The Demon Club Page 3

  ‘Really? I can trust you on that, can I?’

  If Saunders detected the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. ‘You have my word.’

  Ben said, ‘I’m still waiting for the rules.’

  All the mannerisms of phony politeness had left Saunders’ face, and the real man was visible behind his former mask of genteel courtesy. The big lemur eyes behind the magnifying lenses were as hard as glaciers and locked unwaveringly onto Ben’s.

  Saunders replied, ‘They’re very simple. Please remember that the surveillance team will be watching every move Miss Kirk makes, and everyone with whom she comes into contact. If someone so much as says hello to her in the street, within seconds we’ll know everything about not just their lives, but those of their entire circle of family and friends. Likewise, all her communications, such as landline and mobile phones, emails and social media, are being closely monitored. Therefore, the slightest attempt on your part to warn her, in any way, will be detected the instant you make it, and will result in her being shot in the head at the first opportunity. There will be no reprieve, no second chance.’

  Chapter 3

  Ben said, ‘No need to sugar-coat it, Saunders. Tell me it like it is.’

  Saunders went on, ‘Likewise, if you try to involve the authorities in this matter, she will be shot in the head. Should you be tempted to enlist any of your talented business associates to intervene in this situation, she will be shot in the head.’

  Ben was thinking that if he were to snap this man’s neck like a stale stick of baguette and hurl his dead body out of the aircraft, she’d probably be shot in the head, too. ‘She’ll be expecting me to call when I get home.’

  ‘We know. You needn’t concern yourself with that. It’ll be done for you, by text message. A simple line or two, to say you got back safely and will be in touch soon. It will appear to have come from your phone, which, incidentally, is also being monitored.’

  ‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’ It was an understatement. It seemed to Ben like they had him pretty well stitched up. As Jeff Dekker would have said, tighter than a camel’s arse in a sandstorm.

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘All right, Saunders, or whoever you are. I get the message. What is it that you want from me?’

  Saunders explained, ‘You’ve been selected from a shortlist of candidates. A very short shortlist, I might add. Made up of names of current or former operatives who share a common expertise in the art of locating, and then neutralising, selected targets.’

  ‘Human targets,’ Ben said. It wasn’t a question.

  ‘For a number of particular reasons, you came out top of the list. Head and shoulders above the nearest competition, thanks to your prior experience in this kind of work. Before you went freelance calling yourself a “specialist kidnap and ransom consultant” you excelled at tracking insurgents and terrorist commanders on behalf of HM Government.’

  Ben was no longer surprised that this man Saunders seemed to know so much about his past. It wasn’t just his military experience. These people clearly had gathered detailed information on his private hostage rescue career, too, and that bothered him a lot. He’d always worked hard to cover his tracks. The knowledge that these spooks, or whoever they were, seemed able to see straight through his defences made him feel vulnerable, even paranoid.

  ‘Is that who I’m being recruited by, HM Government?’

  Saunders gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘Let’s just say that one of our lambs has strayed from the flock. We need someone with your inimitable talents to find him and teach him the error of his ways.’

  So after the brutal candour about the threat hanging over Grace if Ben didn’t play ball, now it was back to the euphemisms. ‘You mean you want him eliminated.’

  ‘Eliminated, neutralised, terminated, call it what you will.’

  ‘There’s your problem,’ Ben replied. ‘Because I’m not an assassin.’

  Saunders raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, dear. That sounded suspiciously like a refusal to take the mission. Are we forgetting the ground rules already?’

  Ben said nothing.

  ‘Under the circumstances, Major, you’re whoever we want you to be. Let’s not pretend you haven’t done it before. Your particular skillset is well documented. Plus, you’re uniquely qualified for this specific mission. Unlike any of the other potential candidates, you happen to be personally acquainted with the target. Given the nature of the job, we considered that would give you an edge. Not that a man of your expertise is likely to have too much trouble.’

  ‘Killers come as friends,’ Ben said. ‘That’s how it works in your organisation, I suppose.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call him a friend, exactly. You haven’t seen him in a long time.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Wolf. Jaden Wolf.’

  ‘That’s some name for a stray lamb,’ Ben said. But he recognised it immediately, and it was clear to him why he’d been picked for such an assignment. That didn’t make him any happier about it. ‘So what’s Wolf done to deserve this?’

  ‘The whys and wherefores are not your concern,’ replied Saunders. He pointed at the tablet phone. ‘You can hang onto that. It contains all the information you’ll require, on an encrypted data file that is programmed to self-destruct two minutes after opening, so I suggest you read it carefully and commit it to memory. Shouldn’t be a problem for a clever chap like you.’

  ‘What’s the decryption key?’

  Saunders smiled. ‘We selected one that would be nice and easy for you to remember. The password is “Ruth”.’

  Ruth was Ben’s sister and only surviving relation. She lived in Switzerland, and they were in touch from time to time. When Ben was in his teens, Ruth had been kidnapped by Arab human traffickers during a family holiday in Morocco. He’d devoted many years of his life to finding her, and never wanted to lose her again. He understood that the use of her name as a passcode was another not-so-subtle warning of the hurt these people could inflict if he failed to obey them.

