CHAPTER SEVEN
When Ben arrived at the pub, he was fired up and in just the right mood to make friends, influence people, and then…betray them. He spotted the little group of protesters easily enough because they were grouped around some tables they’d pushed together and were painting “Save The Badger” signs and “Vaccination Not Vivisection” posters. Ben went to the bar and spoke quietly to the landlord. “I’m down with the DEFRA guys for the badgers. There gonna be a problem with me drinking here? I don’t want to cause a fight, I just want a pint.”
“No problem with me, mate. Most of my customers are farmers. Those idiots over there buy half a lager and make it last all night. Far as I’m concerned, you can shoot all the damn badgers you want.”
“Pour a round of beers and send it over to them, will you?”
The man raised his brows but did as he was asked. At the last minute, Ben chucked on half a dozen packets of cheese and onion crisps as the tray went past him. He waited until the pleased surprise turned to disgust when the provenance of the round was discovered, and then went closer. “Peace offering. I’ve got no beef with these animals myself, I just really need this job, okay?”
“You’re nothing more than a bloody murderer.” That was from an older man busy painting one of the signs.
Julie Arthur lifted her face from a poster she was decorating with sketches of cute badger faces. She looked him over from head to toe, and Ben knew for certain she wasn’t as committed to the lesbian ideal as her bio had claimed. She winked at him then said to the old man, “Leave him be, Fred, he’s okay this one. Saved your missus today, he did.” Her pseudo-working-class accent was atrocious, but Ben forgave her. He’d enjoyed the wink.
The old man grunted, mumbling his annoyance that this young man was the one he’d had his ear bent about for some time at home. Ben pretended to look at the posters with interest. “Don’t badgers spread some disease or something? That’s what we’ve been told. All the cows are gonna die?” He pulled out his notebook and flourished his scribbles. “See? My notes from today.” He found the part he wanted. “‘The scientific evidence shows conclusively that badgers contribute significantly to bovine TB in cattle.’ I wrote that down—word for word. Can’t argue with that, can you?”
That was all it took. Within five minutes, he was sitting between Julie and Peace, being educated on the myths and lies surrounding badgers and bovine TB and plied with science, pseudo-science, and beer. Ben wasn’t making it too easy; he had an agenda, after all. He moved it forward by suddenly appearing doubtful. “Jesus, this is above my pay grade. I can’t believe we’re being told complete lies like this. I’d really like to hear a proper scientist on all this. Don’t they all support DEFRA and the cull? Culling’s been a hundred percent successful in Ireland, hasn’t it?”
They all began to shout at him at once. “No! Jesus! It’s not at all! Someone ring Sean, get him over here. Sean will tell you all about Ireland.”
Ben was pretty sure he would and wondered for a moment if he and the Maffertys had met in a previous life—over a bomb or rifle barrel, perhaps. “Sean a scientist, is he?”
“Nah, hey, give Tim a bell, too, see if he’s free tonight. Tim’s our spokesman on the telly. He knows all this stuff. He’ll set you right.”
Bingo. Ben had another beer then said he had to go. The trick was letting them think they had to work to reel him in, while the truth was he was working to reel them in. Now they were desperate for him to stay. He made his sincerest apologies, said he couldn’t afford to be late for his second day on the course, bought them all another round, and left. He’d ridden his Ducati to the pub and pulled it over in a copse of trees to check it for a tracker before returning to his hotel. He was insanely disappointed not to find Nikolas waiting for him again.
He wondered, not for the first time, what Nikolas was doing. Was he in bed with his wife? Did they actually have a sexual relationship? Ben was fairly sure they didn’t and never had. Perhaps he was being pathetically hopeful. Damn, but he wished he had a way to contact Nikolas outside his official department numbers. His phone buzzed. It was one a.m. He heaved it out of his pocket and saw a text had been received from an unrecognised number. Anyone can pretend 2 love someone, the real trick is 2 pretend not 2 love when u do.
Nikolas’s texting was as weird and unreliable as his spoken English, but Ben didn’t care. He went to bed, grinning, with warmth in his groin that he didn’t attempt to alleviate, and for the first time in weeks he didn’t fall asleep to dark thoughts of fire and death.
§§§
The second day of the course saw them learning how to use the various pieces of equipment they would need: rifles, shotguns, cages, bait, and night-vision goggles. Some badgers were to be shot directly and some caged then shot in the cages. Ben was almost enjoying his day in the countryside until they were told they had visitors, and four Range Rovers pulled up to the small copse of trees they were working in. Two men, unmistakable as Met protection, scrambled out of the front of the first, and one of them opened the back door, allowing a portly, red-faced man to get out. A young woman slid out after him, talking on a phone and making notes in a folder. Sir Monty Bancott and his PA came over to the training group, but no one was giving them much attention as another four protection officers emerged from the other vehicles, and then a figure unmistakable as the prime minister came over to join Sir Monty.
Everyone else on the course was busy greeting this important visitor, except Ben, who was watching Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen ease out of the Range Rover after the PM. The course trainer began to walk the group away toward the practise traps they’d set out over the hillside. Ben hung back. Soon enough, he was alone, standing with Nikolas. His boss was dressed, as ever, in an elegant suit, now covered by an expensive cashmere overcoat. Nikolas pushed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders to the cold. He glanced back at the Met officers who had stayed with the vehicles and were now opening thermoses and stamping around to keep warm, then turned back, catching Ben’s gaze. “Good morning, Benjamin.”
Ben grinned. “Morning, sir. Moving in important circles now, huh?”
Nikolas frowned. “You do remember that I am married to the queen’s cousin? I hardly think Dear Leader is going to make me pant with excitement just yet.”
Ben had the immediate and disconcerting image of Nikolas a few days ago panting as he lay upon him, coming inside him. He groaned softly at the memory. “No fair.”
Nikolas smiled. He appeared to have had the same thought. Then he sobered. “A packet of white powder was sent to the PM’s office yesterday. Obviously, it was intercepted and was actually harmless flour, but it disrupted government, and the PM is not happy. He is taking a personal interest in this course and its success, and thus here I am, also taking one. As if I wasn’t already, of course.”
“I think I’ll be meeting the Maffertys tonight and possibly Watson, too.”
Nikolas was silent, toeing the ground. He pouted for a while then pulled a photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Ben. It was of a bearded man kissing another man. The light was poor, and it had been taken with a telephoto lens, but it was unmistakable as Tim Watson and also pretty obvious that the kiss was more than casual. Both men were naked. “So? He’s gay.”
“Yes, and therefore vulnerable and an easier target. It has been suggested to me that you exploit it. Actually, suggestion is the wrong word. It is an order.” He pouted again a little. “Exploit is probably the wrong word, too. Maybe something beginning with an ‘f’ would be more applicable. What do you think?”
Ben dipped his head, caught Nikolas’s lowered gaze and forced him to raise it, not letting him look away. “You’re a cold fucking bastard. Do you know that, sir?”
“Yes, actually, Benjamin, I do. I have my orders—I have had my fucking orders made very clear to me all morning—and now you have yours.”
“I don’t—”
Nikolas turned away and began to walk back to the car. Ben tilted his head up to the sky, willing himself to be calm. He felt a few snowflakes on his face and shivered. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out of an inner pocket, and it was warm in his freezing hand. Dead men cant b resurrected, no matter how much life u have running thru yr veins.