The Cassandra Sanction

Chapter Forty-Two

‘It’s my business,’ said Catalina Fuentes. ‘Not yours.’

Ben looked at her and could see the same stubborn streak in her that he’d seen often enough in her brother to realise now that it must be a family trait. It made him think of himself, and Ruth, and Jude. Maybe if you traced the ancestral lines back far enough, you’d find Hope and Fuentes DNA mixed up together in the most hardheaded, hotblooded part of the human gene pool.

‘Not any more,’ Ben said. ‘More people are involved in this now. You can’t undo that.’

‘Ben helps people, Catalina,’ Raul said. ‘You need to let him help you.’

‘He’s quite an enigma, your friend,’ Catalina snapped back at him. ‘But I don’t need anyone’s help, thanks.’

‘Sinclair is dead, and Lockhart,’ Ben told her. ‘Ellis ran. For all we know, they got him too. Whatever it is that you were all involved in, you’re the last one of the group.’

‘You wouldn’t even understand.’

‘About your solar research?’ Ben said. ‘About William Herschel and the price of wheat? You’re right. Then how about enlightening us?’

Catalina narrowed her lustrous brown eyes at him. ‘You know about Herschel?’

‘And I know what kind of people are coming after you,’ Ben said. ‘The kind that won’t stop until they get the job done. You think you can handle them all by yourself?’

‘She isn’t by herself,’ Keller said, stepping close to Catalina and putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘Not any more. I have people working right now on a whole new identity for her. She’ll be safe here with me, forever.’

Ben noticed the way Catalina squirmed out of his grip. Austin Keller might have seen the situation as an opportunity to rekindle their relationship, but it seemed that, so far, things hadn’t quite gone his way. From the hurt expression on Keller’s face, Ben could tell his feelings were sincere.

‘We talked about this, Austin,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to stay on this island for the rest of my life. This was a temporary measure, nothing more.’

Keller raised his hands. ‘What, you think you can go back? How’s that gonna work, when you’re supposed to be dead? Jesus, I mean, the whole suicide thing was your idea. One-way ticket, remember?’

‘I am aware of that,’ Catalina replied, giving him an icy look. She sighed, then walked over to an antique sideboard, opened it and took out a bottle of scotch. Bowmore single malt, eighteen years old. Ben noticed that, too.

‘Little early in the day, don’t you think?’ Keller said, frowning. ‘How about coffee instead?’

‘I need it,’ she said.

‘Me too,’ Raul said. ‘Ben?’

‘I rarely touch the stuff before breakfast,’ Ben said. ‘But I’ll make an exception.’

Catalina poured three measures into cut-crystal tumblers and sat back in the armchair, cradling her glass pensively. She took a sip, then looked up at Raul. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I owe you an explanation. I’ve managed to let you become involved in this, and you must be wondering how you ended up here and what on earth this is all about. So I’ll tell you.’

Raul perched on a chair opposite her. Ben leaned against the wall, took a swallow of the whisky. The Bowmore’s rich, deep, smoky aroma filled his nose. Eighteen years spent maturing in oak casks. Definitely best enjoyed first thing in the morning on an empty stomach. He took another swallow and waited for what Catalina had to say.

‘It all happened so suddenly,’ she said. ‘There was so little warning. The first inkling I got that something was wrong wasn’t until early July, in London. I was there to meet with a publisher to talk about a new book. One that will never be written now, obviously.’ She pulled a grim smile and took another sip of her drink. ‘I arrived in London on July third, a day early, to spend some time with a girlfriend I hadn’t seen for a while. I booked into the Dorchester, as usual when I’m in town. That evening, the two of us attended a private party that was being thrown by some people she knew at a club in Kensington. The normal kind of thing, everyone getting drunk on Pimm’s and champagne and lots of annoying celebrities kissy-kissing and pretending they wouldn’t cut each other’s throats if they had the chance. Not long after we’d arrived, my friend went off with this guy she was flirting with, and left me hanging. I was kind of annoyed about it, and I would have gone straight back to the Dorchester then, if it hadn’t been for the guitarist.’

‘The guitarist?’ Raul said.

