“You took your time.”
“You’ve had new fucking codes installed on the armoury. I had to break in. New Year’s Eve? Hello?”
Nikolas smiled. “Do not swear at me, Benjamin. It is good to see you, though.”
“What’s the situation?”
Nikolas was relieving the guard of his weapon and checking it over. Ben handed him a handgun and a knife as well, slightly surprised at how professionally Nikolas was handling the rifle. “They have everyone in the drawing room. Philipa and eight guests. Ibrahim Allouni, his brother, and they have four men with them that I have seen.”
“Two now.”
Nik smiled. “Good. They will know I am gone very soon and realise that you are here. I do not think they were convinced by my call to you.”
“Yeah, well, you said please. Totally suspicious.” Ben turned to the door. “Why don’t we give them what they want?”
Nikolas froze. “You?”
“Go down and offer me for all the hostages. You drive them out, and I celebrate the New Year by finishing off the rest of the Allouni family.”
“No.”
“It’s what you’ve trained us—”
“I said no.”
“Sir, it’s standard operating—”
“I do not care about standard operating procedures, Benjamin. This is
you
. Come, I have an idea.”
“But—”
Nikolas came right up to him. “Shut the fuck up for once, and do as I say.”
Ben shut up.
Nikolas led the way cautiously back to the second floor and toward the oldest part of the house. He moved like a cat, silent and graceful. Ben couldn’t help an inappropriate surge of desire, or his thoughts spiralling to how he would like to explore that innate grace. They entered a bedroom, working as a silent, effective team. Ben’s eyes swept the room, and he knew immediately despite the dark that it was Nikolas’s. It was austere but intensely personal at the same time, like the man. The furniture was minimalist, bleached woods and white coverings, one wall covered in black-and-white photographs of, as far as Ben could see, empty, windswept beaches. “Stop gawping and help me, Benjamin.”
Ben came back to himself, frowning, as he helped Nikolas move a large bookcase. Behind it there was a panel, which Nikolas slid to one side, revealing a dark space beyond. “Priest hole.”
Ben chuckled. “I’ve always avoided priests’ holes, especially in my bedroom—hell and damnation and all that.”
“And Benjamin manages the inappropriate comment.” But Nikolas was smiling as he spoke. They stepped in, crouching, and Nikolas slid the panel back.
Ben murmured, “Great plan. We hide up here until everyone gets bored and goes home?”
Nikolas snorted and began to press on the back wall. There was a click as he turned on a flashlight, and then the wall slid to one side, revealing a long passage. Ben shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding. Where are Timmy and George? What will Julian say?”
“I do not understand that ref—”
“Never mind. Where’s this lead?”
“Eventually to the beach. It is how French brandy was smuggled in and possibly in earlier times Roman Catholics out.”
“Fuck me.”
Nikolas began to walk down the passage. “Don’t worry, Benjamin. When we have resolved this minor inconvenience, I have every intention of doing just that.”
The passage came to some stairs and they went down, silent now and focused. Suddenly, Ben heard voices, Arabic. He caught Nikolas’s arm, leant right up to his ear, and whispered, “They’re talking about one of your guests. They think they recognise him but can’t work out where from.”
Nikolas turned and mirrored Ben’s actions, pressing his lips to Ben’s ear. “Benjamin, thank you for that insight, but I speak eight languages fluently. Arabic is one of them.” Their faces were pressed close, the terrorists only feet away behind a layer of stone, but Ben couldn’t have resisted if Satan and all his minions had been there. He caught Nikolas’s face and pressed him to the wall in a searing kiss. Adrenaline pumped through him. He hardened with a stab of desire. Nikolas caught his hair and held on, returning the kiss with equal passion, but then he pulled away and laid one finger on Ben’s lips, either in admonition or promise. Ben lowered his head and nodded in obedience to either. The passage descended once more, this time the steps little more than niches in the wall. They descended for a long time, the voices well behind them now. Then the way was blocked. Nikolas pressed, and a huge wine rack slid smoothly from the wall on pre-prepared tracks. They were in the cellar. Nikolas nodded to another rack.
“Behind that leads to the river. High tide, and it is partially flooded, but it was used for smuggling for centuries.”
“Is it still useable?”
“Yes.”
“I still think—”
“No.” Nikolas turned away from him and glanced up the stairs toward the main house. “We need a diversion. Something to draw their men away.” Suddenly they heard shouting although the words were indistinct. Ben swore.
“They must have discovered you’re missing.”
“And know that you are now here.”
“I have my phone, sir. Why don’t we just call—?”
“No!” Ben was surprised. Nikolas gritted his teeth then said, “We have an important visitor, Benjamin. He must not be compromised.” Ben gave him a blank look. Nikolas winced, but added reluctantly, “A senior Royal.”
“What the fuck! Where’s his protection? Even more reason to call our p—”
“He is here in a private capacity.
Very
private.”
Ben swore. “I don’t under—”
“Benjamin, he is here to fuck my wife, as he has been for the last ten years we have been married. You talk of shadow dance and pretend, but you are a child to these things. He is…He must
not
be compromised.”
Ben held his gaze. “This is all a sham? Your marriage?”
Nikolas tore his eyes away. “What would you have me say?”
“The truth?”
“All right. Then here is the truth.
I am
the shadow dance, Benjamin.
I am
the cover—for them. I enable all this…” He waved his hands at the house, the respectability, the seclusion. “She is the mistress of the heir to the throne, and I am— Ack, I do not have a word for it in English or Danish. I am sorry.” He appeared humiliated as if admitting fault to Ben was too much for him.
