘He warned me that Carl might be in danger. Promised to meet me and explain everything, when he’d found out more. And that’s the last I heard from him. Next thing I knew, he was dead.’

Ben looked carefully at Drew. He seemed to be telling the truth.

‘A mugging gone wrong,’ Drew went on. ‘Just another statistic. There are so many fatal stabbings in Britain these days, what’s one more? But I knew that this was connected. And I knew that Finley had been right and that Carl was in danger.’

Ben frowned, but said nothing and went on listening.

‘That’s when I decided I had to get him out of there. If I’d still had parental access, it would have been so much easier. Instead, I had to plan this whole kidnap thing, as fast as I could. I found a forger in Brittany who could do the false passports. Dyed my hair for the photo and used Photoshop to doctor Carl’s picture. I took all my money out of the bank. Bought a wig and a fake beard that made me look like I used to before I’d cleaned myself up, and a load of padding that I could stuff under my clothes to make me look fat. Paid six months’ rent to this old farmer for a static caravan in a field overlooking Bonne Nuit beach. Very secluded, the perfect place I could take Carl after the snatch.’ Drew shrugged. ‘Then all I needed was a weapon of some kind. I’m not the most physical guy. I needed to be able to intimidate Mike somehow and get him into the cellar. I thought about using a knife, but what if there was a struggle and somehow Carl got hurt? That’s when I thought about using a fake gun. Not,’ he added, ‘that I’d have had the faintest idea where to get a real one. But that way, I could carry off the kidnapping without any risk of anyone being injured if it all went horribly wrong. I found one in a secondhand shop that looked real, at least to me. And it worked on Mike, too. Everything went exactly as I’d planned. Carl played his role very well.’

‘He knew?’

‘Oh, yes. We were secretly in touch the whole time, by phone. He wanted to get away as much as I wanted him out of there. So off we went. I hated having to lock Jessica in the cellar, but I’d no choice. After we left the house, I drove Carl straight to the caravan. I burned the wig, the beard and the body padding. Quickly dyed his hair to make him look like the passport photo. I’d timed it all so that we could catch the last ferry. If by some chance Mike and Jessica had got out of the cellar by then and raised the alarm, the police would be looking for an overweight bearded guy looking like a dosser, accompanied by a little fair-haired boy. It didn’t happen. Nobody looked twice at our passports on landing in France. It was so easy. We jumped on a train and came down to Monaco. I’d planned to stay here a few more weeks and then move on somewhere more permanent. We’d have started a new life.’ Drew shook his head forlornly. ‘And I was sure we’d made it. Until today, when you came along.’

Ben thought for a moment. ‘So this whole plan came about because you thought that Carl was in danger from Mike?’

Drew nodded. ‘I’m still certain of it.’

‘And you couldn’t just have told Jessica, instead of resorting to kidnap?’

‘What, you think she’d have believed me?’ Drew snorted. ‘She’d have seen it as a ploy, that’s all.’

‘Fine. Let’s talk straight here, Drew. You’ve told me about Mike’s meetings with these other men. The way he seemed to be passing on some kind of material that somehow related to Carl. Then there’s whatever it was that Finley found out that made him think Carl was at risk. Are you saying that Mike belongs to a paedophile ring? Was Carl being abused?’

Drew shook his head. ‘No, he wasn’t being abused. It’s not that. It’s something else. Something even worse. Carl knew all along that Mike wasn’t what he seemed to be. The creep was always asking him all these little questions. Playing mind games, like he was observing his responses. Studying him like a lab rat, Carl said. Carl couldn’t get into his head. Which is odd. But he could sense something about the guy that made him uncomfortable. I believe that Finley discovered the truth behind it all.’

‘What do you mean, Carl couldn’t get into his head? Ben asked, totally baffled. Sensed what?’

‘That’s why I needed you to come here,’ Drew said. There’s something I have to show you.’

15

BEN WAITED, CONFUSED and impatient, while Drew fished a video cassette out of a bag and fed it into a VCR. Prince Al-Naseem’s giant TV screen flashed into life. ‘What are you showing me, Drew?’ he asked. The ten minutes had been up long ago.

‘Just watch,’ Drew said. As the video began to play, Carl put his head round the door and came back into the room. ‘Is this—?’ he began, and his father nodded.

Ben quickly realised that he was watching a high-quality home video. The image was steady, as if the camera had been mounted on a tripod in the hands of an expert. ‘Did you film this?’ he asked.

‘August 2001,’ Drew said. ‘Our family holiday near Málaga.’

The screen showed a village square, surrounded by old whitewashed houses and shaded from the sun. The square was bustling with people, who seemed to be crowding to watch some spectacle taking place, many of them craning their necks to see. Whatever it was, it was generating an excited buzz of chatter.

As Ben watched, the camera panned smoothly across to reveal what the crowd were so interested in. Sitting opposite one another at a café table were two chess players. On one side, playing black with a look of intense concentration, was a swarthy middle-aged man with the deep tan of a native of southern Spain; on the other side, playing white, was a younger, smaller Carl in shorts and a T-shirt. However long the game had been going on for, there were only a few pieces remaining on the board. After a few more moments’ careful deliberation, the Spaniard picked up his surviving bishop and cut diagonally across the board to threaten a white rook. The move caused a murmur among the crowd.

‘That’s Ángelo Martín,’ Drew said. ‘He was the Spanish chess champion eight years running.’

With hardly a pause, Carl reached for his threatened rook and slid it across to capture the second black knight. It took a couple of moments for the spectators to realise why Ángelo Martín was now gaping at the chessboard in disbelief. Gasps broke out.

‘Checkmate,’ Carl said calmly.

Cameras began to flash. ‘He’s done it again!’ said on offscreen voice in Spanish. ‘It’s impossible,’ said another. ‘Nobody beats Ángelo Martín just like that. He’s the champion, for Christ’s sake!’

Drew paused the video, the frozen image of the humiliated champ’s dark expression filling the screen. ‘He hadn’t been playing long. Had you, Carl?’

‘’Bout four months,’ the boy replied casually, trying not to look too proud of himself.

Ben stared at them both. ‘Explain what this is about.’

‘It was just a fluke, how it happened,’ Drew told him. ‘We’d rented a place in this little village, and that afternoon the three of us were having a drink in the square. I’d bought Carl his chess computer not long before, and he was sitting quietly playing when this friendly local guy at a nearby table took an interest in what he was doing. He spoke English and seemed pretty impressed with Carl’s moves, giving him tips and advice. Before Jessica and I knew it, a proper chessboard had been brought out and the two of them were playing a real game.

‘It was only then that we realised the man was Ángelo Martín. He started out playing gently, letting Carl take a few pawns. But then things started getting more serious. Carl was wiping the board with him. He seemed to be able to anticipate every move in the champion’s mind, foil every strategy before it even had a chance to develop. Carl had always shown some odd abilities, but this was the first time I began to realise how strong his gift was.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, Dad,’ Carl said shyly.

‘I’m not, son. It was incredible,’ Drew went on telling Ben. ‘Soon there were whole crowds gathering. By the time Carl had already won two games in a row, I ran back to the house for my video camera and started filming. I had to get this on tape. Some people thought it was fixed, or that Carl was cheating somehow. But he wasn’t. After three straight defeats, Ángelo Martín lost his rag and went storming off.’

Carl couldn’t help smiling at the memory.

‘Word spread during the couple more weeks we were there,’ Drew went on. ‘A local journalist called Isabella Saura got wind of it and asked for an interview. I’ve got that on tape too. Hold on.’ Drew fast-forwarded the video. At high speed, Ben saw the disgruntled chess champion throw over his king and stomp angrily away. The picture dissolved into static for a second, then cut to the interview.

‘I hate watching myself,’ Carl muttered.

Drew let it play. Indoors now, a slightly younger Jessica was sitting proudly smiling with her arm around Carl. ‘Mrs Hunter,’ said the interviewer, Isabella Saura in lightly accented English, ‘what would you say to the sceptics who don’t believe your son is a newcomer to the game of chess?’

‘Carl’s got a special talent,’ Jessica said. ‘That’s all there is to it. Anyone who saw him play knows that he didn’t cheat. He wouldn’t have.’

Turning to Carl, the interviewer said, ‘So now, Carl, when you return home after your holiday, you will be able to tell your friends at school that you beat the Spanish chess champion. Were you nervous?’

‘Not really,’ he said, blushing and looking down at his feet. ‘It wasn’t that hard for me to win.’

‘Ugh,’ the real-life Carl snorted, watching himself in disapproval. ‘Talk about snotty.’

‘Shush, Carl,’ Drew said.

‘You certainly made it look easy,’ the interviewer chuckled. ‘What is the secret of your amazing ability?’

‘I sort of knew what he was going to do, before he did it,’ replied the on-screen Carl. ‘That’s how I could beat him so fast.’

‘You mean you could predict what the champion’s every move would be? Surely this must take years of study and practice? But you have only been playing a short time?’

‘I could read his thoughts,’ the boy said nonchalantly.

‘In Spanish?’ the interview replied, making a joke of it.

‘Doesn’t matter what language,’ the boy told her. ‘I can just read people’s minds. Anybody’s.’ He added, ‘Yours too.’

