And then we go in and grab what we came for.’
Maisky had been waiting for the first sign that the hotheaded young punk was going to handle this in his usual reckless way. Here we go, he thought.
‘It’s not that simple,’ he said. ‘Because the only time the owners might have to override the alarm system would be an emergency situation such as a fire, earthquake or other potential threat to the valuable contents of the gallery, the system’s designers built in a function that will send an automatic alert to the police should the override codes be entered. That function is hard-wired into the system and can’t be disabled remotely in any way. It uses a broadband frequency via the optic fibre landline, with cellular backup in the event that the main lines are down. So it’s essential that before you go in, you ensure that the landline is chopped. And that you use this.’ He pointed at a device sitting on a side table. Anatoly had been eyeing it, wondering what it was. A plain black box, about twelve inches long, wired up to four patch antennas.
‘It’s an 18-watt ultra-high power digital cellphone jammer,’ Maisky explained. ‘It will work in all countries and block the signal from any type of phone, including 3G, over a radius of 120 metres. With this in place, the police won’t have a clue what’s going on.’
‘And if any of the owners decides to get smart and punch in a duress signal that could trip the silent alarm, they’re wasting their time,’ Shikov added.
‘So then I can pop them.’
‘Not until you have the item safely in your possession,’ Maisky said as patiently as he could. ‘Once you’re in, you have to take care of the secondary system as well. Each painting is rigged so that any attempt to remove it from the wall will set off a separate alarm.’
‘So what? If the phones are down—’
‘It also fires the automatic shutter system. A sensitive electronic trigger is hooked up to a hydraulic ram system that will slam shutters down to protect the artwork. The shutters will resist attack from bullets, blowtorches, and cutting blades. They will also automatically block every possible exit and imprison the intruder like a trapped rat until the police come and take them away. And there’s no override code for that. It can’t be reversed.’
‘Are you following all of this, Anatoly?’ Shikov said, watching his son closely from across the desk.
Anatoly shrugged, as if to say all this kind of stuff was child’s play to him.
‘Good. Go and assemble four of your best men. I’m thinking of Turchin, Rykov, Petrovich—’
‘And Gourko,’ Anatoly cut in.
Oh no, Maisky thought, his heart going icy. Not Gourko. Anatoly’s closest crony, the scarred bastard who’d been dishonourably drummed out of the Russian army’s Spetsnaz GRU Special Forces unit for beating one of his officers half to death with a rifle butt. The kind of gangster who gave gangsters a bad name, and one of the few other people who frightened Maisky even more than his boss.
‘You have two hours,’ Shikov said. ‘And then you’re on your way to Italy. You’ll rendezvous with our friends on the ground.’
‘How many in the team?’
‘Ten. Eight men inside, two on the outside.’
Anatoly nodded. ‘Hardware?’
‘Everything you need.’
Anatoly smiled. He could trust his father to be thorough on that score.
When Anatoly had left the room a few minutes afterwards, Shikov gathered up the scattered paperwork and slid it into a drawer. It would be burned later. Maisky circled the desk, frowning. His head was full of things he wanted to say. Things like, ‘Are you so sure you can trust Anatoly with this? He’s wild and irresponsible and his friends are all maniacs, especially Spartak Gourko. How can you be so blind, uncle?’ But he had the good sense to say nothing at all.
Yuri Maisky wasn’t the only one keeping his thoughts to himself. As Anatoly walked away from the boathouse, flipping his Ferrari keys in his hand, he was already thinking about how overcomplicated and boring his father’s plan was.
He had other ideas.
Yup, this was going to be fun.
‘A job?’ Boonzie said, raising his eyebrows.
The sun was beginning to dip over the hills, throwing a wash of dramatic reds and purples across the skyline. Ben nodded. Crouching on the ground beside the new greenhouse foundations, he fished out his Zippo lighter and a pack of the same Gauloises cigarettes he always smoked.
‘Those fuckers’ll kill you,’ Boonzie muttered.
‘If something else doesn’t beat them to it. Want one?’
‘Aye, why not. Chuck them across.’ Boonzie kicked over the empty barrow and used it as a seat while he lit up.
‘At the place where I live in France, I run a business,’ Ben explained. ‘We’re out in the countryside; not so different from this place in a lot of ways. But we don’t make pesto sauce. We do K and R training work.’
Boonzie didn’t need Ben to spell out that K and R stood for kidnap and ransom. Ben went on talking, and Boonzie listened carefully.
In the seven years since Ben had quit the army, locating and extracting victims of kidnapping, often children, had become his speciality. He’d called himself a Crisis Response Consultant – a deliberately vague euphemism for someone who went out and solved problems that lay way beyond the reach of normal law enforcement agencies. His work had taken him into a lot of dark corners. His methods hadn’t always been gentle, but he’d got results that few other people in his line of work could have achieved.
The bottom line, always, was helping those in need. After many successes and a few too many scrapes, he’d left the dangers of active field work behind to focus on passing on the skills and knowledge he’d acquired – still helping the innocent victims of ruthless criminals across the globe, but now doing it from behind a desk instead of from behind a gun.
The facility he’d set up, nestled in the Normandy countryside, was called Le Val. It had been growing busier by the month. Police and military units, hostage negotiation specialists, kidnap insurance execs, close-protection services personnel, had all flocked to attend the courses he ran there with his assistant, ex-SBS officer Jeff Dekker, and a couple of other ex-military guys. Dr Brooke Marcel, half French, half English, an expert psychologist based in London, had been his consultant and regular visiting lecturer in hostage psychology until – three months or so ago – their stumbling relationship had developed into something deeper.
In terms of the success of the business, Ben couldn’t have asked for more. Le Val was lucrative, it was filling a very real need, and it was safe.
But there was a problem. It had started as just a grain of discomfort, like a tiny niggling itch he couldn’t scratch. Through the long, hot summer, it had grown until it followed him like a shadow and he couldn’t sleep at night for thinking of
