The Cassandra Sanction (42 page)

Two hundred kilometres to cover. No time to do it in.

Ben clutched the tiny racing wheel and got ready for the wildest drive of his life.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Maxwell Grant had the box taken away by the same guard who’d brought it. ‘Now you understand,’ he told Catalina. ‘You really are completely on your own.’

She was still shuddering from the horror of what she’d seen, and her stomach was cramping so badly she had to clutch at it. It was all she could do not to vomit. ‘I should have killed you,’ she whispered.

‘Life
is full of missed opportunities,’ Grant replied with a smile. ‘You had your chance. Fluffed it.’

‘Don’t start feeling too safe. If I don’t come back, my brother won’t rest until you get what’s coming.’

‘I’m well aware of Raul’s fiery temperament,’ Grant said. ‘It seems to run in the family, doesn’t it? It would have been so much easier for him if he’d simply accepted that his sister had
committed suicide, as your parents and everyone else did. He could just have gone on living the same simple schoolteacher’s life in that peaceful little town. Married a nice girl and raised a family, and lived to a ripe old age.’

Catalina stared at him with a boiling hatred she’d never thought herself capable of.

‘You look at me as if I were the villain here,’ Grant said, spreading his
hands in earnestness. ‘If we believed for a second your brother could be reasoned with, don’t you think we’d do anything we possibly could to avert further grief to your family? Reckless behaviour like his just forces our hand. He’s brought it all on himself. For heaven’s sake, I’m running a business here. I can’t have a wild man running loose and bringing on board mercenaries to decimate my employees.’

It took Catalina a moment to realise who Grant was referring to. ‘Ben isn’t a mercenary. He’s Raul’s friend.’

‘Then God help Raul. Men like this Hope don’t have friends. They’re loyal only to the highest bidder. All it would take to turn him against your beloved brother would be a pocketful of money. And money’s something we have no shortage of.’

‘You don’t know him,’ she said. ‘He
wouldn’t do that.’

‘Actually, I think we have a rather better idea than you do. We know all there is to know about your Major Benedict Hope. And if you knew even half of the bloody little exploits he was involved in during his time on the dark side of Special Forces, things so ugly that the records don’t even officially exist, then believe me, you’d be more afraid of him than you are of us.
He’s the kind of killer who gives killers a bad name.’

‘Then you should be afraid too,’ she said.

‘Though, strangely, I’m not,’ Grant replied. He looked at his watch. ‘Now, as much as I’m enjoying your company, I have some calls to make before our visitor arrives. He’ll be here in less than an hour. In the meantime, my men will show you to a guest room, where you can freshen up and prepare
yourself for your journey later.’

The nonchalant way he said it chilled her through. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.

He smiled. ‘It’s a surprise.’

The guards escorted Catalina through the sumptuous villa and up a marble staircase to a first-floor bedroom, where they pushed her inside and locked the door. Peeping through the keyhole, she could see one of them standing sentry outside.
Moments later, a second stationed himself below the window, armed with a black rifle-like weapon and cutting off any chance she might have had of climbing down the ivied wall and escaping over the lawns.

Feeling hollow and too utterly exhausted even to cry, Catalina went into the adjoining ensuite bathroom and washed the blood from her wounded hand. A first aid kit had been left out for her,
with the bandages pre-cut into strips and the scissors removed. She could see nothing else that might work as an improvised weapon. Not unless she smashed the mirror and turned a piece of broken glass into a knife. In which case, the best thing to do with it might just be to cut her own throat.

Catalina stood for a long time and stared at the mirror, and seriously thought about it.

No.
Whatever happened, whatever awful thing they had in store for her, she had to preserve her dignity to the last.

She went back into the bedroom and slumped on the bed. ‘I’m so sorry, Raul,’ she said out loud. ‘I tried. I really did.’