Drew turned off the tape. ‘It’s the truth,’ he said to Ben. ‘Carl has an incredible gift. That’s what I meant when I said he couldn’t get into Mike’s head. Because normally, he knows what people are thinking.’

‘Come on,’ Ben said.

‘You think it’s all bullshit, do you? You’re wrong. Telepathy, ESP, whatever you want to call it, is recognised as a reality. The Russians have been researching it for decades. The Americans too. They take it seriously enough to spend millions. It’s not a joke.’

‘Is it true, Carl?’ Ben said. ‘You can read minds?

Carl shrugged. ‘Not all of the time. Depends.’

‘Okay, then what’s on my mind?’ Ben asked him.

‘You don’t believe us. You think we’re making it up.’

Ben smiled. ‘You don’t have to be a mind reader to figure that one out.’

Carl hesitated for a moment. A defiant look coming into his eye, he said, ‘What you were thinking. Before you brought us back here. You were wrong. And you know you were wrong.’

‘Thinking?’

‘That Dad killed the detective man,’ Carl said. ‘It’s not true. Dad wouldn’t hurt anybody. And he never sent those men to get you, either.’

Ben was stunned. How could the boy have known about those suspicions that had been in his mind at the time?

‘How many men, Carl?’ he asked.

Carl thought for a moment. ‘Three.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I can see them,’ Carl said.

‘Inside my head? What else can you see?’

‘There was a lion,’ Carl said.

‘A lion?’

‘Just its head. Shiny. Like gold.’

Ben remembered the polished brass knocker on the door of the Finley & Reynolds detective agency.

‘Black door,’ Carl said. ‘There was a railing.’

Ben stared at Carl, then at Drew. It wasn’t possible. There had to be a trick. ‘He’s been to Dover. He’s just describing what he’s seen with his own eyes.’

‘How could he have been there?’ Drew replied. ‘I wasn’t allowed to see him, remember? Let alone take him with me. I went to see Paul Finley in Dover by myself.’

‘Then you told him about it.’

‘About my secret visit to the detective agency?’ Drew said. ‘You don’t think I’d have kept that to myself, in case he let something slip? He’s just a boy.’

‘Then how’s he doing this?’ Ben asked. He remembered how Carl had appeared to know he was following them earlier that day in the street. The way he’d turned to stare, picking Ben out of the crowd as if some unseen finger had just pointed down out of the sky to give him away. It had baffled him then. It baffled him even more now.

‘You tell me,’ Drew said. ‘There is no explanation. He just can. He’s special. And Mike Greerson knows it. Don’t you get it yet? That’s what this is all about.’

16

‘TELL ME ABOUT Mike, Carl,’ Ben said.

The boy shrugged. ‘He bought me stuff and he was always acting nice. Wanting to be my friend. But I never liked him much. He was always hanging around me when Mum wasn’t there. Setting me these sort of tests.’

‘Tests?’

‘Yeah. Like, he’d show me a photo of someone I’d never seen before and ask me to guess what their name was, where they lived, stuff like that. Or he’d bring out a pack of cards, pick one and ask me to tell him what it was without looking. Sometimes he’d hide something in the house somewhere, a key or a spoon, all kinds of stuff. Then he’d get me tell him where they were.’

‘And could you?’

‘Most of the time,’ Carl said nonchalantly. ‘It was sort of a fun thing at first. After a while I started pretending not to be able to know the answers. I didn’t like the game any more.’

‘Did your mum know that Mike was playing these games with you?’ Ben asked.

Carl shook his head. ‘It was always just the two of us alone.’

Ben lowered his voice and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Carl, I need to ask you an important question. Don’t be afraid to tell the truth, okay? Nobody will blame you. I need to know if there was any other part of these games that you haven’t told anyone about. Did Mike ever do anything, or touch you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?’

Carl flushed. ‘There wasn’t anything like …like that.’

‘All right. I believe you,’ Ben said, withdrawing his hand. ‘I just needed to be sure, Carl.’

‘Okay,’ Carl said.

‘How did Mike act when you pretended not to know the answers to his questions? Did he get angry?’

‘No. He was always quiet. He never yelled at me or anything. He just seemed like he didn’t believe me. He’d leave it alone, then after a while if Mum wasn’t around he’d start trying again.’

‘Tell him about the newspaper cutting, Carl,’ Drew said.

Carl nodded. ‘It was in the summer house.’

‘It used to be my studio,’ Drew explained. ‘Now it’s Mike’s office.’

‘What newspaper?’ Ben asked.

‘The chess game episode in Spain didn’t exactly make national headlines,’ Drew told Ben. ‘But Isabella Saura’s interview with Carl did make it to the local media. Carl found a clipping of the article in Mike’s briefcase. So what the hell was that doing there, eh? And since when did he understand Spanish?’

‘How did you know Mike had it?’ Ben asked the boy.

‘Just had a feeling,’ Carl said. ‘Like there was something about me in the briefcase.’

‘Is that how it works, you just get feelings?’ Ben asked, and the boy nodded. Ben pondered this for a moment, then turned to Drew. ‘So what are we saying here?’

‘We’re saying that this Mike Greerson, though I seriously doubt that’s his real name, doesn’t work for some optics company, or whatever he claims. He works for someone with some kind of special interest in my boy,’ Drew said fiercely. ‘I’m not talking about a benevolent interest. And they’re not getting anywhere near him. Not while I’m alive.’ Drew wrapped a protective arm around his son. The boy didn’t respond. He was gazing into space, as if lost in his own thoughts.

Ben thought for a moment, but he still wasn’t buying Drew’s argument. ‘And your ex-wife just happened to meet this guy who just happened to be interested in Carl?’

‘No, I don’t think she “just happened” to meet him,’ Drew replied. ‘I mean, how do people meet? I first met Jessica at a party. Something like that’s easily arranged.’

‘You mean he was planted,’ Ben said.

Carl’s face had turned paler. He bit his lip. ‘Dad—’ he murmured, plucking at his father’s sleeve.

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Drew said firmly.

‘Dad—’

‘Please, Carl. Dad’s talking. Yeah, he was put there, all right. The whole thing was planned, right from the start.’

‘Taking a bit for granted, weren’t they?’ Ben said. ‘It takes two to tango, and Jessica’s her own person.’

‘Oh, you can bet they’ll have had a whole profile on her,’ Drew replied in a tone of barely contained anger. ‘She was lonely. She was on the rebound from a marriage gone to pot. She had a kid to support. And let’s face it, there’s one thing about Jessica. She loves money and nice things. Along comes golden boy, right on cue. Good looks, plenty of cash, solid career. Not a loser like me. If she hadn’t taken the bait, they’d just have kept trying until they managed to get someone else in. Taking over my place. Free to observe Carl every day. Test him. Assess him.’

‘But why?’ Ben insisted.

‘Because a gift like that makes him incredibly valuable to certain people who might want to exploit it,’ Drew said. ‘Think about it.’

Carl was looking increasingly agitated, still plucking at his father’s sleeve and trying to get his attention.

‘I am,’ Ben said. ‘I’m thinking this would have to be a very highly organised conspiracy. As for who on earth would take such an interest in something like this—’

‘They’re a team of some kind,’ Drew said. ‘That’s who Mike was meeting up with, reporting to them, keeping them updated on his observation of Carl. They’re his colleagues. His fellow agents, or something. I’m well aware of how crazy it sounds, but I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. I know it’s the truth, and I’m damn sure that Paul Finley uncovered something about it before they got to him.’

‘They?’ Ben said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yes, they,’ Drew said forcefully. ‘This is their mission. They’ll do whatever it takes. They want Carl.’

‘For what?’ Ben asked, still deeply unconvinced. ‘Drew, for what?’

But Drew didn’t reply. He’d broken off from the conversation and was gaping at his son in sudden alarm.

The boy had turned white with fear. He was trembling violently and staring fixedly into empty space with a look of dread, as if at some terrifying apparition that only he could see.

‘They’re coming,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘They’re here.’

17

NOBODY SPOKE FOR a moment. Carl’s face was set in a look of terror.

And in the silence, the door chimes sounded melodiously in the hallway. Carl flinched as if struck.

‘Carl, what are you sensing?’ Drew asked him urgently, shaking him. But Carl just shook his head, apparently speechless with fear.

The chimes sounded a second time, more insistently.

‘You two get in there,’ Ben said, motioning at the door to the next room. He stood, taking Barberini’s .25 from his pocket. Drew’s eyes widened at the sight of the gun.

His jaw tight, Ben walked out into the hallway. He trod stealthily up to the door and put his eye to the security peephole.

Two men were standing outside the door, dressed in matching light blue overalls and caps. One was clutching a toolbox.

Ben silently cursed himself for the stupidity of the anticlimactic relief that flooded through him. It was nothing, after all that. Why had he let himself be lulled by the kid? He slipped the pistol back into his pocket. Undid the security chain, slid open the deadlocks and opened the door. ‘What do you want?’ he asked the men in French.

‘Maintenance,’ said one. The other, clutching the toolbox, just smiled.

‘Now’s not a good time,’ Ben told them.

