The Cassandra Sanction

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.’

‘And I should have kept my mouth shut, too. Is that the point of this little story of yours?’

‘Your gift was your devotion to your science. Your curse was that there’s no longer any room in the world for idealistic seekers of knowledge. In fact there never really was. Because some kinds of knowledge just cannot be allowed to reach the ears of the ordinary people.’

‘Then you’re admitting that our climate predictions are right,’ she said. ‘You know it’s going to get colder.’

‘Of course we do,’ Braendlin replied.