The Cassandra Sanction

Chapter Thirty-Five

Ben waited for McCauley to turn out of the car park and drive fifty metres up the street before he fired up the Renault, hit the lights and windscreen wipers and pulled out in pursuit. He hung back, allowing two other cars to slot in between.

‘Don’t lose him,’ Raul said, eyes glued to the rear of the Smart car as it weaved through the traffic.

‘As if,’ Ben replied calmly.

Not much bigger than a shoebox, the Smart car was quick and nimble through the London traffic. Ben had to spur the wallowing Laguna hard to keep up as they cut westwards over Hammersmith Bridge and into Barnes. Twice, Ben had to jump a red light. Raul was leaning intently forwards in his seat and gripping the door handle as if urging the car to go faster. The wipers slapped their relentless back-and-forth rhythm. Taillights and brake lights flared like angry red stars in the dirty windscreen.

McCauley led them onwards through Barnes, until they reached a quiet residential street and the Smart car’s left indicator came on before it pulled into a driveway. Following fifty metres behind, Ben slowed as they passed the house. It was a small and unexceptional semi-detached 1960s property that, in this part of London, had to be worth a couple of million. Given what McCauley probably earned in his crusade against the world, the house was probably a family hand-me-down. Ben cruised a little way further down the street, and pulled up at the kerb.

‘Let’s go,’ Raul said, reaching for the door latch.

‘Not yet,’ Ben told him. He angled the rearview mirror so he could see the house. Sat still behind the wheel and watched as McCauley got out of the Smart car carrying his satchel, bleeped the locks and walked up a little path to the front door. No Mrs McCauley came to greet him. McCauley opened the door and disappeared inside.

Ben counted to a hundred.

‘Okay,’ he said to Raul. ‘Now let’s go.’

Ben grabbed his bag from the back seat, and they left the car and walked quickly through McCauley’s front gate. The garden was overgrown and unkempt, and the woodwork on the house needed painting. Too busy battling injustice and corruption to have time for basic maintenance, obviously. The brass surround of the Yale lock was tarnished and weather-stained.

‘Do we knock, or do we smash the door in?’ Raul asked.

‘Neither,’ Ben said, taking out his wallet. He unzipped a little compartment that he seldom needed to open. It was where he kept a set of bump keys that could open any standard Yale lock, especially an old one like this, made before manufacturers had got wise to the ease with which burglars could bypass their security. Ben quickly found the right key, inserted it into the lock, and three seconds later they were in. Ben put his finger to his lips to shush an astonished Raul as they slipped through the small entrance hall into an open-plan living room.

The room was empty, and smelled vaguely of incense and spices. McCauley’s decor was heavy on the ethnic style, with a mix of African, Indian and South American furnishings and sculptures and wall hangings. There was a giant framed picture of Nelson Mandela over the fireplace. Next to an open-tread staircase hung a poster showing a caricature of an obese banker with multiple chins, a sleazy grin and a giant Havana, bearing the caption ‘YOU SAY “GREEDY CAPITALIST PIG” LIKE IT’S A BAD THING’. On the wall opposite was a large glass-framed print of the classic Pulitzer prize-winning photo of the 1968 execution of a Viet Cong guerrilla. Ben had seen that harrowing image a hundred times before, and seeing it again now was all the proof he needed that there was unlikely to be a Mrs McCauley living in the house. Ben hadn’t met a woman yet, not even the redoubtable Commander Darcey Kane of the National Crime Agency, who would tolerate a glossy 16×20 of a terrified man about to get his brains blown out with a .38 Smith & Wesson snubnose hanging pride of place in her living room.

The leather satchel was lying on an armchair where McCauley must have carelessly tossed it as he came in. Ben stepped over to it and undid the clasp to check the contents. A notebook and pen, a mobile, an iPad, a spare pair of glasses. Ben closed the bag, then moved to the stairs and heard the muted patter of the shower coming from above. He nodded to Raul, and they climbed the open treads. Thick polished wood, no doubt from a sustainably managed forestry source. The staircase walls were lined with framed photos of McCauley in his journalistic exploits all over the world, posing surrounded by smiling African children in one, standing on an oil-slicked beach in another, all spruced up and receiving his Press Gazette award in another.

