The Heretic’s Treasure. Scott Mariani

Ben replied. ‘Her name’s Kerry Wallace. I don’t have a room number. Could you call her for me, please?’

      The receptionist grunted, chucked down his paper and started leafing through the old-fashioned register on the desk in front of him. He flipped a few pages back and forth, peering through the dusty glasses at the columns of names.

      He looked up. ‘There is no Kerry Wallace here.’

      ‘She’s checked out?’

      ‘No, Signore, there is no Kerry Wallace on the register. We have had no guest of that name.’

      ‘She was here two hours ago. I saw her come in. Were you on duty then?’

      The man’s brow wrinkled with annoyance. He glared heavily at Ben. ‘I think perhaps you have the wrong hotel, Signore’

      Ben glared back at him. ‘No, this is the right place. You’re making a mistake.’

      The receptionist let out an exasperated huff. He spun the register around on the counter. ‘See for yourself.’

      Ben ran his eye down the open pages. Frowned. Flipped a page. Scanned down the names. Flipped another page. Checked the dates going back a month. The guy was right. Nobody called Kerry Wallace, or Miss K. Wallace, or anything remotely resembling her name, had checked into the hotel.

      ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you,’ he said to the receptionist. ‘My mistake.’

      The man grunted again and flapped his newspaper back up in front of his face.

      Ben left the hotel, puzzled. Had he got it wrong? He’d seen her walk in there. It was perplexing. He thought about it for a moment, and shrugged. A woman on her own, getting into trouble with men chasing her: maybe she’d wanted to be cautious and had given him a false name. But then again, she’d trusted him enough to go off to a strange yacht with him.

      What the hell. It didn’t matter that much. As long as she was safe. He had enough on his mind without worrying about Kerry Wallace.

      He looked at his watch. He still had quite a while before he had to head back to the harbour for his dinner rendezvous on board the Scimitar. He walked on. It was warm and close, and dark clouds were beginning to gather overhead. The burning electric smell of a coming thunderstorm hung in the air.

      He turned into the street where his hotel was, and the tall white building came into view a hundred yards further on. As he walked, he threw a casual glance to his right at a second-hand bookshop. It had a striped awning and stands of old hardbacks sitting out on the pavement. He’d always been drawn to those kinds of places, and sometimes when he was in Paris he’d spend a whole afternoon browsing around the bookshops by the Seine. It took him into a different world, helped him to forget the real one.

      He glanced inside the shop. It was shady and inviting, and for a moment he was tempted to go inside, but decided against it. This wasn’t the time.

      Just as he was about to walk on, he noticed something inside the shop.

      Someone inside the shop, browsing the shelves of dusty hardbacks.

      She was wearing cream cotton trousers and a light blue silk blouse that accentuated the colour of her eyes and the gold of her hair. She turned to face him.

      It was Zara Paxton.

      Ben felt a surge of anger at the way his heart jumped when he saw her. He did his best to cover it up, and walked towards her with a smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, what a surprise,’ she laughed. ‘I was shopping in the town, and I remembered this little bookshop. It’s got a good poetry section.’ She waved the book she was holding. ‘I found this. Samuel Taylor Coleridge.’

      ‘It’s good to see you,’ he replied uncertainly.

      ‘Good to see you too.’

      He stood there for a second, feeling awkward. ‘I’ve decided what I’m going to do,’ he said. ‘I’m taking the job. Going to Cairo.’

      ‘Harry will be so pleased. It’s kind of you to help him.’

      Another silence. ‘Well, see you this evening, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll be staying overnight on board, and I guess I’m leaving in the morning.’

      ‘Ben, do you fancy going for a drive? I could show you the town,’ Zara said suddenly as he was about to turn away. She looked down at her feet, tugged at a lock of her hair. ‘If you feel like it, that is, and you’ve got some time. My car’s just around the corner.’

      He hesitated, nodded. ‘Why not?’

      She talked animatedly as they walked-a little too animatedly, he thought. Like she was nervous. So was he, and he didn’t like the feeling. He worried that his answers to what she was saying were monosyllabic and trite. But the harder he tried to relax around her, the more he felt choked, and hated himself for it. I shouldn’t have agreed to this, he thought desperately.

      ‘This is it,’ she said, pointing at a sleek black BMW Z4 Roadster convertible at the side of the street. She tossed her handbag in the back of the open-top car, bleeped the locks and they settled into the cream leather seats. She twisted the ignition and the engine rasped into life. As she put the lever in first gear, her hand brushed his. It was only the slightest contact, but she drew her hand away as though she’d touched a hotplate. She blushed. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘My fault,’ he said, and cringed at his reply. Jesus, Hope.

      They drove for a while, and she pointed out various architectural features of San Remo town. He listened, nodded, feigned interest. But he was more interested in her, and he felt bad about it. He shouldn’t be here. This was all wrong.

      But after a few miles around San Remo and its outskirts, something else was beginning to crowd his thoughts. Most normal civilians would have no way of telling when a professional surveillance team was following them. But Ben Hope was no normal civilian. He’d spent almost half his life watching his back, and a well-developed knowledge of surveillance techniques, coupled with a sixth sense for when he was being watched, was a combination he knew he could pretty much rely on.

      Back in the streets after Kerry’s hotel, he hadn’t been so sure of it. Just a feeling. Then, when the big Suzuki Hayabusa motorcycle had passed three times as he walked, he’d started taking more notice. The rider was wearing a black leather jacket and full-face helmet with a tinted black visor, and he couldn’t be sure-but it looked like a woman riding the bike.

      When the dark blue Fiat slipped into the traffic behind Zara’s Roadster and sat on their tail for three full kilometres, staying back in the traffic, trying too hard to make it look casual, he knew what was happening. The bright sunlight playing on the windscreen blotted out the faces inside. Two men, he thought. Who were they, and what did they want?

      She noticed him looking in the driver’s mirror. ‘Something wrong?’

      ‘Not exactly wrong,’ he said. ‘But not exactly right. Someone’s following us.’

      She looked at him in surprise, then peered in the mirror, frowning with concern. ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Pretty sure.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘I was wondering that myself.’

      ‘What should we do?’

      ‘We could stop the car, get out, walk back to that coffee bar we just passed, sit tight and see what happens. Or we could act stupid and try to lose them, in which case they’ll know we know.’

      ‘Who cares what they know?’ she said. ‘I’ll lose them.’

      ‘You think?’

      ‘Hold tight.’ She dropped down two gears and the engine note soared as she pressed hard on the gas. Ben felt himself pressed back into his seat. A gap opened up in the traffic ahead and