Ben couldn’t have that. He punched Nik lightly in the shoulder. “Try Arabic. I hear they’ve got lots of good words for the likes of you and me.”
Nikolas smiled ruefully and ran his fingers through his hair in his familiar calming gesture. “So, basically, we have a problem.”
“Houston.”
“I don’t—”
“Never mind. Yeah. I’d say we have a problem. Heir to the throne upstairs, his much younger, pregnant wife is back at the ranch about to give birth.”
“Exactly.”
“Wow.” He looked up thoughtfully. “And she was his nanny?”
“Don’t.” But Nikolas had begun to laugh. It was so unexpected and so uncharacteristic, such a beautiful sound, that Ben began to laugh with him. They both stopped dead when a shot rang out followed by screaming and a thump.
“Fuck.”
Nikolas turned to Ben. “Diversion.”
“Fire.”
They pulled bottles of whisky off the shelves and broke them over straw from the wine crates. Silently, they went up the steps to the door that led out into the spacious hall. They pushed their alcohol-soaked straw against the wood, opened the door a crack and set it all alight. Swiftly, they ran back into the hidden passage, closed the fake wine rack over the gap, and went up and into the priests’ hole, emerging in the bedroom. By the time they made it to the gallery landing overlooking the hall, there were shots and the sound of men’s footsteps. They peered through the banister to see two men trying to put out the fire. It was the work of moments to dispatch them both with silenced shots to the head and chest.
It was time to turn from the defensive to the offensive. Ben felt something move deep within his belly—some final barrier to feeling he’d erected to protect himself. He rested his forehead on Nikolas’s. “I— Damn it! I want to tell you that I love you, but I can’t bloody well say it. I’ve never said it to anyone.”
“And I have never heard it from anyone. But one day, I would like to hear it from you. Stay safe, Benjamin.” They rose and ran down into the hallway.
§§§
Ben was shot in the thigh and went down, but he rolled behind a large clock for cover, waving Nikolas on into the drawing room. Nikolas went down, and for a minute Ben’s heart almost stopped, but he saw the other man come out of the roll and begin shooting. Usama was behind the smouldering door to the basement. Ben sent a volley of shots towards him and made to follow Nikolas, but another bullet caught him in the shoulder, chipping the bone. He went down, saw Usama move into a better position, brought up his gun and shot him dead. In incredible pain, he pulled himself up and limped into the drawing room, flattening himself behind the door. Nikolas was kneeling by a bloodied body.
Ben scanned the room with his gun sight. Nikolas said, “Allouni’s not here.”
The dead man at Nikolas’s feet had been shot execution style. “Is it…?” Nikolas shook his head and flicked his eyes over to a couple by the Christmas tree. Ben instantly recognised the man holding Philipa. He was smaller and oddly balder than he looked on television.
Suddenly, they heard a car. Nikolas left the dead body and they went to the door, Ben now struggling, dragging his leg. Ibrahim Allouni was reversing one of the Range Rovers, hitting other cars as he tried to turn. Nikolas and Ben laid down fire, but the vehicle’s strengthened sides and windscreen resisted their firepower. Suddenly, the car shuddered to a halt. It had hit the body of the dog, and the driver, obviously used to driving automatics, stalled the vehicle. Ben ran to one side, Nikolas to the other, and before Allouni could pick up his weapon, he had a muzzle pressed to his temple. He smiled slightly and laid his head back against the headrest, turning to look at Ben. “Mr Rider. I believe you now owe me another relative. Do you have another house I can burn?” His eyes flicked to Ben’s trigger finger, a smirk playing on his lips. “I have diplomatic immunity, as you are very well aware.” He saw something in Ben’s expression and added hastily, his guttural accent now mangling his English, “We come to an arrangement here, no? I am very powerful, wealthy…”
Nikolas spoke for the first time behind Ben’s shoulder. “We might need the money, Benjamin. Do not dismiss this offer lightly.”
Ben frowned, not taking his eyes off his target. “Why do we need—?”
Nikolas leant around him and shot Allouni in the face. “To pay for cleaning the leather.”
It was only as he watched Allouni’s body falling, bloodying the cream leather, that Ben realised it was snowing, and he could hear the faint sound of fireworks in the air. He tipped his head back and caught some flakes on his tongue. Nikolas watched him for a moment then said ironically, “Happy New Year, Benjamin.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ben didn’t see Nikolas again for two months. He had surgery on his leg and shoulder and was in a cast recuperating, yet again, in another ridiculously expensive hotel. This one was in the country with a view of the sea. He wasn’t sure if Sir Nikolas bloody Mikkelsen was being ironic in this choice, but as he never made contact, he couldn’t be asked.
At the end of two months, Ben was declared fit for action and released back to the department’s own physios. He immediately skipped the first scheduled session and went for a long run, tears streaming down his face at the pain everywhere but remembering that agony was, apparently, his dream.
The second day, he went into the office. The head of the department was now temporarily a secondment from the less secretive, main Intelligence Agency. Ben had an hour’s interview without coffee, during which he was unable to ask about Nikolas. As soon as it was over, however, he sought out the typing pool, the quaint name retained for the now highly sophisticated computer services department, and a woman there he had once dated. Kate knew all the useful and interesting information he needed. Nikolas was on extended leave of absence; he’d not resigned, but was considering his options.