Ben looked around the room, at the desk, at the shelves and the bookcase. Somewhere in here could be evidence, even just the smallest clue to guide them. Without it, and with Kazem gone, they were nowhere. He had no idea what to look for or where to start, so he decided he’d take everything he could find that looked even remotely connected to Catalina’s solar research.
He packed what he could into his bag – her laptop, the external hard drive hooked up to the desktop Mac, and as many storage discs and paper files as he could cram inside the straining canvas. Catalina was precise in her ways. Each file and container was carefully labelled in neat writing, done with a thin marker pen. Anything referring to solar research was potentially interesting. As Ben searched the shelves for more, a file fell open, scattering papers over the floor. Swearing, he crouched to gather them up. He noticed that in place of all the usual dense and incomprehensible scientific charts and graphs, the papers in the file were low on hard technical data and mostly consisted of written English. It looked like notes written for an essay, containing quotations and references dated from the mid-nineteenth century. It seemed completely out of place with the rest of the stuff.
Ben was about to leave the pages where they’d fallen, when he saw that the cover of the file was labelled HERSCHEL / SUN. Underlined in heavy bold, as if to highlight its importance.
Herschel. Ben remembered that was what she’d called the cat, named after her favourite astronomer. Who the human Herschel had been, or what singled him out as so special, he hadn’t the faintest idea. But if it was important to Catalina, then maybe it should be important to Ben, too. He shuffled the papers back inside the file and crammed them into the bag.
When he had everything he could find, Ben left the study and found Raul still outside in the yard.
‘What happens now? Do we call the police?’ Raul asked.
Ben lit another Gauloise. He only had four left after this one, which annoyed him. He blew smoke and said, ‘What for?’
Raul nodded. ‘That’s what I thought you were going to say. Then we have to bury Kazem. He was her friend. We can’t just leave him here.’
They found a shovel in the toolshed. It was old, and not up to much more than shovelling snow. By the time they’d finished digging a shallow grave in the hard ground, the blade was badly buckled. They carried Kazem out of the house and laid him in the grave. Raul folded the Iranian’s arms across his chest.
‘Muslims wash the body of the dead before burial,’ Ben said. ‘To cleanse the deceased of impurities ready for the next world.’
Raul looked down at Kazem and nodded. ‘We should respect that. It would be a sin not to. I’ll do it.’
They did it together, using jugs of water from the kitchen. As best they could, they laid Kazem’s body to rest. Infidel prayers seemed inappropriate to the occasion, either Raul’s Catholic ones or Ben’s half-remembered Anglican ones. They simply bowed their heads for a moment and then shovelled the dirt back over him and piled stones over the fresh earth.
‘That’s all we can do for him,’ Ben said. His jaw was tender. He worked it from side to side a couple of times. No clicks or catches. Nothing seemed to be broken in there. He worked his tongue around his teeth and didn’t feel anything loose, either.
‘I’m sorry I punched you,’ Raul said.
‘You certainly pack a wallop.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s okay,’ Ben said. ‘You had your reasons this time. But if it happens again, I’ll shoot you. Deal?’
Raul gave a weak smile. He was silent for a moment, then asked, ‘What about Herschel?’
Ben realised he meant the cat. Herschel was nowhere to be seen. ‘He’s a hunter. He’ll survive and feed himself fine out here alone.’
Raul nodded. ‘What about the other bodies? Shouldn’t we bury them as well?’
Ben looked at him. ‘Rats have to eat too. You want to be here all day?’
‘No, we should probably get out of here,’ Raul said. ‘Not in that thing, though,’ he added, pointing at the Kia. ‘What’s left of it. I’ve never seen a car in a state like this.’
‘I’ve seen plenty,’ Ben said morosely.
Raul forced his smile a little wider. ‘Now I know why you’re blacklisted by the rental companies.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Four months earlier
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Master of Ceremonies said over the PA system, ‘it’s my great pleasure to welcome to the stage a true legend. Chief Executive of Grantec Global, ranked among Europe’s top five leaders in renewable energy technology. Founder and Director of our very own ISACC. Voted Green Entrepreneur of the Year for the last two years running. A tireless champion for environmentalism and all-round saviour of the planet: Mr Maxwell Grant.’
Amid the upbeat music cue and noisy applause from the audience gathered in the grand lecture hall of the Edmonton House Conference Centre in London for the International Society for Action on Climate Change annual symposium, Maxwell Grant shook the emcee’s hand and stepped up to the podium with a broad smile. He hadn’t even said a word yet, and he had the crowd in his pocket, just as expected. Not exactly a hard guess, considering that there wasn’t a single delegate out of over three hundred in the packed lecture hall who wasn’t already a staunch convert. Nor was it unrealistic to predict that he would receive a rousing ovation at the end of his twenty-minute talk. They’d bring the roof down with rapturous applause when they got a load of the big announcement he was here to make.
