The Cassandra Sanction (26 page)

‘And that’s all you know?’ Ben said.

‘That’s all she told me,’ McCauley replied. He paused a beat, seemed about to add more, then clammed up again.

‘There’s more, isn’t there?’
Ben said.

‘She might have mentioned a couple of names to me,’ McCauley said.

‘Names?’

‘Of people who were also involved. Three, to be more precise.’

‘Names like Sinclair, Lockhart and Ellis?’ Ben said.

McCauley went silent for the longest time. Like Catalina in the Munich hotel room, he looked as if he was trying to decide whether or not he could trust these strangers. Finally,
he looked at Raul and said, ‘You don’t believe your sister committed suicide.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ Raul said.

McCauley shook his head.

‘Neither do I,’ he said.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

‘So you know about Sinclair,’ McCauley said.

‘Just that they had to scrape him and his science expedition colleagues off a glacier,’ Ben said.

‘And Lockhart? What happened in New Zealand?’

‘What are the odds?’ Ben said. ‘Just two days apart.’

‘My feelings exactly.’ McCauley turned to Raul. ‘Mr Fuentes, I can’t tell you how shocked I was to hear the news
about your sister. I only met her that one time, but she struck me as being a very sincere and decent person.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate that,’ Raul said.

‘I’ve spent the last three months wondering what really happened. It’s been bugging me. So much so, in fact, that I’ve been neglecting two other active investigations that I’d been working on, in order to try and delve a little deeper
into this. I’ve managed to uncover a few facts that shocked me even more. Facts you most likely won’t be aware of. Under the circumstances, Mr Fuentes, you might find what I’m about to say upsetting.’

Raul nodded. ‘I understand. But nonetheless, I’d like to know.’

McCauley leaned his elbows on the table and knitted his fingers together with an air of concentration. ‘Air crashes in Greenland
are investigated by a Danish government agency, the Havarikommissionen for Civil Luftfart og Jernbane Langebjergvaenget, HCLJ for short, together with the Greenlandic police, who also operate under the auspices of Denmark. It wasn’t easy to get hold of a copy of the official report, but I can generally get hold of anything I set my sights on. It states that flight GL-4306, chartered by the Reykjavik
Ice Core Research expedition, departed from Ilulissat Airport at 10.37 hours on July eighth. It also describes how, at 08.06 hours that same morning, one of the mechanics responsible for final checks on the Piper before takeoff discovered a man inside the hangar, whom he believed to be acting suspiciously around the aircraft. When challenged, the man fled, whereupon the mechanic immediately
reported the incident to his superiors. He described the man as being medium height, medium build, between twenty-five and forty-five years of age, brown hair. In other words, he could have been anybody. No other reported sightings of him around the scene that day. The same mechanic later told the police that before flight GL-4306 took off, he witnessed a discussion between Dr Sinclair and the
pilot. It would seem that Sinclair was troubled by the incident and was highly reluctant to go up in the air.’

‘He suspected something?’ Ben said.

‘Looks that way. Whether he’d already noticed anything odd prior to that, we’ll never know. In any case, Sinclair insisted that the plane be checked once more from top to tail before takeoff, which it was. Nothing suspicious was found. But maybe
it wasn’t checked carefully enough.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that on day thirteen of the twenty-two-day crash site examination carried out by HCLJ, forensic investigators discovered traces of cyclotrimethylene trinitramine among the wreckage of the aircraft’s tail section.’ McCauley pulled a grim smile at Ben. ‘If my guess is right about you, that might sound familiar.’

‘Chemical
residue from RDX high explosive,’ Ben said. His SAS team had used so much of the damned stuff to blow up everything from buildings to armoured troop carriers that he could still smell it.

‘They bombed the plane?’ Raul said.

‘I don’t think the expedition was packing it for blasting out ice core samples, do you?’ McCauley replied. ‘Now, isn’t it interesting how that little detail was never
reported anywhere else, and never found its way into the media? In fact, it was brushed over even in the official report. HCLJ seemed more interested in the weather conditions. The verdict: that “adverse crosswind conditions, gusting to forty knots, led to a flight course deviation and an accelerated rate of descent, causing the pilot to lose directional control”.’

