The Demon Club Read online

  THE DEMON CLUB

  Scott Mariani

  Copyright

  Published by AVON

  A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2020

  Copyright © Scott Mariani 2020

  Cover design by Henry Steadman © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover photographs © Henry Steadman (figure) and Shutterstock.com (forest background)

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

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008236014

  Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008365523

  Version: 2020-11-20

  Discover the series you can’t put down …

  ‘A high level of realism … the action scenes come thick and fast. Like the father of the modern thriller, Frederick Forsyth, Mariani has a knack for embedding his plots in the fears and preoccupations of their time’

  Shots Magazine

  ‘The plot was thrilling … but what is all the more thrilling is the fantastic way Mariani moulds historical events into his story’

  Guardian

  ‘Scott Mariani is an ebook powerhouse’

  The Bookseller

  ‘Hums with energy and pace … If you like your conspiracies twisty, your action bone-jarring, and your heroes impossibly dashing, then look no further. The Ben Hope series is exactly what you need’

  Mark Dawson

  ‘Slick, serpentine, sharp, and very very entertaining. If you’ve got a pulse, you’ll love Scott Mariani; if you haven’t, then maybe you crossed Ben Hope’

  Simon Toyne

  ‘Hits thrilling, suspenseful notes … a rollickingly good way to spend some time in an easy chair’

  USA Today

  ‘Mariani constructs the thriller with skill and intelligence, staging some good action scenes, and Hope is an appealing protagonist’

  Kirkus Reviews

  ‘If you haven’t read any Mariani before but love fast-paced action with a historical reference, maybe this one won’t be your last’

  LibraryThing

  ‘A breathtaking ride through England and Europe’

  Suspense Magazine

  ‘This is my first Scott Mariani book … and I totally loved it. It goes on at a good pace, and for me Ben Hope was brilliant, the ultimate decent good guy that you are rooting for’

  AlwaysReading.net

  ‘Scott Mariani writes fantastic thrillers. His series of Ben Hope books shows no sign of slowing down’

  Ben Peyton, actor (Bridget Jones’s Diary, Band of Brothers, Nine Lives)

  ‘A really excellent series of books, and would make a wonderful television series as well!’

  Breakaway Reviews

  ‘Scott Mariani seamlessly weaves the history and action together. His descriptive passages are highly visual, and no word is superfluous. The storyline flows from beginning to end; I couldn’t put it down’

  Off the Shelf Books

  Epigraph

  His body a bloody ruby radiant

  With noble passion, sun-souled Lucifer

  Swept through the dawn colossal, swift aslant

  On Eden’s imbecile perimeter

  He blessed nonentity with every curse

  And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,

  Breathed life into the sterile universe,

  With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence

  The Key of Joy is disobedience

  Hymn to Lucifer

  Aleister Crowley

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Discover the series you can’t put down …

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the same author

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  The pursuit had led northwards from the English south coast into the heart of the Surrey countryside, deep among thick broadleaf woods under a full moon. It was late March, the spring equinox, and the night was mild and balmy and filled with the sweetly pungent scent of the flowering bluebells that carpeted the woodland floor.

  The man called Wolf had stalked his target for hours and for the moment he could go no further, waiting and hoping for the opportunity to finish the job he’d started. A job he did not particularly relish and wouldn’t have been doing unless he was getting well paid for it. A job he must nonetheless complete, lest he disappoint the ruthless men who employed him.

  So far, the assignment felt like it was jinxed. It wasn’t Wolf’s fault. He’d followed the plan exactly until things had started going wrong. Which had happened very quickly, earlier that evening.

  The hit was scheduled for 7.30 p.m. at the target’s home outside the pretty West Sussex village of Pyecombe, a few miles from Brighton. Abbott was expected to have been alone, but when Wolf had arrived at the nineteenth-century parsonage at the appointed hour and was concealed in the large garden preparing to make his move, he’d been interrupted by the sudden and unanticipated appearance of
a gold Range Rover. The vehicle had pulled in through the front gates, rolled up towards the house and crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway next to Abbott’s Lexus.

