The Shadow Project

‘You play, Mr Hope?’ Dorenkamp asked.

Ben shook his head and was about to reply when the buggy rounded another gigantic column and the PA said, ‘And here are your quarters.’

The accommodation was no château, but it was still spectacular enough to make Le Val look like a rustic hovel. The ultra-modern building was built into the side of a hill, its roof grassed over and dotted with wildflowers. Its white facade was smooth and undulating, a post-modern complex of caves with huge oval windows. Stylistically it was completely at odds with the château itself, but Ben had never seen a building so organically blended into its natural environment.

Dorenkamp noted his reaction with approval. ‘Designed by the architect Peter Vetsch. The inside is extremely well appointed. I don’t think you will be unhappy here.’

The inside was as white as the outside, the lines clean and elegant. The floors were granite tile that had been polished to a mirrored sheen, and the furniture was gleaming oak and white leather. Kandinsky and Paul Klee adorned the walls, and Ben would have bet they weren’t copies. A giant TV and sound system nestled discreetly in an oval wall alcove.

The worst thing about the place was the other occupants. Shannon’s guys had already got comfortable, slouching on the leather armchairs with their feet up on tables and bags, cases, clothing, shoes and magazines scattered about the main sitting area. Their laughter and conversation died down abruptly as Ben and Dorenkamp walked in. Ben met the six pairs of hostile eyes and his first thought was to ask himself why he wanted to cringe with embarrassment on behalf of someone else’s team. Shannon really could pick them.

If Dorenkamp noticed the change in the atmosphere or was shocked by the mess, he didn’t show it. Peeling back the sleeve of his jacket, he looked at his watch.

‘I’m pleased to see you are making yourselves at home, gentlemen. I must return to Herr Steiner’s meeting. Dinner will be brought to you at seven thirty.’

He was about to leave, then seemed to remember something. ‘One other point I should make clear to you all,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘I am unaware whether there are any smokers among you, but I should make it clear that smoking is strictly disallowed anywhere within the estate.’ He pointed up at the ceiling, and Ben saw there was an alarm discreetly blended into the plasterwork. ‘It is very sensitive, and it makes quite a noise, believe me.’ Dorenkamp smiled again. ‘Now, gentlemen, I shall leave you to settle in.’

With Dorenkamp gone, the atmosphere settled quickly into frosty silence as the rest of the team watched Ben resentfully. He ignored them and went about exploring the accommodation. Each team member had his own bedroom with en-suite shower room. There was a communal sauna room, Jacuzzi, and a well-equipped gym with stationary bikes, running and rowing machines, weight bench and racks of dumbbells. The separate dining area had a long table and seven chairs. Everything was neat, precise and laid out with the utmost thoughtfulness.

‘Never had a gig like this before,’ Ben heard Jackson say as he walked back into the living area. ‘Awesome.’

‘Shame Rupert couldn’t be here, though,’ Neville said in a pointed stage whisper that was plainly intended for Ben to hear. Ben said nothing.

Dinner was served promptly at seven thirty by three waiting staff in white jackets. The chicken casserole was simple but smelled great, and with it came five bottles of good wine. Ben filled up a plate, grabbed one of the bottles and went off to eat alone in his room. It might not be helping his popularity with the group any, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He wasn’t here to make friends. No matter what, he knew they’d keep resenting his presence there until Shannon took over. Which couldn’t happen soon enough.

Let’s just get the damn job done, he thought to himself.

Chapter Eleven

At the same moment, Adam O’Connor was walking into a hotel room on the edge of the city of Graz, Austria. He dumped his travel bag and briefcase on the narrow bed, stared out of the window at the flickering neon sign of the bar across the road, then slumped in an armchair and closed his eyes.

Everything had gone exactly as the kidnappers had said it would. The room had been reserved for him, his key ready and waiting. The fat, greasy-looking guy behind the reception desk had taken only the most cursory look at his passport. No paperwork, no register to sign. Just a key and a grunt and a nod towards the lift. He wondered if the whole hotel staff were in on this too. The bastards probably were. He wanted to grab the television and shove it through the window, set the whole damn building on fire, run screaming through the streets.

