When hed done packing, he strapped up the bag, slung it over his shoulder and said a quick, silent goodbye to the room. When hed be back was anybodys guess.
Downstairs, he found Roberta wandering around the semi-furnished rooms and looking agitated. You want something to eat? he asked her. There isnt much in the house. Weve been living on takeaways and eating out until we got settled. The last word stabbed him as he said it.
She shook her head with a frown. Im not hungry.
Me neither, he said.
Ive been thinking. Were heading back to Paris, right? Makes sense.
Thats where this thing started, he said. I aim to get there as quickly as possible.
But hows that going to work? she went on anxiously. If these sons of bitches can pinpoint my exact location in some backwoods Oxfordshire village, just like that out of all the places I couldve turned up, it means theyve got access to Christ knows what kind of information. Theyve got to be hooked into every database out there. Which means that the moment I step over the Channel into France, theyll know right where to find me. Theres no way I can travel unnoticed, is there? She eyed the green bag hanging heavily from his shoulder. And if youve got what I think youve got in there, its not something you can exactly sneak by the customs officials.
There are ways we can get across undetected.
Roberta looked sceptical. If youre thinking of swimming the Channel, think again. I cant swim. Or maybe you were planning on stealing a rowboat?
Not exactly, he replied, deep in thought. He glanced at his Omega divers watch. Its skeletonised hands read 3.17. Might just about do it, he murmured, more to himself than to Roberta.
Might just about do what?
Ben didnt reply. Leaving Roberta looking mystified, he took out his phone and quickly punched in a number that was extremely familiar to him.
Jeff Dekker picked up after two rings. Le Val Tactical Training Centre.
Its me.
Thought youd still be rehearsing for your rehearsal about now, Jeff replied. Ben could hear the smile in his tone of voice.
Thats one reason Im calling, Ben said. Dont bother coming over to England tomorrow.
Whys that, mate? You found a better best man to walk you up the aisle? The smile was still there. Jeff thought Ben was kidding.
Im serious, Ben said. Its off, Jeff. The whole things off. Long story.
Jeff seemed about to burst out into the reaction of amazement, stupefaction, outright disbelief or a combination of all three that Ben had been expecting but something in Bens voice made him stop. You want to talk about it, mate? he asked quietly.
No, I dont. Ben said. He hadnt called to pour his heart out. The second and more important reason for the call was to ask a question. Listen, Jeff, the old landing strip near Valognes. Driven out that way in the last couple of weeks or so? The year before, theyd toyed with buying the disused airfield to convert into a civilian rifle range but then dropped the project as the location was too far from Le Val.
I passed there last Tuesday, Jeff replied, sounding bemused.
So youd have noticed if anyone had dug it all up or parked a load of artic trailers on it.
Far as I could see, its just the way it was. What the fuck dyou want to know for?
One more thing, Ben said. If I needed the Alpina for a couple of days, could you get Raoul or Paul to leave it there for me? Raoul de la Vega and Paul Bonnard were the two ex-military trainers who worked as assistant tutors at Le Val. The Alpina was a high-performance BMW 7 Series used as a demonstrator for the bodyguard defensive driving courses taught at the facility, called VIP Evasion / Reaction, VIPER for short.
Shouldnt be a problem. But what?
Thanks, Jeff. Ill be in touch. Before his friend could say anything more, he ended the call.
Whore you phoning now? Roberta asked as Ben immediately started stabbing in another number.
My sister, he replied.
She stared at him. You have a sister?
Thats another long story, Ben said. It always seemed so strange to him that Ruth was only a call away. For so many years, shed seemed to have been lost forever. From child kidnap victim to adopted daughter of a billionaire tycoon whose business empire she now ran like shed been doing it all her life Ruth had walked a strange path, almost as strange as her elder siblings.
Well, hello, big brother, her voice chirped on the line.
Where are you? Ben asked.
Nice, she said acerbically. The customary greeting. No Hi, Ruth, how are things? Hows your life? All I get is Where are you?. As it happens, Im on my way over to you right now. Well be touching down at London Oxford Airport in just under lets see, say thirty minutes. Her tone changed suddenly as excitement bubbled through. You know, Ben, I cant tell you how much Im looking forward to this. Seeing you and Brooke getting hitched at last
What plane are you coming on? Ben cut in, interrupting her. As CEO of Steiner Industries, the mega-corporation Ruth had inherited from her adoptive father, the Swiss billionaire Maximilian Steiner, she had the pick of one of the biggest corporate fleets of aircraft in Europe.