The maintenance man shook his head. ‘Gotta come in. We’ve had a report of a leaky pipe in this apartment. You the proprietor?’

‘Leaky pipe?’ Ben said.

‘Yup, leaking pretty bad. It’s coming through the ceiling below. If we don’t fix it right away it’s gonna cause a lot of damage.’ The guy held up a key. ‘We’re authorised to enter whether anyone’s at home or not.’

‘Hold on,’ Ben said. Leaving the door ajar, he turned and walked back down the hallway. Drew and Carl had emerged tentatively from their hiding place. Carl looked even more terrified than before.

‘False alarm,’ Ben said. ‘Building maintenance. Come to fix your leaky pipe. Time we were out of here anyway.’

Drew stared at him. ‘But there’s no leaky p—’ he began.

Ben heard no more.

The silenced gunshot sounded like a muffled clap in the hallway behind him. A magnesium-flare flash filled his head, and suddenly the floor was racing up to smash him in the face as his knees crumpled and he fell forwards.

He couldn’t move. A black tide of mist swelled up to obliterate his vision. All he could hear was the high-pitched whine in his ears that drowned out the sound of Carl’s screams. He was only dimly aware of the blue-clad men stepping over his prone body and striding into the room …Drew and Carl backing away …Drew with his hands raised, yelling soundlessly …The inaudible pistol shot hitting him in the chest and slamming him into the wall as the other man in blue grabbed Carl and dragged him screaming away from his fallen father . . .

A long time after – or perhaps not? – Ben resurfaced from the dark lagoon of unconsciousness. One eye fluttered open, then the other. Gazing unfocusedly at close range into a pool of blood. This wasn’t what the afterlife should look like, he thought.

Then maybe he wasn’t dead. But when he tried to push himself up to his knees, the searing agony in his back and shoulder made him think he should be. The spasm of awful pain made him cry out. Instantly, his heart was thudding. Every movement, every breath, was a torment.

Now he could see that there was blood everywhere, all around him, spreading thickly on the marble floor, soaking into the rug. But not all of it was his. Drew’s body was a few feet away, sitting half-propped against the wall, staring at him lifelessly. A trickle of blood from his mouth was quietly dripping down to add to the pool between his legs. Two bullet holes were punched into his chest.

Ben gritted his teeth and staggered to his feet, only for extreme nausea and agony to double him up and almost make him collapse again. He leaned against the wall for support, leaving a jagged smear of blood along it as he tried to fight his way towards the door. He had to … get out …of here. Had to … find Carl.

Ben’s last memory was of the men taking him. The boy had been right. They’d come for him.

And Ben had let them do it.

A wave of crippling weakness made him stop, leaning heavily against the wall, his chest heaving as he fought to breathe. The air was thick and foul. What was that he could smell? His nostrils twitched. He tried to focus. His half-conscious mind telling him it was something important.

Gas. That was what it was. The reek of it filled the room.

Ben slowly turned. Blinked as he registered the sight of the heating timer control on the wall. The plastic cover had been removed. Exposed wiring.

And like the thudding of his heart, he heard the ticking of the countdown.

Move! shrieked a voice inside his head. He turned and staggered for the glass doors leading out onto the balcony. Crashed through the doors and swayed on his feet, blinking in the bright sun, fighting the rising blackness that threatened to overcome him at any moment.

He grasped the rail of the spiral iron staircase that led upwards. Marshalling all his strength he dragged himself up it like an injured spider. Now he found himself on a rooftop garden. He ran, stumbled, almost fell flat, somehow kept on running, then was tumbling into space—

And the whole penthouse apartment erupted in a firestorm behind him.

18

Jersey

Three weeks later

IT WAS MORNING. Jessica Hunter sat alone in her empty kitchen. She blinked, feeling that she wanted to cry. But she’d cried so much already, and for so long, that now the well was dry. There was nothing left but the aching, desolate rawness she felt inside.

With an unsteady hand, she picked up the glass of vodka from beside the half-empty bottle on the breakfast bar surface in front of her. Closed her eyes and knocked back a stinging mouthful, then let the glass slip out of her hand back onto the surface. Beside the bottle was a small framed picture of Carl. She picked it up, gazed at it – and that was when the flooding tears finally came again.

Suddenly aware of a presence, she turned. She gasped when she saw the lean, silent figure in the doorway. How long had he been standing there, watching her?

‘You,’ she breathed.

He said nothing.

‘I thought you were . . .’ her voice trailed off and she just looked at him. She’d never seen him look this way. So still, so quiet, with a fire in his eyes that made her almost afraid.

Ben took a step closer. He stooped and picked up the crumpled three-week-old edition of Le Monde from the floor, to glance at the headline and the photo of the devastated apartment building belching smoke into the sky over Monte Carlo. The movement made him wince as a sharp jolt of fresh pain shot through him; and for an instant his memory drifted back, reliving the suffering of the last weeks like a nightmare daydream. The escape over the rooftops and through the chaos of Monte Carlo in the wake of the explosion. Stealing the car. The interminable fevered agony of the drive across the Italian border and northwards into Switzerland, to the tiny mountain village near Mont Blanc and the home of his old comrade, retired ex-SAS medic Frankie Gallagher.

Frankie might be every bit as crazy as they said he was, but he still knew how to get a bullet out. The nine-millimetre full metal jacket had clipped Ben’s left shoulder blade on entry and bounced diagonally to plough a channel deep into his shoulder, stopping just a whisker from the collarbone. The surgery hadn’t been easy. He’d refused to let himself pass out until he’d seen Frankie drop the flattened one-hundred-and-forty-seven-grain FMJ and six bone fragments from his bloody forceps into a surgical dish. An experience Ben wouldn’t forget in a hurry – but still preferable to facing the kinds of questions he’d have been asked in any hospital.

And sometimes it was better to let them all think you were a goner.

For a while, at least.

‘Heard that one myself,’ he said to Jessica. ‘But now I’m back.’

‘My boy is dead,’ she quavered, barely audible. ‘Why would you show your face around here? Why can’t you leave me alone? You failed. You said you’d bring him back and now he’s—’ her words dissolved into a spasm of tears. She buried her head in her arms, shoulders quaking.

‘Where’s Mike?’ Ben said softly.

She slowly raised her head, pointed a trembling finger towards the French windows and the sweep of lawn beyond. ‘Hiding down there in his office,’ she sniffed bitterly. ‘He can’t even be near me now. Says he can’t handle it. Says he’s leaving me. My whole world …gone . . .’

Ben touched her arm as he walked past her. There was nothing more to say, not yet. He swung open the French windows and walked down the garden.

Mike was at his desk in Drew Hunter’s old summerhouse studio, wearing a tweed jacket and getting ready to leave. All the desk drawers were open and empty, and he was busily packing the last of his papers into his briefcase when the door crashed in. Gaping up in speechless alarm, he was half out of his chair by the time Ben grabbed him by the neck and slammed his head twice, three times, against the desk.

‘Going somewhere, Mike?’ Ben rasped in his ear, then hurled him backwards into his chair so hard that it fell over backwards, spilling him to the floor. Mike could have done very little to fight back, even if he’d been conscious at that point.

Ben walked calmly around the desk. He closed the briefcase and tucked it under his arm. Then he seized a fistful of Mike’s jacket collar and dragged him out of the summerhouse; dragged him all the way up the garden and along the pebbled path around the front of the house to the car. He didn’t give a damn if Jessica saw him from the window. Didn’t give a damn if she called the cops.

The car engine was running, and the boot lid and driver’s door were open. Ben hauled Mike upright and bundled him into the boot. Slammed the lid. Walked around to the driver’s door, threw the briefcase inside the car and then got in and took off in a spray of gravel.

19

MIKE’S EYELIDS PEEPED open slowly at first, then snapped wide in panic as he realised he couldn’t move. ‘Where am I?’ he yelled, straining against the bonds that held him to the chair and twisting his head wildly this way and that in the murky shadows. His glasses were badly twisted and cracked, and he couldn’t see properly. Just a little light filtered through the drawn curtains. There was a smell of damp and mouldy carpet. He tried rocking the chair, but it was stuck fast to the floor.

Ben was lounging in another chair a few feet away, where he’d been patiently waiting for the man to wake up. ‘Welcome back,’ he said.

‘Where am I?’ Mike repeated shrilly.

‘Somewhere nobody can hear you calling for help,’ Ben said. He swung open the caravan door with his foot. ‘See?’ he said, motioning out at the empty field. ‘Drew picked the spot pretty well, I’d say. So go ahead and make all the noise you want. It won’t help you.’

Mike’s eyes bulged. ‘What the hell do you want with me?’ he raged. ‘Are you mad?’

‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know,’ Ben said. ‘Very dangerous for you, Mike, if you don’t co-operate.’

‘Fuck you! You’ll get nothing out of me!’

Ben sighed, standing up. ‘Thought you might say that. That’s why I brought some truth serum with me.’ He walked across to the far side of the static caravan, picked up a plastic five-litre fuel can and walked back towards Mike’s chair. Taking his time, he unscrewed the top of the can, then set it on the floor and slid it under the chair with a nudge of his boot. The tang of petrol rose sharply upwards as liquid sloshed out of the can’s open nozzle.

