The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET (200 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Ben was making slow progress, and he wasn’t happy about it. His muscles were quivering with pent-up adrenalin as he inched his way up the dark passage.

His heartbeat jumped up a notch as he heard the sound behind him and whirled round. Torchlight flashing from around a bend, just fifty metres back. He moved faster, but he was running blind and his pursuers weren’t. Seconds later, the torchlight filled the tunnel behind him.

The sound of a woman’s voice cut sharply though the dead atmosphere. Hard, calm, controlled. ‘Armed police. Stop right there. Get your hands where I can see them.’

Ben stopped, turned, strained his eyes against the searing white light. The woman wasn’t alone. He could make out her silhouette in the torch beam of the man trotting to catch up with her. Her arms were bare, the muscles toned and tight, and the gleaming steel in her fist was as rock steady as her voice. She was breathing hard and looked like a panther ready to spring at him. Even without seeing her face, he could tell this was no lightweight they’d sent after him.

‘I’m Commander Darcey Kane of SOCA,’ she said. ‘Ben Hope, you’re under arrest.’

Two heartbeats went by and nobody moved. Then Ben raised his hands to chest level.

‘Lose the weapon,’ she said.

As Ben slowly hooked out the Ruger from his jacket pocket and let it dangle from a finger through the trigger guard, he was wondering what a SOCA agent was doing on a case that should have been a matter for Italian police. He tossed the pistol down in the dirt near his right foot.

‘Kick it away. Hands high.’

Ben nudged it a few inches with his toe. ‘I didn’t kill Tassoni. He was dead when I got there.’

‘Innocent men don’t run.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact. Someone just doing their job.

‘You have the wrong person, Darcey.’

‘Then you have nothing to fear.’

‘There’s more to it.’

‘I don’t want to know. Tell it to the judge.’

As she spoke, she stepped closer to him. Now just a few metres away, he could see her more clearly by the torchlight bouncing off the stone walls in the narrow space. Her jaw was set tight and there was a glint of quiet ferocity in her eyes. A stray wisp of black hair had broken out from under her cap. Without letting the gun waver a millimetre, she tucked her torch under her right arm. Reached into her back pocket with her left hand and fished out a pair of cuffs. Her partner was just one step behind. Ben didn’t think he looked as confident as she did. Then there was more clamour behind them, and torchlight flooded the passage as a whole pack of uniformed Carabinieri appeared around the corner guns drawn. Seeing the situation ahead, they crouched and took aim as more came up from behind. It looked like a whole army of them.

The odds were definitely getting interesting, but Ben guessed he had more to worry about from Darcey Kane than from the rest put together. He moved forward a step. To his left, the hundreds of piled skulls watched like silent witnesses from an alcove as he held out his wrists to be cuffed.

‘Looks like you got me.’

She smiled. ‘Wasn’t hard, either.’

‘No bones about it,’ he said.

And lashed out with his left foot. His shoe connected with one of the supporting struts holding up the tall wooden framework on which the human remains were heaped. A few centuries ago, the wood might have been solid. Not any more. Ben’s kick cracked it in two with an explosion of dust and the whole towering edifice gave a lurch and came crashing down in a splintering bony avalanche that filled the passage. Ben threw himself back out of the way as a hundred bouncing skulls rained down where he’d stood a second before.

Darcey barely had time to react before she was swiped off her feet and half buried in the slide. Her torch fell and rolled away from her, cutting a milky swathe in the billowing dust. Her face and hair were white with it. Coughing and spluttering, she tried to struggle to her feet. Her partner was down on his knees and elbows, a streak of blood above his eye where a section of the falling wooden framework had caught him a glancing blow. The passage behind them was almost completely blocked with debris and swirling dust.

Ben snatched up Darcey’s Maglite and swung it like a club, knocking the Beretta out of her hand. She cried out in pain as the weapon clattered away from her.

‘Sorry, Darcey,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe another time.’ His Ruger was buried. He grabbed her Beretta instead and bolted away up the passage, leaving the agents floundering among the wreckage.

