The Shadow Project

Ben handed the Mini’s key to Dieter, and watched as his little car was driven off across the gravel and round the side of the château. He wondered how anyone was ever going to find it again among the Rolls-Royces, Aston Martins and Bugattis that he imagined filled the garages of a man like Maximilian Steiner.

Dorenkamp smiled again. ‘Now, please allow me to escort you to the guest accommodation, where the rest of your team are waiting for you. They arrived here late this afternoon.’

My team, Ben thought, and cursed himself one more time for good measure. From the opposite direction another member of staff came rolling up in a white golf buggy. Dorenkamp motioned to the back seats. ‘We generally use these for getting around. It is a big place.’

Ben didn’t reply as he climbed into the open buggy. Dorenkamp settled in beside him and the electric vehicle darted off through the grounds with surprising speed. As the sunlight faded, concealed floodlamps were beginning to burn brighter, lighting up the house and grounds. Around the side of the château, the view opened up to show more panoramic acres of perfectly clipped lawns, so green that they looked unreal. Ben said nothing, taking in his surroundings as they cut across the estate. In the distance he could see the little flags of a golf course waving in the light breeze.

‘You play, Mr Hope?’ Dorenkamp asked.

Ben shook his head and was about to reply when the buggy rounded another gigantic column and the PA said, ‘And here are your quarters.’

The accommodation was no château, but it was still spectacular enough to make Le Val look like a rustic hovel. The ultra-modern building was built into the side of a hill, its roof grassed over and dotted with wildflowers. Its white facade was smooth and undulating, a post-modern complex of caves with huge oval windows. Stylistically it was completely at odds with the château itself, but Ben had never seen a building so organically blended into its natural environment.

Dorenkamp noted his reaction with approval. ‘Designed by the architect Peter Vetsch. The inside is extremely well appointed. I don’t think you will be unhappy here.’

The inside was as white as the outside, the lines clean and elegant. The floors were granite tile that had been polished to a mirrored sheen, and the furniture was gleaming oak and white leather. Kandinsky and Paul Klee adorned the walls, and Ben would have bet they weren’t copies. A giant TV and sound system nestled discreetly in an oval wall alcove.

The worst thing about the place was the other occupants. Shannon’s guys had already got comfortable, slouching on the leather armchairs with their feet up on tables and bags, cases, clothing, shoes and magazines scattered about the main sitting area. Their laughter and conversation died down abruptly as Ben and Dorenkamp walked in. Ben met the six pairs of hostile eyes and his first thought was to ask himself why he wanted to cringe with embarrassment on behalf of someone else’s team. Shannon really could pick them.

If Dorenkamp noticed the change in the atmosphere or was shocked by the mess, he didn’t show it. Peeling back the sleeve of his jacket, he looked at his watch.

‘I’m pleased to see you are making yourselves at home, gentlemen. I must return to Herr Steiner’s meeting. Dinner will be brought to you at seven thirty.’

He was about to leave, then seemed to remember something. ‘One other point I should make clear to you all,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘I am unaware whether there are any smokers among you, but I should make it clear that smoking is strictly disallowed anywhere within the estate.’ He pointed up at the ceiling, and Ben saw there was an alarm discreetly blended into the plasterwork. ‘It is very sensitive, and it makes quite a noise, believe me.’ Dorenkamp smiled again. ‘Now, gentlemen, I shall leave you to settle in.’

With Dorenkamp gone, the atmosphere settled quickly into frosty silence as the rest of the team watched Ben resentfully. He ignored them and went about exploring the accommodation. Each team member had his own bedroom with en-suite shower room. There was a communal sauna room, Jacuzzi, and a well-equipped gym with stationary bikes, running and rowing machines, weight bench and racks of dumbbells. The separate dining area had a long table and seven chairs. Everything was neat, precise and laid out with the utmost thoughtfulness.

‘Never had a gig like this before,’ Ben heard Jackson say as he walked back into the living area. ‘Awesome.’

‘Shame Rupert couldn’t be here, though,’ Neville said in a pointed stage whisper that was plainly intended for Ben to hear. Ben said nothing.

Dinner was served promptly at seven thirty by three waiting staff in white jackets. The chicken casserole was simple but smelled great, and with it came five bottles of good wine. Ben filled up a plate, grabbed one of the bottles and went off to eat alone in his room. It might not be helping his popularity with the group any, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He wasn’t here to make friends. No matter what, he knew they’d keep resenting his presence there until Shannon took over. Which couldn’t happen soon enough.

Let’s just get the damn job done, he thought to himself.

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_3d5c6256-a4f9-5aae-b933-87e3840dc3eb)

At the same moment, Adam O’Connor was walking into a hotel room on the edge of the city of Graz, Austria. He dumped his travel bag and briefcase on the narrow bed, stared out of the window at the flickering neon sign of the bar across the road, then slumped in an armchair and closed his eyes.

