The Heretic’s Treasure. Scott Mariani
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her for a moment. She was maybe in her early thirties. Her dark hair was loose about her face. She looked feminine, soft and vulnerable.
Ben glanced up the deserted beach. The two attackers had disappeared. ‘You were lucky,’ he said. ‘Can you get up?’
‘I think so,’ she replied, sounding dazed.
He helped her to her feet. She was a little unsteady, her body leaning against his. The neck of her shirt was hanging open where the attacker had torn the buttons away. She noticed it, blushed and covered herself up. Ben glanced away and started gathering up her scattered possessions. He put them back in her shoulder bag and zipped it up. ‘You should be able to find a cobbler in the town who can fix the strap for you.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured.
‘Are you with someone? Husband, friend?’
She shook her head. ‘Travelling alone. Just passing through.’
‘Do you have a place to stay?’
‘I’m in a hotel across town.’
On the other side of the low harbour wall, the motor launch was pulling up at the westernmost jetty. It was exactly twelve noon. Ben didn’t want to miss his ride, but he didn’t feel right about leaving the woman on her own. For a second he regretted not having laid into the attackers harder. Should have damaged more than their pride. They might have wandered off in search of another victim. Or they might just as easily be watching from a hidden vantage point and waiting for another chance to get her. From the way she was glancing nervously up the beach, he knew she was thinking the same thing.
He didn’t have time to deal with this. If he took her back into town and they reported the incident, there would be questions to answer to the local police, statements to take, hours of messing around-none of which would be any help to her.
There was only one thing he could do.
As he looked, a stocky guy in a baseball cap, white slacks and a polo shirt stepped from the motor launch. He tied it off and started walking down the jetty towards the dock, glancing up and down the quayside as if looking for someone.
Ben pointed at the launch. ‘I have to get on that boat,’ he said to the woman. ‘I can take you somewhere safe, where you can get cleaned up and get some rest and a drink. Are you happy with that idea?’
She shot him a nervous glance. Doubt in her eyes.
‘You can trust me.’ He took out his passport and showed it to her. ‘My name’s Ben. Ben Hope. And I don’t want to leave you here on your own. There’s someone I have to meet. Come with me. It won’t take long, and then we’ll come back to San Remo together and I’ll see you safely to your hotel. I promise.’
She hesitated, glanced again at Ben and across at the launch. She bit her lip in indecision. Then she looked back at the fallen knife, and shuddered visibly. That seemed to make up her mind. ‘I’m Kerry,’ she said. ‘Kerry Wallace. And if you’re sure it’s all right, I’ll come with you.’
‘You’re doing the right thing, Kerry,’ Ben said. ‘You’ll be OK.’
The launch pilot was heading towards the walkway, glancing down in their direction. The guy returned Ben’s wave.
Kerry was still a little unsteady on her feet. She brushed her hair back nervously, and Ben saw how pale her face was. Carrying her bag, he guided her gently across the beach and up the steps to the walkway. His jacket was lying crumpled on the hot concrete. He picked it up and handed it to her. ‘You should cover up. You’ve had a shock.’
She accepted the jacket gratefully and pulled it around her shoulders. ‘You’re kind. Thank you so much.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry it had to happen to you.’
They met the launch pilot on the walkway. He smiled broadly. ‘Mr Hope?’
Ben replied that he was.
‘I am Thierry,’ the man said breezily. His accent was unplaceable, somewhere between French and Scandinavian. ‘I am to pick you up and bring you to the Scimitar.’ He glanced at Kerry. ‘I was told you would be alone.’
Ben shook his head. ‘This is Kerry Wallace. She’s with me.’
Thierry shrugged. ‘No problem. This way, please.’
They followed him up the jetty towards the bobbing launch. ‘Are you sure this is all right?’ Kerry whispered to Ben.
‘As long as you’re happy with it.’
‘I don’t have to be anywhere. I was just out walking, enjoying the sunshine.’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without your help.’
‘Don’t think about it,’ he told her. ‘You’ll feel shaky for a while, but it’ll pass.’
Thierry fired up the boat engines as they climbed aboard. Kerry settled herself gingerly into a bench at the stern while Ben sat up front. The twin propellers churned up the water, and the launch powered away from the jetty and back out across the harbour.
After a couple of minutes Ben was watching the San Remo coastline shrink away and sink out of sight below the flat blue horizon. Thierry was taciturn, so he didn’t bother trying to engage him in talk. Kerry sat quietly, still a little pale, holding his jacket tight around her shoulders as she gazed out to sea. Ben kept a watchful eye on her, looking out for signs of shock.
Twenty more minutes went by. The sea was flat and calm, a vast blue expanse stretching out as far as the eye could see all around them. The launch skipped gracefully over the water, sending up a light bow wave. Ben was gazing back idly at the frothy wake, deep in thought, when Thierry’s voice broke in on his reverie.
‘There she is. The Scimitar’
Ben turned to look. He’d been expecting an impressive yacht, but the sight of the enormous, sleek white vessel lying at anchor a few hundred yards across the water made him draw a sharp breath. The Scimitar was quite simply the biggest yacht he’d ever seen, her superstructure rising up as tall as a mansion on three stacked decks, the dappled reflection of the water shimmering along the huge length of her glittering white hull.
Thierry seemed pleased at his reaction. ‘Beautiful, no? Fifty-four metres. What they call a superyacht.’
‘And she belongs to Harry Paxton?’
Thierry’s smile spread into a grin. ‘You are kidding. He is not just the owner. He designed and built her. She is the flagship of the Paxton Enterprises fleet.’
The giant tri-deck yacht towered above them, dwarfing the motor launch as Thierry guided it around to the rear of the vessel and docked up. Ben gave Kerry an arm and helped her step up onto the boarding platform that jutted out a couple of feet above the whispering water. He followed her up a flight of steps to the lower aft deck. A couple of crewmen welcomed them aboard, shooting discreet but curious glances at Ben’s companion.
Ben looked around him and tried not to be blown away by the opulence of his surroundings. He’d spent time in the homes of some extremely wealthy clients in the past, and stayed in some of the world’s most overblown hotels. None of it meant much to him personally, but he had a pretty clear idea what luxury felt like. And the lower aft deck of the Scimitar had more luxury per square inch than anything he’d ever seen. The gleaming floor was some kind of exotic hardwood. The long outdoor dining table was set for twelve. The Jacuzzi could accommodate twice that many. Ben could only guess at what the two decks above him looked like, let alone the interior.
A set of double doors swung open and a tall woman in a crisp white blouse and jeans walked up. ‘Hi, Mr Hope. I’m Marla Austin.’