Chapter Forty-Two

Ben ran hard through the passages, shining the Maglite this way and that, searching for a way out. Gleaming metal flashed in his beam, and he spotted a ladder running up through an open shaft in the ceiling. A winch cable dangled down from above, holding up a platform with a safety rail around its edge. At the foot of the ladder was scattered an assortment of cases and boxes. He guessed they contained whatever kind of archaeology equipment was needed for the excavation of the discovered catacomb. He stuck the torch in his belt and climbed the ladder.

The next level up was still underground, some kind of gloomy circular tunnel that was just about high enough to stand up in. It looked like a disused sewer. It was getting hard to believe there was any solid ground at all under Rome. Maybe one day the city would just cave in and disappear.

Ben shone his torch around him. There was more equipment lying about near the shaft, and across on the other side of the tunnel. Next to it was another ladder, climbing up to a freshly-cut trapdoor that he was certain led to street level.

He was halfway to the ladder when the tunnel filled with the stunning noise of a gunshot and a bullet wailed off the stonework near his head. He whipped round to see Darcey Kane clambering out of the shaft behind him, clutching a Beretta identical to the one he’d taken from her.

There wasn’t time to stick around to say, ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’ There wasn’t even time to draw the gun from his belt and return fire. He’d have been dead before he could release the safety lever. He took off at a zigzagging run, keeping low.

She fired again. The ricochet howled off the wall and rattled around the tunnel like a pinball. She was shooting at the light. He ditched the torch. Heard the clatter behind him as she did the same. Not stupid, that Darcey Kane.

Rats slithered out of Ben’s path as he sprinted through the gloom. He was a fast runner, but it was clear that his pursuer had been putting in some serious track practice. Her pounding footsteps weren’t far behind him as he went flying around a corner, nearly losing his footing on the slippery stone. His shoulder connected painfully with the tunnel wall, and he felt the hard edge of an iron rung embedded in the brickwork. He hauled himself up, found another, then another. There was a cast iron manhole cover above him. He punched out hard with the heel of his hand, praying the lid wasn’t rusted in place or bolted down. It gave way with a grinding clang. He shoved it aside, and fresh air flooded down the round hole. He clambered up to the top rung, thrusting his head and shoulders out into the night air.

A screech of air horns almost blew out his eardrums. He twisted his head around to see the blinding headlights and massive front grille of a truck bearing down on him like some kind of monster. The truck’s tyres screamed, smoke pouring from its wheel arches. Ben ducked his head down in a hurry. A fraction of a second later, and it would have been torn off. The manhole was filled with roaring noise and grit and diesel stink as the truck passed overhead.

By the time it had come to a shuddering halt fifteen metres further down the road, Ben was clambering out of the hole and kicking the cast iron lid back into place. He was in a broad, straight street with old buildings and shops and parked cars and scooters gleaming under the street lights. He glanced around him for something to lay across the manhole cover to delay the SOCA agent – but large, heavy objects weren’t readily to hand in the middle of the road. All he had was himself. He stood on the plate, feeling just a little self-conscious and all too aware this didn’t present a lasting solution to his predicament. A car sped down the street and swerved to avoid him. Ben ignored the stream of abuse that came at him from its open window. The truck driver had pulled into the side of the road and had jumped down from his cab, storming over with clenched fists to yell obscenities at him. Ben ignored him, too. He had other things to worry about.

Under his feet, the plate gave a lurch as something hit it hard from below.
Here she comes
, he thought. A second’s pause, then there was a muffled explosion and something struck the underside of the cast iron plate with a loud clang and an impact that rattled him all the way up to his knees. She was trying to shoot her way out. She must have been deafened down there.

Ben looked up as he heard the buzz of a motorcycle approaching. A tall, skinny trail bike was coming down the road towards him. Its helmetless rider was a young guy of about twenty. He slowed the bike uncertainly as he got closer, probably thinking Ben was a drunk who was about to stagger into his path and bring the bike down.

Ben slipped the Beretta out of his belt and yelled
‘Alt! Polizia!’
at the top of his voice.

Seeing the pistol, the truck driver instantly stopped screaming abuse and beat a hasty retreat back to his vehicle. The motorcyclist’s eyes opened wide as he brought the bike to a sliding halt. Up close, Ben could see the Honda legend on the shiny blue tank and the letters ‘250cc’ on the side panel beneath the seat.

