Passenger 13 (17 page)

‘Something to remember me by,’ Ben said.

Spitting gouts of blood, Sinclair snatched up his fallen CZ and aimed it at Ben. There was the same wild look in his eyes as there’d been in those of the Iraqi gunman in Basra who’d put the rifle bullet though Ben’s ribs. Sinclair’s finger tightened on the trigger and his bloody mouth opened in triumph. There was nowhere for Ben to hide.

The shot cracked loudly in the still night air.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Ben staggered back a step and felt his knees go weak at the sound of the gunshot – but there was no impact, no nerve-jangling sensory alarm as the body registered extreme damage.

Blood spurted from Sinclair’s open mouth. His knees buckled under him, and with a last look of pained confusion he collapsed on his face on the forest floor.

Ben looked down at Sinclair’s corpse and raised his hands as the black-clad gunmen surrounded him, weapons trained on him from all sides. Suddenly they parted to make way for a grizzled, heavyset man in his late sixties, wearing a grey suit and holding a smoking pistol.

Now Ben realised who’d shot Sinclair. The man gazed unemotionally at the body. ‘Idiot,’ he grated in a deep, throaty voice, then turned his impassive, strangely pale eyes towards Ben. ‘I beg you not to compel us to use any further force, Major Hope. There’s been quite enough violence tonight already, don’t you think?’

Ben didn’t reply. The man snapped his fingers and two gunmen stepped up to seize Ben’s arms.

‘I can walk by myself,’ Ben said. At a nod from the man in the suit, they let him go. With two guns in his back they guided him through the trees, lighting the way with powerful flashlights, to where a pair of identical black Range Rovers and a plain, unmarked panel van were parked by the Audi. One gunman opened the back door of the van, another motioned for Ben to get inside. Before the van door was slammed shut, closing him in total darkness, Ben caught a glimpse of the man in the suit climbing awkwardly into the passenger seat of the lead Range Rover.

Instants later, the vehicles took off. Ben sat on the hard inner wheel-arch of the van and braced himself as it bounced over the rutted forest track. After a while they hit smooth road and the bouncing settled to a steady thrumming roar that went on for the best part of an hour before Ben felt the van turn sharply, as if passing through an entrance. He heard men’s voices and the rattle of metal gates.

The van rolled to a halt. The back doors opened, and the light of dawn flooded inside. More guns pointing at him. A harsh order to get out.

Ben stepped down to the cracked, weedy concrete, flexed his stiff legs and looked around him in the early morning haze. The two Range Rovers and the Audi were parked a few yards away, already empty, hot metal ticking as it cooled. Judging by the journey time, he estimated they’d travelled about thirty or forty miles from the northeast edge of London to somewhere rural and secluded – Buckinghamshire, maybe, or Cambridgeshire. Wherever the place was, there was no mistaking the high wire security perimeter, iron gates and neglected-looking prefab buildings of a disused military base.

Ben was hustled indoors by his captors. In a large, neon-lit, otherwise completely empty room with no windows, the man in the suit was sitting on a wooden chair waiting for him. He peered over his spectacles as Ben was shown inside. The door locked, closing them in alone together.

Under the hard glare of the strip-lights, the heavyset old man looked even older. Deep lines creased his brow, and there were grey pouches under his eyes. It seemed to take him an effort to breathe. He gazed at Ben with those pale, unemotional eyes and spoke in his gravelly voice: ‘Major, my name is one you won’t have heard. I am Hayden Roth.’

‘The head of Tartarus,’ Ben said.

Roth nodded. ‘I gather that Egerton Sinclair told you a certain amount about our organisation.’

‘Is it true?’

‘I felt there was no more reason for duplicity. Sinclair’s instructions were that, if you survived the little initiation test we set for you – and I was confident that you would pass with distinction – he was to reveal to you the truth about the nature of Tartarus.’

‘Then that makes you a murderer, Roth.’