But he had to do as they said. Now all he could do was wait. Wait and think about his thirteen-year-old son, imprisoned Christ knew where.

The whole journey, he’d been unable to stop thinking that Sabrina was bound to call the cops. What if she did? What if they found out what was happening? Rory would die.

And Adam wasn’t fool enough to imagine that Rory wasn’t going to die anyway, if he just blindly went along with the kidnappers’ demands. He knew enough about the way these things worked to know that things didn’t just go back to normal afterwards.

Which was why, right from the first moment he’d stood there listening to their demands on the phone, he’d made his plans.

Fuck them. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. He was going to get his son out of there unharmed, and he knew exactly how he was going to do it.

Downstairs in the hotel lobby, the fat receptionist picked up the phone and stabbed out the number he’d been given. Two rings, and someone answered. The same voice he’d heard before.

‘The American is here,’ the receptionist said. Then he put the phone down and went back to his internet poker.

Chapter Twelve

It had been a gloriously sunny day in the Wicklow Hills, and Sabrina had spent most of it by the pool listening to music in her earphones and reading photography magazines. Every so often she’d slip into the water and swim a couple of lengths. All the while, she’d been trying hard to forget about her brother’s odd behaviour and the phone call from Rory.

A practical joke? She knew Rory well, better than most aunts knew their nephews, probably even better than Adam knew his son. He was a serious kind of boy, maybe even a little too serious sometimes. A thoughtless prank like pretending to be kidnapped just seemed beneath him somehow.

Then again, she’d thought, he was at the age where you could expect to start seeing behavioural and attitudinal changes. And maybe, in fact, as she’d turned it over in her mind, discovering the humorous side of his personality could be good for him. As for the tennis camp, it occurred to her that there might be more to that than met the eye. Maybe there was a girl involved, a teen romance going on there. Perhaps something that Adam didn’t even know about. It was possible. Kind of sweet, too.

In any case, the alternative was unthinkable. Her nephew kidnapped, her brother acting cool about it? Completely absurd. Now she’d started to feel bad about the way she’d overreacted with Adam earlier. He was clearly under a lot of stress.

By the time her thoughts had worked their way round that far, the sun had started to dip behind the clouds and it was getting too chilly to stay out in her swimsuit. She’d wrapped a towel round herself, taken her iPod and magazines inside, showered and dried her hair and pulled on jeans and a blouse.

After a light dinner she’d settled in front of the TV and flipped through channels for a while, then got bored with the rubbish that was on and started combing idly through the ads in the back of one of the photography magazines. By chance, she came across a juicy special offer on a tele-photo lens, a top-notch piece of kit that she’d been toying with the idea of buying for a while. ‘For more information, view our website’ the ad proclaimed.

It was an attractive enough prospect to make her start thinking about logging on to Adam’s computer and checking out the site. She got up from the sofa and padded upstairs in her bare feet.

But his study door on the top floor was locked. Damned if she knew what the password was for that one.

Then it occurred to her that she could use the PC across the hall in Rory’s room. He’d often allowed her to go on it, and she was sure it wouldn’t be intruding on his privacy if she used it in his absence. She gingerly tried the handle on his door and found it open.

She went inside. The room hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d seen it. Going over to the desk, she was about to turn on his computer when she accidentally nudged the mouse with her hand and to her surprise the screen flashed awake. Why had he left it on standby if he wasn’t going to be around for two whole weeks?

The screen had opened up in Rory’s Outlook Express email program. She was about to close that box and go to Internet Explorer when she saw that there was a new message incoming. When the mail appeared on the screen, she saw that it was from someone called Declan. It was just a one-liner in reply to an email Rory had sent.

‘Cool. Just watched it. Best one yet!’

Sabrina’s eye flashed down the screen, and it was with a jolt that she saw the date on Rory’s original message.

Yesterday.

She frowned. And the time the message had been sent was only about two hours before she’d arrived at the house.

But that was impossible. Adam had said he’d driven Rory to Donegal the day before.

She read it again, and the shivers down her back got colder. Could Rory have sent the message from another source, maybe at the tennis camp? She was no expert, but she was pretty sure that if the reply had come here, Rory’s message must have come from here too.

