Scott Mariani - The Heretics Treasure

After a few weeks of searching, northern France had offered the ideal location in the shape of a tumbledown rural property called Le Val. Deep in the Normandy countryside, the old farm was close enough to the international airport at Cherbourg and the town of Valognes to be practical, yet remote enough to allow him to turn the place into the kind of facility he wanted. Over sixty acres of sweeping valley and woodland, accessible only from a long, winding track. The only neighbours were farmers, and the tiny village nearby had a shop and a bar. It was perfect for him.

When the sale had gone through, he’d said a sad farewell to the old rambling house on Galway Bay where he’d lived for many years, and got on a plane.

Now he knew he’d never look back.

In the months since the move, Le Val had been transformed. The renovated stone farmhouse had a large communal room for the trainees, and a huge stone-floored kitchen with a big table where they all ate together at night. Ben himself had always had simple needs, and his private quarters consisted of a modest two-bedroom apartment upstairs.

Meanwhile, new buildings had sprouted up quickly around the large farmyard: the main office, canteen, shower and toilet facilities, a purpose-built gym. Trainees were housed in a basic dormitory building across from the farmhouse. Six small rooms, two bunks to a room, with metal lockers painted olive green. It could have been a military dorm and it was a little rough and ready for some tastes-but there’d been no complaints. People knew they were getting the best. The only concession Ben had made to the softer corporate types, the suits sent to him by insurance companies keen to train up capable kidnap and ransom negotiators, was to build a slightly more luxurious conference room and lecture theatre at the far end of the complex.

But the real focus and purpose of the place was for the more hands-on stuff-the kind of training Ben specialised in, for the kind of people who were serious about learning to deal with extreme contingencies. A number of European military and police units had already signed contracts to come and sharpen up their hostage rescue skills with someone they knew was one of the best in the world. Ben had built two outdoor shooting ranges, one short for pistol and shotgun training, the other for long-range sniper work. The semi-derelict cottage in the woods had been stripped out and equipped with plywood partitions to create a maze of corridors and rooms where teams were drilled in close-quarter battle and live-fire room entry. Some weeks, the school was getting through thousands of rounds of ammunition.

The facility had been tough to set up. Apart from the arduous building work he’d had to jump through a thousand hoops and wade through a jungle of red tape to get the clearance for live-fire weapons training. There’d been official permissions to obtain from the French and British governments, from NATO, from everybody. He’d been buried in paperwork, glued to phones and knee-deep in mud and rubble for three months. He’d never been more thankful that his SAS days had left him fluent in several languages, including French, allowing him to wrangle with the local authorities until his voice was hoarse.

But no sooner had the authorities finally greenlit the operation, enquiries started flooding in from everywhere. The diary had filled up fast and stayed that way for the last four months. Ben was in business, and he knew it was something he should have done a long time ago.

As he drove, he overtook a tractor that was ambling down the country lane. He waved, recognising Duchamp, one of the local farmers, at the wheel. The old guy waved back. Ben got on well with him, and had spent a lot of time in his farmhouse talking over bottles of excellent homemade cider. His visits to Duchamp’s place invariably ended with him loading up the Land Rover with cases of the stuff. Duchamp’s brother was the local butcher who supplied the meat for Le Val, and one of his cousins, Marie-Claire, came in to cook for the trainees.

When summer came, Ben was planning to hold a massive hog-roast for all the locals. He liked these people, their straightforward philosophy of life, their total attunement to nature, and the way they didn’t ask too many questions about his business. They didn’t care about the secrecy, the sound of gunfire, the barbed wire or the ‘KEEP OUT’ signs on the high wooden gates. As far as they were concerned, the facility at Le Val was just a glorified adventure tourism place for corporate types-and if they were happy, Ben was happy.

Approaching Cherbourg, he pulled up in the airport car park and left Storm sitting inside as he walked across the tarmac towards the arrivals building.

The woman he was coming to collect was Dr Brooke Marcel, a clinical psychologist and expert in hostage psychology who had been attached to police Special Operations in London for nine years. Ben had first met her back in his SAS days, when he’d attended one of her lectures and been impressed with her sharp mind and depth of insight. She’d been one of the first people he contacted when he was starting up his centre. Every few weeks, he flew her out to France to lecture the trainees-which, being half French on her father’s side, suited her perfectly. He enjoyed her company and always looked forward to her visits.

He pushed through the glass doors into the arrival lounge. The London flight had just come in, and a small crowd was trickling through towards the car park and taxi ranks.

Brooke waved as she caught sight of him. She was wearing tight black jeans and a green combat jacket, and carrying a sports holdall. Her wavy auburn hair bounced as she walked. Ben noticed a couple of guys throwing appreciative glances at her. As he approached, she smiled and kissed his cheek. ‘What a surprise,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Normally Jeff comes to fetch me.’

‘Jeff likes you too much. I don’t want him getting too distracted.’

She chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. Jeff’s a nice guy, but he’s not my type.’

‘So you’re not into tall, dark and handsome.’

Brooke shot him a mischievous smirk. ‘I prefer tall, blond and handsome.’

He ignored that. ‘Let me take your bag.’ He took her holdall and they walked out to the car park.

‘So how’s business?’ she asked as they drove.

‘Business is good. How’s London?’

‘As ever,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘I’m getting tired of it. Been there too long. Need a change.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘Speaking of which, I’ve taken a few days off. I needed the break. OK with you if I hang around here a few extra days?’

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Stay as long as you want.’

On the way back Ben made a brief detour to the local vineyard to pick up some cases of wine. With the Land Rover loaded up, they headed back to Le Val.

‘My God,’ Brooke exclaimed as they drove through the gates and up towards the house. ‘You finished it.’

Ben glanced at where she was pointing. ‘The new gym? The roof went on two days ago.’

‘Every time I come here, some new building has sprung up. Don’t tell me-you did it yourself

‘Not all of it. Just the walls and the flooring. I couldn’t lift the roof beams on my own.’

‘You’re crazy. Remember, all work and no play…’

‘Makes Ben a dull boy?’

‘Or breaks his back. You don’t need to do it all, Ben. Let your hair down a bit. Enjoy yourself a little. You’re not forty yet.’

He laughed as he pulled up in front of the farmhouse and killed the Land Rover’s engine. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘I have an idea. Didn’t you tell me you had an apartment in Paris?’

The small, spartan flat had been a gift from a client years ago, after Ben had rescued his child from kidnappers. ‘It’s hardly an apartment, Brooke. And I’ve been thinking of selling it anyway. What did you have in mind?’