‘Turbulence,’ Ben said.
‘That’s their conclusion?’

‘Neat little bit of bullshit, don’t you think?’ McCauley gave another cold smile. ‘Now, let’s turn to the James Lockhart murder in New Zealand, two days later. Again, I was able to pull a few strings, call in a couple of favours, and get hold of a copy of the Auckland City Police report. Or should I say, both of them. I’ll explain that in a minute. It’s not quite
what you’ll read in the news. Alerted by a neighbour who heard gunshots coming from the Lockharts’ house in the middle of the night, detectives apprehended and arrested one Aidan Ruck at the scene of the crime. Ruck was armed with a nine-millimetre handgun that matched two bullets later recovered from Professor Lockhart’s body. He was also carrying a hammer that forensically fitted the cranial wound
suffered by Mrs Lockhart. Open and shut case? Think again, folks. Eight hours after his arrest, Ruck walked free. I’m not talking out on bail. He was
released without charge.
He hasn’t been heard of since. Who was he working for? Ask all you like, you won’t get any answers. There’s not a single scrap of information on him anywhere, and if I can’t find it, nobody can. Not only that, but if you
got a hold of the official police report now, three months later, you’d see that it’s been altered. The name Aidan Ruck was removed and the name of one Jess Cullen, a known Auckland drug addict and thief, inserted in its place.’ McCauley spread his hands. ‘So there you are, folks. Make of it what you will.’

Ben was silent. He glanced out of the window. Dusk was falling outside. It would be
dark soon. He no longer knew where to go.

‘It’s bad,’ Raul said.

McCauley shrugged. ‘It’s not good. A nebulous line exists somewhere between suspicious coincidence and clear evidence of a conspiracy. I’m afraid that line has been well and truly crossed. There’s no doubt in my mind that we’re dealing with a concerted and well-organised attempt to eliminate a list of targets. In particular,
a group of scientists with some kind of very dangerous secret in common. The motivation isn’t clear. But what is
very
clear to me is that whoever is behind these killings wields enormous and widespread influence. We’re talking money and power, big time. These are not the kind of people you can escape from easily.’

McCauley looked seriously at Raul. ‘I don’t think your sister killed herself.
I agree with you on that. However, when you tell me you’re
looking
for her …’

Raul stiffened. ‘Yes, so?’

‘Mr Fuentes, whatever reason you have for believing you might find her still alive, and as much as I admire your obvious faith and persistence in searching for her, you need to face the facts.’

‘You’re not the first person to tell me this,’ Raul said defensively. ‘It doesn’t change
my mind.’

‘I’m sorry,’ McCauley said to him. ‘I can only imagine how hard it must be for you, but you must accept the truth. I’ve seen cases like this before. Forgive me for being blunt, but I believe that whoever murdered Sinclair and Lockhart also murdered your sister. Some time between the tenth and fifteenth of July, they kidnapped her. They transported her, and her car, to Rügen Island.
Then they drugged her, put her in the car and pushed it over the cliff. They may have removed the body afterwards, or not, there’s no way to be sure about that part. But the rest is beyond doubt. These bastards mean business.’

‘What about Ellis?’ Ben asked.

‘What about him? He’s off the radar. If he’s still alive, he’s holed up somewhere crapping his pants.’

‘A retired astronomer who
builds telescopes in his garden shed in Brecon. How’s someone like that a threat to anybody?’

‘He didn’t always keep such a low profile,’ McCauley said. ‘And he wasn’t just an astronomer. He was a highly lauded and respected interdisciplinary scholar in his heyday. Geologist, geophysicist, astroglaciologist, cryospherologist. I had to look that one up. It’s someone who specialises in the study
of the cold parts of the Earth. Back in the late seventies, Ellis caused a stir when he claimed that glaciers were expanding at a phenomenal rate and the planet was entering a new ice age. Wrote a book about it, which sold pretty well.’

‘That’s hardly going to get him noticed now, though, is it?’ Ben said. ‘Times have moved on. Like the climate. So why him?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I’d
like to find out. You could help us track him.’

McCauley shook his head. ‘Forget it. Sorry, I don’t want to get any deeper into this than I have already. This shit’s too dangerous for me.’