  Wolf had watched from his hiding place as the Rover’s doors opened and out spilled the target’s ex-wife in a red dress, their two young children and a twenty-something brunette that he assumed was the kids’ nanny. Wolf’s mission file contained details on the former Mrs Abbott (number three, the trophy, the most painful marital misstep of the fifty-eight-year-old politician’s career) and the two kids: little Emily, four, and her brother Paul, seven. Since the acrimonious split they now lived twenty miles the other side of Brighton, in a large house provided by the generous divorce settlement and alimony payments that Debbie enjoyed spending on expensive trips abroad. Her lifestyle habits, such as the recent fling with the ski instructor in Zermatt, were well known to Wolf’s employers; but none of the clever-dick analysts who provided the background intel had managed to foresee that she’d show up here today to mess up their plans. Typical.

  Anthony Abbott emerged from his front door to meet his visitors, his silvery hair uncombed, casually attired in beige slacks and a cricket jumper. To shrill cries of ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ the kids rushed up and hugged their father. Wolf had a zoom telephoto lens attached to his phone, through which he could see that Abbott was as nonplussed as he was by old Debbie’s turning up like this. Judging by their facial expressions and stiff body language, relations between the couple were still frosty. Abbott appeared impatient for her to leave and kept glancing at his watch, as though he’d been disturbed in the middle of something important he was anxious to return to. If only he knew, Wolf thought, what her unexpected arrival had saved him from. Even if it was just a temporary stay of execution.

  She didn’t hang around for long. Eleven minutes later, the Range Rover departed and Wolf watched it disappear up the quiet country lane. He was pleased to see her go, but now he had another problem: it appeared that the purpose of her visit was to dump the kids and nanny on her ex. Wolf wondered whether her intention was to liberate herself for another romantic trip to Zermatt or elsewhere, or whether she wanted to have the house to herself for a tryst at home with another of her numerous beaux.

  Whatever the case, the unexpected turn of events screwed things up for him. While others in his profession might not have such scruples, Wolf went by certain rules. The most golden of which being that he would not kill a child, for any amount of money. If he chose to press ahead now, he would be compelled to break that rule, to avoid leaving witnesses. The nanny, too. Messy. Very messy.

  And so, Wolf decided to hold back and wait. Improvisation wasn’t a problem for a man of his training and experience. He settled back and kept watching the house.

  At 9.33 p.m., the hit now more than two hours overdue, Abbott re-emerged from his front door and started walking briskly towards his car. He’d changed his casual attire for a suit and tie and was carrying a leather overnight bag. It seemed like he was going somewhere, leaving the nanny alone to take care of Emily and Paul. Wolf had been told nothing of any planned excursions – then again, if not for Debbie’s interference, the mission would have been over and he’d have been long gone by now.

  Wolf watched as Abbott climbed into his Lexus and set off up the driveway. By the time the car had reached the road, Wolf had already slipped away and hurried back to the Audi saloon he’d hidden around the corner. Like all the vehicles he drove in the course of his work, it had untraceable number plates and officially did not exist. He quickly caught up with the Lexus and followed at a discreet distance as Abbott hustled off down the country lane. Wherever he was going, the man seemed to be in a hurry to get there.

  This new twist offered Wolf a fresh opportunity to finish the job, if he could track his target to a suitable location. He stayed on the Lexus, never letting it out of his sight but with always at least one vehicle between it and his Audi. Politicians, as a rule, weren’t very highly trained in recognising when they were being tailed, but you couldn’t be too careful.

  The Lexus led northwards for fifty miles, taking the A23 and the M25 into Surrey. He seemed to be heading for Guildford, but then turned off the main road and headed into deep countryside. Wolf hung right back and kept following. Then, at three minutes to eleven, Abbott turned into the gates of a manor estate surrounded by woodland. Wolf drove on past the entrance, slowing down just enough to see the Lexus’s tail-lights disappearing down the oak-lined private road and the plaque on the stone gatepost that said KARSWELL HALL. The stately home itself was out of sight of the quiet country road.

  A quarter of a mile further along, Wolf found a spot to hide the car and cut back on foot through the darkness, taking with him the things he needed. Karswell Hall was encircled by a high stone wall that he scaled with ease, and he dropped down inside the wooded grounds and made his cautious way towards the house. From a vantage point among the trees he was able to observe as more cars arrived and paused at a checkpoint on the private road where security guards examined papers before waving the visitors on towards the stately home. It looked like some kind of late evening event or gathering was underway.

  It was 11.22 p.m. and he should have reported to base hours ago. Wolf was all too aware that his employers back in London would be wondering what the hell was happening. He faced the choice of whether to abort his mission and admit failure, or stay on his target until a suitable opportunity arose to eliminate him.

