range, the group probably all freezing their balls off as he took them through their sniper paces. Trembling hands and numb fingers were no great boon to long-range accuracy. Poor sods. Ben was scheduled to teach a two-hour session that afternoon in the plywood-and-car-tyre walled construction they called the ‘killing house’, covering elements of advanced live-fire CQB, or close-quarter-battle, training that they were unlikely to learn anywhere else. At least they’d be indoors out of the wet. Two more members of the Le Val team who’d be happy to huddle indoors with mugs of coffee were Serge and Adrien, the two ex-French Army guys who manned the new gatehouse – the latest addition to the complex – and controlled people coming in and out.
As for Jeff Dekker, Ben wasn’t quite sure where he was at that moment. He’d said something about checking the perimeter fence for wind damage; the region had been buffeted by one winter gale after another that week. With the kind of arsenal that Le Val kept locked up in its special armoury vault, and the sort of work that went on within the various sections of the compound, government bureaucracy insisted on the property being ultra-secure. Not that Ben had lately noticed any gangs of jihadist terrorists roaming the Normandy countryside in search of military hardware. But rules were rules.
Ben reached for his Gauloises and Zippo lighter, flicked a cigarette from the familiar blue pack, clanged open the lighter and lit up in a cloud of smoke. It suddenly felt even better to be home. Puffing happily away, he reached across the desk for the stack of mail he’d been sifting through. So far it had all been bills, bills, and more bills.
But this letter looked different.
The letter certainly was unusual. More than the Italian postmark, Ben was surprised to see the ink-stamped legend ISTITUTO PENITENZIARO BOLLATI on the envelope. He’d heard of the Bollati medium-security prison in Milan, but never been there, could think of no connections the place could have to him, and wouldn’t have expected to receive a letter from anyone there.
Yet there was no denying his name and address neatly handwritten on the front of the envelope. Above them, the date on the postmark showed that the letter had left Milan while Ben was struggling to survive somewhere in the middle of the Congo jungle.
‘Hm,’ he said.
At his feet, Storm cocked an ear and glanced up as though to see what the fuss was about, then lost interest and went back to sleep.
Ben took another slurp of scalding coffee and another drag on the Gauloise, then put down his mug, rested the cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the old M4 bayonet that served as a letter-opener in the Le Val office. He carefully slit one end of the envelope, reached inside and was about to draw out the single folded sheet of paper when his phone suddenly came to life and started buzzing on the desk like an upturned bee.
‘Got a problem in Sector Nine.’ Jeff’s voice was barely audible over the crackle of the wind distorting his phone’s mic. Sector Nine was what they called part of the east perimeter fence. ‘That sodding apple tree Marie-Claire wouldn’t ever let me cut down? Well, we won’t need to now. Sorry to drag you out here, mate, but I need your help.’
Ben could imagine what had happened. He’d read the letter later. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on.
‘You want to come?’ he said to Storm, who instantly sprang to his feet as though it were feeding time. Life was simple if you were a dog.
Outside in the biting wind, the sleet was turning snowier by the minute. Ben pulled up the collar of his jacket and crossed the yard, past the minibus and over to the ancient Land Rover. It was a tool box on wheels, filled with all kinds of junk including a greasy old chainsaw. Storm hopped in the back and found a space for himself while Ben got behind the wheel, and they set off across the yard and down the rutted track that ran between the buildings parallel with the rifle range and led across the fields towards Sector Nine. He heard the muffled boom of a rifle coming from the range, the ear-splitting report and supersonic crack of the bullet in flight muted by the high earth walls that ran parallel from the firing points to the butts at the far end and prevented any ‘flyers’ from escaping the range boundaries. Not that such elementary mistakes could happen under Tuesday’s expert supervision; he could splatter grapes all day long at five hundred yards with his modified Remington 700, and he was one of the best instructors Ben had ever seen.
The old tree had been a bone of contention for years. Marie-Claire, the local woman they’d employed from day one as an occasional cook, swore the particular apples it produced were essential to her mouth-wateringly delicious traditional Normandy apple tart recipe. As popular as her tart was with the parties of hard-worked and hungry trainees at Le Val, Jeff had always griped that the tree was too close to the fence and had argued that they could get perfectly decent apples at the grocer’s in Saint-Acaire or the Carrefour in Valognes. It had been an endless and hard-fought debate, with neither side giving an inch, while the tree kept growing taller and spreading outwards year on year. Now it looked as if the winter wind had settled the argument for them.
The track wound and snaked through the grounds. To Ben’s right, he passed the patch of oak woodland, now bare and gaunt, that in summer completely screened the ruins of the tiny thirteenth-century chapel where he sometimes retreated to sit, and think, and enjoy the silence. To his left, beyond hills and fields and forest, he could see the distant steeple of the church at Saint-Acaire pointing up at the grey sky.
He loved this place, in any season. He couldn’t imagine why he’d ever wanted to leave it.
But then, he’d done a lot of things in his life that he couldn’t understand why, looking back.
As Ben approached Sector Nine, he saw Jeff’s Ford Ranger over the grassy rise up ahead. Then Jeff himself, arms folded and frowning unhappily at the branches that had become enmeshed in the wire. The whole tree had uprooted and toppled over, flattening a thirty-foot section of fence with it. Those ever-lurking jihadis had only to come leaping through the gap, and they’d be just a step away from total European domination.
‘What did I always say?’ Jeff said, pointing at the fallen tree as Ben stepped down from the Land Rover. ‘What did I always warn that old bat would happen one day? And did she ever listen to a word? Did she buggery.’
‘No use crying about it now,’ Ben said. He grabbed the chainsaw from the back of the Landy. The dog clambered into the front seat, fogging up the windscreen with his hot breath as he watched the two humans set about dismantling the tree.
Ben started with the smaller branches, trimming them off while Jeff dragged them away and tossed them in a heap to one side. Once the gnarly old trunk was as bare as a telegraph pole, it was time to start chopping it up into sections before the real work of rebuilding the broken fence could begin. By then, the sleet had delivered on its threat to turn snowy. Ben and Jeff took a break, and sat in the Land Rover watching the snow dust the landscape. Ben lit another Gauloise, smoking it slowly, savouring the tranquillity of the moment.
‘I love her, you know,’ Jeff said, out of the blue after a lengthy pause.
‘The old bat?’
‘Chantal. I’m in love with her, mate.’
Ben had never heard his friend say anything like that before. From his lips, it was like Mahatma Gandhi saying how much he loved a good juicy beefsteak.
Jeff shook his head, as though he could hardly believe it himself. ‘I mean,