Calm down, Sabby. There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe there was a glitch with the PC. Unlikely. Or else Rory had somehow managed to sneak home and then away again without anybody noticing. Nuts. Or Adam had written the message to Declan himself, pretending to be Rory. Oh, come on.

She turned away from the desk. Saw Rory’s mobile phone lying among the rumpled sheets on his bed. The phone he took everywhere with him. The one he’d supposedly spoken to Adam on from the tennis camp.

‘Oh my God,’ she said out loud. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

Chapter Thirteen

Next morning at eight o’clock sharp, Dorenkamp came for Ben and the team and escorted them to the main residence to meet Steiner. Ben was aware of Neville and the others gaping around them as the PA led the way inside the palatial house, into a hallway about a square mile in size. In its centre was a life-size cast of a medieval warhorse in full dress, rearing up dramatically on its hind legs and carrying a knight with plumed helmet, spiked mace and a shield with a red lion rampant herald. Maybe a ton of glittering armour plate in total between animal and rider, and Ben was fairly sure it wasn’t reproduction antique. He paused a moment to admire it, then walked with Dorenkamp across the hall and through another doorway. The rest of the team followed a few yards behind, talking in low voices.

‘Tell me, Mr Hope,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘How much do you know about Maximilian Steiner?’

‘Very little,’ Ben admitted.

‘Try to avoid asking him too many direct questions,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘If there’s anything you need to know, I would request that you address your queries to me. Herr Steiner is a very private man, and doesn’t tolerate intrusion into his family life. He is notoriously hard to interview, and relatively few people even get to have an audience with him.’

‘Sounds like I’m going to meet royalty,’ Ben said.

‘In some circles that’s exactly what Maximilian Steiner is,’ Dorenkamp replied. ‘One thing. You may find him cold. Many people do. But that is just his manner, and you shouldn’t be put off by it. I have known him for many years and I can tell you that he’s a good man. Behind the scenes he is a tireless campaigner against violence in all its forms, a staunch opponent of the international arms trade. He donates a vast amount of money each year to support many worthy causes. The fact that he does so anonymously only reflects his desire for privacy.’

‘If I’m going to protect him, I need to know everything,’ Ben said. ‘I need total access to every part of his life. I respect his desire for privacy, but there can’t be any secrets.’

Dorenkamp nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. We’ll see what can be done.’

‘Tell me about the kidnap attempt,’ Ben said as they walked.

‘It happened three weeks ago. Herr Steiner and his wife were on their way to a family wedding in one of the limousines. As they drove, they came across what at first appeared to be an accident. There was a car in the middle of the road, which seemed to have skidded to a halt, blocking the way. Next to the car was a man lying on the ground, apparently injured. A woman was with him, shouting for help as Herr Steiner’s car arrived on the scene.’

‘It’s an old ploy,’ Ben said. ‘Exploiting people’s humanity to trap them.’

‘Naturally, the Steiners had their driver stop at the scene, in order to help. But in the very next instant, a van suddenly appeared with more men who tried to grab Herr Steiner and drag him inside it.’

‘Armed?’

Dorenkamp nodded gravely. ‘Heavily.’

‘Masked?’

Dorenkamp nodded again.

‘How did they get out of it?’

‘Purely by good fortune and sheer coincidence,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘There had been a real accident further along the same road, a few kilometres away. It later transpired that the ambulance was already there, attending to the injured. But the police were late arriving on the scene, and happened to appear at the right moment to frighten off the kidnappers.’

‘But they didn’t catch any of them.’

‘No, they escaped.’

‘Did the Steiners and their driver get a good look at the injured man, or the woman who was with him?’

Dorenkamp shook his head. ‘Sadly not. The injured man was lying face down, and the woman was wearing dark glasses and a headscarf. She had long black hair.’

‘Which you can assume to be a wig,’ Ben said. ‘Now, you said they were on their way to a wedding when it happened. How many people knew about their travel plans that day?’

‘You are thinking about sources on the inside?’

Ben nodded.

‘It was a high society wedding,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘Well publicised, and the hotel additionally had a guest list.’

‘So the information was openly accessible.’