No flicker of emotion showed in the man’s eyes. ‘None of us is immaculate. You included, Major. As you have aptly demonstrated, you’re a highly efficient killing machine. One who happens to serve precisely the same masters as I do. We’re all part of the same hypocrisy.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t belong to your world.’

‘Dear boy, if you knew how naive you sound. The orders that dispatch men like you all across the world to risk their lives and end those of others may come directly from our elected representatives in Whitehall, but not even they are aware of the larger picture. As a matter of fact, they are kept largely and deliberately ignorant.’ Roth gave a chuckle that was as empty and humourless as his expression. ‘I know what you’re thinking. But it would be pointless to begin debating with me about democracy. If you were in my position, you would understand that democracy, party politics, the electoral process, are no more than a piece of theatre put on to appease the people, to make them believe they hold some power over the course of things. And I’m sure that even some of our worthy elected politicians share that same delusion. The fact is, Benedict – I may call you Benedict? – that irrespective of whichever political party the voters have chosen ostensibly to rule them, the real executive power rests in the hands of individuals whose names and faces are never made public, nor ever will be.’

‘You mean people like you?’

Roth waved a hand. ‘Oh, I’m really just a tiny, inconsequential component of the machine. As, indeed, is Tartarus itself. We fulfil a vital function, to be sure – but of necessity and for reasons you can now appreciate, we remain obscure to all but a precious few.’

Ben just stared at him.

‘I understand this must all come as something of a shock to you, Benedict. You’re a soldier, and as such your world is a relatively simple one. Your only responsibility is to the men under you. You don’t have a country to run. You don’t make the bigger decisions, so there’s never any need for men of your station – should I say your current station – to see the bigger picture. Believe me, if you could, you’d understand only too clearly that the things we do, unpleasant as they may be, are a necessary evil that serve the greater good.’

‘Like blowing up half of Oxford Street,’ Ben said. ‘Innocent men, women and children. Your own people. You’re a piece of terrorist shit.’

Roth shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that for all his efficacy as an agent, Egerton Sinclair had only the crudest understanding of Tartarus’ mission. We are not terrorists. Lord, no. Our role isn’t to create fear for its own sake, but to generate peace and social contentment among our citizenry. Exactly like small children, left to their own devices they will simply run out of control, ignoring their parents’ wishes, all notion of discipline gone by the board. However, it takes only a little fright, a little pervading menace, to make them come running back to clutch at their mother’s skirts for protection. At this moment, the people of London are more bound together by a sense of unity, and more responsive to the control of the state, than they have been in years. They object far less than they might have to the massive police presence on the streets, or to the cameras watching them from every rooftop. For the most part, they’re deeply grateful for what freedom they’re granted. Crime rates have dropped; the voter turnout at the next election will soar. The police haven’t had to deal with a single peace demonstration since the day of the attack. Why? Only thanks to our humble efforts.’

Roth waved his arm. ‘But I ramble on. Let’s get to the point. I mentioned earlier that I had instructed Sinclair to tell you the truth about the department; what I didn’t feel the need to make him aware of were my reasons for doing so. You see, I particularly wanted to have this discussion with you, Benedict. I’ve thoroughly examined your files. Your Oxford background caught my eye. You attended the same college as I did, as it happens.’

‘If you’ve read the file, you know that I dropped out.’

Roth chuckled. ‘No matter. The old boy network still counts for something in this decaying empire of ours. And believe me, it’s considerably harder to get out than it is to get in. Then there’s your superlative military record. Men of your qualities don’t drop into our lap as often as I’d like. I believe you would find a career with us highly stimulating. Indeed, I think you’d be ideal material. In many ways, you remind me of myself, at your age.’

‘That’s nasty,’ Ben said.

‘I understand your reaction,’ Roth said, peering at Ben with an almost affectionate expression. ‘In some small way, I even admire it. But stop. Think. We could make you a very handsome proposition.’

‘You want me to replace the likes of Moss and Sinclair.’

