The Lost Relic bh-6 Page 10

  For a long moment, Ben stared at him and said nothing. A hundred emotions welled up inside him, and a thousand things to say. But he wasn’t the only one who was hurting. The sense of shock and grief hanging over these men was palpable, and he could see the tight grimness in their faces and the dark circles around their eyes that signified more than just fatigue from working late shifts. There was little to gain from unleashing his anger at these guys.

  ‘I’m Ben Hope,’ he said.

  Lario held something out to him. A white shirt, neatly pressed and folded. ‘I hope it is the right size.’

  Ben took it and put it on. It was tight around the chest and uncomfortable against the thick dressing the nurse had wrapped around his shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered.

  ‘I must ask you some questions,’ Lario said. ‘A car is waiting downstairs.’

  Ben sat quietly and closed his eyes as the unmarked police Alfa Romeo 159 sped through the streets of Rome. Nobody spoke. Fifteen minutes later, the car was ushered inside a secure compound by armed guards. Lario and his silent companion escorted Ben into a building with heavily barred windows. Inside, Italian flags and the heraldic symbol of the Carabinieri adorned a broad foyer. The same grim atmosphere hung over the whole place as Lario led the way up an echoing flight of steps and along a corridor to an office. His quiet companion disappeared as Ben was shown inside. Lario offered coffee. Ben politely refused.

  The police captain’s desk was littered with a ton of paperwork. He cleared a pile to one side, laid a notepad and a file in front of him and launched into what sounded to Ben like the beginning of a long spiel about the terrible events of that day.

  Ben cut in. ‘How many survived?’

  Lario puffed out his cheeks. ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Out of thirty.’

  ‘Thirty-one visitors to the exhibition, the gallery’s three owners and two receptionists. Plus the boy. Thirty-seven in all.’ Lario paused, watching the expression on Ben’s face. ‘I have also lost many men. Seventeen dead, three who may not survive, a further eight severely injured.’

  ‘Not what I would call a highly successful operation,’ Ben said.

  Lario spread his hands, seemed about to say more, then held it back. ‘No.’

  ‘What happened to the girl?’ Ben asked. ‘About fifteen, blonde. She was in the library.’

  ‘Claudia Argento. She is being treated for shock. Her parents also survived.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Ben muttered, and he meant it. ‘Now, Signor Hope. I know it has been a long and difficult day. But I need you to tell me everything you know.’

  Ben explained how he’d become separated from the rest of the guests as the attack started. ‘So I didn’t see all the intruders. But we’re obviously dealing with a professional outfit. Some of them were Italian, some Russian. How many have you arrested?’

  ‘Two,’ Lario said. ‘And this is something I have been anxious to understand, Signor Hope. We found the two men hanging from a window, their feet bound by a length of fire hose.’

  ‘I was able to overpower them,’ Ben said. ‘I got lucky, that’s all.’

  Lario nodded. He tapped the file on his desk with his fingertips, then flipped it open. Ben recognised the faxed sheet inside. ‘I have read your military record,’ Lario said. ‘That is to say, as much of it as the British Home Office has allowed me to see. I understand you are a man – how shall I put it – of very specific skills.’

  ‘Used to be,’ Ben said. ‘I’m retired now.’

  ‘Of course. Tell me, Signor Hope. One of the arrested men has several fingers missing from his left hand. My officers found the fingers in the building. I would be interested in hearing your thoughts as to how this injury could have occurred.’

  Ben shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t say. Maybe the guy caught his fingers in a door, or something.’

  Lario’s mouth twitched into what could have been a tiny smile. He made another note on his pad.

  ‘Did you find the two inside the kiln?’ Ben said.

  Lario looked blank.

  Didn’t think so, Ben thought. ‘There’s a ceramics classroom on the second floor. Inside one of the kilns you’ll find two of the Russians. Alive, of course, if they haven’t suffocated by now.’

  Lario looked at him for a second, then snatched up his phone and fired a stream of commands in rapid Italian.

