The Shadow Project

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Constantinople?’

‘Just say it into the sensor. It’ll recognise any voice. And if you want to lock the guest bedroom door, just tell the house “lock” and it’ll hear you. OK?’

‘Yeah, like I’d need to, out here.’

‘And if you lock it, I’ve set it up so you just say “Cassini” and it’ll unlock again. It’s the same password for all the bedrooms. Popular security feature. We never use it ourselves, though.’

She glared at him. ‘Fantastic, bro.’

‘Look, I’m really sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it. Just bad timing, like you said. Why don’t you call Nick? Maybe he could come over and join you.’

‘Nick and I aren’t together any more. Not since he started screwing the model I used in his last shoot.’

‘That’s a real shame,’ Adam said absently. He bit his lip. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go and get my things sorted out for this conference. Help yourself to more coffee. See you in a little while, OK?’

Sabrina watched him leave the room. He definitely seemed odd. She poured herself another cup and sat stroking Cassini. ‘Tennis camp,’ she muttered.

Chapter Eight

When Jeff walked into the office at Le Val, Ben was slamming down the phone. He sat down heavily in his desk chair, clapped his hands to his head and swore loudly.

‘Listen, Ben, I’ve got to tell you something. The doctor said—’

‘I already know what the doctor said,’ Ben replied without looking up.

‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘I didn’t need to. Shannon’s lawyer’s just told me. Multiple contusions, possible lower back injury, out of action for at least three weeks.’

Jeff looked perplexed. ‘The bastard’s been talking to his lawyer? Already? From his hospital bed?’

Ben got up from the chair and went over to the window. ‘Not one to waste time. He’s threatening to press charges. Grievous bodily harm.’

‘Nothing that grievous about a bit of a twisted elbow and a couple of bruises. Shannon can take it.’

‘Tell that to the lawyer,’ Ben said. ‘But that’s not all.’

Jeff was quiet for a second as the meaning sank in. He swallowed. ‘He’s suing us, isn’t he?’

‘For loss of earnings,’ Ben said, still gazing out of the window. Over the roofs of the facility buildings he could see the trees beyond. He so much wanted to be there. Hidden deep within Le Val’s sprawl of woodland was the tumbledown ivy-covered ruin of an old church that for the last seven hundred and fifty or so years had been home to the wild creatures of the forest. It was a place Ben loved to go and spend time away from everything, just him and the stillness of the sun-dappled woods, the whisper of the trees and the sound of the doves nesting in the remains of the steeple. At this moment, all that seemed infinitely beyond his reach.

‘As in one point two million kind of earnings?’ Jeff asked quietly.

Ben nodded. He tore himself away from the window, went back to his desk and reclined in his chair. ‘The Swiss gig will have to be cancelled. Which basically leaves Shannon and the rest of the team out of a job. And I’m responsible for that.’

‘Can’t they manage without him?’

‘Apparently not. He insists they need a leader. It’s his contract, and he can do what he wants.’

‘Then we’re fucked,’ Jeff said.

They sat in silence for a long time. Three minutes passed, then four. Both men sat staring into space.

‘Why? Why?’ Ben muttered under his breath. ‘Why did I have to hit him?’

‘You didn’t exactly hit him, Ben. If you’d really hit him, you’d be up for manslaughter now.’

‘That’s a comforting thought, Jeff. Thanks for that.’ Ben took out his cigarettes and Zippo, and lit one up. Offered one to Jeff, and they sat smoking together.

‘There’s got to be a way out of this,’ Jeff said. ‘Is there no way we can just deny responsibility? Pretend it never happened?’

‘Nice idea, if you can forget the six witnesses who saw him go down. Seven, if you include Brooke.’

‘Brooke wouldn’t say anything.’

‘That’s not the point, Jeff. If it comes down to it, I won’t ask her to perjure herself for nothing.’

‘It was self-defence. He made the first move.’

‘But I overreacted. I didn’t have to cripple the guy.’

‘What about public liability insurance?’

‘I don’t think the policy underwriters would be happy about forking out a seven-figure sum because I beat up my client.’

‘It wasn’t your fault. The bastard had it coming.’

