The Forgotten Holocaust. Scott Mariani

critically important to carry off right than the first. By now his shock and surprise would have worn off. He’d be ready to talk business. There was a lot riding on this for him, too.

      He might even be so eager to talk business that he’d tried calling her while she’d been with Ben. There’d been no message from him earlier – but there might be one now. As she strode over the pebbles, she dipped her hand in her bag for the leather pouch in which she kept her personal BlackBerry and the untraceable, cheap prepaid Samsung she’d bought especially for her plan.

      She stopped.

      The pouch wasn’t there.

      ‘No! No!’ She rummaged urgently in the bag. Definitely gone. Where the hell was it?

      Only one place it could be. Ben’s cottage, still lying there on the floor.

      She remembered picking up the items that had fallen from her bag. Make-up, mirror, hairbrush, purse. What about the pouch? Now that she thought about it, she’d no recollection of picking it up. That’s what you get for drinking all that whisky, she thought angrily. It must have slipped under the sofa or something, and her wits had been too astray to notice.

      Kristen looked at her watch. Damn it. Nine minutes to ten. She had time to make it back to the cottage, but there was no way she’d reach the privacy of her room at the guesthouse in time to make the call.

      She’d have to make it from Ben’s place after all. Maybe she could lock herself in the bathroom, get him to put some music on so he wouldn’t overhear her conversation. This phone call was definitely not one she wanted anyone else to listen in on, even accidentally.

      But she had no choice, and nobody to blame but herself. She turned and started heading impatiently back in the direction of the cottage. She hadn’t gone far before she noticed the black Range Rover again.

      It had been driving slowly along the empty lane in the distance, in the same direction she was walking. Kind of meandering along, as if the driver were taking their time to drink in the sea view. Or as if they were lost and looking for someone to ask for help. Now that she’d doubled back the opposite way, it had U-turned, pulled right off the tarmac and was bouncing diagonally in her direction across the uneven grassy ground between the lane and the beach. The sinking sun reflected on its shiny black metal.

      She turned to peer back at it as she walked. There was no question that the Range Rover was following her. Should she stop? She couldn’t help them, not being local. And she was in too much of a hurry. In any case, some instinct told her to keep walking, told her something about the vehicle wasn’t quite right. A frisson of worry went down her back.

      The Range Rover kept coming, constantly correcting its course across the grass, as if tracking her, just thirty yards behind and catching up rapidly. As it reached the edge of the grass and began crunching over the pebbly beach, Kristen really began to worry. She suddenly felt quite sober.

      Something’s wrong here, she told herself. Something is very wrong.

      The driver’s intentions were clear. They meant to cut her off before she could get to the cottage. Her heart began to race in panic. What did they want from her? Thoughts of abduction, rape, or worse, flew through her mind. She broke into a run.

      Ben’s cottage was almost in sight up ahead.

      The Range Rover’s engine growled and it accelerated after her, its tyres crunching, spitting pebbles left and right. Kristen reached the rocky part of the path. She tripped over a boulder and nearly fell. Swore and ran on. Behind her, the Range Rover lurched to a sudden halt. Its front doors swung open and two men got out. She threw a frightened glance at them over her shoulder and saw they were both staring right at her. They left the vehicle doors open and started striding quickly, purposefully, after her.

      Kristen had once got away from a man who was pestering her with a lucky kick in the groin. But this situation was something else. There was no chance she could fight them off if they caught her. They were both big, powerful-looking men. One was wearing a hooded top, the other a baseball cap. Their faces looked hard and determined.

      And whatever they wanted from her, she could be certain it wasn’t directions.

      This was for real. She was in serious trouble.

      She ran faster. Her cloth bag kept slipping down her shoulder and the computer inside slapped against her leg as she ran. She let it fall. Glanced back and let out a whimper of fear as she saw the men’s pace quicken.

      Suddenly they were sprinting after her. Without slackening his pace, one of the men bent and scooped up her fallen bag. What did they want from her? They split up, taking different lines over the rocks, one to head her off and the other to block her retreat. Hunting her like two dogs after a rabbit. If she didn’t make it to the cottage before them, the only place she could run was right into the sea.

      She raced on, her mind a blank, too terrified even to dread what they’d do if they caught her.

      The cottage was almost in sight.

       Chapter Seven

      As Ben swept fragments of broken glass into the dustpan, he was considering the wisdom of pouring himself another drink. In fact, he was contemplating opening another bottle after the remnants of this one, and keeping it company for the rest of the evening. It seemed like a very inviting prospect.

      You’ve had plenty enough already, said one part of him.

      Don’t know about that, said another.

      ‘What the hell,’ he muttered out loud. He carried the remnants of the smashed tumbler through into the kitchen, dumped it in the recycling bin with the collection of empty bottles he’d already accumulated, chucked the dustpan and brush back in the cupboard and headed back into the living room with the thought of another generous measure of cask-strength Laphroaig looming large in his mind.

      The night was young. He was just getting started.

      He reached for the bottle and poured himself the last of its contents. He put the tumbler to his lips.

      That was when he heard the sound outside.

      A woman’s scream.

      He slammed the bottle and tumbler down on the dresser and hurried over to the window. His movements weren’t perfectly coordinated and he bumped his hip against the corner of the table as he went, making a lamp sway on its pedestal. He stared out of the window and saw a figure, eighty or so yards from the cottage, running towards it for all she was worth.

      Kristen.

      Behind her, chasing her across the rocks, were two men. Both white, both fit and lean, both around Ben’s age or a little younger. One had dark hair shaved into a military-style buzz cut and wore a navy-blue jacket; the other was in a green hooded top. They were running fast. The one with the blue jacket had a distinctive cloth bag over his shoulder that Ben recognised as Kristen’s.

      Ben blinked. For an instant he just stood there, unable to react or move.

      Kristen screamed again, calling his name. Her voice was hoarse with fear. ‘Ben! Help me!’

      Suddenly spurred into action, Ben raced to the door and burst outside. Kristen was just fifty yards away now, but the men had almost caught up with her.

      He ran down the path towards the front gate, crashed it open and went bounding over the rocks towards her. He tripped on a boulder and almost went sprawling on his face. You bloody idiot, he seethed inside. Whatever the hell was happening here, this was the wrong time to be pissed.

      The men caught up with Kristen. If they’d noticed Ben racing towards the scene, it didn’t seem to put them off. The one in the navy jacket grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her violently around, then shoved her harshly to the ground. She cried out as she fell.

      Ben sprinted faster. His heart