  ‘Make a note of this too,’ Ben said when he’d finished. ‘Out of the robbers your men allowed to escape, one has a particular distinguishing feature. An ocular heterochromia.’ When Lario looked blank again he explained, ‘Different colour eyes. One brown, the other hazel. It’s not that obvious, but you’d see it if you looked closely. What’s even more distinctive about him is his physique. Not hugely tall, probably no more than six-three. But built like a tank. A bodybuilder, possibly a steroid user.’

  Lario was making notes as Ben talked. ‘And this man was Russian or Italian?’

  ‘I didn’t hear him speak.’

  ‘This is useful information nonetheless,’ Lario said. ‘Thank you.’ He paused, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘I am wondering whether you can also enlighten me regarding the two dead criminals we have found. One was in the fire escape, and had been shot with a 9mm automatic weapon. The other was in the library where we found Claudia Argento.’

  ‘Anatoly Shikov,’ Ben said.

  Lario wrote it down. ‘You seem well acquainted with his name.’

  ‘I overheard their conversation.’

  ‘I see. That was careless of them. Now, this Shikov. The nature of his death was unusual, to say the least. I suppose you would have no idea as to how he came to have an axe buried in his skull?’

  An axe. Ben suppressed a grim smile and kept his face expressionless. As if he’d fall for that old trick. ‘I’m afraid I really have no idea.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Except that there seemed to be some kind of quarrel going on between the thugs,’ Ben said. ‘Don’t ask me why, but it seemed to me that they were fighting among themselves. That’s how I was able to overpower the two I locked up. They’d shot each other in the foot. So perhaps that also accounts for the axe. Maybe the severed fingers, too. Who knows?’

  Lario looked at him. ‘Excuse me. Did you just say “in the foot”?’

  ‘That’s right. Your officers will confirm it when they find them.’

  Lario stared at Ben for a long time, as if searching behind his eyes for any sign of a lie. His lip curled up into another faint, wry smile. ‘I suppose we shall never know what really happened.’

  ‘It was a very confusing time,’ Ben said. ‘It all happened so fast.’

  ‘I imagine you are no longer used to being, how do you say, in the thick of the action?’

  ‘As you’ve seen from my record, it’s been a few years since I left the army. These days, the scariest thing I have to face is completing my tax returns.’

  ‘Then I do not wish to tire you. I think our business is concluded for now, Signor Hope.’ Lario got to his feet. He jutted out his chin. ‘On behalf of the government and people of Italy,’ he said grandly. ‘I thank you for what you have done.’

  Ben stood, and they shook hands. ‘I really did very little.’

  ‘As you say. Nonetheless, we are grateful to you.’ Lario pointed out of the office window at the gated forecourt down below. ‘You will find your car outside. My men found your passport and personal belongings inside and I took the liberty of having it brought here. Ask the duty sergeant for the keys.’

  ‘So I’m free to go?’

  Lario nodded. ‘Though I regret you may be requested to return to testify at some stage during the investigation. Should that need arise, I presume you can be reached at your business address in France?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ben said, and headed for the door.

  ‘Signor Hope?’

  Ben turned. Lario was leaning against his desk, watching him with a curious expression. ‘I would not of course allow you to leav
e so freely if I thought for one moment there were any . . . irregularities in your account of the events. You follow my meaning?’

  ‘Irregularities such as . . . ?’

  Lario waved his hand. ‘No matter. I am sure it is quite plausible these men shot one another in the foot. Just as I am sure there must also be an explanation for this poker incident, as well as the severed fingers.’

  ‘So it was a poker,’ Ben said.

  ‘My mistake.’

  ‘When thieves fall out . . .’ Ben said. ‘You know better than me how these things go.’

  ‘Quite,’ Lario replied graciously. ‘It is of little consequence. And I am sure I need not worry about any . . . irregularities taking place during the rest of your stay in Italy?’

  ‘Not in the least.’ Ben smiled. ‘Why would you?’

  ‘You are right. Why would I?’

  ‘In any case, I’m leaving for London tomorrow.’ Ben glanced at his watch. It was after one. ‘Or should I say, later today. My flight’s at four in the afternoon.’