  Wolf had never admitted failure in his life. He was still figuring out his best move when a black Rolls-Royce limousine purred up to the checkpoint and was halted by the security men. The chauffeur rolled down his window and showed them an admission pass. While they examined it, the driver stepped out of the car for a moment to check a front tyre, and the cabin of the limo was momentarily illuminated by the interior light.

  That was when Wolf realised, with a shock, that he knew both of the back-seat passengers.

  Wolf had personally met very, very few members of the secretive agency he worked for. But he instantly recognised these two men as his superiors. One was a much older man, easily eighty-five, wizened and gaunt, wearing a black suit and sitting in the back of the car clutching a cane between his knees. A very distinctive cane, topped with a silver bird’s head with a long beak and ruby eyes. Wolf remembered it, though he’d only seen the old man once before. The other back-seat occupant, twenty years younger than his travelling companion, was someone Wolf had had occasional contact with over the years.

  The big Rolls moved on through the checkpoint, but the image of the two men remained burned on Wolf’s retinas. What was going on here? Why were his agency chiefs apparently attending the same mysterious gathering as the very target they had directed him to eliminate earlier that day? Wolf generally never questioned the reasoning behind his directives, but this was weird. It seemed to suggest that they were all somehow involved together – though in what, Wolf had no idea. And if that was right, then it meant that Wolf had unwittingly become mixed up in some kind of plot to eliminate one of their own. But one of their own what?

  Wolf drew away from the checkpoint. He kept well out of sight as he worked his way around the side of the big house, threading through the trees. Karswell Hall was a hell of a grand old country pile, a real billionaire pad, its scores of windows lit up like a starship with exterior floodlamps casting a glow over the immaculate lawn that sloped down from the rear towards a gleaming dark lake at whose centre was a small wooded island, all wreathed in shadow. The guests, maybe fifty of them, were visible through the windows of the manor, standing in groups, talking, sipping drinks. The gathering was obviously a formal event, judging by the sombre suits and ties of everyone present. Wolf noticed that there was not one woman among them.

  Crouched down low and invisible among the trees, Wolf used his compact but powerful telephoto lens to search for Abbott among the guests, but couldn’t make him out in the crowd. Maybe Wolf would get an opportunity to take care of Abbott tha
t night, or maybe not. He kept waiting, and watching.

  He had no idea what he was soon to witness.

  At the stroke of midnight, the ceremony began.

  It was like watching a surreal dream unfold. First the lights went out and Karswell Hall fell into darkness, illuminated only by the pale glow of the full moon that hung over the lake. Minutes later, a procession of figures slowly began to emerge from the rear of the house and wind its way down the lawn towards the water’s edge. But, as Wolf realised, there was something bizarrely changed about the figures. All fifty guests were now wearing strange robes, long, dark, and hooded. Their faces were obscured by black masks. Wolf felt a tingle of apprehension as he saw they were animal masks – no, bird masks, with curved, sharp beaks that reminded him of the head of the old man’s cane.

  The procession assembled at the lakeside. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their backs to the trees where Wolf was hiding, all looking out across the water towards the dark, wooded island at its centre as if full of anticipation for something about to happen there. He scanned the crowd, still searching for Abbott, but it was impossible to tell whether he was among them or not. The hooded men were unrecognisable, all except for the thin, stooped figure that walked with a noticeable limp and leaned heavily on a cane. The old man.

  Wolf breathed, ‘What the f—??’ He knew that he had to capture this on video. If he didn’t film what was happening he’d have a hard time convincing himself afterwards that he hadn’t been dreaming. He quickly set the phone camera and hit the record button.

  Now a low chanting broke out from the crowd. Soft at first, building into a crescendo whose weird sound sent a chill down Wolf’s neck. It wasn’t English. It wasn’t any language he had ever heard before. Then, as the chanting reached its peak, a pyrotechnic burst of flames erupted into life on the island and lit up the trees – and Wolf swallowed hard and blinked in disbelief as he saw the giant effigy that until now had been hidden in shadow. Forty feet tall, carved out of stone, a quasi-human figure with the body of a man and the head of a bird, long-beaked like a heron or an ibis. The monstrosity appeared possessed with a life of its own as the flames made the shadows dance and cast their flickering reflection across the water.