‘Sorry about this,’ he said. Still pinning the manhole cover with his weight, he grabbed the young guy’s arm and hauled him roughly out of the saddle. He caught the bike as it began to topple, swung his right leg over it and gunned the throttle.

The instant Ben took his weight off the manhole cover, the iron lid flipped up with a clang. Darcey Kane came bursting out of the hole, pistol first. Her eyes were wild, her face streaked with sweat and dirt.

Ben flashed her a grin, stamped the gear lever into first, opened the throttle wide and dumped the clutch. Before she could make a move, the Honda’s front wheel lifted a foot in the air and the machine took off like a startled horse.

As he raced down the street with the warm wind whistling in his ears and fluttering his jacket, Ben glanced in the handlebar mirror. Darcey was already waving down an approaching car with her drawn pistol. Not just any kind of car, but a low-slung gleaming red sports convertible that looked worryingly like a Ferrari under the street lights. She bundled the protesting driver out, leaped in behind the wheel. Over the tinny howl of the Honda’s engine, Ben heard the roar and screech of spinning wheels as she accelerated after him.

‘This damn woman’s unstoppable,’ he muttered. He ground the throttle against its stop and the little 250cc engine screamed in protest. Parked vehicles and buildings flashed by in a blur. He snatched another glance in the mirror. The sports car was already gaining on him fast.

It
was
a Ferrari. Not good. No way he could outrun her on this sewing machine on wheels.

Do what you can with what you’ve got
. Boonzie had taught him that one.

Ben kept his eyes on the mirror just an instant too long. When he looked back at the road ahead, there was a fat man crossing the street dragging a chihuahua on a lead. He swerved violently to avoid them, narrowly missing crunching into the side of a parked Fiat Cinquecento. He hammered up onto the kerb and rode down the pavement. A corner café was closing for the night, with plastic chairs and tables strewn outside and a waiter gathering up glasses. Ben ducked down behind the bars, gritted his teeth and went ploughing through the tables, sending the waiter diving for cover. The little Honda wobbled furiously but he somehow managed to keep it upright. He jumped the bike back down off the kerb between two parked cars, hit the road with a screech and accelerated away.

It was only as he sped off down the street that he realised the bumpy ride had jolted the Beretta out of his waistband. Any thoughts he had of going back for it were quickly scotched as the Ferrari came hurtling round the bend just a few metres behind him, glued tight to the road, bearing relentlessly down on his tail.

A street sign flashed by: Via dei Coronari. Buildings parted, and Ben could suddenly see the city lights glinting off the smooth waters of the Tiber to his left. A line of lanterns traced the shape of a bridge spanning the river and illuminated the facing rows of angelic white statues along its sides. But it wasn’t the graceful beauty of the architecture that made Ben swerve the Honda hard left and take a closer look at the bridge – it was the fat concrete bollards set across its entrance, blocking the way to anything wider than a skinny little trail bike. He passed between them and sped out across the smooth paving stones of the bridge. Heard the scream of tyres behind him as the Ferrari skidded to a halt at an angle in the road.

Halfway over the bridge, Ben stopped the bike and looked back. Darcey Kane was out of the car, standing under the glow of a street light, gun in hand. Even at this distance he could see she was virtually dancing with frustration. Her shout of rage echoed across the river.

Ben had to smile to himself as he rode away into the night.

Though somehow, he had the feeling he hadn’t seen the last of this Darcey Kane.

Chapter Forty-Three

The De Crescenzo residence, Rome

Ten to two in the morning and Count Pietro De Crescenzo was too tired to pace up and down any more, too tired to think, too tired to do anything except sit slumped in his armchair and stare dully across the large living room at his wife Ornella. She was lying with her back to him, her glossy blond curls fanned out over the arm of the sofa. The flimsy material of her dress had ridden up to mid-thigh and her legs were kicked out carelessly over the cushions. One white high-heeled shoe had fallen to the rug; the other was dangling from her toe, ready to drop at any moment like the last autumn leaf from a twig.

Once upon a time, Pietro De Crescenzo would have got up and gone over to her, brushed the hair from her face and straightened her dress for modesty’s sake, maybe covered her with a blanket, or else carried her tenderly to bed. But he didn’t move. Just sat there and listened to her soft snoring, watching the curve of her hip rise and fall as she slept.