  Lario was about to reply when the phone rang on his desk. ‘Excuse me.’ He picked up. ‘Lario.’

  There was silence for a few seconds as he listened, a deep frown spreading across his face. He sank down against the desk, sighed and ruffled his hair.

  Whatever it was, even on a night like this, it was bad news.

  ‘Is Strada going to be OK?’ Lario said in Italian.

  Ben’s heart went cold at the mention of the name.

  Lario’s brow creased into an even deeper frown. ‘Poor guy. To lose his family like that and then . . . OK. Yeah. Thanks for letting me know.’ He hung up the phone, sighed loudly and rubbed his face with his hands.

  ‘Strada,’ Ben said. ‘As in Fabio Strada?’

  Lario looked surprised. ‘You know him?’

  ‘I met his wife Donatella and son Gianni at the gallery.’ It was hard to say their names. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Fabio Strada has been involved in a serious car accident. He was apparently driving home late from work when his sister called him with the news of the deaths of his wife and son.’ Lario made a face. ‘Una isterica. Silly woman. It should not have happened this way. Strada was so stricken with shock that he lost control of the car.’ Lario shook his head sadly. ‘Thank God he was not too badly injured. He was taken to the same hospital you have just come from.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The moment he climbed into the Shogun, Ben could tell that the cops had been through every inch of the vehicle. Just the subtle telltale signs that only a professional could discern, like the grubby prints all over the dashboard, the sweet wrapper in the rear footwell and the undone straps on his old green army bag. His leather jacket was still on the passenger seat where he’d left it, but with consummate skill, whoever had checked out the contents of his wallet had replaced it in the wrong pocket. At least they hadn’t managed to lose his air tickets, or dipped their fingers into the thick wad of banknotes he preferred to carry rather than use cards. The driver’s seat had been adjusted for someone with legs about the length of a mandrill’s. Ben made himself comfortable, then fired up the engine and drove out of the forecourt of the Carabinieri headquarters. The armed guards waved him laconically out of the gate.

  The night was warm, and Ben rolled down his windows as he drove out into the street. He felt tired. It was late, but in Rome it was never too late to find a hotel. All he wanted right now was to get to bed and close his eyes and wipe the last few hours from his memory forever.

  In the glow of a streetlight a few metres away, three people were hanging about a parked silver Renault Espace. Two guys, one unshaven with spiky hair and a loud shirt, the other chubby in a denim jacket, talking to a tall, attractive brunette. The men were both smoking and the three were sharing a joke about something. The woman’s laughter carried across the street.

  As Ben drove out of the police HQ and the gates closed behind him, he noticed the chubby guy glance his way through the Shogun’s open window, narrow his eyes in recognition and then tap the woman on the arm and mutter something in Italian that might have been ‘here he comes’. The woman and the spiky-haired guy turned to stare at him; then the spiky-haired guy quickly threw down his cigarette and crushed the butt with his shoe, ducked into the back of the Espace and came out with a lightweight TV camera that he slung over his shoulder like a surface-to-air missile launcher, while the chubby one produced a set of earphones and a boom mike. They all came striding across the street towards the approaching Shogun, and Ben had to brake to avoid running them down.

  The woman held up her hand. ‘Excuse me?’ she called out in English. ‘Signor Hope? Silvana Lucenzi, TeleGiornale 1 News.’

  Ben swore under his breath. Lario’s grip on secrecy was about as refined as his men’s hostage rescue skills. He waved the crew out of the way, but they circled the car and wouldn’t let him pass. The spiky-haired guy aimed his camera through the Shogun’s open passenger window at Ben while the woman came up to the driver’s side, smiling in that rapacious way ambitious reporters had when they were hot on the trail of an exclusive.

  ‘Signor Ben Hope? You are the hero of the gallery robbery. Can I have an interview?’ She put her hand, with long pink nails, on the door sill and trotted along beside the Mitsubishi as he nosed between them, trying to get past without running over their feet. That was all he needed. Art gallery hero cripples TV reporter.

  ‘You have the wrong person,’ he said in an American accent. ‘Hugo Braunschweiger, US Embassy attaché.’

