Somewhere near Cadiz, Southern Spain September 2007
Ben Hope dropped from the wall and landed silently on his feet inside the courtyard. He stood crouched for a moment in the dark. All he could hear was the rasping chirp of crickets, the call of some night bird disturbed by his approach through the woods, and the controlled beat of his heart. He peeled back the tight black sleeve of his combat jacket. 4.34 am.
He did a last press-check of the 9mm Browning, making sure there was a round in the chamber and that the pistol was ready for action. He quietly clicked the safety on and holstered it. Took the black ski mask from his pocket and pulled it over his head.
The semi-derelict house was in darkness. Following the plan given to him by his informant, Ben skirted the wall, half-expecting a sudden blaze of security lights that never came. He reached the rear entrance. Everything was as hed been told. The lock on the door put up little resistance, and after a few seconds he crept inside.
He followed a darkened corridor, went through a room and then another, the thin light-beam from his pistol-mounted compact LED torch picking out mouldy walls and rotten floorboards, heaps of garbage on the floor. He came to the door that was shut from the outside with a padlock and hasp. When he shone his light on the lock he saw it was an amateur job. The hasp was only screwed to the worm-eaten wood. In under a minute, working in silence, he had the lock off the door and went inside, slowly and cautiously so as not to alarm the sleeping boy.
The eleven-year-old Julián Sanchez stirred and groaned as Ben crouched down by the side of the makeshift bunk. Tranquilo, soy un amigo, he whispered in the boys ear. He flashed the Brownings light in Juliáns eyes. Virtually no pupil reflexhed been drugged.
The room stank of damp and filth. A rat, which had been up on the little table at the foot of the bed eating the remains of a frugal meal in a tin dish, jumped down and scampered away across the floor. Ben gently turned the boy over on the filthy sheets. His hands were tied with a plastic cable tie that had bitten into his flesh.
Julián groaned again as Ben carefully slipped a slim knife through the cable ties and cut his arms free. The boys left hand was bound with a rag, encrusted with filth and dried blood. Ben hoped that it was just the one finger that had been removed. He had seen a lot worse.
The ransom demand had been for two million Euros in used notes. As a token of their sincerity the kidnappers had sent a severed finger in the mail. One foolish move, such as calling the police, had said the voice on the phone, and the next parcel would contain more bits. Maybe another finger, maybe his balls. Maybe his head.
Emilio and Maria Sanchez had taken the threats the right wayseriously. Raising the two million wasnt an issue for the wealthy Malaga couple, but they knew perfectly well that paying the ransom would in no way guarantee that their boy wasnt coming home in a bodybag. The terms of their kidnap insurance stipulated that the negotiations must at all times go through official channels. That meant police involvementand it would be signing Juliáns death warrant to bring the cops in on this. Theyd needed to find a viable alternative to even the odds in favour of Juliáns safe return.
That was where Ben Hope entered the equation, if you knew the right number to call.
Ben rolled the groggy child out of the bunk and hefted his limp body over his left shoulder. A dog had started barking from somewhere behind the house. He heard stirrings, a door opening somewhere. Holding the silenced Browning out ahead of him as a torch, he carried Julián back through the shadowy corridors.
Three men, his informant had told him. One was passed out drunk most of the time but hed have to watch out for the other two. Ben believed the informant, as he usually believed a man with a gun to his head.
A door opened ahead of him and a voice shouted in the darkness. Bens light settled on the figure of a man, unshaven, his body rippling with fat, dressed in shorts and a ragged T-shirt. His face was contorted with the bright beam shining in his eyes. In his hands was a sawn-off shotgun, the fat twin muzzles slung down low and pointing at Bens stomach.
The Browning instantly coughed twice through its long sound suppressor and the thin LED beam followed the arc of the mans body as it slumped dead to the floor. The man lay still with two neat holes in the centre of the T-shirt, blood already spreading out beneath him. Without thinking about it, Ben did what hed been trained to do in these circumstances, stand over the body and finish the job with a precautionary head shot.