Though, he reflected bitterly, ‘asleep’ wasn’t quite the right word for someone who’d spent the last almost three hours passed out in a comatose stupor. She’d hit the vodka particularly hard that night, and he had no sympathy for the selfish bitch.
He
was the one who should be drinking himself stupid all day, after what he’d been through. The tremors in his hands and knees were slowly fading, though there were moments when the horrors came flooding back and he was rendered virtually prostrate with nerves. The trauma was going to stay with him for the rest of his life – he was sure of it.

He looked at his watch and sighed. He dreaded going to bed. Night was the worst time. Night was when the ghosts came out to revisit him. Aldo Silvestri and Luigi Corsini, and the woman who had died in front of them all on the office floor, and all the other poor souls who had lost their lives. Their sightless eyes staring at him in the dark, their bloody fingers groping out to claw at him until he woke gasping and covered in sweat. Then he’d be awake till dawn, with only more horrors to look forward to – more agonised phone calls with Aldo’s and Luigi’s relatives, more terrible funerals to attend, more wrangling with obtuse insurance company directors and more hysterical gallery owners threatening dire litigation. It was a mess on a cataclysmic scale.

And meanwhile, the police investigation was drawing blanks every way it turned. Pietro had no faith in any of the detectives who’d been assigned to the case. Lario was a fool, and when he failed he’d simply be replaced with another fool. Though Pietro had to admit that he was having just as little success in solving the enigma that haunted him feverishly day and night.

Why the Goya? Why?
Why?
Its personal value to him, as a tangible connection to the woman he’d always wished could have been his own grandmother, was inestimable – but its monetary value was minimal compared to so many works that the robbers had just seemingly ignored. To walk past prizes that could have enriched them for the rest of their lives, for whose recovery the art world would have paid whatever gigantic ransom they demanded, in favour of a simple sketch that had spent most of the last century hidden away among the forgotten personal effects of a dead artist: no amount of obsessive brain-racking could help Pietro to see any sense in it.

Something else perplexed him even more deeply. This wasn’t the first time that Gabriella Giordani’s personal possessions had attracted the attentions of dangerous men.

He was worn out from trying to figure out the connection. His eyes were burning from fatigue and his neck and shoulders ached. He rose stiffly from his armchair, turned off the living room light and shut the door behind him.

Pietro’s office was across the other side of the large villa. When things weren’t going well between him and Ornella he often took refuge to sleep on the couch in there. They hadn’t argued, but he felt that way tonight.

As he walked into the office, he noticed the flashing light on his answer machine telling him there was a new message. It had been left after midnight.

Pietro let it play on speaker. The caller spoke Italian with a Spanish accent. His voice was deep and rich, like old wine.

‘Signor De Crescenzo, my name is Juan Calixto Segura. It is extremely important that I speak with you. Please call me immediately, night or day.’ A pause, then: ‘It concerns your stolen Goya.’

Pietro replayed the message with a trembling finger.

He hadn’t dreamed it.

Segura.
The name was vaguely familiar. A wealthy art collector and dealer in Salamanca, De Crescenzo remembered – though they’d never met.

Frantic with anticipation, Pietro snatched up the phone handset and returned the Spaniard’s call. Segura picked up on the third ring. He didn’t sound as if he’d been asleep.

‘This is De Crescenzo.’

‘I thought you would call.’

‘My Goya,’ Pietro said breathlessly.

‘Charcoal on laid paper. “The Penitent Sinner”.’

‘That’s it. What have you to tell me?’

‘I think it better that we meet,’ Segura said. ‘I have something to show you.’

‘If you know something, I beg you . . .’ Pietro’s voice quavered; he was near to a sob as he spoke.

Segura was silent for a moment, as though unwilling to disclose too much on the phone. ‘I will tell you this much,’ he said. ‘How can it be that “The Penitent Sinner” was stolen from your gallery in Italy?’

Pietro was stunned. ‘What do you mean? It
was
stolen.’

‘Then you may care to explain to me,’ Segura said, ‘why it is sitting here safely in my private collection, where it has been for many years.’