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Mike sputtered, coughing in the petrol fumes.

Ben drew his own chair closer to the draught of fresh air from the doorway. ‘Peaceful here, isn’t it?’ he said, taking out his Gauloises and Zippo. ‘Nippy sea breeze, though. They say it might warm up quite a bit later. Smoke?’ He flicked open the lighter and tutted. ‘This damn thing’s run empty on me again. Looks like I’m down to matches.’

‘No,’ Mike said, turning white. ‘Please.’

Ben replaced the lighter in his pocket and came out with a matchbox. He struck one and flicked it into Mike’s lap, where it fizzled out in a tiny puff of smoke. ‘Whoops. Sorry.’

‘No! Oh, Jesus! Don’t do that!’

Ben paused, about to strike another match. ‘You’re right, Mike,’ he said, putting the cigarettes away. ‘These things’ll kill you.’

‘What do you want?’ Mike asked, panting hard.

‘Just a few simple answers,’ Ben said. ‘You tell me who you really are, who you work for and where they’ve taken Carl, and you stand a chance of seeing tomorrow. If not …and by the way, there are three more open cans of fuel under the caravan, right below where I nailed your chair to the floor. You’re in the hot seat, Mike. How about we start with your real name and go from there?’

‘Simonsen. Dr Mark Simonsen.’

‘Nice to meet you, Dr Simonsen. You won’t mind if I go on calling you Mike, though, will you? So tell me, Mike. You’re not really a “development consultant” for an optics firm. What are you?’

Mike’s head hung down to his chest. ‘I’m a clinical psychologist,’ he admitted.

‘And not just any old one, either, not with a fancy PhD and such an important job to do. They must have been queuing up to move in with a nice-looking woman like Jessica Hunter, get paid to sleep in her bed every night with nothing else to do except send reports back about her son’s, shall we say, unusual abilities? Where were you about to sneak off to, now that the job was finished? Your next assignment?’

After a long pause, Mike gave a reluctant nod. ‘Germany first. Then onto North Carolina.’

‘Quite the globetrotter, aren’t you, Mike? I’m sure your accent would go down well over there in the States, with whatever divorcée or single mother whose life you were planning on worming your way into. Does she have a psychic kid too?’

Mike sighed heavily. ‘So you know everything.’

‘No, but I soon will. Who’s paying you?’

‘Linden Global. They’re …they’re a provider of technology solutions.’

‘When I hear vague euphemisms like that, I get stressed out,’ Ben said. ‘When I get stressed out, I get this overwhelming urge to light a cigarette.’

‘All right, all right,’ Mike said. ‘They’re a private military contractor, okay? One of the biggest. Urban population control technologies. Surveillance and counter-surveillance. Defence systems. They’re into everything. Recruit from all sectors. Ex-military, intelligence, science. I …I’m just a low level operative. I barely know anything that goes on—’

‘Then I’m wasting my time talking to you, correct?’ Ben said, taking out the matches again.

‘Remote viewing,’ Mike spat out in a hurry. ‘ESP. The Indigo Project. That’s what it’s all about, okay? Please don’t burn me. I can tell you everything.’

‘Then you’d better get on with it. Starting with this remote viewing.’

‘It was researchers at the Stanford Research Institute who came up with the term decades ago,’ Mike explained, nervously eyeing the box of matches in Ben’s hand. ‘Basically, it’s the practice of seeking impressions about an unseen or distant target using extra-sensory perception. When the Americans launched their Stargate Project in the seventies, the goal was to determine the potential military or domestic application of psychic phenomena. They funded a series of rigorously controlled trials at a think tank called The Science Applications International Corporation.’

‘Go on,’ Ben said.

‘The results were classified at the top level, because they were so incredible that even the project leaders could hardly believe them. The first successful remote viewer who came out of the program was Joseph McMoneagle, codenamed Psychic 001, who went on to work for thirteen years with the Cognitive Sciences Laboratory in California. During his time with Stargate, he provided intelligence data that no regular spy could have fed back. Months before a top-secret new Soviet submarine was even completed, he predicted accurate launch data and in-depth design details that were so revolutionary at the time that nobody but a handful of Russian engineers could have guessed at them. All his predictions turned out to be correct, down to the last detail. Later, when a US army general was kidnapped by the Red Brigade, he was able to pinpoint the exact location where they were holding him captive.’

Mike swallowed anxiously, then went on: ‘McMoneagle wasn’t the only remote viewer who showed extraordinary abilities. Another predicted the release of a hostage in the Middle East three weeks before the kidnappers let him go, with a description of the medical problem that had brought about his release. Yet another, Pat Price, made detailed sketches of Russian weapons manufacturing plants that conformed to US intelligence photographs he’d never been shown. Stargate was declassified in the 1990s to give the impression that nobody took the research seriously any more. The Americans claimed it was history, axed, discredited as never anything more than a joke. The truth is, that was just a disinformation exercise, to make it look as if they were cleaning house while in reality they had no such intention.

‘And it’s not just the Yanks,’ Mike continued. ‘Russia. China. The big players in Europe, as well as emerging powers like North Korea. They’re all at it. Now the floodgates are wide open for private corporations vying to secure billion-dollar contracts from any nation with deep enough pockets. The public has no idea this is happening. But it’s a serious part of classified military intelligence R&D programmes worldwide, and competition is intense. In the days of Stargate, an effective remote viewer could be expected to make contact with a target with about 65 percent reliability. Nowadays the expectations are far higher.’

‘What’s the Indigo Project?’ Ben demanded.

‘A secret initiative founded in 1999 by Linden Global, with the long-term aim of cornering the market in ESP research for defence and espionage,’ Mike replied nervously. ‘Its purpose is to locate and research children with extra-sensory potential, as studies have repeatedly shown a higher incidence of extraordinary psychic perception among the young. It often seems to fade with the onset of adulthood. A global network of scouts are employed to find these gifted children, by infiltrating schools, scouring local media reports and other sources, sometimes just from hearsay.’

Ben stared at him, appalled, as the pieces fell into place. The Spanish chess incident that had drawn public attention to Carl’s abilities; the newspaper clipping hidden in Mike’s briefcase. Everything Drew had said was true. Carl had been deliberately targeted by these people. ‘And that’s where you came in.’

Mike nodded miserably. ‘Where possible, field agents with psychology training are inserted to gain further evidence. There’s a 99-plus per cent elimination rate due to all the false claims and new-age bullshit that’s out there. Early assessments strongly indicated that Carl was one of the genuine ones.’

‘So what happens to the genuine ones?’ Ben said through gritted teeth.

‘The extent of the research needed isn’t possible within the home environment. The subjects are removed to a secure location with the necessary facilities.’

‘You mean kidnapped. What facilities?’

‘It’s a specialised laboratory unit in the Black Forest,’ Mike said. ‘Extremely secret, very well hidden in the mountains. Armed guards patrol twenty-four-seven.’

‘Germany. That’s where you said you were going next.’

‘I travel up to the lab from time to time,’ Mike admitted. ‘It’s part of my work.’

Ben glared at him. ‘To do what, help train your kidnap victims into little psychic spies for whichever government agency bids the highest?’

Mike shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. It’s been tried, and it’s a waste of time. The subjects failed to perform under the duress of being separated from their families and placed in an unfamiliar environment. Coercion didn’t work, and the incentive of financial gain was meaningless to them. They were children. Simply too frightened and confused by what was happening to them, with fatal results for whatever ESP aptitude they might have shown under normal relaxed conditions. We had to come up with alternatives. It’s now essentially a neuroscience-based approach.’

Ben could feel the cold fury slowly spreading through him. Loose matches sprinkled the caravan floor as he crushed the box flat in his fist without even knowing it. ‘Neuroscience-based – what does that mean? That you pull their brains apart into pieces to see how they work? Is that the idea?’

‘No!’ Mike protested, blanching at the look on Ben’s face. ‘I mean, surgical procedures are strictly considered an extreme measure.’

‘An extreme measure. But not out of the question.’

‘Where at all possible, other analytic methods are used. CT scans, imaging techniques . . .’

‘Carl had better be alive,’ Ben warned. ‘Or you’re going to wish you never had been.’

‘Look, I’m fond of that boy. I mean it. I’ve spent a lot of time with him. You think I’d want him to suffer?’

‘What happened to the children who failed to perform under duress?’

Mike looked down at his chest and made no reply.

Ben stood up, fists clenched. ‘Answer me, Mike. What happened to them? They couldn’t be returned to their families, could they? Not after what they’d been through. Not in the state they were in. Did they just disappear?’

‘Look, that’s not my area,’ Mike blurted. ‘I’m just a field assessor.’

Ben stood over him, wanting to tear his head off. ‘How many other children like Carl are they holding now?’

Mike’s reply was almost a sob. ‘Carl makes seven.’

‘Boys and girls? How old?’

‘Both. Gender makes no difference. The youngest is Franck. He’s nearly eight. Satoko’s the eldest now, with Kristina g—’ Mike checked himself and shut his mouth.

‘You were about to say “gone”, weren’t you?’ Ben asked harshly. ‘What happened to Kristina?’