  He asked, ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Five days ago.’

  ‘That’s a long time for someone like Wolf to be running. I’m presuming you’ve had your own people out looking for him.’

  Saunders nodded. ‘We were able to track a few of his movements. His vehicle was found abandoned in a village in Surrey, where a car was reported stolen the same night. The stolen car was discovered the next day in a street in London. It’s all in the file.’

  ‘And you have no idea where he is now.’

  ‘If we did, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  ‘Which means he’s either still in the country, or he’s travelling on a false ID.’

  ‘He’s a resourceful sort of chap. Almost as resourceful as you are. You and he had the same teachers, after all.’

  ‘Then he could be anywhere. Sitting in a cave in outer Mongolia or sailing a fishing boat around the Florida Keys.’

  ‘Why else would we have seen the need to enlist the very best man for the job of tracking him down? Few people have ever known Jaden Wolf as well as you. I have every faith that you can find him, Major Hope.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t like it,’ Ben said. ‘I left that whole world behind me a long time ago.’ And now it was catching up with him again, like a trailing shadow that he couldn’t shake off.

  ‘As you wish.’ Saunders pointed again at the tablet phone. ‘You’ve been supplied with a number to call to notify us once the mission is complete, as well as a secure email address to which you’re required to send photographic evidence of the neutralised target, and its location. Needless to say, one of my operatives will be sent to the scene to ascertain personally that the job has been carried out to our satisfaction. Afterwards, you will be free to return to your life, and neither you nor Miss Kirk will hear from us again. You have my word on that, too.’

&
nbsp; ‘You’re a man of real integrity, Saunders.’

  ‘Well, I think that more or less concludes this little chat. You and I will not meet again, but it’s been a pleasure talking to you.’

  Saunders went to get up, then paused. ‘Oh, just one thing. Before I go, I should point out that there are several of my agents on this aircraft, so I suggest you stay in your seat for the remainder of the flight and don’t make a fuss, or come looking for me or anything silly like that. There will be no reminder regarding Miss Kirk’s situation. Be sensible, do your job, and you needn’t have a thing to worry about.’

  Then Saunders stood and walked off down the aisle the way he’d come, and Ben was alone again.

  Chapter 4

  For what it was worth, the rest of Ben’s journey home went smoothly. He made his connection in Paris, got to Cherbourg exactly on time and sped back to Le Val in his BMW Alpina. The night was warm and still, and the stars were shining bright. Storm, Ben’s favourite of the various canine residents of Le Val, was there to greet him when he got out of the car, wagging his tail and full of happiness at his master’s return. Ben bent down to give the big hairy German shepherd a hug, had his face liberally washed by a sloppy great tongue and then climbed the steps to the front door of the farmhouse.

  Home sweet home. Warm, welcoming light spilled from the windows of the farmhouse kitchen into the yard. Ben could see his friends Jeff and Tuesday having dinner in their usual places at the old oak table. The kitchen was the hub of the house, the common room and command centre where the core members of the Le Val team spent most evenings drinking, smoking, relaxing and sharing a laugh after a long day’s work teaching good guys with guns how to better protect and serve the innocent citizens who depended on them. A delegation of cops from the BRI-BRAC anti-terror brigade in Paris had just finished up a two-day Hostage Rescue Team refresher course in which Jeff had put them through their paces in Le Val’s killing house, where the live-fire combat exercises were fast and furious, bad-guy targets lurked behind every doorway and the simulation of a real-life HRT raid was made to be as realistic as possible.

  In short, life at the compound was just the same as ever. Stepping back into that comforting, familiar environment, Ben might almost have believed that the episode on board the plane earlier that day had been nothing more than some weird dream that he could just shrug off, forget and move on from.

  But it hadn’t been a dream. Ben’s predicament was as real as the threat hanging over Grace Kirk, and he could no more afford to ignore it than he could disregard Saunders’ rules. The first of which was tell no one. And that, Ben knew, was going to be his first tough challenge.

  As he stepped inside the house and put his head around the kitchen door he was met with the sound of laughter and the aroma of the big pot of beef stew that sat on the range.

  ‘Dead on time. Welcome home, lover boy,’ was Jeff’s boisterous greeting. The wine had been flowing that evening, judging by the empty bottles on the dinner table and the flush in Jeff’s cheeks. Jeff was in a happier mood these days, after going through the grinder following the collapse of his relationship with a French woman called Chantal. Some months earlier he’d celebrated his rediscovered bachelor status by throwing himself into learning to fly. Since getting his pilot’s licence just weeks ago, he’d spent a chunk of his hard-earned cash on a 1967 Cessna 172 Skyhawk and could talk of little else. A stack of light aircraft magazines, service manuals and pilot licensing literature lay heaped on the sideboard.

  ‘How was your trip?’ Tuesday asked, grinning his dazzling trademark grin that could light up all but the darkest of spaces. Jeff grabbed a third glass from the cupboard, set it down for Ben in his usual place at the head of the table, and swilled wine into it. ‘Come and have a drink, mate. Plenty of stew left in the pot, too.’

  ‘I’m not hungry. Think I’ll go and take a shower.’