‘It is my fault. No excuses. I’ve put the customer in hospital, and that’s it. He has every right to sue for loss of earnings.’

Silence again for a few moments.

‘How about this?’ Jeff suggested suddenly. ‘We go back to the hospital, you and me, right now. We hang around and wait until Brooke and the doctor are out of the way. And then we slip into Shannon’s room and tell him that if he goes ahead with this, we’ll—’

‘Forget it. That’s not going to work either.’

‘Then we’re fucked,’ Jeff said again. ‘Completely screwed. Dead in the water.’

‘Maybe not,’ Ben said. ‘I’ve got another idea.’

Chapter Nine

The next morning

The rust-streaked prow of the ship cleaved through the waves at a steady ten knots, throwing up a bow wave of white spray. The tweendecker cargo vessel was more than forty years old, and every inch of her hundred-and-sixty-foot hull was crusted with salt and oily grime, but she was a fast and reliable ship. Her speed was one reason she’d been chosen for this assignment; the other was that her Icelandic captain and his crew of six were savvy enough to take the cash and ask no questions of the two men and the woman they were being hired to ferry eastwards across the northern tip of Scotland into Scandinavian waters. They wanted to know even less about the ‘cargo’ that their three passengers had stored down below.

The ship had sailed in the night from Clifden on the Irish west coast. A few hours into the voyage, the sun was shining but the salty sea wind was cool as they left the Outer Hebrides behind them, the Orkney Islands a few hours ahead. The diesels kept up their steady grind, the clouds drifted overhead and the sea foamed white in their wake as the vessel ploughed onwards towards Stavanger, Norway, where the plane would be waiting to deliver the package to its final destination.

The stocky guy was not feeling good. He hated this fucking pile of rust, the stink of oil and ocean, the nauseous pitch and yaw of the floor under his feet. He was ill all the time, and he’d have loved to shoot down one or two of those incessantly screeching fucking seabirds. Not the most rewarding job he’d been on. He couldn’t wait for it to be over.

The things you have to do for money, he was thinking as he clanged open the hatch and carried the tray down into the part of the hold that was off-limits to the crew. He hated having to act as waiter to the damn kid, too, and carried the tray carelessly. Some water sloshed out of the tin cup and spilled onto the thin cheese sandwiches. If the kid complained, then fuck him. Let him starve.

Down in the murky shadows, the stink of oil was even stronger. The guy could make out the pale shape of the mattress on the floor and the dull glint of the handcuffs that secured the kid’s left wrist to the pipe.

Hold on. He shone the torch. The white circle of light danced on the rusty wall.

The handcuff was dangling empty from the pipe.

He dropped the tray with a clatter and stood there, mouth hanging open as his rising fury quickly gave way to fear. He dropped into a squat and rubbed his chin. If he’d lost the kid, he was a dead man.

Spotting a twisted length of wire lying among the filth on the floor, he picked it up and examined it, and his rage started flooding back. Little bastard.

He couldn’t be far away. The guy muttered and cursed and shone the torch this way and that in the shadows.

A soft sound came from behind him. He started to turn towards it, but then something came whooshing out of the darkness and caught him a glancing blow to the side of the head. His vision flashed white with pain. He dropped the torch and fell to the floor. The hard object hit him again and he felt unconsciousness washing over him.

Then he was dimly aware of someone bending over him, feeling through his pockets. Light footsteps running away.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to clamber to his knees, just in time to see the kid momentarily framed in the sunlight that streamed through the open hatch. Then he was gone.

‘Come back here, you little fucker,’ the guy yelled out. His head felt ready to explode as he staggered to his feet and over towards the hatch, stumbling over the length of iron pipe that the prisoner had hit him with. He tore the .45 auto from his belt and went for the phone in his pocket to alert the others.

It was gone.

Rory’s heart was pounding in his throat as he half-ran, half-clambered up a clanking metal stair and sprinted along a railed walkway. He glanced frantically up and down the length of the ship and over the side at the heaving grey-green ocean and shivered in the cold, wondering where on earth he was. Gulls and cormorants were swooping and circling overhead; he could see dark islands on the horizon. His mind was working so fast that he was tripping over his thoughts, but he knew he’d already made two mistakes.

