Passenger 13

CHAPTER SEVEN

The twenty-one hours had already elapsed by the time Ben stepped off the plane at Owen Roberts International Airport on the island of Grand Cayman. A tiny speck on the map, the largest of the trio of islands lost in the vast expanse of ocean between Cuba to the north, Jamaica to the east and the Mexican coast some four hundred miles to the west. Tax haven to some of the world’s most rampant capitalists, centre of pilgrimage for seekers of sunshine and laid-back Caribbean cool, Mecca for thousands whose perfect vacation was to stick on diving gear and come face to face with a brightly-coloured fish. So this was Nick Chapman’s Paradise, all seventy-six square miles of it.

Ben made his way through passport control among a throng of tourists. He was glad it was low season. Stepping outside with his only luggage, a green military haversack, over his shoulder, he breathed in the warm, palm-scented breeze from the Caribbean Sea. Owen Roberts’ runway virtually overhung the beach; beyond the single terminal, which looked more like a tropical country clubhouse than an international airport, the glittering ocean was the purest and clearest crystalline blue.

At the nearby Andy’s car hire, Ben shelled out three hundred Cayman Islands dollars for a week’s rental on a silver Jeep Wrangler and headed into the islands’ capital, George Town, looking for a hotel. The one he chose, painted white like virtually every other building in the capital, was just a hundred yards from the waterfront. His room overlooking the sea was small and utilitarian, and suited him perfectly. He took a shower, changed into a loose-fitting white shirt over jeans and stood on his balcony a while, watching the waves roll in and smoking one of his Jordanian cigarettes while pondering his first move.

Behind him on the bed was the postcard that Nick Chapman had sent him after moving to the island. It was creased and tatty now after spending two years folded up inside the paper jungle of Ben’s wallet. He walked over and picked it up, scanned the handwriting for the thousandth time and wondered what the hell had happened to his friend.

Only a few drops remained in Ben’s whisky flask. ‘Need to do better than that,’ he muttered to himself, surveying the bottles inside the mini-bar. He slipped on his shoes and went downstairs. The hotel lounge was large and airy, done out in a phoney kind of post-Colonial Officers’ Mess style with large fronded plants everywhere and whirring fans on the ceiling. As he was getting his flask filled up with the best scotch available at the bar, Ben ordered a beer and perched on a bar stool to sip it. He’d never really seen the point of beer, other than as a way to cool down on a hot day. If he wanted to get drunk, he wanted to do it in the fastest and most efficient way possible.

It looked as if the group of men in the corner of the hotel lounge were set on doing it the slow, sloppy way, and they’d obviously been at it most of the afternoon. Listening in on their conversation, Ben quickly realised they were the stragglers left over from what must have been a fair army of media invading the place in the aftermath of the suicide plane crash.

‘Hey, guys,’ he said, carrying his drink over to their table and pulling up a chair. ‘Who are you with?’ The opening shop-talk line of roving reporters the world over. Within minutes, the journalists were enjoying a round of fresh beers on their new best buddy. It wasn’t hard to get them talking. ‘Who’re you with?’ asked the oldest of the group, after introducing himself as Ray Doyle of the Miami Herald.

‘I’m on my own,’ Ben said, which seemed to be a good enough reply. Not that anyone cared. The consensus was that, a week after the event, the crash flight story had completely burned itself out and there was nothing left to hang around for. All that remained was the bitter rancour that a lot of people obviously felt for Nick Chapman. Frank Lopez of the Prensa Latina News Agency out of Havana shook his head in disgust at the mention of his name. ‘How anyone let a screw-up like that behind the controls of a fucking aircraft is beyond me.’

Doyle gulped his beer and nodded in agreement. ‘Total wacko,’ he grated. ‘The daughter too. Dope head, what I heard. The moment daddy decides to check out taking a bunch of innocent lives with him, she goes and throws herself under the nearest goddamn car. I mean, that is one fucked-up family.’ Doyle and a couple of the others laughed uproariously at the idea.

Ben’s fist clenched around his beer glass and he glanced downwards to hide the spark of anger in his eyes. After a pause he asked, as casually as possible, ‘Anyone get the name of the air traffic guy who talked to Chapman on the radio?’

Doyle looked blank. Lopez clicked his fingers, trying to remember. The one called Tibbets got there first. ‘Drummond,’ he said. ‘The guy’s name is Bob Drummond.’

‘That’s it,’ Lopez said. ‘But forget it, amigo. He won’t talk to you. Nobody wants to talk about nothing any more. It’s yesterday’s news.’

‘That’s the kind I like best,’ Ben said, and they all found that very amusing too.