The second man, alerted by the sound, came running down a flight of stairs, a bobbing torch in front of him. Ben fired at the light. There was a short scream and the man crashed headlong down the stairs before hed had a chance to fire his revolver. The gun slid along the floor. Ben strode over to him and made sure he wasnt getting up again. Then he paused for thirty seconds, waiting for a sound.
The third man never appeared. He hadnt woken up.
He wasnt going to.
With Julián unconscious over his shoulder, Ben walked through the house to a sordid kitchen. His pistol-light flashed on a running cockroach, followed its scuttling path across the room and settled on an old cooker that was connected to a tall steel gas bottle. He gently rested Julián in a chair. Kneeling down in the darkness beside the cooker he cut the rubber pipe from the back of the appliance with his knife, and used an old beer crate to jam the end of the pipe against the side of the cold cylinder. He opened the wheel-valve on top of the cylinder a quarter-turn, flipped his lighter and the trickle of hissing gas ignited in a small yellow flame. Then he opened the valve full on. The flickering flame became a roaring jet of fierce blue fire that licked and curled aggressively up the side of the cylinder, blackening the steel.
Three muted rounds from the Browning and the twisted padlock fell from the front gates. Ben was counting the seconds as he carried the boy away from the house towards the trees.
They were on the edge of the woods by the time the house went up. The sudden flash and a massive unfolding orange fireball lit up the trees and Bens face as he turned to see the kidnappers hideout blown to pieces. Flaming bits of wreckage dropped all around. A thick column of blood-red incandescent smoke rose up into the starry sky.
The car was hidden just the other side of the trees. Youre going home, he told Julián.
3
The western Irish coast, four days later
Ben woke up with a start. For a few moments he lay there, disorientated and confused as reality slowly pieced itself together. Next to him, on the bedside table, his phone was shrilling. He reached out his arm for the handset. Clumsy from his long sleep, his groping hand knocked over the empty glass and the whisky bottle that stood by the phone. The glass smashed across the wooden floor. The bottle hit the boards with a heavy clunk and rolled away into a heap of discarded clothes.
He cursed, sitting up in the rumpled bed. His head was throbbing and his throat was dry. The taste of stale whisky was still in his mouth.
He picked up the phone. Hello? he said, or tried to say. His hoarse croak gave way to a fit of coughing. He closed his eyes, and felt that unpleasantly familiar feeling of being sucked spinning backwards down a long, dark tunnel, making his head feel light and his stomach queasy.
He cursed, sitting up in the rumpled bed. His head was throbbing and his throat was dry. The taste of stale whisky was still in his mouth.
He picked up the phone. Hello? he said, or tried to say. His hoarse croak gave way to a fit of coughing. He closed his eyes, and felt that unpleasantly familiar feeling of being sucked spinning backwards down a long, dark tunnel, making his head feel light and his stomach queasy.
Im sorry, said the voice on the other end of the line. A mans voice, clipped English accent. Have I got the right number? Im looking for a Mr. Benjamin Hope. The voice had a note of disapproval that irked Ben immediately despite his fuzzy head.
He coughed again, wiped his face with the back of his hand and tried to unglue his eyes. Benedict, he muttered, then cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. Thats Benedict Hope. SpeakingWhat time do you call this? he added irritably.
The voice sounded even more displeased, as though its impression of Ben had just been confirmed. Well, ten-thirty actually.
Ben sank his head into his hand. He looked at his watch. Sunlight was shining through the gap in the curtains. He began to focus. OK. Sorry. I had a busy night.
Evidently.
Can I help you? Ben said sharply.
Mr. Hope, my name is Alexander Villiers. Im calling on behalf of my employer Mr. Sebastian Fairfax. Ive been instructed to tell you that Mr. Fairfax would like to retain your services. A pause. Apparently youre one of the very best private detectives.
Then youve been misinformed. Im not a detective. I find lost people.
The voice went on. Mr. Fairfax would like to see you. Can we arrange an appointment? Naturally, well collect you and pay you for your trouble.
Ben sat up straight against the oak headboard and reached for his Gauloises and Zippo. He trapped the pack between his knees and plucked a cigarette out. He thumbed the wheel of the lighter and lit up. Sorry, Im not available. Ive just finished an assignment and Im taking a break.