First mistake: when he’d taken the kidnapper’s phone he’d seen the black butt of a pistol sticking out of his belt. He should have taken it, even if he didn’t know how to work a gun.

Second mistake: in his haste to get away, he hadn’t shut the hatch behind him. They’d soon be searching the ship for him. He ran on, his footsteps ringing on the walkway.

A riveted door swung open a few yards ahead, and Rory ducked behind a girder. The two men who came out of the doorway were wearing oil-stained overalls and talking in some language he didn’t understand. They were rough-looking, dirt on their hands and faces unshaven. It sounded like they were sharing a joke. One of them was lighting up a cigarette, and Rory caught a whiff of the smoke as they came past. For a moment he thought he was going to cough, but he clamped it in tight and held his breath. His heart was thudding so hard that he was convinced they would hear it over the rumble of the ship. He shrank behind the girder, trying to make himself as small as possible.

They walked on by. Rory let his breath out very slowly, waited until they were around a corner and out of sight. Then he darted out from behind the girder and made for the lifeboats up ahead. He dropped down on his hands and knees and crawled under their rusty mountings, where a tattered piece of tarpaulin dangled down to offer some cover. Crammed as deep into the space as he could get, he reached into his jeans and took out the phone he’d stolen from the man. It was switched on, and there was a tiny flicker of reception.

Rory hesitated. Police or home? Home first. He suddenly wanted to hear his father’s voice so badly. He quickly punched out the number.

Sabrina was sitting outside on the patio finishing a breakfast of coffee and croissants and gazing out across the lake with Cassini on her lap when she heard the phone ring from inside the house. She twisted her head towards the open sliding glass door. Two rings, three. Adam didn’t come to pick up.

Of course not, she thought. Her dear brother was too busy bustling about in a panic getting ready for his stupid last-minute conference to think of such things as attending to his visitor or answering his phone. What the hell was wrong with him? He was definitely acting jumpy. He hadn’t wanted breakfast, either, and looked like he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

She shooed the cat away irritably, jumped up from the deck chair and trotted over to the house. Maybe her big bro wasn’t cut out to be a businessman after all.

She picked up the phone on the seventh ring. ‘Hello, Slaves ‘R’ Us. How may I help you?’

‘Sabrina?’

‘Rory?’ She brightened momentarily. But then the tone of her nephew’s voice made her frown. He sounded scared. No, he didn’t. He sounded utterly terrorised. ‘What’s wrong, honey?’

‘Is Dad there?’

‘He’s not around. You sound upset. What is it?’

‘I’m in trouble. I mean really bad trouble. I’ve been kidnapped.’

Sabrina froze. ‘What?’ ‘I said—’

‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m on a boat. No, a ship, in the sea. There are islands.’

‘Rory—’

‘I’m scared. I’m scared.’ He started sobbing. ‘Where’s my dad?’

Sabrina gripped the phone in horror. ‘Tell me where you are.’

‘Oh, shit. They’re coming. I—’

There were scraping and scuffling sounds, and then the phone went dead.

‘Rory? Rory?’

He was gone. Sabrina wanted to scream for Adam, but her throat was so dry and constricted no sound came out. Still clutching the phone, she went running through the house to find her brother. He was in the hallway, carrying a travel bag and a briefcase out to the car.

‘There you are. Oh my God, Adam.’

He stopped and stared at her. His face was pale, dark rings around his eyes.

‘Something’s happened to Rory,’ she blurted. ‘He’s been kidnapped.’

‘What? Say that again.’

‘I’ve just had a call from him. He’s been taken, Adam. Said he was on board a ship or something.’ Tears prickled her eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

He stared at her a second longer, then broke into a twisted grin. ‘Sabrina, that’s not possible. I talked to him just a few minutes ago.’

Sabrina looked at him incredulously.

‘This is something he’s been doing lately. Playing practical jokes. You’re not the first person he’s tricked this way. Last time it was he’d been taken up into an alien spacecraft.’

‘But … it sounded real. He was terrified.’

Adam’s grin widened an inch. ‘He could be an actor one day, that one. Anyway, he called on his mobile to say hi to you and that he’s sorry he missed you. He’s having a great time at tennis camp.’