Wow, you are in a chatty mood, bro. Since you ask, Im using my favourite little runaround, the new Steiner Industries ST-1 turboprop. We do lead the way in promoting eco-friendly aviation, as I may have told you before.
No more than ten or twenty times, he said. Whats the LDR for that aircraft?
Landing distance required? she replied, sounding perplexed by the question. Uh, minimum eighteen hundred and forty feet. Even as a young child, Ruth had always been sharp when it came to numbers, and few things escaped her. But why do you want to know?
Range?
Over seventeen hundred nautical miles all fuelled up, which we were when we left Zurich. Ben, if you dont mind my saying so, youre sounding just a little bit weird. Somethings wrong.
I dont have a lot of time to explain, Ruth, so Ill make this quick. The weddings off. And I need to borrow your plane.
Chapter Twelve
Forty-three minutes later, Ben and Roberta were walking across the tarmac at Oxford London airport in Kidlington towards a sleek twin-engined light aircraft that sat by a private hangar. The afternoon sun sparkled off the small aircrafts pearly-white fuselage.
Not bad, is she? said a familiar voice, and Ben turned to see his sister emerging from the hangar. She was casually dressed and her hair, the same exact shade of blond as his own, was tied back under a baseball cap. Not quite the image of the corporate CEO. She was known for attending high-level conferences in faded jeans and combat boots. Business bosses from New York to Tokyo just had to get used to it.
Ruth patted the planes gleaming flank with pride. Prototype design. Under eleven metres from nose to tail, thirteen from wingtip to wingtip, more than twenty per cent more fuel-efficient than anything in her class, with emissions to match and almost totally made of recycled materials.
Ruth patted the planes gleaming flank with pride. Prototype design. Under eleven metres from nose to tail, thirteen from wingtip to wingtip, more than twenty per cent more fuel-efficient than anything in her class, with emissions to match and almost totally made of recycled materials.
Still trying to save the world, Ben said, embracing her.
Beats trying to blow it up, she replied, hugging him tightly. In her former radical wild-child days she might have been here to firebomb the aircraft instead of as its corporate owner.
Im sorry you wasted a trip, Ben said. But its good to see you. Youre looking well, Ruth.
She took a step away from him, tightly clutching both his hands and eyeing him with concern. Wish I could say the same about you, bro. You look awful. Youve got to tell me what happened between you and Brooke. Did you two fight?
This is Roberta, Ben said, evading the question, and to avoid raising more of them he added, Shes a friend of mine from long ago. Now, listen, I hate to press you, but we really need to get underway.
Ruth greeted Roberta with a brief, slightly perplexed smile, then turned back to Ben with a jerk of her head that said, Can we have a word in private?. Leading him a few steps away, she paused under the roar of a departing light passenger jet and then asked Ben straight out: Are you walking out on Brooke for her? Is that whats going on? Because if it is, Im not sure how comfortable I am about getting drawn into it like this. Brookes a friend to me.
Its not what you think, Ben said, making an effort to hide the pain he was feeling. Like I told you, shes just a friend. Shes in a bit of trouble, and she needs my help.
And what about Brooke?
Brooke and I will work things out, Ben said evenly, sounding far more confident than he really was. Ruth, are you going to let me use the plane or not?
Ruth paused for a moment, then sighed and waved an arm at the aircraft. Whatever. Shes all yours. Dont you have any more luggage than that?
Just what you see, he said, hoping she wouldnt start asking questions about what was in his bag.
Waiting at the hangar entrance was a young guy with unkempt hair, a smattering of a beard and a ring in his ear the kind of eco-hippy type that Steiner Industries employed these days under Ruths direction. That handsome fellow there is Dylan, she explained. Hes one of the best pilots we have.
Ben looked at her. Your pilots name is Dylan.
She shrugged. Sure. And he plays the guitar, too.
He needs a shave.
Believe me, youre in good hands. Hell take you wherever you want to go. Youve got enough gas to take you halfway around Europe and back again.
