Conspiracy Thriller 4 E-Book Bundle. Scott Mariani
of the moonlit ruin as Ben sat on a pile of broken stone with his bag at his feet. He fished out his spare can of Zippo fuel and busied himself refilling the lighter. He resisted the urge to re-read Michaela’s letter, and instead put the fluid canister away and rebuckled the bag’s leather straps. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Ben began to wonder whether his mystery caller was going to make an appearance or not. Maybe Jude was right.
Jude stopped his pacing. ‘Why do you keep looking at me that way?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Was I?’ Ben realised he had been. It was completely involuntary.
‘You’re not going queer, are you?’ Jude said.
‘You should get a haircut,’ Ben said. His own thick hair would scarcely have passed military muster these days, but he’d known many an RSM who would have delighted in ordering Jude’s unruly mop to be shorn to the roots.
‘Girls like it,’ Jude retorted.
More minutes passed. Jude stamped around the ruin, clutching at his sides and shivering. ‘It’s bloody cold out here. How can you sit still like that? Let me guess. Arctic training.’
‘I did say you should have stayed at the guesthouse. The flask’s in the bag. A nip of whisky will warm you.’
Jude made a face. ‘No, thanks. You sit and freeze your balls off if you want. I’m going to wait in the car.’
As Jude left the church, Ben glanced impatiently at his watch. His contact was almost twenty-five minutes late. The guy either hadn’t been able to get away, or he’d had second thoughts. Ben was trying to decide whether to give it one more minute when he heard a sound from the archway and looked up.
Jude had reappeared in the entrance. He was struggling in the clutches of a strong, bulky man in a woollen hat. One gloved hand was clamped over his mouth, muffling his protests. The other held a double-edged combat dagger to his throat. A moonbeam glittered off the slim, leaf-shaped tongue of steel.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Three more dark figures burst into the church. More hardware flashed under the moonlight, two long silenced pistols and the unmistakable shape of a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine carbine swivelling Ben’s way as he jumped to his feet in alarm. He looked down at his bag, just a few inches from his feet. The shotgun was inside, a round already chambered and waiting. But it might as well have been in Hanoi. The odds of getting the straps unbuckled and the weapon clear of the canvas before a bullet found him, or Jude got cut, were vanishingly remote.
‘I advise you to stay very still, Major Hope.’ The tall figure clutching the MP5 stepped forward. He was in his mid or late fifties, lean and gaunt. The moonlight cast deep shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and sunken eyes. His lips were thin and tight, his hair cropped into a sharp V over his brow. Ben tried to place the accent. It wasn’t quite Afrikaaner. Maybe old-school Rhodesian. One thing was for sure, the guy wasn’t a local. Or an amateur, for that matter. The muzzle of the MP5 was pointed rock-steadily at Ben’s chest. The man came on two steps and then stopped. Close enough to have no possibility of missing his mark if he squeezed off a burst. Too far away for Ben to be able to do a damn thing about it. Any attempt at a disarming move would be utterly suicidal.
The tall man took out a phone. He kept his eyes on Ben as he thumbed the keys. The call was short. ‘This is Gant. We have him.’
Gant. Professionals didn’t reveal names to men they intended to let live.
Ben looked at Jude. The big guy in the wool hat had the knife pressed hard against his throat. Jude’s eyes were wide and bright with fear. He let out something muffled and indistinct from behind the glove over his mouth.
Ben felt his skin tingle and the blood chill in his veins. ‘Let him go,’ he called out. ‘He’s nothing to do with this. Just a hitcher I picked up on the road.’
The tall man called Gant smiled. ‘You normally bring hitch hikers into your hotel room, Major?’
Ben said nothing. His eyes flicked from one man to another. The pistols were pointed at him in firm two-handed grips. They had him cold.
‘We know who he is,’ the tall man said, without looking back at Jude. ‘Arundel’s boy. Either he’s going to tell us what we want to know, or you are. And don’t waste time, Major. You may not have a lot of it left. Now, kick aside the bag, please. We know how tricky you can be.’
Ben hesitated, then swept his foot to the side and sent the bag, with the shotgun inside, tumbling away a couple of yards.
Without letting the MP5’s muzzle flicker a millimetre, Gant took his left hand from the forend of his weapon and gestured back over his shoulder to his colleague with the knife. The big guy smiled and pressed the knife harder to Jude’s throat. Any more pressure and it would split the skin. The slightest lateral movement and it would slice deep. Ben’s heart hammered uncontrollably. Jude’s eyes opened even wider in alarm and his muffled protests rose a notch.
‘Now,’ Gant said. ‘Who wants to tell us where the sword is?’
Ben considered his options. He could tell the truth, and reveal to these people that he knew next to nothing at all, in which case Jude and he were pretty much guaranteed not to emerge alive from this situation. Or he could play along, in the desperate hope that if he kept them talking as long as he could, some opportunity might appear. It wasn’t much, but under the circumstances it was everything.
‘Wes has the sword,’ he said. As far as it went, he was pretty certain that much was accurate.
‘Its location?’ Gant asked impassively.
So they obviously hadn’t caught Wes yet, or if they had, he was dead. Either way, their target still eluded them.
Ben hesitated with his next reply. Just a fraction too long. Gant waved at his colleague again. The big guy grinned. Jude let out a cry of pain. Ben saw a trickle of blood run from the blade and his whole body jolted in horror. ‘Don’t do it!’ he shouted. His throat was so tight he could barely speak.
The gesture again. The big guy looked disappointed and slackened the pressure on the knife. The blood ran down Jude’s neck, but the cut didn’t look as if it had broken all the layers of skin.
‘I won’t ask you again, Major,’ Gant said.
‘The name is Ben,’ Ben said, not taking his gaze off Jude. ‘Since you know anyway.’ We’re going to get out of this, he said with his eyes. Just keep watching me. Everything’s going to be okay.
He was terrified that it might be the biggest lie he’d ever told.
‘I was an officer too, you know,’ Gant said, almost conversationally. ‘Back in the day. I fought for my country.’
‘But these days you just kill for whoever pays the most,’ Ben said. ‘Nice.’
Gant gave a thin smile. ‘We’re running out of time. The sword.’
‘You’d never find it,’ Ben said. ‘But I can take you to where Wes has hidden it.’
Gant shook his head. ‘Doesn’t work that way. You tell us where it is. Last chance.’
Ben nodded. ‘All right. Fine. I have a map here in my pocket. The location’s marked on it.’
‘Map?’ Gant repeated suspiciously.
‘The night Simeon Arundel’s home was raided,’ Ben said. ‘I took the map from his safe. It tells you all you need to know.’
Gant remained poker-faced. ‘Pass it over.’
‘If I reach for it, you’ll shoot me,’ Ben said. ‘You come over here and take it from my pocket.’ In his mind he was already playing out the scenario. He pictured Gant’s tall figure stepping up close to him. Reaching out a hand to frisk him for the map. The other hand taking the weight of