At that moment, the Lamborghini was hurtling along the autostrada like a bright yellow rocket fired from a launcher. Ben was frantically overtaking everything
in front of him, his reflexes working right on the edge of sensory overload as the speedometer flirted with heights of over three hundred kilometres an hour. At that howling, screaming mad speed he couldn’t snatch his eyes off the road to glance in the rearview mirror for more than a tiny fraction of a second. When he did, he kept expecting to see distant blue lights flashing in his wake. He must
have triggered a thousand speed traps already, and it was just a question of time before the Polizia Stradale decided to hook and reel him in. Let them even try.

Speeding west from Brindisi, he’d sliced diagonally across the heel of Italy from coast to coast. Now he was curving southwards and skirting the Gulf of Táranto, which meant he was almost halfway to where he needed to be, and still
not going fast enough, not even in a road-going missile that he’d learned from practical experience could accelerate from a standstill to two hundred kilometres an hour in under seven and a half seconds.

Two big articulated long-haul freight trucks were up ahead, coming up so quickly that they could have been standing still, or even reversing towards him. He swore as one of them pulled out
lazily into the overtaking lane to lumber past the other, taking its time. Two abreast, they filled the road right in Ben’s path, and he had neither the luxury nor the intention of slowing down for them.

A racing downshift of the six-speed box, and the all-wheel drive bit down even harder on the road and the mid-mounted V12 engine howled behind him as he stamped down on the pedal and aimed
the nose of the car right for the gap. It felt like diving a fighter jet into a canyon tight enough to scrape his wingtips on both sides. For a terrifying moment, the looming sides of the trucks were like huge walls closing in on him and he didn’t think he was going to make it. He gritted his teeth and kept his foot down hard, and then he was through and screaming out the other side and leaving them
behind like two children’s toys shrinking in his mirror.

Another life gone. It was a good way to keep the heart in shape.

The first rule of strategic planning was to have some kind of plan. Ben had none. None at all. He didn’t know what he was going into. He didn’t know what he was going to find when he got there. He didn’t even know if he was going to get there in time. All he knew was
that he had to keep moving like a rifle bullet. Nothing could be allowed to stop him. They could put up a roadblock, and it wouldn’t even slow him down. They could call in an air strike, a tank division or a long-range massed artillery barrage to blow up the damn road under his wheels. And even then, he’d keep going.

‘Hold on, Catalina,’ he muttered. But the howl of the engine and the blast
of the wind ripped the words out of his mouth.

He was going to find her again. And when he did find her, dead or alive, then somebody was going to have a very, very bad day.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

When Catalina heard the sound of the approaching helicopter, she rose from the bed and went over to the window. The guard was still on sentry duty down below, but now he was facing the grounds of the villa to watch the sleek silver chopper come in to land.

It came in over the trees and descended over the lawns, coming to rest at the centre of a circle of grass flattened
by the downdraught of its rotors. As the skids touched down, the pilot slackened off the throttle. Moments later, Catalina saw the hatch open and the passenger step down. Maxwell Grant and two of his men she hadn’t seen before came from the house to meet the visitor.

He was small, thin, and even at a distance he appeared much older than Grant. Old, but not bent. His white hair was blowing
in the wind from the chopper. He was wearing a dark suit. Grant had put on a navy blazer and a tie, as a mark of respect for his superior. Watching, Catalina noticed that it wasn’t returned. When Grant offered a handshake, the old man ignored it and instead started leading the way towards the house, as if he naturally assumed command of the situation.

She wondered who he was, and couldn’t
help but shudder.

Her door lock clicked open, and the guard who’d been standing out in the corridor stepped into the room and motioned for her to come with him. Catalina followed him in silence, as composed as she could make herself act. It was the walk to the gallows. There was nothing else she could do. Run and hide somewhere in the villa?

The guard led her back downstairs to a different
room, showed her inside without a word and closed the door behind her. Maxwell Grant was waiting for her there, together with the old man from the helicopter.

The visitor looked even older, close up. He was half Grant’s width and stood no taller than his shoulder. His thinning white hair was slicked and patted back into place. He was gazing dispassionately, yet intently at her with pale eyes
that never blinked. A bloodless little smile crinkled the corners of his mouth.

‘So you’re Maxwell’s boss,’ she said, forcing the tremor out of her voice. ‘I was expecting someone a little more impressive. Less moribund.’

