The Cassandra Sanction

Chapter Forty

They flew deep into the night. The Greyhound brought them each a plate of mixed cheese and tuna sandwiches, and a bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water. Ice and a thin slice of lemon. It was without a doubt the classiest abduction Ben had ever been a party to.

While Raul barely touched his food out of protest, the military spirit of ‘eat when you can, sleep when you can’ was too deeply ingrained in Ben for him not to finish everything on his plate. The water was pretty good too, although he might have relished something a little stronger.

The two of them communicated nothing between them above the occasional glance, conscious of the presence of the four men sitting a little way behind them towards the rear of the plane. Some time around midnight, the Greyhound got up and dimmed the cabin lights. Knowing that they’d get no more information out of their escorts and not wasting energy on trying to understand that which couldn’t be understood, Ben sat quiet and still and gazed out of the dark window, seeing nothing but his own shadowy reflection in the glass. There was no way of knowing what direction they were flying in, or where they might be headed.

Glancing across the aisle, he saw that Raul was slumped over in a fitful sleep. He closed his own eyes and let himself drift. Some time during the night, he had a long dream that consisted of an involved conversation with his sister Ruth. When he awoke, the dream was gone like a burst bubble, but it had left a tinge of strange emotions in him. Faint light was filtering into the cabin, the first glimmer of dawn ahead of them on the horizon. Ben looked at his watch and saw that it was still only 4 a.m., London time. To have skipped ahead a couple of time zones meant they were travelling east, chasing the rising sun.

The plane was flying low over an ocean that looked from above to be as dark and smooth as a lake of wine, just the occasional ripple flecked with crimson reds and golds of the approaching sunrise. To the east, Ben could see a cluster of small islands in the distance, still untouched by the light and nothing more than a featureless mound against the glow on the horizon. The seascape looked Mediterranean. A rough calculation of flight duration, times estimated cruising speed, taking into account their approximate direction, could have put them anywhere in an arc stretching from the Libyan coast off Tripoli, to Malta, to somewhere just beyond the heel of Italy.

As Ben watched the beginnings of the sunrise spreading over the ocean, the plane gently banked as if heading for the smallest of the islands, which lay separated by a few kilometres of water from its larger neighbour. He wondered why they were flying towards it. There didn’t seem to be anything there.

But as the dark mound grew closer and details began to come into view, Ben was able to make out the shape of a lighthouse perched on the cliffs that overhung the northern end of the island. It looked like a miniature model from above. A round white stone tower, its tiny windows glinting red in the early light. At its foot was a cluster of white stone buildings that were the only habitation he could see.

The aircraft swooped lower, and they overflew the island. It was humped like a gigantic turtle shell rising up out of the sea, sparsely covered here and there with woodland intercut with exposed ridges of rock and what looked like a tiny road winding lengthwise across it, to connect the lighthouse complex with whatever lay at the island’s southern extremity, not yet visible from the air. As the plane descended lower still and passed over, now the rest of the island came into view: a long, flat prominence lying close to sea level. The first thing Ben saw there was the graceful twin-masted schooner lying at anchor within a short outboard ride of the shore, where a narrow wooden jetty stretched from a little boathouse. The sailing yacht was a striking enough sight on its own; but what made him blink was the long, perfectly straight tongue of concrete skirting the edge of the island that he realised at second glance was an airstrip.

Ben estimated that the landing distance of a jet this size was about nine hundred metres, which Ben’s eye for measurements told him the airstrip exceeded by just a few plane lengths. A neat fit. Then whoever owned the jet presumably owned the schooner, and probably the island too. They’d reached their destination. Ben felt a tingle of adrenalin, knowing that confrontation was coming.

The unseen pilot brought the aircraft around in a loop, approaching the island from the south. The sea rushed past below them as they dropped altitude. Ben caught a glimpse of the sailing yacht flashing by the windows. Then he felt the soft jolt of landing, and their rapid deceleration on the airstrip. The aircraft taxied to a stop and the pilot began shutting down the engines. Moments later, Ben and Raul were escorted from the hatch and onto the concrete strip. The pilot emerged from the cockpit. Ben recognised him as the driver of the van that had taken them from McCauley’s place.

The October early morning chill wrapped itself around them after the warmth of the aircraft. Raul looked at Ben, as if to say, ‘What now?’

Ben made no reply. He looked around him. The sunrise was slowly brightening the sky, its glow bathing the island blood red. Perhaps ten kilometres away to the west, Ben could make out the eastern side of the nearest neighbouring island and the tiny breakers rolling into the foot of its cliffs.

Hearing the sound of vehicles approaching, he turned to see two soft-top Jeep Wranglers bouncing along the little road towards them. The Jeeps pulled up in tandem a few yards from the aircraft. Motioning towards the lead vehicle, the Greyhound said, ‘They’re waiting for you up at the house.’

Ben looked at Raul, and Raul looked at Ben. No point in asking questions. They’d get answers soon enough. And perhaps more.

The driver barely glanced at them as they got into the lead Jeep. He gunned the engine and they went roaring back up the narrow road, twisting through the trees, snaking their way back up the hill in the direction of the lighthouse. Ben twisted round to look behind them, and saw the second Jeep following with the four men inside. Then, as they cleared the brow of the hill, the lighthouse came back into view and the ocean beyond it, the smooth horizon flooded with glittering crimson streaks by the rising orb of the sun.

The Jeep continued across the island until it reached the lighthouse. The driver stopped the car, still without a word or a glance. The tower that had seemed so tiny from the air loomed over them, shining white against the red sky. Both it and the cluster of neighbouring smaller buildings were erected at the highest point of the cliff, with a sloping path down to the road. The second Jeep pulled up behind them as Ben and Raul climbed out. Two more identical vehicles were parked up by the lighthouse.

The adrenalin was pumping faster through Ben’s system now. In no way was he reassured by the change in demeanour of their captors. Just because he couldn’t see the guns, it didn’t mean they weren’t there. And it didn’t mean he wouldn’t be seeing them again, at any moment. He and Raul had been brought here for a reason. Things could be about to turn very nasty. Which was fine by Ben. He was ready for whatever came next.

They’re waiting for you, the Greyhound had said. The moment had arrived. Now for some answers, Ben thought. All his senses on alert, he turned towards the lighthouse.

And saw the figure walking slowly towards them down the slope.

It was the shape of a woman, her outline darkly silhouetted against the sunrise. The ocean breeze caught her shoulder-length hair.

Raul was about to say something to Ben when he suddenly saw the woman too, and froze. A strangled sound came from his mouth, halfway between a cry of pain and an unintelligible mutter. He stood staring at her for a moment that seemed to hang in time forever. Then tears welled up in his eyes, and he rushed towards her with his arms open wide.

‘Catalina!’