The Heretic's Treasure by Scott Mariani
‘I can see it’s not nothing,’ Brooke said. ‘Bad news?’
‘I told you. It’s not important.’ He handed her the Scotch. Drained his own glass in a gulp and slumped in his chair at the table. There was silence between them. He refilled his glass. She’d barely started her first.
‘Hey, where did the conversation go?’ she said with a laugh.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. He looked at his watch. ‘Listen, it’s getting late. I’m a little tired. Maybe I’ll turn in.’
‘I’ll take care of the dishes.’
‘Leave them. I’ll deal with it in the morning.’ He stood up, scraping his chair over the flagstones.
‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she said. ‘Sweet dreams.’
But he barely registered it as he walked slowly out of the kitchen and headed for the stairs to his apartment.
Chapter Four
His heart was pounding and his stomach clenched.
A swirling confusion of blurs and echoes. Sounds of chaos and pain, screams and gunfire intermingled. Everything slow motion. The strobe of muzzle flashes illuminating the jungle; shapes flitting through the trees. The heat and the blood and the pumping terror. More of them coming. Always more of them.
Then the man walking towards him out of the killing frenzy, his body silhouetted black against the roaring flames. The eyes, wild and livid with hate. The fist clenching the gun. The big wide black ‘O’ of the muzzle, like the mouth of a tunnel leading to oblivion.
Then the searing, reverberating blast of the gunshot that filled his head, and the world exploding into white light.
Ben sat bolt upright in the darkness, the sweat cooling on his face. For a moment he was disorientated, and his pulse raced as he struggled to understand where he was. Then he remembered he was here. Home. Safe. Far away, where the horror could never touch him.
It’s nothing. Just a dream. The same dream from long ago.
He reached out for the bedside light, but in his daze he felt his arm knock the lamp off the table. It fell to the floorboards with a crash.
Brooke was leaning back in bed in the next room, going over her lecture notes for the next day, listening to the wind in the trees through her open window and enjoying the lazy tranquillity of the place after the hubbub of London.
The sudden noise next door startled her. She jumped up, scattering papers, pulled on her dressing gown and went out into the dark hallway. She could hear Ben muttering and cursing through the door. She knocked, paused and went into his room.
He was sitting up in bed, naked down to the waist, setting a fallen reading lamp back upright on his bedside table. He looked up as she walked into the room. ‘Sorry if I woke you,’ he said. ‘I knocked the lamp over.’
‘I wasn’t asleep. All right if I come in?’ She moved over to the bed and sat down on the edge. ‘You OK? You look a little pale. What happened?’
He rubbed his face. ‘Bad dream.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘You sound like a psychologist.’
‘I am a psychologist, remember?’ She laid a hand on his. ‘So tell me. What were you dreaming about?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked gently.
‘I’m sure. It was just a stupid nightmare from years ago. I get it sometimes.’
‘You should listen to your dreams.’ She paused. ‘I bet it had something to do with the phone call. Am I right?’
He didn’t reply.
She smiled. ‘Thought so. The way you changed. Like a switch. You seemed so happy before, then the minute you got that call you started acting troubled, not saying much, drinking.’
‘Sounds like a good idea. Want a drink?’
‘Sure, I’ll go down and fetch the bottle.’
‘No need.’ He kicked his legs off the bed, stood up, and went over to the wardrobe dressed only in a pair of black boxer shorts. She watched him cross the room. He opened the wardrobe door, reached up to the top shelf and brought down a bottle of whisky and a glass. ‘Only one glass,’ he said, carrying them back to the bed.
‘I don’t mind sharing. You go first. You look like you need it more than I do.’
He didn’t argue with her. Sitting back down on the bed, he filled the glass halfway and took a long gulp before handing it across to her.
‘Cheers.’ She drank and passed it back to him. ‘Nice. I like a man who keeps a bottle of good malt in his wardrobe.’
He knocked back more whisky.
‘You going to be OK now?’ she asked him.
He chuckled. ‘I’m not a kid, you know.’
She touched his arm lightly. ‘I can see something’s wrong.’
‘I’ll be OK.’
She nodded, stood up hesitantly, stepped towards the door and paused with her hand on the handle. ‘Sure?’
‘Sure. Thanks, Brooke.’
‘See you in the morning, then.’
Ben shook his head. ‘I’ll be gone before you wake up. I have to be somewhere.’
She frowned. ‘I thought you were going to be here tomorrow.’
‘Not any more. Jeff will look after you.’
‘It’s the phone call, isn’t it? Something’s up.’
He nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
‘So where on earth are you disappearing off to all of a sudden?’
‘Italy.’
She looked surprised. ‘What’s in Italy?’
‘Colonel Harry Paxton.’
‘Colonel Harry Paxton,’ she echoed. ‘I’m guessing that’s the person who called earlier?’
Ben nodded.
‘And? What am I supposed to do, guess the rest?’
‘And he’s got a problem. He needs me to go to him, and that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘He didn’t say.’
And he expects you to drop everything and go all the way to Italy? He couldn’t just have told you on the phone? Just who is this guy?’