The old man stepped forward. He seemed to disregard Grant’s presence completely, like an underling of such lowly status as to barely exist. ‘My name is Braendlin,’ he
said, in a voice as dry as sand and devoid of any kind of accent. It wasn’t English, and it wasn’t American, and it wasn’t European or South African or from anywhere else. As if the old man had no nationality at all, and belonged on some transcendent plane where those concepts were immaterial.

‘I’m here on behalf of my group of associates,’ he continued, ‘the rest of whom weren’t able to make
it at such short notice. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Cassandra. One that, regrettably, is destined to be short-lived.’ A twinkle appeared in those pale eyes, but it wasn’t one of warmth or charm.

Cassandra.
For a moment, Catalina thought he was getting her name wrong, and had the strange impression of being a small child again, meeting an elderly and slightly demented
grandfather who had trouble remembering. But then she realised it was no mistake.

‘What did you call me?’

The thin smile again. ‘It’s the name on your file. Rather apt. A little too apt, in fact, which was why I personally didn’t give it my vote when it was first proposed. It’s less than perfect intelligence tradecraft for a codename to reveal even a hint of the nature of an operation.
But there it is. Times change.’

‘Operation? Intelligence? Who the hell
are
you?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not for me to say. I’m here simply to verify that the person standing before me is indeed the individual known to us as Cassandra. Some things are too important to take anyone’s word for.’ Braendlin threw a brief glance back at Grant, acknowledging his presence for the first time since Catalina
had entered the room. Grant shifted uncomfortably.

Catalina felt a surge of emotions rising up inside her that she couldn’t stem. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she burst out. ‘What harm did any of us ever do to you people?’

Braendlin looked at her coldly. ‘Are you asking me for an explanation?’ He considered for a moment, then made a small gesture and said, ‘Very well. I’m a believer
in granting the condemned man – or woman, as the case may be – a final wish before sentence is carried out. I can understand that as assiduous a seeker of knowledge as you wouldn’t want to depart this earth without knowing why. So let me explain, and in the process perhaps help you to understand the necessity of these very unfortunate circumstances.’

He paused, the pale eyes unflinching, seeming
to peer right through her. ‘First, let me tell you a story. It’s one you’re no doubt already familiar with, being an educated woman. Cassandra was a princess of Troy. Daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, sister of Paris. Blessed by the god Apollo with the gift of prophecy – or by mystical snakes, if you prefer to go with that version of the tale. Either way, the legend tells that Cassandra
was able to foretell the future. This was a talent that she tried to put to good use when the besieging Greek army, defeated in their attempts to take the city of Troy, resorted to ruse and deception. When the Trojans woke up one morning to find the Greek forces gone and, left behind in their place outside their fortified gates, an enormous wooden horse, they took it as a peace offering from their
enemies and wanted to bring it inside their walls. Cassandra, thanks to her gift, knew better. She realised what the Greeks were really up to, and that a unit of enemy soldiers was hiding inside the horse, waiting for the right moment to slip out and open the gates for the whole Greek army to storm the city. Naturally, she felt obliged to tell the people what she knew, and warned them that on
no account should they bring the wooden horse inside.

‘But in addition to being gifted, Cassandra was also cursed. After she fell out of favour with Apollo, he cast a spell on her that nothing she foretold would ever be believed. For that reason, many of the Trojan people considered her to be insane, and they refused to listen to her warning. She was ignored, ridiculed, prevented from exposing
the truth. Ultimately she would go on to suffer abduction, rape and eventually murder. Not a very nice end for a princess. Things would have gone far better for her, had she kept her mouth shut.’

‘But she was right,’ Catalina said. ‘She knew the truth. She had to say so.’

Braendlin nodded. ‘She was indeed right, as the doubters soon found out when the Greeks’ deception succeeded and the
sack of Troy swiftly ensued. She should have been the heroine, the celebrated saviour of her people. But fortune isn’t always kind to the hero. That’s true of real life, as well as of mythology. Cassandra paid a heavy price for being the original whistleblower.’