Chapter Twenty-Nine

But Ben had more to think about than Brooke. He dashed up to his quarters, packed a few things in a leather overnight bag, and headed back across the yard to a squat brick building between the gym and the trainee block.

It was no more than a hut. The door was riveted steel, a foot thick, and beside it was a wall-mounted keypad console shielded from the elements under thick plastic. He punched in a number. It was changed every week, and only he and Jeff knew it.

There was nothing inside the building, just a square hole in the concrete floor and a flight of steps leading downwards. At the bottom of the steps was another heavy door and another keypad. He dialled in the twelve-digit passcode, heard a metallic clunk from somewhere inside the works, pushed the door open and flipped on a light switch.

He was inside Le Val’s armoury room. All around him were racks of weapons, stored in accordance with high-security regulations. He walked over to a steel safe and unlocked it with a long key from the ring he was carrying. The safe was filled with an assortment of pistols and revolvers. He reached inside and lifted one out, an old standard-issue military Browning Hi-Power 9mm. He laid it on a nearby table, reached back inside the safe and took out two magazines and a box of 9mm ammunition.

Even as he’d been talking to Kim Valentine, he’d decided that there was no way he was walking unarmed into a strange address in Paris to meet people he already knew weren’t who they said they were. There’d been enough surprises.

He just couldn’t figure it out. Ever since Valentine’s call he’d been working through the pieces in his mind, and coming up with nothing but questions. Who was she? Were these people interested in Morgan Paxton’s research? Connected with Kamal? Somehow, he didn’t think so. This was something else.

He quickly loaded thirteen rounds into each mag. He slotted one into the butt of the pistol, the other he slipped into the left pocket of his jeans. Then he put the pistol in the other pocket, picked up the cartridge box and left the armoury.

Behind the farmhouse was the converted Dutch barn that was now the garage block. He pulled open the weathered wooden doors and sunlight sparkled off the striped green bodywork of the Mini Cooper inside. As he chucked the overnight bag onto the back seat, he felt a pang of loss for his old army bag. He’d had that for years. He got in the car, stuffed the pistol and ammunition into the glove compartment, fired up the engine and spun the wheels on the gravel as he drove out of the yard.

Twelve-forty. He’d be in Paris by four.

He was there by quarter to. As he cut and slashed his way through the heavy traffic on the city’s Périphérique outer ring road, he called Valentine. She gave him an address in the suburbs. He knew the area.

‘Be here at six,’ she told him. ‘We’ll be waiting.’

Two hours to kill. That suited him. He headed east through the city. Hit Boulevard Haussmann, took a right onto Boulevard des Italiens and headed for his old flat. It had been a long time since he’d been there. The place was simple, functional to the kind of extreme only a soldier could tolerate, but it had served him very well in its day. At one time he’d seen it as his safe-house, his doorway to Europe. Now it was just a symbol of the life he’d left behind-or was trying to. He’d been meaning to come back to Paris anyway, whip the place into order and put it on the market.

He didn’t even know if anyone would want it. Its location was ideal, tucked away down an alley close to the heart of the city, but the only way into the place was through an underground parking lot, up a murky back stairway, and through an armoured security door. Not exactly a cosy family home.

The flat felt cold and unlived-in when he got there, and everything was covered in a light coating of dust. He fired up the heating system and spent a few minutes cleaning the place up. He’d no intention of spending much time in Paris. This was going to be a flying visit-one night only, find out what Valentine had to say to him, and then straight back to Le Val in the morning. After that, he never wanted to think about any of this ever again.

Checking the kitchen cupboards, he found he still had a few tins of food and an unopened pack of Lavazza ground coffee. Better still, three bottles of the red table wine he used to buy from the grocery store down the street.

He drank three cups of strong black coffee and smoked a couple of Gauloises. Then it was time to make a move.

The address in the suburbs surprised him somewhat. It turned out to be a shabby little place in a shabby little street, the last in a row of terraced houses next to a disused filling station where a rusted Esso sign creaked in the breeze. The neighbouring house was obviously derelict, boards over the windows and the door nailed up. The sky was grey, and rain was threatening as Ben parked the car a little way up the street.

He flipped open the glove compartment and took out the Browning. Racked the slide of the pistol, chambering the top round, and clicked on the safety. Shifting forward in the driver’s seat he slipped the gun into his belt, behind the right hip, where it was covered by his leather jacket. He stepped out of the car, feeling the light patter of raindrops on his face.

He walked up to the house and knocked on the door. After a few moments there was the sound of footsteps from inside, and the door creaked open.

Ben knew the guy standing in the doorway. He was the smaller of the two men who’d been on the beach in San Remo. The one who’d run away.

‘Stolen any good handbags recently?’ Ben asked him.

The guy didn’t react. He shut the door and led Ben down a hallway. The inside of the house didn’t look any better than the outside. Wallpaper was hanging in strips from the walls of the empty rooms and the carpets were threadbare.

‘Cosy little place,’ Ben said.

‘This way,’ the guy said. They came to a door and he pushed it open.

The other side of the door was the kind of operations room that a very small team running on a minuscule budget would set up. The three beaten-up armchairs and the old desk in the corner looked as though they’d been rescued from a skip. The desk was covered in clutter-papers, a collection of phones, a whirring notebook computer. A couple of cameras, one with a long lens. A couple of open aluminium cases on the floor contained an assortment of audio surveillance equipment. In the middle of the room, a Formica slab resting on two beer crates made a low table covered in plastic cups and the remnants of a fast-food meal. The place smelled of instant coffee and stale bodies and damp carpet. The blind was drawn down over the single window. The atmosphere reminded Ben of various police stakeouts he’d seen-only twice as depressing.

And he still didn’t have a clue who these people were.

Seated in one of the armchairs was another man he’d seen before. A big guy, broad shoulders, heavy arms folded across his chest. His neck was enveloped in a foam brace and his posture was stiff and awkward, as though it still hurt to move. His eyes were rimmed with red from pain.

The smaller guy went and stood with his back to the window. Ben walked into the room and gazed from one man to the other. ‘Where’s Valentine?’

‘She’s here,’ said a familiar voice. Ben turned.

‘So we meet again,’ she said.

She stood framed in the doorway of a small kitchen. Her hair was brushed down flat against her head and tied back tightly, the way it had been on the video call. The vulnerable feminine look he’d seen in San Remo had disappeared. Her face was drawn and pale, and the jeans and navy jumper looked slept in. ‘Thanks for coming. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘You can get me an explanation,’ Ben said.