Ben finished the whisky and was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, ‘He’s the man who saved my life.’
Chapter Five
San Remo, Italian Riviera
Next morning
By 9 a.m. Ben’s plane had touched down at the Côte d’Azur International Airport outside Nice. He threw his worn old green military canvas bag into the back of the first taxi he saw, and less than an hour later the driver was dropping him off in the middle of the coastal town of San Remo, just across the Italian border.
He quickly found a hotel off a bustling square in La Pigna, the old part of the town, and booked a room for a single night. He guessed that would be long enough.
The hotel was pleasantly cool inside, with marble floors that echoed every footstep. Any other day, he might have stopped to appreciate the simple beauty of the old building, or taken in the spectacular view across the rooftops of the rambling city, the clusters of church spires, the hazy Alpine skyline on one horizon and the glittering blue Mediterranean seascape on the other.
But today his mind was elsewhere. He dumped his bag on the bed and headed downstairs, back through the lobby and out into the busy piazza. The sun was warm in the clear blue sky, and even the lightweight cotton jacket he was wearing was too heavy. He took it off and carried it over his arm.
The rendezvous point Paxton had given him was Porto Vecchio, one of San Remo’s two ports. The colonel had been precise. A motor launch was to pick Ben up at the westernmost jetty at 12 p.m., and would take him out to sea for the meeting on board Paxton’s yacht.
That part hadn’t come as a great surprise to Ben. He could remember how his old colonel had always talked a lot about sailing. In his downtime he would invariably be heading for some sunny port. Had he owned a yacht back then? Ben didn’t recall, and it suddenly struck him that he’d no idea what Paxton had been doing in the ten years since quitting the army.
It had been soon after his bravery award
He’d regretted it even more when he’d heard that Helen Paxton, Harry’s wife of many years, had died suddenly of a heart attack. He’d met her only briefly, years ago at some regimental function, but he could see how happy she and Paxton were together. Ben had been in the middle of a difficult assignment in South America when she’d passed away, and by the time he’d heard the news several months had gone by and it had seemed inappropriate to call Paxton out of the blue with commiserations. He’d let it go. That had upset him.
He might have lost touch with Harry Paxton, but he’d never forgotten-could never forget until his dying day-what the man had done for him. Ben had seen a lot in his life, and he generally had few illusions about human behaviour. He didn’t use the term ‘hero’ easily. But Harry Paxton was one man who deserved it. About that, there was no doubt in Ben’s mind.
And now he was going to meet him again, just like that. He wondered whether Harry would have changed much, and what he’d been doing all this time. But, more than anything else, he was wondering what this was all about.
His watch read just after eleven. He used the map he’d bought at the airport to orientate himself, and started walking west, towards the sea.
Beyond the crumbling stone archways and huddled buildings of the old part of town, San Remo had the buzz of any Italian tourist resort beginning to wake up at the start of another hot, crazy, hectic season. Ben made his way through the maze of streets, pausing here and there to check the street signs. He was deep in thought as he walked, feeling impatient and frustrated and wishing Paxton had told him more on the phone. Brooke had been right-it was strange that he’d been so evasive. Strange and worrying. He’d sounded downcast, nervous, distressed. Unless the years had done something dramatic to the man, Harry Paxton wasn’t someone too easily fazed.
Which meant that, whatever this meeting was about, it was something very serious.
Ben could tell from the tang of salt in the air that he was nearing the sea. Then, emerging from a winding little street, he found himself looking out across the harbour, the long curve of beach and the calm, glassy blue of the Mediterranean.
Waves lapped at the shoreline. Within the walls of the port, the glittering white hulls of countless moored boats and small yachts bobbed gently on the water, hundreds of swaying masts pointing skywards. Ben counted ten or more long white jetties stretching out towards the sea. His eye picked out a path that would take him across the shingle beach to the westernmost jetty where Paxton’s motor launch was due to collect him.
Some pitted stone steps led him down from the street. His shoes crunched on the pebbles as he made his way across the beach. The place was deserted, though he knew that would change pretty soon when the tourist season began in earnest. He could feel the warmth of the late morning sun on his face, the whispering sea breeze ruffling his hair. It was a world away from the bleaker Normandy climate.
He checked his watch again and glanced back at the harbour. He could see one or two people around, but the western jetty, his RV point, was empty. No sign of Paxton’s launch. He walked a little further, to where the shingle butted up against the nearside edge of the harbour wall and another flight of stone steps led up to a walkway that connected to the dock.
Lingering a moment on the beach, he gazed out to sea and thought sadly about what he’d left behind in Ireland. The house had been right on the Atlantic Ocean, and he’d loved to spend time alone on the rocky shore, just thinking and watching the waves and the gulls. He missed it. Knew he always would.
Just like he missed a lot of things.
He walked down towards the whispering surf, dropped down into a crouch and picked up a small, flat stone. He whipped his arm back and skimmed the stone at the water; watched it hit with a white puff of spray and bounce, splash, bounce and then disappear.
What did Paxton want? What was wrong?