Were not going that far, Ben said. By his estimate their journey distance was just under 140 nautical miles, a mere hop and a skip for the high-tech turboprop. And you can hang on to Dylan. I wont be needing him.
Then whos going to fly the? Ruth blanched. No, no. Please dont tell me what I think youre going to say. I like this plane, Ben. Not to mention its worth the same as a Lamborghini Reventon.
If I smash it up, you can get your accounts department to invoice me, Ben said, stepping towards the plane. I really appreciate this, Ruth.
I must be crazy.
It runs in the family, Ben said.
A few moments later, he was seated behind the cockpit controls, running an eye across the panels of dials and read-outs and the extensive array of high-tech computer wizardry as Roberta explored the rear section with its plush eco-friendly non-leather seating for four or five passengers to travel in style. Pretty neat, she commented, opening a door and peering at a little bathroom. Weve got food and drinks on board, too. Ill admit, I hadnt expected travelling with you would be this luxurious.
Dont get too used to it, he said.
Outside, Ruth and her companions had retreated to the hangar. A couple of runway attendants in reflective vests and ear-defenders had appeared to shepherd the aircraft as it prepared for take-off. Ben fired up the engines and the twin propellers began to spin with a whine that quickly grew to a roar, muffled inside the well-insulated cabin.
I didnt know you could fly one of these things, Roberta said from the rear, strapping herself into a seat by one of the oval porthole windows.
Well, Id be lying if I said Id ever actually flown one of these before, he replied, waiting for the props to get up to speed. This state-of-the-art plane was a different animal by far from the last aircraft hed piloted a prehistoric Supermarine Sea Otter loaded with drums of avgas that hed deliberately crashed onto the deck of a sailing yacht like a flying incendiary bomb, blowing the aircraft, the vessel and its contingent of thugs to kingdom come. He didnt think Roberta would appreciate those details.
You what?
But the basic principles the same for all these kinds of things, he said. Trust me, its like riding a bicycle.
Maybe I shouldve taken my chances with the bad guys, Roberta muttered to herself.
The Steiner ST-1 taxied away under the anxious gaze of its owner, picked up speed and left the runway smartly to climb into the hazy afternoon sky. Content that he wasnt going to drop them down somewhere in the English countryside or into the Channel, Ben levelled the aircraft at 285 knots and a cruise altitude of 24,000 feet, settled back in the pilots seat and set his course for Normandy.
After just twenty-five uneventful minutes in the air, Ben checked his bearings, reduced altitude and caught sight of the northernmost tip of the Lower Normandy coast far below. The aircraft overflew the Pointe de Barfleur and the towering Gatteville lighthouse, just a tiny grey needle sticking up from the rocks surrounded by calm blue sea.
Remaining steady on his course for another few minutes as they passed over Saint-Vaast and then the spreading outskirts of Valognes, the nearest town of any size to the Le Val facility, Ben gradually let the plane drop down lower on the approach to his target, the small disused airfield in the countryside a few kilometres outside Carentan. As the small tongue of concrete surrounded by green fields grew larger and details came into view, he was relieved to see that Jeff Dekker had been right about the place not having changed since the last time hed seen it.
He checked his instruments, made his final adjustments. Flaps; undercarriage; speed; altitude: everything was in order, or as close to it as need be. The Steiner ST-1 swooped in low over the rickety barbed-wire fence, the disused buildings and the graffiti-covered hangar where local kids loitered to smoke dope, and touched down with a yelp of tyres. Ben instantly eased off the throttle and the plane decelerated on the bumpy strip, rolling to a standstill forty yards short of the sunburned grass beyond. The engine whine died away and the prop came to a halt. Ben pulled off his headset, quickly reset his Omega to French time, then pressed the control to activate the hydraulics for the aircrafts side hatch.
Well, I must say, that came in pretty handy, Roberta commented as she stepped down to the cracked concrete. Remind me to put one of these gizmos on my Christmas list.
Ben used a remote button to close the hatch and set the locks and alarms on the aircraft. The late afternoon was warmer than England. The soft breeze smelled of cut grass and was filled with the chirping of crickets. He looked around and quickly saw that Jeff, trustworthy as ever, had delivered on his promise. The dark blue Alpina B7 was sitting on the stubbly yellowed grass a little way from the landing strip.