‘She …escaped. There was …an accident. She fell.’

‘Fell?’

‘Down a ravine. The mountains are full of them. They found the body at the bottom …but you have to believe me. I wasn’t responsible for what happened, I swear. I wasn’t even there.’

‘Oh, you’re not that involved,’ Ben said, his fists clenched in anger. ‘Then I suppose you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Paul Finley, either.’

‘He was asking too many questions,’ Mike jabbered. ‘By the time we realised he was following me and taking pictures of my meetings, he’d already identified one of my contacts from an old army connection. He was getting too close.’

‘So you had him killed. Just like your three goons for hire tried to do to me in Dover. Did they actually believe Drew Hunter had sent them, or is that just what they were told to say?’

‘We really didn’t want you to be hurt!’

‘No, you didn’t want to have to replace me,’ Ben said. ‘Not with your precious asset on the run, and the clock ticking. But you couldn’t let me get too close to Finley’s discoveries, either, could you? My purpose was just to recover your lost property, and you bastards were watching me the whole time to make sure I did my job. Dover. Monaco. Every step of the way. I know when I’m being followed. I wasn’t. How did you do it?’

‘You don’t even begin to understand what you’re dealing with here, do you?’ Mike yelled with a flash of defiance. ‘Linden Global is one of the biggest private defence corporations in Europe. Big enough to have their own satellite division. They see everything. And they’re watching us right now. They can pinpoint our location to within a metre.’

‘I doubt that very much, Mike. Nobody knew I was coming back to Jersey. I’ve been presumed dead for three weeks, remember? Burned up in the fire. And you know what they say about presumption.’

‘I’ll be missed, don’t you see?’ Mike threatened. ‘I’m due to report to the lab. If I don’t turn up at the pick-up-point, the pilot will report back immediately and they’ll know something happened. It won’t be long before they figure it out. They’ll hunt you down. You’ll be a walking dead man.’

Ben smiled. ‘Then we’ll have to make sure you don’t miss that flight, won’t we?’

20

THE SMALL AIRFIELD was out in the countryside, twenty minutes from the ferry port of Saint-Malo. The corporate brains behind the Indigo Project were clearly hot on secrecy, as Ben could tell from the disused state of the rendezvous point. Buildings and hangars stood empty amid patches of yellowed and weed-strewn grass that waved in the breeze. There wasn’t a soul about to witness the mysterious comings and goings of Dr Mark Simonsen, a.k.a Mike Greerson, and that was exactly how his employers wanted things to be.

Mike peered closely at his watch. ‘Any time now,’ he muttered, and squinted myopically up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. He walked a few steps from the car towards the airstrip. He was still moving stiffly from his undignified confinement in the boot during the ferry crossing from Jersey. ‘I hear it,’ he said, scanning the sky.

So could Ben. The distant buzz of an approaching plane, growing steadily louder. Moments later, he saw the incoming aircraft’s tiny white speck against the blue.

Ben grabbed Mike’s briefcase from the car. He’d already examined its contents on the ferry. There was no incriminating paperwork inside, only a set of disks containing information that he was certain would be inaccessible to him even if he’d had a computer. The case also contained a laminated ID pass card and a clip-on name badge, both with the company header “Drexler Optik GmbH”. In a zippered compartment was a spare pair of glasses, a comb and some pens.

‘You do realise this isn’t going to work,’ Mike said, turning round with a scowl. ‘The pilot’s going to take one look at you and sound the alert. I’m supposed to be the only passenger.’

Ben nodded. ‘You’re right. It won’t work. In fact, I was meaning to talk to you about that.’

Mike stared at him in blank incomprehension. ‘But you said—’

‘I know what I said,’ Ben replied, laying the briefcase down on the bonnet of the car. ‘That I didn’t want you to miss this flight. Fact is, Mike, I lied. Which I have no problem doing to vermin like you. This is as far as you go.’

Mike’s jaw hung open as he realised what Ben was saying. ‘No,’ he mumbled, staggering back a step, then another. ‘Wait. Let’s be reas—’

Ben made it quick, for the sake of economy if not merciful compassion. The blow to the neck was sharp, swift and instantly lethal, and he caught Mike’s falling body before it hit the ground.

The approaching plane was beginning to drop in altitude as the pilot prepared to land. It would be here in ninety seconds. Ben had work to do, and he needed to move fast. Cupping his hands under the dead man’s arms, he dragged the corpse a few yards and let it flop to the concrete next to the car while he transferred his own wallet from his leather jacket to his jeans. It contained only cash, no cards, no ID. Taking off his jacket, he bundled it into the back of the car alongside his bag. Next came off the dead man’s tweed jacket, which Ben laid across the car bonnet beside the briefcase. He locked the car up, pocketed the key and then bent down to grab the dead body by the wrists and haul it hurriedly out of sight into the thick bushes at the edge of the airstrip.

It only took a moment to dump the corpse where nobody would find it for a good while. Ben ran back to the car. The plane was coming in to land. He slipped on the tweed jacket; not a bad fit. Opening up the briefcase, he took out Mike’s spare glasses: chunky designer plastic, different from the thin wire frames Ben had always seen him in. Ben put them on. They made everything look too small, and threatened to start his eyes watering if he wore them too long. Next he took out the dead man’s comb, and used the wing mirror to quickly smooth and part his hair in a rough imitation of the way Mike had worn his.

By this time, the plane had touched down and was taxiing along the strip towards him. A red and white Cessna 400. Single pilot, capacity for three passengers and a fuel range of over twelve hundred miles. Ben smiled and waved casually as he walked up to meet it, briefcase in hand.

The aircraft halted and its gullwing cockpit hatches popped open. The pilot climbed out to greet Ben. He was in his early to mid-forties, casually dressed in jeans and a check shirt. ‘Dr Simonsen?’ he called over the noise of the idling engine.

It was a worrying moment. If the pilot knew Mike well from previous trips, Ben couldn’t be sure that the masquerade would fool him. That was where Plan B came in, involving two dead bodies in the bushes instead of one. Ben could fly the plane all right; he’d just have to hope that he could figure out his exact destination. The Black Forest was a big area.

But as the pilot broke into a smile, Ben’s anxiety melted away.

‘We haven’t met,’ the pilot said, extending his hand. ‘I’m Tommy. Standing in for Jürgen today.’ His accent was European tinged with American.

They shook hands. ‘How is Jürgen?’ Ben asked amiably, doing a passable imitation of Mike’s voice.

‘Lying on a beach somewhere for the next two weeks, the lucky fuck.’

‘Nice for some, eh?’ Ben said as Tommy ushered him on board. The plane’s interior was like a small car’s. Ben strapped himself into a passenger seat. The pilot climbed in after him, settled behind the controls and clapped on his headset. Moments later, the plane began to taxi round in a circle for takeoff.

Ben settled back in his seat, gratefully removed the eye-watering glasses and watched as the ground fell away below. For the next couple of hours of so, he’d have little to do but try to relax, clear his mind and prepare mentally for what lay ahead of him.

21

URBAN SPRAWL ALTERNATED with open country as the aircraft tracked in an eastward curve across over France towards southern Germany; bridges and railway lines and industrial zones tiny down below. Ben took little notice, letting himself be lulled into a deep thoughtful state by the monotone of the engine. It was only much later, as he sensed they must be nearing their destination, that he looked out of the window and saw a completely altered landscape of rolling hills, lakes and alpine forest. The afternoon was slowly moving into evening, the sinking sun turning redder as it sank towards the misty mountain skyline.

Tommy brought the plane steadily down over a thickly wooded cleft between the hills, banked tightly around the base of a steep rise, and then Ben caught sight of the complex of white buildings perched high up above the valley, at the end of a single twisting road he could barely see through the trees. A little distance away, an area of woodland had been cleared to make way for a small airstrip. Tommy expertly brought the Cessna round, lining up their course and dropping the landing gear. ‘Here we go,’ he called cheerfully over his shoulder. ‘Welcome to sunny Schwarzwald. Bet you’re glad to be back.’

‘No rest for the wicked,’ Ben called back, and Tommy grinned.

Soon afterwards, the plane was rolling to a stop on the landing strip. Tommy shut down the prop, opened up the hatches and the two of them disembarked. ‘Be seeing you,’ Tommy said as he jumped down from the wing, and headed at a trot towards some buildings. He seemed like a decent kind of guy, with probably no idea of what really went on in this place.

Ben hoped he wouldn’t have to kill him.

Now what? he thought, looking around him. The white buildings were just visible through the trees, and appeared to be connected to the airstrip by a little curving road. He stood and waited, the late Dr Simonsen’s briefcase dangling from his hand. Moments later, a black Mercedes four-wheel-drive came speeding up the little road.

This must be the taxi, Ben thought as it halted near the parked aircraft. He slipped on the glasses, smoothed his hair and adopted the body language of the expert consultant on just another routine visit. The driver barely glanced at him as he got into the back with the briefcase across his knees. The Mercedes U-turned and sped off towards the buildings.

