Chapter Fifty-Three

Outside Vienna

The next morning

He wondered if Glass’s choice of a meeting point was his idea of a joke.

A thick icy blanket of mist had descended over the lake. He could barely make out the frozen surface from here. He wiped an arc in the condensation on the window, his fingertips squeaking on the cold glass. He leaned back in the seat. There was no sign of them yet. Behind him, on the other side of the plywood partition, his cargo was silent and would be for a few more hours, until the effect of the dope wore off.

Ben didn’t have to wait long. He saw them coming from far away, the headlights of two big cars slicing through the mist. They turned off the road and bumped slowly across the mud and slush and patchy reeds towards where he was parked. As they emerged from the mist he could see them more clearly. Two Mercedes, black, identical. The cars pulled up either side of his van, blocking it in. The doors opened. Glass and five others stepped out, their breath billowing in the cold.

Ben narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t see Clara in either car. He hadn’t fully expected to. He jerked the handle of the van door and went out to meet them. He tossed his cigarette in the snow, and it hissed. Glass stood with his arms folded, watching him. His face was flushed from the chill. ‘Well?’ he said. His voice sounded flat in the mist.

‘Well?’ Ben echoed.

Glass scowled. ‘You got him?’

‘I did what I agreed to do. Where’s Clara Kinski?’

Glass glanced over his shoulder and nodded at his men. For an instant Ben thought they were going to pop open the boot of one of the cars and bring her out. Instead, they stepped forward and grabbed his arms. He let them. They spun him round and slammed him against the side of the van. Hands frisked him, lifting his pistol. ‘Where is she?’ he repeated, keeping his voice calm and low.

One man held a gun to his head while two others opened up the back doors of the van. Glass peered inside.

Aragon was covered with a blanket. His wrists and ankles were bound with plastic cable-ties and there was a length of duct tape over his mouth. He was unconscious.

One of the men pulled a photo from his pocket. He studied the prisoner’s face long and hard, then nodded to Glass. ‘It’s him.’

A fourth man reached inside one of the cars and brought out a leather case. He carried it to the van, unzipped it and took out a stethoscope. He listened to Aragon’s heartbeat and looked satisfied. ‘No problems.’

‘Good work,’ Glass said.

‘The girl,’ Ben said again, keeping his eyes on the side of the van.

Glass grinned. ‘You’ll get her when we decide.’

‘That wasn’t the arrangement,’ Ben said.

‘Fuck the arrangement. You don’t make the rules, you cocky bastard.’

‘So what next?’

Glass reached inside his coat and his fist came out clutching a 9mm. He stepped up to Ben and stuck the muzzle of the gun roughly under his chin. ‘If it was up to me,’ he said.

‘Except it’s not,’ Ben replied. ‘Is it?’

Glass flushed. ‘You’ll be contacted. There’ll be more jobs for you.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ben said.

‘No? You’re working for us now.’ Glass pointed at the frozen lake. ‘Or maybe you’d rather take a swim?’ He chuckled. ‘You’ll do as you’re told. Lie low and wait for our call. Any funny business and the girl dies. Don’t forget.’

Ben looked him in the eye. ‘I never forget anything,’ he said.

Glass’s grin wavered. He holstered his pistol with a grunt and motioned to his men. They slammed the van doors. One of them climbed in the driver’s seat and started the engine. The rest of them walked back to the cars. The two Mercedes threw up mud and slush as they accelerated away. The van followed, taking Philippe Aragon with them.

Ben stood and watched their taillights disappear into the mist. Silence fell over the lake again. He started walking, then took out a phone. He dialled a number. A voice answered.

‘We’re on,’ Ben said.

He turned off the phone and walked faster.

No going back now. But what if he was wrong?

Chapter Fifty-Four

The von Adler mansion

That night

Light poured from the windows of the mansion and floodlights illuminated its façade and the snowy grounds for a hundred yards. A steady stream of guests were arriving. The cars were opulent, the curves of Ferraris and the coachwork of stately Bentleys glittering under the floods. Doormen in uniforms greeted the guests and ushered them inside, while the chauffeurs parked their vehicles along the side of the enormous house.

Inside the mansion, the huge marble-floored entrance hall was milling with people. Waiters in white tuxedos circulated carrying silver trays of champagne glasses or poured cocktails and dry martinis at the bar. Long tables were covered with selections of canapés and gourmet finger-food.

The guests were dressed for the occasion, the men in sober evening wear while the expensively decked women on their arms took the opportunity to show off their jewels. Diamond necklaces glittered like wet ice. The sounds of popping corks, laughter and music rang up to the high ornate ceiling. Through the tall double doors to the magnificent ballroom, the string quartet for the evening was into its first set of waltzes and a few couples were out on the dance floor.

Far from the house, the guards at the gate were strolling up and down in the snow, kicking their heels and clapping their gloved hands to keep warm. One laid down his radio handset as the lights of another car lit up the icy road. The black Jaguar stopped at the gate. The guard stepped forward as the driver’s window whirred down. He bent and looked inside the car. There were four men inside, all looking appropriately dressed under their overcoats. They were a little younger than most of the male guests, all in their late thirties or early forties.

‘Guten Abend, meine Herren,’ the guard said, waiting for them to produce their invitations.

Hands reached inside pockets. The guard collected the four invites and moved away from the car, closer to the light from the gatehouse so he could inspect them. He shook his head. There was a problem. These were wrong.

He turned back towards the Jaguar.

That was the last thing he knew.

Ben caught his limp body before it could leave any marks in the snow. There was a muffled shout from the side of the gatehouse. The second guard was reaching for his radio when the Jaguar’s rear door opened. The passenger stepped out and fired two double-taps from the suppressed H &K pistol. The second guard crumpled without a sound and fell back inside the open doorway of the gatehouse.

The rear passenger’s name was Randall. He was an ex-regiment man, quick-witted and built like a fox. Ben had trained him years before, and trusted him completely. His accentless German had come from his mother’s side and made him the perfect choice to take over the gatehouse and wave through any straggling guests. Bryant, the lean dark ex-para from Lancashire, had been chosen to back him up.

Working fast, they laid the guards out on the floor of the hut. Ben nodded. Randall and Bryant quickly removed their overcoats and tuxedo jackets and started pulling on the guards’ clothes.

Ben walked briskly back to the Jaguar and slipped in behind the wheel. In the passenger seat was Jean Gardier, one of Louis Moreau’s former GIGN guys, the youngest of the team they’d hastily but carefully assembled in Aragon’s office. Gardier was smooth and handsome, with a head of thick black curly hair and a broad white smile that he flashed freely. He’d mix well with the party crowd. From what Aragon’s head of security had told him, Ben knew enough to know Gardier would be excellent at his job.