As he bent down for another stone, something caught his eye, a distant sparkle of reflected sunlight out at sea. A small motor launch was tracking in across the water towards the harbour mouth. It looked as though he was about to find out the answers to his questions.
He dropped the stone, trotted up the steps to the walkway and started making his way towards the jetty.
That was when he heard the scream.
Chapter Six
It was the sound of a woman in trouble, her voice shrill and frightened. He froze, snapping his head around to look.
Fifty yards away, a woman in Bermuda shorts and a light denim shirt was running across the beach, clutching a bag on a strap around her shoulder, her long dark hair streaming out in the wind.
Close behind her were two guys. One was big and heavily built, the other slight and wiry, both wearing T-shirts and jeans. They looked serious. And they were faster than her, and gaining. Even at this distance, the look of terror on her face was enough to tell Ben that these weren’t friends messing about.
As he watched, the men caught up with her. The slightly-built guy was two strides ahead of the other. He lashed out with his arm and his fist closed around the strap of her bag, yanking it towards him. She stumbled, kicking up a shower of pebbles. Screamed again. The guy yanked harder on the strap, and she went down. Then the bigger guy was on her, using his weight to crush her. A knee pressed into her stomach, a hand to her throat. She kicked out wildly, struggling like an animal. The smaller one tore the bag away, snapping the strap, and started rifling through it.
There was nobody about. Nobody was going to do anything, or raise the alarm. A woman was being robbed, or worse, right here in broad daylight.
Ben was already running. He dropped his jacket. Sprinted back along the walkway and bounded down the stone steps to the beach.
The smaller guy was tearing through the woman’s bag while his burly friend held her to the ground. He had both her arms pinned down in one big fist and was slapping her around and tearing at the neck of her denim shirt with the other. Her hair was plastered over her face, head shaking violently from side to side as she screamed and thrashed. He was snarling and spitting in her face. Then the free hand went to his belt and out came the knife.
Neither of the men saw Ben coming until he was nearly upon them. The first to freeze and stare was the one with the bag in his hands, but Ben went straight for the other before his friend could let out a yell. The big guy was too busy to notice anything.
It would have been easy for Ben to kill him. Too easy. In the fraction of a second before he hit him, Ben’s mind was racing through all the ways he knew of taking him down without inflicting fatal damage. Harder to do, but a lot less complicated after the fact.
So when the flying kick caught the attacker in the side of the neck, there was only enough force behind it to stun him and send him sprawling off the woman in a tangle of arms and legs.
The guy wouldn’t be able to move his head for a month. But he’d live. He tumbled over, the big arms flailing, eyes and mouth wide with pain and surprise. The knife went clattering across the shingle. Ben doubled him up with a kick to the belly that was hard enough to wind him without rupturing stomach or spleen.
The other guy had already dropped the bag and was running away across the beach, heading for the steps that led back to the street. Ben thought about going after him, but a groan from the woman made him turn around. She tried to struggle up to her feet, but fell back, hair strewn over the ground. Her throat was mottled red, with angry fingermarks where the big guy had been strangling her.
Ben ran over to her and kneeled down beside her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked urgently.
Five yards away, the big guy was staggering shakily to his feet, clutching his neck and stomach. He threw one look at Ben and made off, hobbling away after his friend.
Ben let them go. They weren’t worth it. He turned back
Ben understood. The bag was lying three yards away, its contents spilled out over the pebbles. Makeup, purse, hairbrush, phone.
Asthma inhaler.
He snatched up the little blue spray. ‘Is this what you need?’
She nodded urgently, grabbed it from him in a panicky movement. She jammed the spout into her mouth, pressed the plunger twice, shut her eyes for a second, then let out a long breath. Her shoulders drooped with relief. ‘That’s better.’ She looked up. The look of alarm was draining quickly from her face, but her voice was shaking. ‘You saved me.’
The accent was English. Home Counties, he guessed. He watched her for a moment. She was maybe in her early thirties. Her dark hair was loose about her face. She looked feminine, soft and vulnerable.
Ben glanced up the deserted beach. The two attackers had disappeared. ‘You were lucky,’ he said. ‘Can you get up?’
‘I think so,’ she replied, sounding dazed.
He helped her to her feet. She was a little unsteady, her body leaning against his. The neck of her shirt was hanging open where the attacker had torn the buttons away. She noticed it, blushed and covered herself up. Ben glanced away and started gathering up her scattered possessions. He put them back in her shoulder bag and zipped it up. ‘You should be able to find a cobbler in the town who can fix the strap for you.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured.
‘Are you with someone? Husband, friend?’
She shook her head. ‘Travelling alone. Just passing through.’
‘Do you have a place to stay?’
‘I’m in a hotel across town.’
On the other side of the low harbour wall, the motor launch was pulling up at the westernmost jetty. It was exactly twelve noon. Ben didn’t want to miss his ride, but he didn’t feel right about leaving the woman on her own. For a second he regretted not having laid into the attackers harder. Should have damaged more than their pride. They might have wandered off in search of another victim. Or they might just as easily be watching from a hidden vantage point and waiting for another chance to get her. From the way she was glancing nervously up the beach, he knew she was thinking the same thing.