She scanned his face carefully, trying to read his expression. The smile was steady, but there was something in his eyes that made her wonder. ‘What the hell’s going on, Adam?’

He shrugged. ‘Like I said. Consider yourself Rory’s latest victim.’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t sound right.’

‘Anyway, listen, I’m all ready to go.’

‘You’re leaving? Now?’

‘I did say I had to go.’

‘But the call—’

‘Don’t worry about it. Trust me.’

She sighed loudly. ‘I still can’t believe you’re leaving me here alone like this.’

‘I’ll make it up to you next time, I promise.’ He put down his bags and hugged her tightly the way he’d done when she’d arrived, and she could feel the tension in his body. It was almost as if he thought he was never going to see her again.

Chapter Ten

Within twenty-four hours of Rupert Shannon’s admission to hospital, Ben’s idea had become a detailed plan, and the plan had quickly developed into a reality. The two-day training course had been cancelled, and Shannon’s close protection team had returned to London to gather their equipment and be picked up at Heathrow by a private jet belonging to Maximilian Steiner. Meanwhile, Ben was making his own way to Switzerland. He didn’t know when he’d be back.

He hated the idea, but it was the only way to resolve the situation. After his conversation with Jeff, he’d called Shannon’s lawyer in London to suggest the only course of action he could see: to take the injured man’s place as team leader, unpaid, until the damaged arm was healed and Shannon was able to resume his role.

After letting Ben stew a little, the lawyer had called back to say that his client had agreed to the deal, and that the new arrangement had been squared with Steiner’s people. In practice, it meant that the team would arrive in Switzerland a day earlier than planned, giving them time to settle in before meeting their billionaire employer.

So it was done. Ben was on his way to a new job. Jeff had been ready to drive him to the airport at Cherbourg, but he’d wanted to take the Mini Cooper. Sitting on a plane with nothing to do except stare out of the window and brood over his situation wasn’t his idea of a good time. Driving to Switzerland to do a job he didn’t want to do wasn’t much better, but at least it would give him something to occupy his mind.

It was a long drive across France. He left early and stuck to the fast roads, cutting eastwards as directly as he could. By the time he bypassed Paris the traffic was building up, and it stayed busy until he hit the countryside beyond the city. He let the CD player loop the same Stefano Bollani jazz piano album round and round at high volume and kept his foot down at a steady eighty, stopping only for fuel and tolls. The concentration of driving helped, but it didn’t completely silence the voices in his head that asked him over and over again: Why? Why?

When the voices reached a fever pitch he just gritted his teeth, gripped the wheel tightly in his fists and stared fixedly ahead as the white lines in the road zipped towards him and waited for his mind to go numb. It never really did.

Sometime in the afternoon he started seeing the first signs for Switzerland, and a little while after that he passed over the border. Most of the traffic was bound for Bern and Lausanne, and thinned out as he followed the winding route upwards into alpine country. The road carved through rolling valleys and pine forests, green fields criss-crossed with country lanes and dotted with farms and villages. He passed through golden acres of sunflowers under a vivid azure sky. Watched the sunlight glitter off the blue-white mountains that hovered over the landscape like distant mirages. The shimmering reflection of the trees was mirrored in the surface of a vast lake. A wooded island rose up out of the water, the grey stone towers of an old monastery peeping through the foliage.

It was the kind of scenery that could take a person’s breath away. But Ben could leave it until another time to appreciate things like the majestic splendour of nature. He kept moving on hard, following the directions he’d been given, and, as the sun turned from gold to red and sank down to kiss the mountaintops, he found himself approaching the secluded Steiner residence.

The estate wall seemed to go on forever. Then, arriving at a set of high iron gates, Ben was stopped by uniformed guards who questioned him and scrutinised the photo on his ID very carefully before waving him inside.

The gates whirred open to let him pass. Cameras mounted on the gateposts and the pretty stone gatehouse swivelled to watch him as he drove on through. Then there was another mile or so of private road, winding through a wood so neat that it looked as if every tree had been placed there by a designer. Ben came to a second set of gates and more guards with radios who waved him on without a word. He drove through a high stone archway and down a broad gravel path, and the trees parted and he caught his first view of the great Maximilian Steiner’s home.