The big screen behind him flashed up the Grantec Global company logo with the slogan A CLEAR SOLUTION FOR CLIMATE CHANGE in bold green script. After thanking them one and all for attending this vitally important event, Grant launched into his earnest and well-prepared speech. The onscreen PowerPoint slide show reinforced his words with slick graphics and images. ‘It’s been my honour and my life’s passion to watch the company I founded, and nurtured from such humble origins, rise up to become the major driving force for environmental change that it is today. Grantec Global is recognised worldwide as one of the pioneers of the movement for renewable energy, and we’re as proud of that record as we are of the cutting-edge turbine technology we’ve developed, making us a world leader in offshore wind farm energy production. No fuel. No water pollution. No air pollution. No toxic damage to the environment. Providing sustainable and protected new habitats for marine life. Most vitally of all, making a priceless contribution to the reduction of the greenhouse gases that are dangerously warming our planet. We are the future.’
More applause. Grant smiled and waited for it to abate, then went on, never droning, never verbose, never too technical. He was relaxed, witty and among friends. The audience hung on every word as the minutes ticked smoothly by.
‘By 2020, we can confidently project that an entire quarter of Europe’s energy requirements will be produced offshore, drawing global investment in the tens of billions of dollars and creating vast employment opportunities for the rapidly growing environmental workforce. In order to help achieve our critically important climate change target to reduce human-generated CO2 emissions by between eighty and ninety percent by 2030, we are determined that in coming years over half of worldwide energy will ultimately be provided by wind, from a projected 3.8 million large turbines across the world, between them creating a footprint of less than fifty square kilometres. You could barely fit the island of Manhattan into it.’ Laughs from the audience. ‘And Grantec Global will be the spearhead of that development. Europe is already leading the way in wind energy, and the UK already hosts some of the largest offshore wind farms – up to a hundred and seventy-five turbines, such as our installation off the Kent coast. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m delighted to announce that, as of today, Grantec Global is set to push those incredible achievements to the next level, with the official go-ahead to build what will, comprising over five hundred turbines off the coast of Wales, be the largest offshore wind farm ever in the world, fulfilling up
to four percent of the UK’s energy requirements. Onwards and upwards.’
The news got exactly the wild reaction from the audience that Grant had anticipated. By the time he’d finished speaking ten minutes later, they were moved to joy, even to tears. It was a wonderful moment, especially for Maxwell Grant. He left the podium and was instantly surrounded by a sea of hands. He gripped and grinned like a visiting dignitary, received dozens of hearty pats on the back and even a couple of kisses from adoring female delegates, and finally managed to beat a path through them and back to his dressing room.
‘Stupid fuckers,’ he said when he was alone. But he was smiling as he said it.
Grant was still smiling to himself as he emerged from the modern steel-and-glass entrance of the Edmonton House Conference Centre and stepped out into the early evening air, expecting the car with his usual driver and bodyguard to be there to pick him up to take him back to the townhouse in Mayfair. But there was no sign of them. Grant’s smile fell.
At that moment, a black Jaguar saloon with darkened windows hissed to a halt at the kerbside, and a well-dressed man in his forties whom Grant had never seen before got out of the front passenger seat and approached him. ‘Mr Maxwell Grant?’
‘And you are?’
The man opened the back door of the Jaguar and motioned sombrely inside. ‘If you please, sir.’
‘I think I’ll take a cab, if you don’t mind.’
The man gazed at him, deadpan. ‘I will have to insist that you get in the car, sir.’
‘Now look here—’ Grant began, but the look in the man’s eye stifled his objection. He got into the back of the car and found himself sitting beside another well-dressed stranger. The first man climbed in after him, so that Grant was sandwiched between them. The door shut. Without a word, the driver accelerated smoothly and briskly away. Grant didn’t like what was happening. He was going to say something when the man to his left produced a small handgun, and the man to his right took out something that looked like a black cotton balaclava, except that it had no eye holes. It was a hood.
‘Just slip this on for me, would you, sir,’ the man said. It was the pistol that persuaded Grant to comply.
The rest of the evening unrolled like a surreal nightmare. The fast car journey lasted for the best part of an hour. When it stopped, they hauled him gently but firmly out of the back and started marching him along. Blind, stumbling and frightened, he was convinced they had brought him to this unseen place to shoot him and dispose of his body. He knew who his enemies were. He’d long been afraid they would get to him eventually. They’d tried often enough.
The men led him into a building, and through it to a room where he was made to sit on a hard wooden chair. Only then did the hood come off. Apart from a plain table placed next to his chair, the room was bare. A closed cardboard file lay on the table, cover down. The only light was a powerful lamp that was shining right into his face from the far side, dazzling him and making him blink. He thought he could discern dark silhouettes behind the light, the shapes of a row of men sitting opposite him. Four of them, he thought. He couldn’t see them clearly or make out their faces.
‘Mr Grant,’ said one of the silhouettes behind the dazzling light. ‘The file you are about to be shown is eyes-only. Do we need to explain what that means?’
‘No, you don’t need to explain,’ Grant replied in a shaky voice. He was confused. What the hell was happening here?
‘Then you may turn it over and read.’
Grant picked up the file in a trembling hand. The front cover was plain, except for a simple printed label that bore a single word. It was the name CASSANDRA.