Everything had gone exactly as the kidnappers had said it would. The room had been reserved for him, his key ready and waiting. The fat, greasy-looking guy behind the reception desk had taken only the most cursory look at his passport. No paperwork, no register to sign. Just a key and a grunt and a nod towards the lift. He wondered if the whole hotel staff were in on this too. The bastards probably were. He wanted to grab the television and shove it through the window, set the whole damn building on fire, run screaming through the streets.

But he had to do as they said. Now all he could do was wait. Wait and think about his thirteen-year-old son, imprisoned Christ knew where.

The whole journey, he’d been unable to stop thinking that Sabrina was bound to call the cops. What if she did? What if they found out what was happening? Rory would die.

And Adam wasn’t fool enough to imagine that Rory wasn’t going to die anyway, if he just blindly went along with the kidnappers’ demands. He knew enough about the way these things worked to know that things didn’t just go back to normal afterwards.

Which was why, right from the first moment he’d stood there listening to their demands on the phone, he’d made his plans.

Fuck them. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. He was going to get his son out of there unharmed, and he knew exactly how he was going to do it.

Downstairs in the hotel lobby, the fat receptionist picked up the phone and stabbed out the number he’d been given. Two rings, and someone answered. The same voice he’d heard before.

‘The American is here,’ the receptionist said. Then he put the phone down and went back to his internet poker.

Chapter Twelve (#ulink_cb5726e0-558f-50a0-944e-3400df5c5666)

It had been a gloriously sunny day in the Wicklow Hills, and Sabrina had spent most of it by the pool listening to music in her earphones and reading photography magazines. Every so often she’d slip into the water and swim a couple of lengths. All the while, she’d been trying hard to forget about her brother’s odd behaviour and the phone call from Rory.

A practical joke? She knew Rory well, better than most aunts knew their nephews, probably even better than Adam knew his son. He was a serious kind of boy, maybe even a little too serious sometimes. A thoughtless prank like pretending to be kidnapped just seemed beneath him somehow.

Then again, she’d thought, he was at the age where you could expect to start seeing behavioural and attitudinal changes. And maybe, in fact, as she’d turned it over in her mind, discovering the humorous side of his personality could be good for him. As for the tennis camp, it occurred to her that there might be more to that than met the eye. Maybe there was a girl involved, a teen romance going on there. Perhaps something that Adam didn’t even know about. It was possible. Kind of sweet, too.

In any case, the alternative was unthinkable. Her nephew kidnapped, her brother acting cool about it? Completely absurd. Now she’d started to feel bad about the way she’d overreacted with Adam earlier. He was clearly under a lot of stress.

By the time her thoughts had worked their way round that far, the sun had started to dip behind the clouds and it was getting too chilly to stay out in her swimsuit. She’d wrapped a towel round herself, taken her iPod and magazines inside, showered and dried her hair and pulled on jeans and a blouse.

After a light dinner she’d settled in front of the TV and flipped through channels for a while, then got bored with the rubbish that was on and started combing idly through the ads in the back of one of the photography magazines. By chance, she came across a juicy special offer on a tele-photo lens, a top-notch piece of kit that she’d been toying with the idea of buying for a while. ‘For more information, view our website’ the ad proclaimed.

It was an attractive enough prospect to make her start thinking about logging on to Adam’s computer and checking out the site. She got up from the sofa and padded upstairs in her bare feet.

But his study door on the top floor was locked. Damned if she knew what the password was for that one.

Then it occurred to her that she could use the PC across the hall in Rory’s room. He’d often allowed her to go on it, and she was sure it wouldn’t be intruding on his privacy if she used it in his absence. She gingerly tried the handle on his door and found it open.

She went inside. The room hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d seen it. Going over to the desk, she was about to turn on his computer when she accidentally nudged the mouse with her hand and to her surprise the screen flashed awake. Why had he left it on standby if he wasn’t going to be around for two whole weeks?

The screen had opened up in Rory’s Outlook Express email program. She was about to close that box and go to Internet Explorer when she saw that there was a new message incoming. When the mail appeared on the screen, she saw that it was from someone called Declan. It was just a one-liner in reply to an email Rory had sent.

‘Cool. Just watched it. Best one yet!’

Sabrina’s eye flashed down the screen, and it was with a jolt that she saw the date on Rory’s original message.

Yesterday.

She frowned. And the time the message had been sent was only about two hours before she’d arrived at the house.

But that was impossible. Adam had said he’d driven Rory to Donegal the day before.

She read it again, and the shivers down her back got colder. Could Rory have sent the message from another source, maybe at the tennis camp? She was no expert, but she was pretty sure that if the reply had come here, Rory’s message must have come from here too.

Calm down, Sabby. There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe there was a glitch with the PC. Unlikely. Or else Rory had somehow managed to sneak home and then away again without anybody noticing. Nuts. Or Adam had written the message to Declan himself, pretending to be Rory. Oh, come on.

She turned away from the desk. Saw Rory’s mobile phone lying among the rumpled sheets on his bed. The phone he took everywhere with him. The one he’d supposedly spoken to Adam on from the tennis camp.

‘Oh my God,’ she said out loud. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_5b2c6f87-8d04-58d6-888a-ca023a73d8a8)