  Jeff peered at him. ‘You all right?’ For Ben to turn down a drink was a rare event; besides which, there wasn’t much you could hide from Jeff Dekker. He liked to laugh and mess around, but beneath the laddish façade was a highly astute and perspicacious mind. You didn’t get to spend over ten years in the Special Boat Service, half of them in command of your own troop, unless you were a pretty smart and capable guy.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ben said, with not much conviction.

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ben repeated. Leaving them to it, he headed upstairs to dump his bag in his room. His quarters were small and simple, with a single bed, a plain wardrobe, a mirror on the wall and very little else in the way of decor. The only luxury was his ensuite bathroom. He quickly stripped off his things and hit the shower. Sixty seconds exactly, ice cold, grimly relishing the shock of the frigid water that jolted his system and helped to keep his mind sharp and clear. He towelled himself vigorously, returned to his room with a towel around his waist, changed into fresh clothing and set about repacking his bag for another trip. Where that would lead him, he still had no idea – but from the information that Saunders had supplied him he knew that his starting point would be London. And he could afford to waste no time getting there.

  After he’d finished repacking his travel items, he unlocked the small security safe bolted to the wall by his bedside. The contents of the safe were the reason he’d come home, rather than heading straight back to London the instant he’d touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport. Inside were two handguns with multiple loaded magazines, two burner phones, ten thousand euros in cash, and a manila envelope containing three fake passports.

  It was primarily the passports that Ben was interested in. He spilled them out of the envelope. They were the work of one Thierry Chevrolet, a master forger whose expertise Ben had enlisted back during his wild, dangerous days of hustling around Europe chasing down kidnappers and rescuing the victims they’d taken for ransom. For several years he’d kept them in a bank deposit box in Paris, the city that had served as his main European base of operations. Since getting out of that game and reverting back – at any rate, trying to revert back – to being a normal citizen, he’d no longer had any use for the deposit box and brought everything across to Le Val. There they’d stayed, locked up, unneeded and mostly forgotten.

  Until now. Saunders might have got him by the balls, and there might be no option other than comply with the man’s threat, but Ben was damned if he was going to let these bastards pry into his life for another minute or shadow his movements another mile. The fake passports were in the names of three fictitious individuals named Harris, Connors and Palmer. They were equally well-used and covered with visa stamps that read like a scrapbook of Ben’s adventures all over the world. The Palmer passport had expired but the other two still had some life left. Ben decided that he would travel as Paul Harris, with the Connors identity as a fall back. He tossed his real passport and the Palmer one onto the bed and stuffed the two fakes into his bag.

  Now the phones. With his personal mobile compromised, it had to be ditched too. He tossed it on the bed next to the discarded passports and grabbed the two burners from the safe. Both anonymously paid for in cash and untraceable to their owner. The only other person in the world who knew their numbers was Jeff Dekker. And that was good enough for Ben.

  Next he turned his attention to the handguns, removed them both from the safe and laid them on the bed, too. One was a Springfield XD, polymer-framed, all-singing, all-dancing, state-of-the-art modern combat pistol. The other was the venerable steel Browning 9mm that he’d used for many years in the SAS. With its rugged design and fourteen-shot capacity the model had barely changed since its inception in 1935, because it hadn’t needed to. It was an old friend to him, fitted his hand like a tailor-made glove and had never once let him down.

  Ben hesitated over the weapons. No question, he couldn’t go after a man like Jaden Wolf unarmed. But the travel issue was the sticking point. He could take the chance of finding a substitute once he reached his target location, but good, rel
iable hardware wasn’t always easy to get hold of in the field. On the other hand, smuggling a gun overseas was taking a hell of a chance. An even bigger one, if he was stupid enough to try to bring a firearm onto a civilian passenger plane.

  But Ben had already decided that the fastest way to London was by car. And despite the risk, he had his ways and means. Making his choice, he stuck the old Browning and three loaded magazines into his pocket.

  Next, he thought about money. His mission expenses were an unknown quantity. The full ten thousand euros was probably more than he needed, but five might be too little. Settling on seven, he bundled six thousand into his bag and kept the remainder aside to carry on his person. As he was slipping the wad of notes into his wallet, something fell out. It was a folded 4x6 photo print. The picture had been taken on a cold, sunny, snowy day back in January, during one of his early return visits to Scotland when he and Grace had gone hiking into the mountains above Loch Ardaich. Pausing to marvel at the scenery, they’d snuggled together while she snapped a selfie shot of them with her phone. On his return to Le Val he’d asked her to email it to him, and printed it out on the office printer. Faintly embarrassed at his own sentimentality, he’d been carrying it with him ever since.

  Seeing the picture again now made him think of what he’d brought on her. If he’d been just some ordinary guy with a normal life, this threat would not be hanging over her now. She was in mortal danger because of him. Because she loved him.

  He let the picture slip from his fingers. Looked up and saw his own raw, grim expression looking back at him in the mirror. A rush of self-hatred gripped him and he slammed his fist into the glass. Jagged shards fell to the floor. Breathing hard and fighting to contain his emotions, he looked at his hand and the blood oozing from his lacerated knuckles.