‘In any case, the police have already pursued these avenues of inquiry,’ Dorenkamp said.

‘Though they haven’t come up with anything, apparently.’

‘Not yet.’

‘So does anyone have any idea who might have attempted the kidnap?’ Ben asked.

‘Herr Steiner has his own theories.’

‘Which are?’

Dorenkamp smiled. ‘To be revealed. He will tell you himself in just a moment.’

They came to a tall doorway, and Dorenkamp led the way through it and past a broad gilt-framed painting depicting a classical scene with semi-naked nymphs frolicking around Greek ruins. Ben heard one of the men behind him muttering something about nice tits. Again, if Dorenkamp noticed, he made a good show of hiding it.

‘Do the Steiners have children?’ Ben asked the PA. ‘I ask because kidnappers will often target other family members, even if it’s only to get to the main person they want.’

‘No children,’ Dorenkamp said. ‘There is just him, his wife Silvia and their nephew, Otto Steiner, who is in line to take over the business when Herr Steiner retires.’ He chuckled. ‘Though I find it difficult to imagine that he ever would. Perhaps at the age of ninety-nine, when Otto is nearly seventy himself.’

‘Where does Otto live?’ Ben asked. ‘Here, on the estate. He has his own villa within the compound.’

‘What about Otto’s parents?’

‘Sadly deceased,’ Dorenkamp answered. ‘It was a long time ago. A car accident. Please don’t mention it to Herr Steiner. He was extremely attached to his brother Karl.’

‘I won’t say a thing. Now tell me about Mrs Steiner.’

As he said it, Ben could hear the sound of someone playing the piano from a room somewhere nearby. Someone very good. The piece they were playing was fast and intricate, the kind of thing only a real virtuoso would attempt. It might have been Rachmaninov or Chopin – Ben wasn’t sure.

‘You are listening to her,’ Dorenkamp said with a smile. ‘She was once a concert pianist, before Herr Steiner and she were married.’

‘What does she do now?’

Dorenkamp shrugged. ‘She has her music, and he has his work. They spend each day largely in their separate worlds, and they dine together in the evenings when he is not working late or away on business. It is a simple and unobtrusive life they lead, despite their wealth. There isn’t much to say. Frau Steiner tends to remain here on the estate. She has everything she needs.’

It seemed like a lonely life, Ben thought as they walked on and left the sound of the piano behind them. He followed Dorenkamp up two sweeping flights of stairs to the second floor. The PA stopped outside a grand double doorway. ‘Here we are,’ he said and twisted the ornate bronze knob to push open one of the huge doors.

Ben followed him inside, and found himself gazing around him at the enormous conference room. Sunlight streamed in through French windows overlooking the estate and the mountainscape in the distance. A massive oak table was surrounded by some thirty buttoned leather chairs. The ceiling was high and ornate, and the walls were lined with arrangements of shields and old swords, from cavalry sabres to fifteenth-century claymores. In between the weaponry displays hung more gilt-framed paintings. Around the edges of the room were display cabinets. Ben wandered over to one of them and bent down to peer through the glass at the old letter inside. The paper was yellowed, the quill-penned handwriting flamboyant. Ben read the signature at the bottom and turned to Dorenkamp. ‘Is this an original Napoleon Bonaparte letter?’

‘One of several in Herr Steiner’s possession,’ Dorenkamp said.

‘I gather he’s something of a collector.’

‘It’s quite a passion of his, in fact.’ Dorenkamp motioned towards the table. ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen. Herr Steiner will be joining us shortly.’

Ben and the team pulled up chairs and settled around the table. Nobody spoke to Ben, and he in turn ignored everyone. Dorenkamp pulled up a chair near the top of the table, to Ben’s left. The PA checked his watch again, and turned expectantly towards the door.

Ben heard footsteps outside in the corridor and, a moment later, the door swung open and Maximilian Steiner walked into the room.

Chapter Fourteen

Ben and Dorenkamp got up from their seats as Steiner entered, and the rest of the team followed their example.