It was a short journey. A set of tall gates stood in front of the complex, which Ben now saw was screened off behind a high wire fence. The entrance was manned by a guard, who strode up to the Mercedes and rapped on the back window to check Ben’s ID pass before returning to his little gatehouse. The gates glided open and Ben’s driver, who hadn’t said a word, proceeded on. The Mercedes crossed a concrete forecourt and turned in between two buildings. Left at a junction; then right at another. The place was a labyrinth. Here and there was a parked vehicle. No obvious sign of industrial activity going on; no sign of anything in particular.

Fifty yards further, the driver stopped outside what appeared to be the main building, stepped briskly out of the car and opened the back door for his passenger to get out. As he did, Ben was very much aware of the unseen eyes that could be watching him from behind any number of windows. He nodded casually to the driver and gazed around him as if he’d seen the place a thousand times before. The main building’s entrance was glassy and modernistic, above which gleamed the name DREXLER OPTIK.

How charming, Ben thought. Secluded, picture-postcard alpine environment. Clean, unpolluted mountain air. Just the spot for a phoney optics manufacturing plant. And a little child abduction and torture on the side.

The facility might indeed have looked totally innocuous from the exterior, if it hadn’t been for the armed guards. Two of them, flanking the doors. The privacy of the setting allowed them to carry their weapons openly; Ben instantly recognised the ubiquitous M4 automatic carbines that he’d been so familiar with in 22 SAS and used himself on three continents. As the Mercedes drove away and he walked towards the entrance, the guards maintained a steely eyes-front demeanour. Ben could tell at a glance that they were ex-services. The kind who took orders and asked no questions. That had always been the part he’d had trouble with.

He was on the steps leading to the entrance when the glass doors swung open and a third guard emerged to meet him. In a black cap and boots and with a holstered Glock on his hip, he looked almost like a military officer and was obviously in charge of security. He was in his fifties but trim and fit, his black uniform hugging his lean torso. ‘Dr Simonsen?’ The German accent was crisp. The grey eyes unblinking.

‘Here at last,’ Ben said jovially. ‘Traffic was terrible.’

The man didn’t smile back. His cold gaze scanned up and down Ben’s features. ‘You look different, Doctor.’

‘Hardly recognise myself, even,’ Ben said, pointing at his own face. ‘New glasses. I’m still getting used to them.’

The head of security scrutinised the laminated ID card that Ben showed him. Ben watched the grey eyes flick from the photo on the card and up to his face; down, up. Then the man handed the card back to Ben and appeared to relax. ‘My wife got new spectacles last month,’ he said with a sudden smile that was incongruous on that reptilian face. ‘She looks like another woman in them. Just what I needed, no?’

Ben laughed.

‘Come inside, Dr Simonsen. Dr Rascher has been waiting for you.’

‘He has?’ Ben said, following the head of security through the glass doors.

‘I believe he wants to discuss matters relating to our latest addition, Test Subject 16-M.’

A tremor of volcanic rage shot through every vein in Ben’s body. Outwardly, he was completely calm as he nodded and said nonchalantly, ‘The Hunter boy?’ They might have been teachers talking about a child’s progress in maths class.

They were walking down a bare white corridor with a gleaming tiled floor and doors on each side with small wire-reinforced windows. The head of security nodded. ‘There have been problems. Resistance, aggression, unwillingness to co-operate. TS-16M has had to be kept heavily sedated and in isolation. Dr Rascher has expressed concerns about his suitability for the program.’

The head of security pushed through a fire door and led Ben down a short flight of steps to another bare white corridor. A pair of patrolling guards passed by in the opposite direction, pausing to nod deferentially at their superior, who barely acknowledged them.

‘I see,’ Ben said. ‘That’s very regrettable. The subject showed such promise. Did Dr Rascher say any more?’

‘You can ask him yourself,’ the head of security said, pointing at an office door up ahead, which bore a plaque reading DIREKTOR. He stopped and knocked three times. A voice from inside called ‘Hereinkommen’, and the head of security opened the door.

Rascher was a large, broad man with a shiny bald crown and a thick grey-black beard. He was wearing a white lab coat and holding a computer printout covered in graphs and figures. He turned to greet his visitor as the head of security ushered Ben into the office. ‘Ah, Dr Simonsen, there you are,’ he said in English, in a voice as big as he was.

This is it, Ben thought.

Rascher’s brow creased in sudden consternation. He took a step closer and peered at Ben, then turned to face the head of security. ‘What’s the meaning of this, Aumeier?’ he demanded. ‘This man isn’t Mark Simonsen.’

‘I’m afraid Dr Simonsen isn’t on top form,’ Ben said, dropping the briefcase, taking off the glasses and flinging them away. ‘So I’m here in his place.’

‘This is an outrage!’ Rascher shouted, his face darkening. ‘Aumeier!’

22

AUMEIER REACTED, BUT not quickly enough. Before he could draw his Glock clear of its holster, Ben’s elbow caught him square in the throat and crushed his windpipe. The head of security fell to the floor, turning purple and choking for air that would never come. Ben pinned the arm holding the gun to the floor with his foot. In one fluid move, he scooped up the weapon and pointed it at Rascher’s head.

‘Here’s the deal, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Show me where you’re keeping Drew Hunter and maybe I won’t perform a radical brainectomy on you with this thing.’

‘Wh-who are you?’ Rascher boomed.

‘Just think of me as the end of your Indigo Project,’ Ben said.

‘You’ll never succeed. They’ll kill you.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Ben said. ‘But not in time to help you.’ He battered Rascher across the face with the butt of the gun. The man fell stunned to the carpet.

‘Fuck it,’ Ben said to himself. If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to die wearing a tweed jacket. He stripped it off and tossed it over Aumeier’s body. Then he bent down, heaved Rascher to his feet and spun him towards the open door. Rascher staggered out into the corridor, blood trickling from his face.

‘You take me to him,’ Ben said, shoving him along with the gun pressed hard up against the back of his head. ‘You take me to Carl. Or should I say, TS-16M? You’ve got seven children captive here. Another had an “accident”. If Carl’s the sixteenth to be forced into the program, what happened to the remaining eight? What did you do to them, Rascher? Put them to sleep like dogs? Did you stick the needle in yourself or get one of your ghouls to do it for you?’

‘Please,’ Rascher moaned. ‘Please don’t shoot me.’

‘No? Maybe I should just strap you inside a CT scanner and let you get fried with radiation for a few hours,’ Ben said, shoving him along. ‘Or how’d you like a pound or two of Valium pills to munch on? Stop your bleating and lead the way.’

‘Isolation room four,’ Rascher panted, sweating heavily and motioning up another flight of steps. ‘This way.’

Ben shoved and wrestled the big man up the steps. At the top, the corridor went left and right. Rascher led him to the right. ‘Along here,’ he groaned, pointing to a bend ahead. ‘Then we take the elevator to the isolation block on the top floor.’

As they rounded the corner, before Ben could stop him Rascher suddenly yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Mir helfen! Alarm! Alarm!’

Ben clubbed him over the head with the gun, but it was too late. A door burst open and three guards emerged into the corridor, looking startled. The one on the left was still clutching the mug of coffee he’d just been drinking.

It had been a trap. Ben realised that Rascher had led him right to a security personnel staff room.

As if in slow motion, the guards reached for their guns. The coffee drinker let his mug drop and spill on the floor as he made a grab for the M4 automatic carbine slung behind his back. The one in the middle was the first to squeeze the trigger. The weapon was set to burst-fire. Ben ducked. A window behind him shattered. He grabbed the struggling Rascher by the collar of his lab coat and yanked him backwards, nearly off his feet, using him as a human shield as another burst of gunfire erupted in the corridor. Ben felt the impacts of the bullets slamming into the doctor’s chest. He ripped the Glock pistol from his belt, aimed it past Rascher’s shoulder and fired twice, taking down the coffee drinker and the middle guard. The one on the right was still getting to grips with his weapon, wild-eyed with panic.

Rascher’s dead body collapsed in Ben’s grip, catching him off balance and making him stumble back a step. It was at that instant that the remaining guard brought his weapon to bear and fired. But in his haste to shoot, the gun jerked off-aim at the last moment and the shots went wide.

Ben had seen it happen before with men who were experiencing real combat for the first time. Training was one thing, but not even the best simulation could fully prepare you for the terror and intensity of the real deal. The extra pressure made some people slower. They fumbled. They lost their focus. This guy was one of those.

Ben wasn’t. Before the guard could touch off another burst, two shots from the Glock snapped out in such quick succession that they sounded like one ragged explosion. The guard tumbled over backwards with a hole between his eyes and another in his chest.

Then, silence. Just the ringing in Ben’s ears and the muffled tinkle of a cartridge case rolling across the tiles. Four dead men in the corridor. Their blood rapidly mingling into a spreading pool.

Ben knew his element of surprise was spent now. The sound of gunfire would have resonated through the whole building, sparking off a red alert. How many more guards were there? Could be five; could be twenty.

Ben stepped over Rascher’s body. ‘Never trust a doctor,’ he muttered under his breath as he thrust the pistol back in his belt, behind the hip. Avoiding the blood so as not to leave a trail of red footprints, he bent over one of the dead guards and picked up his M4. Releasing the magazines from the two other automatic carbines, he slipped one mag in each of his trouser pockets.