  ‘How did it feel to be facing death, Signor Hope?’ she asked, evidently not fooled. Ben could see the camera’s auto-focus lens zeroing in on him for a response. He stabbed the window control and the woman jerked her hand away as the glass wound up. He put his foot on the gas, forced the three of them aside and roared off down the street. In his mirror, Silvana Lucenzi pulled a face and waved her arms in frustration at her colleagues.

  The streets of Rome were never asleep. Ben was immune to the spectacular sights as he drove by the illuminated Colosseum and up Via Fori Imperiali. A few cafés were still open, people sitting drinking in the beautiful evening. Lovers walking arm in arm, sports cars zapping through the streets and impetuous young guys on noisy little motorcycles popping wheelies to impress girls. After a couple of misses, Ben found a hotel with vacancies near the Piazza Venezia and wearily carried his bag over to the reception desk and booked a single room. The woman behind the desk seemed uninterested in him at first; then she suddenly looked at him more closely, frowned and cocked her head.

  Uh-oh, he thought, seeing the look of recognition dawn on her face. Don’t tell me.

  But she did, wide-eyed with animation and waving her incredulous colleagues over. Within seconds a whole group of women had gathered to stare at him as though he’d landed from Jupiter. Was he really the same man they’d just seen on the TV news? The one who’d helped the police to rescue the hostages from the masked gunmen? He was a real live hero. What was happening to the world? What could ordinary, innocent people do, without such heroes to step in and save them from evil men?

  An angel, the eldest of the women said, gazing at him adoringly. ‘Siete un angelo.’

  Ben escaped as politely and as quickly as he could before anybody proposed marriage, and rode the lift to the third floor. The room was small and neat. He dumped his things on an armchair, peeled off the ill-fitting shirt Lario had given him and put on a fresh light blue cotton one from his bag. He turned the lights down low and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes, and rolling over on his side. A lump in his pocket pressed into his leg. It was his phone. He sat up and dug it out. When he tried to switch it on, there was no response. The badly cracked screen and dented keypad offered some clue as to why. Ben guessed his tumble down the fire escape hadn’t done it any favours.

  Another reminder he didn’t need of that day’s events. It was impossible to shut out the constant replays that kept running round and round insi
de his brain. He tossed away the broken phone. His head was spinning with fatigue, but he knew he couldn’t sleep.

  The mini-bar had two miniatures of blended whisky. Infinitely better than nothing. He poured both into a tumbler, grabbed his cigarettes and Zippo from his jacket pocket and leaned out of the window, watching the lights of the night traffic and the architecture lit up gold across the city. He finished the rough-tasting liquor too fast and wished for more, then thought it was probably just as well the room didn’t come with a litre of the stuff. He kept smoking and staring out of the window. By the time he was properly wound down and ready for sleep, it was nearly four in the morning and the first glimmers of dawn were rising over the seven hills of Rome.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Georgia

  The airstrip was a long straight tongue of concrete running through the middle of the shallow valley on the edge of the isolated Shikov estate. It was deserted except for a black Humvee with tinted windows, and two men. One of the men sat at the wheel of the hulking vehicle, gazing idly into space. It wasn’t his job to be concerned with who they might be waiting for out here, or why.

  The other man had a great deal to be concerned about. Yuri Maisky stood a few metres away from the Humvee with the warm morning sun on his back, and gazed west. The snow-capped mountains were crisp and clear against the blue sky, but he hadn’t come out here to take in the beauty of the landscape.

  Maisky had been working for his uncle for nearly twenty-five years, and in all that time he’d had no illusions about the nature of the business. They were all soaked in blood. If he’d been a religious man, he’d have felt damned to hell.

  But fourteen months ago, things had changed. One of those unexpected events that could turn a man’s life around.

  It had been during a business trip to Moscow that he’d met Leyla in the empty bar of his hotel one night. She was a sales rep from Kiev, there for a conference. One drink together had turned into three. One night together became a week. Two months later, they were married and Leyla had quit her job and moved to Georgia to live with him on the estate. He’d told her that his uncle was involved in government work.