Steiner might have been approaching his mid-sixties, but he looked several years younger. He was about Ben’s height, a shade under six feet tall, though heavier in build. He exuded an air of seriousness and absolute self-confidence as he scanned each face in the room in turn intently, as though he could read their thoughts. His reddish-brown hair was still thick, turning just a little grey above the ears. He was wearing an elegant light grey suit and a formal navy tie.

His cool gaze settled on Ben, and his eyes narrowed. ‘You must be Captain Shannon’s replacement.’ He spoke with even less accent than his PA. ‘Mr Benjamin Hope.’

Ben groaned inwardly. Benjamin again. This was Shannon’s doing. ‘Please call me Ben,’ he said, avoiding the issue.

Steiner raised an eyebrow. ‘I prefer a more formal address, Mr Hope.’

Ben smiled. Fine, have it your way. ‘Then you can call me Major Hope,’ he said. Pulling rank wasn’t something he normally liked to do, but he was damned if he was going to stand in Shannon’s shadow.

Steiner shot a glance at Dorenkamp. ‘We were not informed of this.’

‘Must be a glitch in your communications,’ Ben said. ‘I served with the British Army, Special Air Service. Rank of Major, retired.’ He felt like adding ‘and it’s Benedict Hope, not Benjamin’ – but he didn’t want to make Shannon look too foolish. Just a little bit.

Steiner gave a curt little nod. ‘Now to business,’ he said, moving on briskly. Clearly not a man to dally over small talk, Ben thought.

‘You know why you are here,’ Steiner continued. ‘I have no doubt that the recent attempt to kidnap me will not be the last. While the perimeter of the estate offers full protection from intruders, I cannot remain a hermit. I have businesses to run, places to go and people to meet. Your team’s assignment is to protect me whenever I leave home.’

‘Have you left the estate since the attack?’ Ben asked.

Steiner shook his head. ‘I have not. An intolerable situation that cannot be allowed to continue.’

‘Is there anything you can tell us about the kidnappers?’ Ben said, thinking of what Dorenkamp had told him. ‘The more we know, the more we can anticipate their moves. It might be worth liaising with the police, as the investigation is ongoing.’

‘The police are useless,’ Steiner answered harshly. ‘There will be no need for that. But I do have an idea who is behind this, and am happy to share the information with you.’ He cleared his throat.

Happy to share. Ben felt like saying something about that, but instead he kept his mouth shut and waited for more. Across the table, Dorenkamp looked uneasy.

‘It is my belief that the kidnappers have a political motive,’ Steiner went on. ‘Of a very particular sort. You may have noticed my interest in collecting objects of historical value.’ He waved a hand at the mounted swords and the display cabinets. ‘One of the items in my collection, which I do not keep on display but securely under lock and key, for reasons that will become apparent, is a certain set of documents – design notes to be exact – dating back to 1944. Not especially old, then, but of enormous historical interest. The author of these extremely rare papers is one Hans Kammler, a wartime design engineer as well as an Obergruppenführer of Adolf Hitler’s Schutzstaffel.’

In plain language, an SS general, Ben thought.

‘It is my belief,’ Steiner went on, ‘that the kidnappers are interested in obtaining the Kammler papers from me, by force or coercion.’

‘Why?’ Ben’s question cut through the silence. It was perhaps a little more direct than Steiner liked, judging by the glint of disapproval in the man’s eye.

‘Because, Major Hope, Hans Kammler was the engineer in charge of Hitler’s SS Buildings and Works Division in the closing years of World War Two, and the mastermind and designer of the death camps. And because I further believe the kidnappers to be neo-Nazi activists who have falsely persuaded themselves that within these documents is proof that the historical records of the Nazi Final Solution have been grossly exaggerated, possibly even made up.’

‘Holocaust deniers,’ Ben said.

Steiner nodded. ‘Correct, Major. As you obviously know, ever since the war, a growing number of twisted neo-fascists have been intent on demonstrating that the Allied forces simply fabricated much of the evidence of the Holocaust as a means of vilifying Hitler and justifying their own atrocities. Kammler’s papers are quite certainly the most detailed plans in existence of what the Nazis really did at Auschwitz and the other death camps.’

‘One question. How do you know that the kidnappers are neo-Nazis? Were they chanting “Sieg Heil,” wearing armbands and leather boots?’