‘The musical entertainment for the evening. Just one guy on solo classical guitar, sitting on a stool in the corner, very good-looking, Hispanic, dark, long curly hair. And he could play. Great tone, excellent technique. You know how much I love the guitar. He had the whole repertoire down — Granados, Villa-Lobos, Rodrigo. I stood there for quite a while watching and listening. That was when this older man came up to me and introduced himself. I had never met him before, but he’s quite well known in certain circles. His name is Maxwell Grant.’

‘I’ve heard that name,’ Raul said.

Keller let out a loud grunt. ‘Yeah, I’ll bet you have. That degenerate asshole.’

‘Let me tell it, Austin,’ Catalina said. She went on: ‘Maxwell Grant is one of the biggest investors in Green energy in Europe. Billionaire, philanthropist, entrepreneur, champion for the environment, a leading force behind the development of alternative power technologies. I’d read a lot about him and it was interesting to meet him. He came across as charming, very cultivated and witty. A real English gentleman. At least, that’s what I thought to begin with. We talked about all kinds of things: politics, and ecology, and renewable energy, and music, and travel. He told me how he loved all things Italian, and had a villa in Calabria. He was very friendly, even gave me his personal business card.’

She paused, frowning as if the memory was physically uncomfortable to recall. ‘Then he said something very strange to me. I don’t mean that he started hitting on me, or anything like that. I get that all the time and I can handle it. This was different. It was weird.’

‘Strange how?’ Raul asked.

‘Well, while we were chatting, I was still half listening to the guitarist. At a certain point, he started playing a study by Tárrega, Recuerdos de la Alhambra. It’s one I play myself, but I’d never heard it sound so good before. Hearing it distracted me from the conversation, and Grant noticed. That’s when he said it to me.’

Raul blinked. ‘Said what?’

‘He said, “He plays it well, but you play it better. You have the tremolo technique mastered perfectly.” Just like that. Looking me right in the eye.’

‘And?’

Catalina raised her eyebrows impatiently at her brother. ‘And, how could he have possibly known that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Raul said dismissively. ‘You’re famous, you’re in the media, people know things about you, all kinds of details about whatever you do.’

‘That’s the whole point, in a way,’ Catalina replied. ‘When you’re famous, it’s like living inside a glass cage. Every shred of your life is photographed, written about, analysed, dissected. As much as the vultures can get a hold of. So you always keep something back, just for yourself. Private things that nobody will ever intrude on. A little corner that’s secret and sacred, that you never reveal to a soul. Not even to your blood. For me, part of that was always music. I’ve never played guitar in front of anybody. Never even told anyone about it. It was for me, and me alone. Where I go to unwind and forget everything. My retreat. My sanctuary.’

Keller said, ‘I can relate to that.’

‘Be quiet, Austin. What I’m saying is, there is absolutely no way that this Maxwell Grant could know I even play the guitar, let alone whether I ever tried to master Recuerdos de la Alhambra. Let alone again how good my tremolo technique is. I thought, “Is he confusing me with someone else? Is he drunk?” He’d certainly had a few glasses of champagne by then. But there was no doubt he knew what he was saying.’

Raul was frowning. ‘Sister, I came a long way to find you, and you’re talking to me about guitars.’

‘Let her talk,’ Ben said. He was listening hard and trying to anticipate where her story was leading. He liked her scientific-minded approach and the way she systematically laid out every piece of information. In Ben’s experience, there was no such thing as trivial detail when people were trying to kill you.

Catalina flashed a look at Ben that said, ‘Thank you’. But Raul wasn’t satisfied. ‘You didn’t ask him what he meant by it?’ Raul asked.

Catalina nodded. ‘I said, “Excuse me?” He turned all red and started trying to talk his way out of it, saying, “Oh, I imagine you’d be much better, being so talented” and all this kind of bullshit. Then he tried to change the subject by talking about how much he loved classical guitar, tried to take it up when he was younger, this whole stupid story. He looked very embarrassed, and angry with himself, as if he’d let something slip out that he shouldn’t have said. But it was too late to retract it. I was really unnerved, and so I very quickly made my excuses, and left. I went back to the hotel and spent the whole night wondering about it. The morning of the fourth, I had my scheduled meeting with the publishers, which I just kind of sleepwalked through because I hadn’t shut my eyes all night, and then I flew back to Munich. Nothing more happened until the following day, when I was out getting some groceries. That’s when I noticed the car.’