Upstairs, the bathroom door was ajar and the sound of splashing water was louder. Ben peeked through another door, saw it was a bedroom, and led Raul through it. The bedroom was small and orderly, with a wardrobe and a bed and little else. Ben and Raul positioned themselves by the window and waited. Soon afterwards, the water stopped. They could hear McCauley mooching about in the bathroom. Then he stepped out, skin rosy from the hot water and wearing nothing but a short towel around his waist, and strolled nonchalantly into the bedroom. He was in surprisingly good shape, with the lean muscularity of a man who needed to keep himself fit and strong for challenging assignments in sometimes dangerous places. So much for the whole vegetarian open-toed sandal thing, Ben thought. Maybe McCauley was more than he seemed at first glance.

The journalist’s hair and beard were still wet from the shower, and his glasses were steamed up with condensation. He removed them, wiped the lenses on a corner of his towel, put them back on, and his eyes opened wide in alarm as he saw his unexpected visitors standing there. He froze, and said, ‘Whoa.’

‘Keep the towel on,’ Ben said. ‘We’ve seen enough unpleasant sights lately.’

McCauley took a step back. His fists were clenched. He was more outraged than frightened. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Relax, Mike,’ Ben said. ‘We’re here to talk to you, that’s all.’ He motioned to the bed. ‘Take a seat.’

McCauley hesitated. Flicking his gaze warily from Ben to Raul, he stepped to the bed and sat. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched tight, and his face had flushed scarlet. ‘I said, who the fuck are you? What are you doing in my home?’

‘This is Raul Fuentes,’ Ben said. ‘We have reason to believe you’re acquainted with his sister.’

McCauley stared up at Raul, his anger subsiding, confusion taking its place. ‘Catalina? You’re Catalina’s brother?’

Raul tore his passport out of his pocket and tossed it into McCauley’s lap. ‘There’s the proof. Look at my name. Look at the birth date. We’re twins.’

‘No,’ McCauley said, still peering closely at Raul as if studying his face. ‘No. I don’t need to. The family resemblance is obvious, now that I think of it. But what—?’

‘What am I doing here?’ Raul said. ‘What do you think? I’m looking for her.’

‘I… I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ McCauley said. ‘That’s insane.’

‘I apologise for the rude entry,’ Ben said. ‘You’ll appreciate that it needed to be a surprise, under the circumstances. There are some bad people looking for her, too. But you already know that as well, don’t you? Come on, Mike. We came a long way to talk to you. Don’t be a disappointment.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ McCauley said. ‘You’re mistaken. Catalina Fuentes died. Her car went over a cliff. It was all over the news… I mean, surely you must know that? Her brother, of all people?’

He stared at them both with such an earnest look of absolute blank stupefaction that Ben was rattled by it. In that moment, the awful thought struck him that McCauley genuinely knew nothing. Or, even worse, that it was true, and that Kazem had been wrong, or lying.

‘She’s alive!’ Raul snarled, and stepped towards McCauley as if he was going to hit him.

Ben put a hand on Raul’s shoulder. McCauley might actually hit back, and that wasn’t going to help their situation much. ‘You were in contact with her,’ he said to McCauley.

The journalist frowned, playing it cagey. ‘What makes you think I was in contact with her?’

‘There isn’t time to play games,’ Ben said. ‘Your email address was on her private computer. The messages themselves were deleted. We need to know what that correspondence was about.’

‘And that’s why you broke into my house, to find out about a bunch of emails?’

‘We didn’t break in,’ Ben said.

‘The door was locked.’

‘It still is,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing got broken. Therefore, technically, not a break-in.’

‘You’ve got the look,’ McCauley said. ‘Ex-military. It’s virtually written on your forehead. Think I haven’t met people like you before?’

Ben said nothing.

McCauley pointed at Raul. ‘Okay, so he’s Catalina Fuentes’ brother. Do you have a name?’

‘You can call me Ben.’

‘He’s just a friend,’ Raul said.

McCauley gave a grunt. ‘Peculiar kind of friend to have. One who can get through locked doors and slip into people’s houses like some kind of fucking ninja assassin. Did you follow me here from the office? Have you been watching me?’

‘You can trust us,’ Raul said.

McCauley paused, narrowing his eyes and scrutinising Ben and Raul with the thoughtful, cautious look of a seasoned investigator. ‘Then you need to let me get some clothes on,’ he said. ‘We’ll go downstairs and discuss this like civilised human beings, and I’ll tell you what I know.’