‘You’re thirty-three years old, Benedict. The peak of physical fitness doesn’t last forever. Sadly, I speak from experience. I was once a soldier much like yourself. The successive phases of a man’s career must inevitably yield to change. Where do you see yourself, five, ten, twenty years in the future? Still running around the world’s war zones, dodging bullets?’ Roth motioned at Ben’s injured side. ‘Indeed, not always dodging them. There are other avenues for a man like you to pursue; and I think you ought to consider them carefully and wisely.’

‘You can have my answer right now, if you like.’

‘Don’t be rash, my boy.
Ira furor brevis est
. That’s Latin for …’

‘I know what it means,’ Ben cut in. ‘“Anger is a brief madness”.’

‘More educated than you give yourself credit for, Benedict. And it would indeed be madness to reject my offer out of mere rage. For your own sake, why don’t you take the time to cool off and reflect objectively about your potential future with us?’ Sinclair jutted out his chin thoughtfully. ‘However, I’m afraid I can’t just allow you to wander about freely during that time, pending an assurance of your commitment. It seems to me that our safehouse on Little Cayman would be the perfect relaxing environment in which to decide on your future.’

‘Palm Tree Lodge?’

‘Of course – you’re already familiar with it. That’s settled, then. I shall arrange for the Gulfstream to fly you to Grand Cayman in the next few hours. From there, my men will accompany you aboard a CIC charter flight to Little Cayman.’

‘That’s a bit rich,’ Ben said. ‘Or maybe there’ll really be a bomb on board this time?’

‘Nothing could be further from the truth. Rest assured you’ll be well looked after. At a prearranged time on the third day, you’ll be picked up by boat and brought out for an interview with the Tartarus committee to discuss the terms of your recruitment. This will take place aboard my sailing yacht, the
Hydra
. I have a personal fondness for the Caymans and often travel there to attend to financial matters.’

‘I don’t suppose Tartarus uses internet banking,’ Ben said.

‘There will be some further conditions,’ Roth went on gravely. ‘The phone with which you’ll be issued will allow you to communicate with me, and me only. I shall require you to wear an electronic tag preventing you from venturing more than one hundred yards from the safehouse. Any attempt to tamper with it, or to make contact with anyone on the outside, will entail severe repercussions. Do you understand me?’

‘Would you understand me if I told you to stick your offer up your arse, Roth? Or shall I do it for you?’

Roth looked at him. The pale eyes seemed to burn for an instant. ‘That’s a rambling old place you have there in Galway. Your housekeeper, Winifred – perhaps a trifle elderly to be looking after it on her own? You must be aware of the potential risks. Accidents can happen. Fires are terribly common in these older properties. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

Ben said nothing.

‘Three days,’ Roth said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Ben wished they’d picked a more companionable pair of goons to chaperone him. The older, less talkative one was rangy and bandy-legged, with a face pitted and bombed by acne and eyes as dead as a fish on a slab. The other had breath that smelled as if he chewed a pound of raw garlic a day. To make matters worse, he insisted on sticking to Ben’s side the entire time and was sitting next to him as the Gulfstream sped from Heathrow to Grand Cayman. Ben was barely allowed to visit the bathroom on his own. When he came out, the guy was standing there, breathing all over the corridor, waiting to escort him back to his seat.

‘What took you so long?’ the goon said.

‘I was looking to see if they had any industrial strength mouthwash for you, Stinker,’ Ben told him. ‘Maybe gargle with some neat bleach? That’ll do the trick.’

Hemmed into the window seat, he dozed for most of the remainder of the flight. After landing at Grand Cayman just after midday, local time, his escorts steered him away from passport control and walked him under the hot sun to a waiting car that blasted northwards up the Seven Mile Beach road to Cayman Islands Charter.

Neither goon seemed to appreciate the irony as the three of them boarded the CIC Trislander. Ben noticed there were only five other passengers – business didn’t seem to be picking up yet, and the gaunt face of the flight attendant, a dark-haired woman he took to be Jo Sundermann, showed that Nick’s former colleagues were still stunned by his loss.