‘That’s more like it,’ he said to himself.

Already, he could hear raised voices and racing footsteps echoing through the corridors and getting rapidly closer. It was time to get moving.

As Ben broke into a run, four more guards appeared in the bend of the corridor behind him. Their shouts were drowned in gunfire. Bullets raked the wall inches from him. He reached another bend ahead and kept running.

He crashed through what he thought was another set of fire doors, and skidded to a halt, cursing. Too late to turn back, he realised he was trapped inside a room with no other exits. The guards were close behind.

He glanced about him. The room was huge and white, looking and smelling like a chemistry lab. Long tables stretched across the middle of the tiled floor, and its edges were lined with benches and racks covered with equipment. Wires and tubes, blinking lights, dials and readouts, screens, jars and beakers and trays of implements. Mounted around the walls above were glass cabinets filled with rows of large specimen jars containing what appeared to be chunks of some kind of matter floating in a clear, viscous liquid. It looked like pickled cauliflower.

Footsteps outside. The doors crashed open and the four guards burst into the lab firing their weapons on full automatic and spraying bullets everywhere. Ben barely had time to return fire before he had to dive under cover of one of the long tables. Splinters flew from the tabletop; plaster dust exploded from the walls and showers of sparks from the electrical equipment as dials and readouts shattered. The cabinets on the wall burst into cascading fragments of glass, the jars inside them blown apart, liquid pouring over the benches and the floor.

Crouching under the table, Ben glimpsed the slippery white specimens that had been inside the jars, now sliding over the floor in puddles of strong-smelling surgical preservative – and he realised with a jolt of horror what they were. Not chunks of picked cauliflower, but dissected pieces of human brain.

And in that brief moment, he knew.

Knew he was looking at all that remained of those unaccounted-for eight children.

Knew that this was what the architects of the Indigo Project would ultimately do to Carl, and to all the others, if nobody stopped them.

More sparks spat and fizzed from the damaged electrical equipment; an instant later, there was a whoosh as the spilled preservative burst alight. A sheet of fire covered the bench along its whole length, quickly spreading to the floor. Flames shot up, suddenly filling half the room, hot, aggressive, leaping high. Ben had to scramble away as they licked the underside of the table. Spotting him, one of the guards shouldered his weapon with a cry and let off a string of bullets. Ben dived and rolled for cover under another table. From the floor, he saw the running feet of two of the guards moving round to flank him. He fired. A cry of pain. One of the men went down, writhing. Another burst into the man’s body, and the cries of pain were silenced. Ben rolled again, emerging from under the table.

The fire was spreading alarmingly fast, gaining a purchase on the whole room now and threatening to block the only exit. Firing blind into the thick, black smoke that filled the lab, Ben ran for the door and burst out into the corridor, coughing. A glance through the billowing smoke told him that more guards were coming. Too damn many. This place was even better protected than he’d feared.

Smoke and flame were spreading out of the lab door now. He could hear the screams of the men still trapped inside, but he had little sympathy for them. He ran, keeping low. There was a shout; he’d been spotted again. More shots rang out.

No time to stop and shoot back. He sprinted hard up the corridor, skidded around a corner and came to a junction. He went left. Bounded down a short flight of steps. He was totally without bearings now, just trying to lose his pursuers in the labyrinth.

The fire in the lab could only spread to other rooms, and it would. Fast. He needed to make his way to the isolation block on the upper floor before the whole building started to burn.

Ben ran on. Another set of doors, another upward flight of stairs. Now he really was lost, in a part of the building that looked different from the clinical hospital environment of bright neons, sparkling white corridors and gleaming tiles. Here the floor was bare concrete, the lights dim, the walls unpainted. Where the hell was he going?

He was about to turn back and try another way when he saw the door. It was iron. Heavy deadlocks locks top and bottom. It looked like the door to a dungeon.

There’s no time for this. You’ve got to find Carl.

But he couldn’t leave without knowing what was on the other side of that door. He stepped closer to it and saw with amazement that the locks were undone.

Ben pushed open the door. Stepped through, and stopped in his tracks.

In front of him was another door with tall steel bars, like the entrance to a giant cage. Beyond it was what looked like a high-security prison cell, only much larger. Bunk beds lined the bare block walls, three high.

It was a dormitory.

And it was full of children.

23

THERE WERE SIX of them in there, aged between about seven to early teens, all barefoot and wearing plain white garments resembling pyjamas. Three girls, three boys. Their hair was cropped. They looked like prisoners – which, Ben realized, was exactly what they were. The youngest was the little boy lying curled on one of the bottom bunks with his eyes closed. He was either in a dead sleep, or else he’d been drugged. The eldest was a Japanese girl of fourteen or less, who was sitting on a wooden chair watching Ben. There was no trace of fear in her eyes. One by one except for the sleeping boy, the children all turned to gaze at him.

They weren’t alone. Two medical personnel in white coats, one male in his late thirties and one female about ten years younger, were in the cell with them. Neither adult had noticed Ben’s presence. The man held a ring of keys. The woman was clutching the handle of a wheelchair: Ben sensed that they’d just brought the little boy back to the cell. That was why he’d been drugged.

‘What were you doing with him?’ Ben demanded.

The two doctors wheeled around in alarm at the sound of his voice. ‘Wha—?’ the man began, then fell silent as he saw the gun in Ben’s hands.

Ben kicked against the cage door. ‘Open it,’ he said savagely. ‘Open it, or I’ll shoot you through the bars.’

The man hesitated, but not long. He hurried to the door, unlocked it, and it creaked open. He retreated anxiously as Ben strode inside the cell.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Ben looked at the doctors in furious disgust. He ran his eye over the barefoot children, and at the little boy lying half-comatose on the bed. He thought of what he’d seen in the lab. Then glared back at the man and woman in the white coats, and his finger twitched against the M4’s trigger.

‘I ought to gun you down where you stand,’ he said to them.

The woman just went on gaping at him in terror. The man fell to his knees. ‘Do not shoot,’ he pleaded in a German accent.

‘Where’s Carl Hunter?’ Ben demanded. ‘Isolation room four. Is he there? Answer me!’

‘He’s there,’ the Japanese girl said quietly.

Ben turned to her. She was gazing at him with the same calm, unfrightened expression. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked her. ‘You’ve seen him there?’

‘I’ve never seen him,’ she replied. ‘But I know he’s there. We all do.’

Ben could see she was being completely earnest. He nodded, then turned back to the cringing doctors. They were too pathetic to kill. ‘Out,’ he commanded them, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door. ‘Go, move it. Before I change my mind.’

The man and the woman stared at one another, then bolted past Ben and scrambled out of the cell. He watched as they went running off down the dark passage.

‘I’m Ben,’ he said to the children. ‘I’m here to get you out. Carl as well.’

The Japanese girl nodded sagely, as if she’d known that too. A younger girl managed a weak smile. A boy a few years younger than Carl began to sob.

‘What’s your name?’ Ben asked the Japanese girl.

‘Satoko,’ she replied. She pointed at the younger girl, who was still smiling at Ben. ‘That’s Nicole. She doesn’t speak English. That’s Sylvie. That’s Luca. That’s Peter. And that’s Franck,’ he finished, pointing at the sleeping boy on the bunk.

Ben gazed at their faces, and his heart went out to them. How had they ended up here? How had Linden Global’s agent network found them? Each child’s story would have to be told, but not today.

‘Listen, Satoko,’ he said, ‘we have to get out of here quickly. Bad men might try to stop us. Things might happen. You’re the oldest, so I need you to be really brave, and I need your help to look after the younger children. Can you do that?’

She nodded again, then shot an anxious glance at Franck. ‘He won’t wake up. They gave him the medicine.’

‘Does it wear off soon?’ Ben asked.

‘An hour, sometimes less,’ she said. ‘But it gives you a headache.’

‘You’ll never have to take it again,’ Ben promised her. ‘None of you.’ He went over to the bunk and picked up the drugged boy, thinking that maybe he should have shot those doctors after all.

The boy murmured in his sleep as Ben slung him carefully over his shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said to the group. ‘We’re leaving this place.’

Back in the main part of the building, alarms were shrilling and the sprinkler system had activated. But from the spread of smoke, the stifling heat and the strong stench of burning that filled the air, it was clear that the fire was raging out of control and Ben worried that the sprinklers would be overwhelmed. As he carried Franck and led the rest of the children through the waterlogged corridors, the walls shook violently to an explosion, then another. The place was full of chemicals and surgical supplies, gas and oxygen tanks and God knew what other volatile materials. How long before the whole place went up in flames?

‘It’s all right, children,’ he said. ‘Stay close to me.’

Every step of the way, he expected to meet more guards and was ready to shoot first lest a stray bullet come anywhere near the kids. But they saw nobody. Ben glanced left, glanced right, memorising the layout of the building as best he could for when he’d have to come back for Carl.

And there it was, the blessed sight he’d been praying for: an exit. Ben kicked open the doors and a rush of fresh air cooled the sweat on his brow. Dusk was falling, the first stars beginning to twinkle over the dark forest. The compound was deserted. All that stood between them and the trees was the perimeter fence. ‘Come on,’ he urged the children.