‘Scared there won’t be an award in it for you?’

‘They don’t give out awards for being dead,’ McCauley said. ‘Frankly, what with you people turning up here like this today and sneaking up on me so
easily, I’m feeling vulnerable. I don’t want to end up like …’ His eyes met Raul’s and his words trailed off.

Raul stared at him. ‘Go on. Say it. Like Catalina.’

‘Look, Mr Fuentes—’

Raul clenched his teeth and his fist, and hammered the table so hard with his knuckles that the coffee mugs jumped an inch in the air. ‘Enough! I heard you the first time,
idiota
. We’re done here. I’m going
to go find my—’

Raul never finished the sentence.

Because two men had just appeared side by side in the kitchen doorway, pointing pistols at them.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The two men stepped into the room and quickly spread apart to flank the doorway. They were both about the same age, late twenties, early thirties. Both had the dead-eye look and the well-practised moves of professionals. One had the build of a runner, stringy and spare, the other was heavily bulked out from the weight room. A greyhound and a Rottweiler. The guns in their
gloved fists were Glock nine-millimetres fitted with long tubular suppressors. A useful apparatus. They didn’t quite silence the high-pressure crack of a nine-millimetre to the soft
dooophh
you heard in movies, but they did mute the decibels conveniently enough for close-up execution work indoors. The two gunmen could empty their magazines into Ben, Raul and McCauley right here, right now, and
not even the closest neighbour would hear a thing.

Raul and McCauley sat there speechless, locked rigid. Ben didn’t move either, but his mind was calm as he lucidly assessed the possibilities. Kitchens were often favourable environments for an unexpected armed confrontation, being generally well equipped with readily improvisable weaponry, and a savagely violent and swift counterattack was
nearly always the best means of defence. McCauley had a row of copper pans hanging from hooks over the kitchen counter. Ben had once killed a man with a skillet, and had learned never to underestimate the combat value of high-quality cookware. Also prominent on the kitchen counter was the usual wooden knife block, housing the most effective lethal weapons that every household in Britain possesses,
mostly without even realising it. The steel would be Sheffield, not Solingen this time. An academic distinction, under the circumstances.

But Ben knew it wouldn’t do him much good either way. The kitchen counter was a whole ten feet distant, and he was further disadvantaged by the fact that he was sitting down with the table between him and his objective. Even if by some miracle he could leap
across to the knives, rip one out and hurl it accurately and fast enough to pin one of the two guys against the wall like a butterfly to a board, all the other one had to do was twitch a finger and the fight would be over as quickly as it had begun.

Ben forgot about the knives and switched his thoughts instead to the coffee mug in front of him. A solid piece of kiln-fired clay, with a bit
of heft to it. As good as a cricket ball. A solid impact, well aimed, could shatter a nose or a cheekbone and put one enemy out of commission long enough to focus on the other. But then the other guy would still have ample time to pump four, five, six rounds into Ben. Same result.

So Ben forgot about that too, and considered the possibilities of evasion rather than resistance. The sliding
glass door looking out onto the dusky back garden was a metre from his elbow. It had a metal frame and a metal handle with a key in it. No time to open the latch. He wondered how solid the glass was. What kind of an impact it would take to get through it. How badly a person might get cut by the jagged edges of the pane before managing to escape into the falling darkness. And what the odds were of
all three of them getting through it before a shot was fired. Not great, that was for certain.

But even before Ben had given up on that option as well, two more men appeared in the back garden and came striding up to the glass window, carrying two more pistols down at their sides. Same make, same silencers. One of them rapped on the glass with the muzzle of his gun.

The Greyhound said
to McCauley, ‘Open it.’ He spoke with an American accent. His voice was calm, almost casual. You didn’t need to be jumpy and tense when you were holding all the cards. McCauley stood up and stepped over to the window to turn the key in the metal handle. The gunman who had rapped on the glass opened the latch and slid the door brusquely open, and he and his companion stepped inside.

At which
point, whatever ideas Ben might have had about resisting the invasion were reduced to less than zero. In a situation like this, four guns were considerably worse than twice as hard to fight against than two. It wouldn’t even count as a heroic death. It would be about as clever as trying to stop a runaway train by throwing yourself under the locomotive.