Grant opened the file and frowned as he took in the first page of text, then the second. Photographs were clipped to the pages. The face on the pictures was a familiar one. ‘This can’t be real,’ he said out loud.
‘It is very real indeed,’ said the silhouette. ‘And we would urge you to take it seriously. As you can see, the subject in question is a threat to our interests, and to yours.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Grant began.
‘Please, let’s not waste time. We are perfectly aware of the nature and scope of your business dealings. By which we mean not only your legitimate activities with Grantec Global, but also your more lucrative dealings under the anonymous banner of Kester Holdings.’
‘How do you know about—’
‘Silence, please. We estimate that in the last financial year, Kester Holdings personally netted you in the region of eighty-two million pounds, approximately twice what you received from your stake in Grantec Global. We also know exactly how that money was earned. Kester Holdings illegally transports and disposes of nuclear waste in several countries across the world. Having been monitoring your activities for some time, we have gathered enough evidence to send you to prison for the rest of your life.’
Grant thought he was going to throw up. So that was what this was, a shakedown. There seemed no point in denying it. They knew everything.
‘However,’ the silhouette went on, ‘we aren’t interested in prosecuting you for your crimes. In fact, we are more than happy for you to continue to operate as you have been doing. Yours is a valuable service that our friends in the nuclear industry wish to retain.’
‘Who are you people?’ Grant demanded.
‘But we can’t promise to persist in our willingness to turn a blind eye if you fail to cooperate with us on this matter. As you’ll be aware, the contents of the file are as much an issue for you as they are to us, albeit for slightly different reasons. The situation is, potentially, highly dangerous. In the medium to long term, you stand to lose a great deal, as do we.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘We require you to resolve the problem on our behalf, Mr Grant. All the necessary resources will be placed at your disposal, in addition to those you already control.’
‘Resolve the problem … how exactly?’
‘Quietly. Discreetly. Permanently.’
‘No, no, no. You’re talking to the wrong person. I’m a businessman, nothing more.’
‘It is the nature of your business that qualifies you for the task,’ said the silhouette. ‘In the more illicit circles in which you move, you have made a good many enemies. Notably, organised crime gangs such as your main competitors, the Italian Ndrangheta mafia syndicate, who have been involved in illegal nuclear waste dumping for some time. We know about the three attempts made on your life in the last five years, as we also know about the group of former private military contractors whom you employ to shield you from further assassination attempts. And to carry out certain dirty work to protect your business interests. You may not have pulled any triggers personally, but you are a murderer. We can prove that, too.’
Grant said nothing.
‘In return for your cooperation in the resolution of our mutual problem,’ the silhouette went on, ‘we will exert the necessary pressure to ensure that your competitors are kept at bay. That, along with our willingness to show discretion and tolerance regarding the activities of Kester Holdings, will be your recompense for accepting the responsibility for carrying out this sanction, fully and to the letter. Do you agree to the terms of the arrangement?’
Grant looked at the CASSANDRA file and sighed. He knew there was only one possible response he could give.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It’ll be taken care of.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ben looped the BMW around in the yard and they headed back down the track. As they left the observatory behind, Raul cast a last wistful glance out of the window. Reaching the bend, Ben slowed and steered to the left a little with two wheels on the grass so that he could edge around the side of the blue Opel and the black Fiat van. When he was past them, he hit the gas and the BMW’s tyres bit down hard into the dirt as they sped away down the track about twice as quickly as they’d come.
Seven minutes later, they reached the road and Ben steer
ed left, picking up the route they would have followed earlier if they hadn’t turned into the track. As to where they were going, he had no clear idea yet, only three basic objectives.
One, because the BMW was most likely hot, he wanted to stay away from major roads and traffic cameras that might automatically flag the registration to a central computer. Two, and for much the same reason, he generally wanted to avoid any kind of police entanglements. He and law enforcement officials tended not to mix well. He’d never really understood why. Something to do with his consistent inability to remain, for any length of time, the kind of peaceful, passive, docile civilian they liked being able to control. He considered that to be their problem, as long as it didn’t become his. When the cops did eventually turn up at the scene, as well as all the bodies to bag up there was going to be a wealth of forensic evidence lying around all over the property for them to get their teeth into. Some of which could potentially lead them to Raul and himself – but there was nothing Ben could do about that.
His third and most important objective was to put as much space between themselves and the scene of the attack as possible, as quickly as possible. They had work to do, and Ben wanted to do it somewhere he could be assured nobody, either cops or anyone else, could find them.
He drove fast, too concentrated on the road to speak to Raul. They met with no screeching convoys of response vehicles, which meant that nobody had heard or reported any distant gunfire. And they met with no reinforcements of bad guys, which meant that whomever the six had been communicating with by phone either didn’t know what had happened to them, or hadn’t had time to organise themselves. Alternatively, it could mean that the half dozen corpses scattered around the observatory represented the enemy’s total force, now spent. Ben would have liked to believe that, but hard experience had taught him to veer towards the pessimistic side of cautious. Hope for the best, expect the worst and be ready for something worse still.