They ran from the main building, reached the next and skirted along the wall. From its corner, it was only a short dash across the concrete to the fence. Ben’s heart was thudding ferociously. Almost there.

Eighty yards along the length of the wire fence, they came to a padlocked gate. ‘Stand behind me,’ he told the children. Holding the carbine one-handed and well away from Franck’s little ears, he aimed at the lock and fired. The deafening shot echoed off the buildings. One round from a high-velocity 5.56mm rifle was enough to mangle the padlock. Ben tossed the twisted metal away, unbolted the gate and it swung open. He glanced back, half-expecting to see the place’s remaining guards come swarming out in pursuit, drawn by the noise of the gunshot. All he saw was the smoke pouring from the windows of the main building, rising up in a column into the darkening sky.

They ran for the trees. In the deep shadow of the pines, Ben gently took Franck down from his shoulder and laid him on the ground. He gathered the rest of the children together in a small circle. ‘Satoko, all of you, listen to me carefully. This is nearly over. But I have to go back for Carl.’ He took off his watch and gave it to Satoko, showing her the luminous dial. ‘Satoko, remember what I said. You’re in charge. If I’m not back here in fifteen minutes, I want you to take the children somewhere safe. You’ll have to carry Franck. Can you manage that?’

Satoko nodded.

‘Good. There’ll be a farm, or a house, somewhere not too far away. Get there and call the police, all right? ’ He stood. ‘I’m going now. Fifteen minutes.’

‘Be careful, Ben,’ Satoko said.

24

BEN RAN BACK towards the fence, clutching his carbine. Time was ticking by much, much too fast. He could only hope that the fire hadn’t yet reached the top floor.

Through the gate in the fence; across the open ground towards the main building. Two guards came out of a doorway to his left, saw him and froze. Ben didn’t even hesitate. He levelled the M4 and shot them both before they’d had a chance to go for their weapons.

He sprinted for the main building, retracing his steps. Inside, the smoke was thicker and even more acrid than before. The floor was swirling inch deep in filthy black water, but just as he’d feared, the sprinkler system had been ineffective at stopping the spread of the blaze. Almost every way he tried, fire and smoke blocked his way and forced him to hunt for an alternative route. The power hadn’t shut down yet, but it could at any moment and he didn’t dare risk using the lift to the upper floor, for fear of being trapped inside.

Every moment counted. Each second, the fire was blocking another path. He held onto the rifle, even though he didn’t think he’d need it any more. The remaining guards had all fled the building, as well as the rest of the staff. It was just him and Carl in here now.

As he searched desperately through the smoke for a staircase, he stumbled into a medical theatre. The operating table was on fire. Soon, any gruesome traces of the things that had gone on here would be burnt out of existence. He ran on, battling against the smoke. The heat was scorching. Just as it seemed hopeless, he crashed though another door and his heart jumped at the sight of a stairway leading upwards. He bounded up it, two and three steps at a time.

It was as he reached the top floor that the power system finally melted down, plunging him into darkness. He groped his way along, kicking doors open. One, two, three …‘Carl!’ he yelled. ‘Carl!’

The fourth door was locked, and he instantly knew this was it. He took two steps back and then ran at it with all his might, smashing it open with his shoulder.

The isolation room was barely less like a cell than the cage down below. In the gloom Ben could make out a sink unit, a toilet, a chair pulled up to a bare table. And the iron-framed bed on which Carl was lying completely still.

Ben threw back the thin sheet. He shook the boy by the arm. ‘Carl, can you hear me? Wake up. We have to go.’

Carl stirred. He faintly murmured something, then fell back into his drug-induced unconsciousness. At that moment, Ben hated the men who’d done this to him more than ever. He ripped a strip from the bed sheet, dampened it at the sink and then returned to the bed to prop the limp boy against him and wrap the wet cloth loosely over his nose and mouth to help reduce smoke inhalation. He quickly did the same for himself, tying the torn material behind his neck like a bandana. Then lifted the child from the bed and carried him to the door.

The flames hadn’t yet reached the stairs, but they very soon would. It wouldn’t be long now before the building would either blow up completely or start to collapse in on itself. Ben reached the bottom. The route he’d taken before was blocked by fire, so he took another. The boy was a dead weight in his arms, the carbine slapping against his back as he staggered and stumbled through the building with only the flickering fiery glow to light the way.

Now Ben was lost again, and for an instant he truly believed that they’d never get out. Then he suddenly recognised the dark corridor as the one he’d walked along with Aumeier earlier. That meant the main entrance was just ahead!

He was right. But he hadn’t reckoned on the two guards who were making for the doorway from another direction. He saw them at the same instant they saw him. They all stopped. Ben stared at them, and they stared back. Their faces were blackened from the smoke. Their weapons within quick and easy reach.

One of the guards shook his head. He let his gun slip to the floor and raised his hands as if to say, ‘No more trouble, okay? We only work here’. His colleague did the same. Then they were gone, running outside into the darkness.

Ben emerged from the building and gasped cool air into his raw, aching lungs. They were out. They’d made it.

He was pushing through the side gate in the perimeter fence when the building blew. The rumbling blast split the night with a fireball that rolled high up into the sky and lit the forest for miles around. The explosion’s hot breath scorched Ben’s back as he turned his body round to shield Carl.

Ignoring the pain, he hurried towards the trees. The shadows of the forest seemed to leap and dance in the firelight. He could see no sign of the other children.

Then he spotted them, all except the sleeping Franck, standing in a huddled group at the foot of a huge pine.

Someone was with them.

Someone who had his arm wrapped tightly across Satoko’s throat and a pistol to her temple. The rest of the children looked even more terrified than she did.

‘Hello again,’ the man said, and Ben saw that it was Tommy, the pilot. ‘Stop right where you are. Not another step.’

‘Let her go,’ Ben said. ‘This isn’t your fight.’

‘You don’t think?’ the pilot replied.

‘Everyone else is gone,’ Ben told him. ‘Rascher, the director, is dead. It’s over.’

Tommy smiled, and the fire made his teeth red. ‘Rascher wasn’t the director,’ he said. ‘I just let him use my office now and then. I never did like to be deskbound. More of a high flyer, you might say. Truth is, I’d rather be in the air than do much else.’

‘You—?’

‘That’s right,’ Tommy said, and his smile turned into a grin. ‘I didn’t introduce myself properly. Thomas Holzmann, Senior Executive Vice President of Linden Global. I’m the big cheese around here. Free to come and go, free to stand in for Jürgen if I so choose, or whatever I want. That’s why I never met the real Simonsen – Doc Rascher was in charge of the everyday running of the place, and personnel was his department. But the Indigo Project is my baby, and it always will be.’ He took the pistol muzzle from Satoko’s head and pointed it towards Ben. ‘And I’m afraid I can’t let you take my assets away. They’re unique. Buildings we have plenty more of. Now put the boy down, please.’

Slowly, carefully, Ben crouched and laid Carl on the ground.

‘Step away from him and toss the rifle,’ Holzmann said.

Ben unslung the M4 and threw it away with a clatter.

Holzmann chuckled. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you really are, man, but you came pretty close to pulling it off. Tripped up at the very last hurdle. I almost feel sorry for you.’

‘I’m nobody,’ Ben said.

‘Suits me,’ Holzmann said. ‘I’ll have the engraver put it on your headstone.’ He raised his pistol, took deliberate aim at Ben. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Ben reached behind his hip. He pulled the Glock that Holzmann hadn’t seen tucked into his belt.

The screams of the children were swallowed by the double report of both handguns going off at once.

Ben felt a burning pain in his side. He swayed on his feet. Dropped his gun, put his hand to his shirt and looked at his bloody fingers.

Holzmann smiled.

And his eyes rolled back, his knees buckled under him and he fell dead.

Ben staggered, then righted himself as the children came running and crowded around him. He picked Carl up in his arms. The boy opened his eyes and looked up at him in drowsy recognition.

‘Now you’re going home,’ Ben said.

Author’s Note

THE BACKGROUND OF this story is not quite the bizarre figment of my imagination you may think it is. While the Indigo Project is (I hope) an entirely fictitious creation, the real-life phenomenon of remote viewing has been well documented and intensively researched for many years. The Stargate Project really did exist, and Joseph McMoneagle and Pat Price really were alleged to have carried out the apparently inexplicable acts of psychic espionage briefly described in Bring Him Back. Notable figures from this strange and fascinating world not named in the story, but not to be skipped over, include former Stargate remote viewer Lyn Buchanan and Colonel John Alexander, formerly of the Advanced Systems Concepts Office, US Army Lab Command.

Many of the people who pioneered this psychic research are still alive today, and readers interested in finding out more about them are encouraged to do a little research of their own. You can even find the CIA’s own ‘Firedocs’ remote viewing manual online. It opened my eyes – it might open some other people’s, too!

I hope you enjoyed Bring Him Back. Ben Hope will return for more adventures soon.

Scott Mariani

For more information on the sensational Ben Hope series in ebook and paperback, visit the author’s website:

www.scottmariani.com

Table of Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Author’s Note

Table of Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Author’s Note