I understand, said Villiers. Im also instructed to inform you that Mr. Fairfax is willing to offer a generous fee.
Its not the money.
Then perhaps I should tell you that this is a matter of life or death. Weve been told you may be our only chance. Wont you at least come and meet Mr. Fairfax? When you hear what he has to say, you may change your mind.
Ben hesitated.
Thank you for agreeing, said Villiers after a pause. Please expect to be picked up in the next few hours. Goodbye.
Hold on. Where?
We know where you are, Mr. Hope.
Ben went for his daily run along the deserted beach, with just the water and a few circling, screeching seabirds for company. The whispering ocean was calm, and the sun was cooler now that autumn was on its way.
After his mile or so up and down the smooth sand, his hangover just a faint echo, he picked a path down to the rocky cove that was his favourite part of the beach. Nobody ever came here except him. He was a man who liked solitude, even though his job was seeking to reunite people with those theyd lost. This was where he liked to come sometimes when he wasnt away working. It was a place where he could forget everything, where the world and all its troubles could slip out of his mind for a few precious moments. Even the house was out of sight, hidden behind the steep bank of clay and boulders and tufty grass. He cared little for the six-bedroomed houseit was far too large for just him and Winnie, his elderly housekeeperand he had only bought it because it came complete with this quarter mile stretch of private beach, his sanctuary.
He sat on the same big, flat, barnacled rock as he always did, and idly flung a handful of pebbles one by one into the sea as the tide lapped and hissed at the shingle around him. With his blue eyes narrowed against the sun he watched the curving drop of a stone against the sky, and the little white splash it made as it disappeared into the roll of an incoming wave. Nice going, Hope, he thought to himself. It took that stone a thousand years to reach the shore, and now youve thrown it back. He lit another cigarette and gazed out to sea, the gentle salt breeze stirring his blond hair.
After a while he reluctantly got up, jumped down off his rock and made his way back up towards the house. He found Winnie pottering about in the huge kitchen, making him some lunch. Im going to be leaving in a couple of hours, Win. Dont fix me anything special.
Winnie turned and looked at him. But you only got back yesterday. Where are you off to this time?
Ive no idea.
How long will you be away?
I dont know that either.
Well youd better eat something, she said firmly. Running about all the time, never in one place long enough to draw a breath. She sighed and shook her head.
Winnie had been a faithful and stalwart companion to the Hope family for many years. For a long time now, Ben had been the only one left. After his father had died, hed sold the family home and moved out here to the west coast of Ireland. Winnie had followed. More than just a housekeeper, she felt like a mother to himan anxious, often exasperated, but always patient and devoted mother.
She abandoned the cooked lunch shed started making for him and quickly prepared a pile of ham sandwiches. Ben sat at the kitchen table and munched a couple of them, far away in his thoughts.
Winnie left him and carried on her other chores around the house. There wasnt much for her to do. Ben was hardly ever there, and when he did come home she would barely notice his presence. He never talked about his work, but she knew enough about it to know that it was dangerous. That worried her. She worried about the drinking, too, and the cases of whisky that arrived a little too regularly by van. Shed never spoken of it openly to him, but she fretted that, one way or another, he was going to put himself in an early grave. Only the good Lord knew which one would get him first, whisky or a bullet. Her greatest fear was, she didnt think it mattered to him either way.
If he could just find something to care for, she thought. Someone to care for. He kept his private life a closely guarded secret, but she knew that the few times a woman had tried to get close to him, to make him love her, hed cut her off and let her drift away. Hed never brought anyone back to the house, and many phone calls had gone unanswered. They always stopped phoning in the end. He was afraid to love anyone. It was as though hed killed that part of himself, hollowed himself out emotionally, made himself empty inside.
She could still remember him as a youngster full of bright optimism and dreams, with something to believe in, something to give him strength that didnt come out of a bottle. That had been a long, long time ago. Before it happened. She sighed at the memory of those terrible times. Had they ever really ended? She was the only person, other than Ben himself, who understood what it was that secretly drove him. Knew the pain that was in his heart.