Even with all the troubles on his mind, he whistled to himself at the sight of it. He’d been in some moneyed environments in his time, but this was the kind of property that mere millionaires could only dream of.

You couldn’t call this a house, nor even a mansion. The alpine château was a thing of fantasy. The sun’s dying rays glimmered off towers and turrets, columns and arches. It could have been the home of a Bavarian monarch from three centuries ago, but the gleaming white stonework looked as though it had been built yesterday. Around it, acre after endless acre of sweeping lawns and gardens that looked like they’d need an army of groundskeepers to maintain them. Ben wondered at the size of the staff that Steiner must keep on site.

Now he was one of them. Great. Just great.

He ran back through what he knew about his new employer. He’d dug up plenty of information online to explain how the Steiner billions were generated: pharmaceutical companies, oil refineries, heavy industry and aviation, with one of Europe’s largest fleets of corporate jets. By contrast, virtually nothing was revealed about the man himself that could have shed more light on the kidnap threat against him.

But even without knowing the full details, Ben could imagine the scenario pretty well. The kidnap business was just like any other. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, barring the occasional revenge job or sex abductions, it came down to money, pure and simple. And he’d seen enough of that world to know the kind of people who would be drawn to the idea of grabbing a guy of Steiner’s extreme wealth, whisking him away to some dingy basement somewhere nobody could ever find him, keeping him chained and starving with a pair of bolt-croppers on standby in case the family needed persuasion of their serious intentions. A finger in the mail was a highly effective means of getting the ransom paid. Ben had seen it all before. And had kind of hoped he wasn’t going to see it again.

The château loomed like a sculpted quartz mountain as he approached, and he felt ridiculously dwarfed by it. He pulled the Mini up on the gravel at the bottom of a flight of polished white stone steps that were maybe not quite wide enough to accommodate the wingspan of a Boeing 747 and climbed out, stretching his legs after the long drive.

Someone was coming down the steps to meet him. A man in a beige suit, around fifty, a little shorter than Ben and lightly built with the delicate frame of a lifelong desk guy. As the man walked closer, Ben could see his eyes were sharp and his face lean, the thin hair neatly parted and combed. He put out his hand and greeted Ben in English, which he spoke with only a trace of an accent. The warmth of his smile seemed genuine.

‘Mr Hope? So pleased to meet you. My name is Heinrich Dorenkamp. I am Herr Steiner’s PA. I trust you had a pleasant journey?’

Ben wasn’t in the mood for niceties, but he returned the smile as Dorenkamp seemed to warrant it. ‘Very pleasant, thank you.’

‘Herr Steiner is very much looking forward to making your acquaintance. Regrettably it will not be today. He is tied up in meetings for the rest of the evening.’

‘A busy man,’ Ben commented.

Dorenkamp flashed a grin and chuckled. ‘You have no idea.’

A guy in his early twenties who looked like a valet emerged from a side entrance and walked over to them.

‘Dieter will take your car and have your luggage sent on to your quarters,’ Dorenkamp told Ben. ‘The garage blocks are situated to the rear of the east wing. All fully secure, naturally.’

Ben handed the Mini’s key to Dieter, and watched as his little car was driven off across the gravel and round the side of the château. He wondered how anyone was ever going to find it again among the Rolls-Royces, Aston Martins and Bugattis that he imagined filled the garages of a man like Maximilian Steiner.

Dorenkamp smiled again. ‘Now, please allow me to escort you to the guest accommodation, where the rest of your team are waiting for you. They arrived here late this afternoon.’

My team, Ben thought, and cursed himself one more time for good measure. From the opposite direction another member of staff came rolling up in a white golf buggy. Dorenkamp motioned to the back seats. ‘We generally use these for getting around. It is a big place.’

Ben didn’t reply as he climbed into the open buggy. Dorenkamp settled in beside him and the electric vehicle darted off through the grounds with surprising speed. As the sunlight faded, concealed floodlamps were beginning to burn brighter, lighting up the house and grounds. Around the side of the château, the view opened up to show more panoramic acres of perfectly clipped lawns, so green that they looked unreal. Ben said nothing, taking in his surroundings as they cut across the estate. In the distance he could see the little flags of a golf course waving in the light breeze.