In his thirty-three years, many of those spent fighting to protect the interests of those powers, Ben had seen enough, learned enough, deduced enough, to know that the only truths worth knowing in this world were those kept carefully hidden behind a smokescreen. Nothing else was real. Not governments, not elected representatives, not nations, not democracy. Everything the public saw, or was allowed to see, was an illusion.
And everything the public heard, or was allowed to hear, was a lie.
These people even lied to their own.
And so, when it came to information of the kind that Jaco Lennox had spilled to him, it was easy to understand the motive of the secret keepers. Easy to understand why they’d do anything, everything in their power to prevent loose tongues from wagging. The alternative was simply not an option.
Ben could understand it, but he couldn’t forgive it. If Lennox’s story was true — if even a quarter of it was true — this one went way too far off the scale for that.
Two months and a lot of miles later, Ben now believed he’d covered as many angles and dug up as much evidence as he needed. He was ninety-five percent certain that what he’d uncovered, however disconcerting, was more than just the booze-addled ramblings of a worthless former soldier on the edge of mental breakdown.
That was the reason why he was here tonight, prepared to do whatever it took to press the final truth from a man he had once admired and respected with all his heart.
And then, if Ben’s worst fears were proven right, he would have no choice but to kill that man.
3
It was late now. The temperature was dropping fast and frost was forming on the heather as Ben lay hidden in his observation point, scanning every inch of the house and buildings through his binoculars. The single light in the upstairs window stayed on, casting a dull glow across the front yard, but he saw no movement from within. Nothing stirred. The only sound was the low whistle of the night wind across the glen. It was chilling him down steadily, beginning to bite through his clothes, and he knew he’d have to get moving before he started going numb. The first serious sign of hypothermia kicking in was a dulling of the mental faculties. That was something Ben couldn’t afford to happen here tonight.
After thirty minutes of observing, Ben finally emerged from his observation point and began the slow, painstaking final approach down the hillside and across the open ground towards the house. From here on in was the time of maximum danger, where he would be the most vulnerable to being spotted. The lie of the land was extremely exposed, not a tree or a bush or a rise behind which he could hide until he reached the stone wall that surrounded the property.
The wall was some fifty yards from the house at its nearest point, forming a wide rectangle that was completely closed off apart from the pillared double gateway in front. A beaten-earth track that served as a driveway led for sixty yards in a straight line right up to the main entrance. There was nothing between the gates and the house except a stone stable block converted into a long, low garage, slightly off to the left, and a barn to the right, both half-lost in shadow. To use either building as cover, he would still have to cross a good stretch of open ground in full view of the house’s dark windows. He didn’t like it much. If a powerful torch beam or security floodlight should suddenly blaze into life, he’d be caught in it like a lamped rabbit. But his instinct told him that wasn’t going to happen. Everything he’d seen so far convinced him that the element of surprise was in his favour.
Ben didn’t know it then, but that was a deadly mistake.
He reached the wall ten yards to the left of the gates and skirted along its edge, his footsteps crunching lightly on the frosty grass. He paused at the thick stone gate pillar to check his weaponry one last time before stepping up to the gates.
The black iron bars gleamed dully in the faint glow from the lit-up window sixty yards away. They were unchained. Ben ran his eye up their length, all the way up to the spikes at the top, looking for a security system that would sound off the moment he tried to open them. But there was nothing. He took a deep breath, gently placed a gloved hand against the bars of the left-side gate and gave a push.
The gate swung open a couple of feet, smoothly and silently. It was very much like Liam Falconer to keep his hinges well oiled. And to Ben, it was another small sign that his visit wasn’t expected. He stepped through the gap and started walking, very slowly, up the beaten-earth driveway. Fifty yards from the house. Step by step, thinking about tripwires, alarm mines, motion sensors, infra-red security cameras.
Forty-five yards from the house. He paused. Watched. Everything was still. The angles of the roof and the four chimney stacks were darkly silhouetted against the sky, their lines traced here and there by silver moonlight. The single lit upstairs window cast an amber shaft of illumination across the yard. Ben strained his ears for any sound of movement from the house. The scrape of a dark window opening. The cocking of a gun. The bark of a dog.
Nothing. He kept moving. Forty yards from the house. Thirty-five. He was almost level with the side of the garage block to his left. He paused again.
And froze.
He could still neither see nor hear anything except the whisper of the wind and the soft thud of his own heartbeat. But he could smell something.
Cigarette smoke. Just a trace of it on the cold night air. Faint, but unmistakeable.
Unless there had been a dramatic reversal in his habits, Liam Falconer didn’t touch tobacco. Wouldn’t have the stuff in the house.
With a rush of apprehension, Ben suddenly realised he’d been wrong in assuming that Falconer was alone here tonight. Very wrong. He quickly sidestepped off the drive and ran for cover towards the side of the garage.
And a dark shape charged out of the shadows to meet him.
The knife blade was black and dull and reflected no light, because it was a military killing knife designed for use in fast, brutal covert raids where speed and surprise were essential. Ben sensed it coming as the rushing figure closed in on him. He heard its sharp point whip through the air, slicing towards his throat. He ducked out of its swing, blocked the arm that was holding it and lashed out with his boot. Felt his heel connect in a solid impact. Heard the muted grunt of pain and the crunch of a kneecap.
The attacker went down on his back and a wheezing gasp burst from his mouth as the air was knocked out of him. Ben went straight down after him, pinning the knife arm to the ground and ramming the butt end of his submachine gun hard into the man’s face. Then again. He twisted the knife out of the man’s gloved hand. Grabbed him by the neck and dragged him a yard along the ground, to where the shaft of light from the house shone past the side of the garage.