Chapter Fifty-Five

Ben walked away from the window. The guard’s arms were folded across his chest and there was a severe look on his face. His bald crown gleamed in the light from the corridor, a fuzz of dark stubble over his ears. Another man came up behind him, smaller than his companion, scowling as he saw Ben.

‘Pardon me,’ Ben said in German. ‘I was looking for the bathroom.’

‘This is a private room,’ the bald guard said. ‘What are you doing in here?’ He peered past Ben’s shoulder, looking at the open window. ‘Did you open that window?’ he demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

The rope scraped on the balcony handrail. The guard took a step closer to the window. He had one hand on his radio.

‘I needed some air,’ Ben said, grinning. ‘Too much wine.’

‘There are bathrooms downstairs,’ the smaller guard snapped.

‘Guess I got lost,’ Ben said. ‘Big place.’

The wiry guard didn’t look convinced. The bald one kept moving towards the window.

Ben glanced at the balcony. The black claws of the grappling hook were plain against the white stone. The bald guard saw it and tore out his radio. The wiry one dived a hand inside his jacket.

Ben was two feet away from the edge of the billiard table. In the shadows his fingers closed on something smooth, tapered and hard.

The bald one was about to signal the alert when Ben smashed the cue across his head. The guy dropped the radio and crumpled to the floor.

The wiry guard went for his pistol. Even if he missed, the sound of a shot was going to alert the whole house. He moved fast, but Ben was faster. The billiard cue was a broken spike in his hand. He rammed the jagged point hard and deep into the guard’s eye, penetrating the brain and killing him instantly.

The first one was by then back up on his feet, teeth bared in the shadows. He lunged. Ben sidestepped and felt the wind from a swinging punch that just missed his head. He moved inside the arc of the blow and crushed the bald man’s trachea with the web of his hand. The guard went down. Ben stamped on his neck and snapped it.

There was a movement at the window. Ben turned to see the black shape of a man hauling himself up and swinging his legs over onto the balcony. It was O’Neill, the Irish SAS sergeant who’d been Ben’s first choice for the team.

‘Glad you could make it, Shane,’ Ben said.

O’Neill stepped into the room. He pulled the black woollen hat down tight and grinned through his straggly salt-and-pepper moustache. He looked down at the two dead guards. ‘Looks like you started without us.’

Ben was already dragging the bodies towards a cupboard. By the time they were hidden and the bloodstained carpet covered by moving a rug, the three other black shapes had scrambled up the rope and had joined Ben and Shane O’Neill in the billiard room. Cook, Lambert and Delmas were all in place. The six remaining team members would be well dispersed in the grounds by now, moving in pairs, neutralizing any security staff they came across.

The four black-clad men did a last check of their suppressed submachine carbines. O’Neill handed Ben a high-capacity 9mm with a long suppressor.

‘We haven’t got much time,’ Ben said. He cocked and locked the pistol and stuck it in his belt.

The corridor outside was clear. Ben stepped out first, looking carefully around him. The other four followed, padding over the thick carpets in their combat boots, carrying their weapons silently. Any chance of passing themselves off as lost party guests was gone now.

They had to act fast. There was still no word from Gardier downstairs, but Kroll’s associates could be moving any time now. Ben led the way, concentrating hard to remember the layout from Oliver’s video-clip. Another corner. Another doorway, another decision.

He stopped and studied a painting on the wall. It was the one Oliver had caught on camera, showing an eighteenth-century scene of men meeting in a large hall. Masonic symbols, columns. He knew what it meant now.

He pressed on, feeling a cold rage building up inside him. They must be close.

A door burst open ahead of them. They threw themselves tight back against the wall. A giggling young couple staggered out, clasping on to one another and fooling about. There was a mirror on the opposite wall. The girl broke free and sauntered over to it on her high heels, checking her makeup and her hair. ‘I look like someone who’s been screwing,’ she said in a slurred voice.

‘You look fine,’ said the young man, doing up his tie. ‘Let’s get back to the party.’

The girl straightened up her dress in the mirror. She only had to take half a step to her left and she would see the reflection of the men hidden in the corridor behind her. Ben tensed.

The girl smiled in the mirror, pursed her lips, and teetered off to join her partner, taking his outstretched hand as she caught up with him. Their giggles disappeared with them around a corner.

Ben glanced at O’Neill, who let out a long sigh. Ben was about to whisper something when his earpiece crackled and he heard Gardier’s voice. ‘Things are moving down here’

Ben checked the time. 9.12 p.m.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Werner Kroll rolled back the sleeve of his dinner jacket and peered at the gold Longines on his wrist. He signalled to Glass on the other side of the ballroom. Glass nodded. It was time.

Dr Emil Ziegler was standing on the edge of an animated conversation near the grand fireplace when he felt the tap on his shoulder. Ziegler turned, looking over the top of his spectacles. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ Glass said, bending down to speak in his ear. ‘You’re wanted on the phone.’

Ziegler’s chubby face registered no surprise. He nodded, walked stiffly over to a nearby table and laid down his champagne flute. He smoothed back his thin grey wisps of hair, made his excuses to the group, and started making his way to the door.

Glass did his rounds. Nobody noticed as the twelve men left the party. Their exit was discreet and casual. They all knew exactly where they were going.

Eve watched them slip away. In six years she’d witnessed this seven times. Or was it eight? It was always the same polished, well-orchestrated performance. The party guests would barely notice the absence of the grey-haired men, and nobody else had the slightest idea of where they were going. Or what was about to happen. As the last of the twelve left the room, Kroll and Glass exchanged brief glances. Kroll checked his watch again and looked satisfied. He headed for the doorway, Glass following a few feet behind.

Eve sipped her champagne and felt sick.

Nobody but members of the group had ever walked down the hidden corridor, one of the many secret passageways that honeycombed the old house. It was long and stark, lit by neons, the walls plain white and the floor bare concrete. At the end of the corridor was a waiting area. There were twelve wooden chairs, a low table with a jug of water and some glasses.

The twelve men gathered in silence, exchanging little more than a few nods. Emil Ziegler cleared his throat and poured himself a glass of water. Thomas Blochwitz glanced at his watch, mopped sweat from his pale forehead and took a puff from an asthma inhaler. Peter Gienger paced the waiting room. Ziegler watched him irritably. ‘Do you have to pace like that?’ he snapped. Gienger sat down.

They had little to say to one another. Their association wasn’t based on friendship. It was a business relationship that went deeper than loyalty, deeper even than money. When this was over, they wouldn’t see or speak to one another for a while. Until the next time. None of them knew when that would be. The signal would come, sooner or later. It always did. The decisions were not theirs, but they knew and trusted that every time they met here like this, it meant a consolidation of their collective business interests. Tonight’s event was, for some of them, a very considerable consolidation indeed. It was the removal of a serious threat that had caused all of them a good number of sleepless nights over the past months.