The Cassandra Sanction
Catalina stood for a long time and stared at the mirror, and seriously thought about it.
No. Whatever happened, whatever awful thing they had in store for her, she had to preserve her dignity to the last.
She went back into the bedroom and slumped on the bed. ‘I’m so sorry, Raul,’ she said out loud. ‘I tried. I really did.’
At that moment, the Lamborghini was hurtling along the autostrada like a bright yellow rocket fired from a launcher. Ben was frantically overtaking everything in front of him, his reflexes working right on the edge of sensory overload as the speedometer flirted with heights of over three hundred kilometres an hour. At that howling, screaming mad speed he couldn’t snatch his eyes off the road to glance in the rearview mirror for more than a tiny fraction of a second. When he did, he kept expecting to see distant blue lights flashing in his wake. He must have triggered a thousand speed traps already, and it was just a question of time before the Polizia Stradale decided to hook and reel him in. Let them even try.
Speeding west from Brindisi, he’d sliced diagonally across the heel of Italy from coast to coast. Now he was curving southwards and skirting the Gulf of Táranto, which meant he was almost halfway to where he needed to be, and still not going fast enough, not even in a road-going missile that he’d learned from practical experience could accelerate from a standstill to two hundred kilometres an hour in under seven and a half seconds.
Two big articulated long-haul freight trucks were up ahead, coming up so quickly that they could have been standing still, or even reversing towards him. He swore as one of them pulled out lazily into the overtaking lane to lumber past the other, taking its time. Two abreast, they filled the road right in Ben’s path, and he had neither the luxury nor the intention of slowing down for them.
A racing downshift of the six-speed box, and the all-wheel drive bit down even harder on the road and the mid-mounted V12 engine howled behind him as he stamped down on the pedal and aimed the nose of the car right for the gap. It felt like diving a fighter jet into a canyon tight enough to scrape his wingtips on both sides. For a terrifying moment, the looming sides of the trucks were like huge walls closing in on him and he didn’t think he was going to make it. He gritted his teeth and kept his foot down hard, and then he was through and screaming out the other side and leaving them behind like two children’s toys shrinking in his mirror.
Another life gone. It was a good way to keep the heart in shape.
The first rule of strategic planning was to have some kind of plan. Ben had none. None at all. He didn’t know what he was going into. He didn’t know what he was going to find when he got there. He didn’t even know if he was going to get there in time. All he knew was that he had to keep moving like a rifle bullet. Nothing could be allowed to stop him. They could put up a roadblock, and it wouldn’t even slow him down. They could call in an air strike, a tank division or a long-range massed artillery barrage to blow up the damn road under his wheels. And even then, he’d keep going.
‘Hold on, Catalina,’ he muttered. But the howl of the engine and the blast of the wind ripped the words out of his mouth.
He was going to find her again. And when he did find her, dead or alive, then somebody was going to have a very, very bad day.
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. Cass
andra 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.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Catalina just stared at him.
‘We’ve known it all along,’ Braendlin told her. ‘And a very great amount of effort and resources are expended to keep that information from becoming general knowledge. Hence the great pains we take to persuade the public of the very opposite belief, namely that human activity is causing global warming to occur. It makes for a very effective smokescreen, as well as being a highly profitable fiction in its own right, as Grant here can testify.’
Braendlin stepped closer to her. He wet his lips with his tongue. It was grey and pallid, like his eyes.
‘Now, let me tell you another little story,’ he said. ‘This one, I doubt you’ll be so familiar with, for the reason that only a tiny handful of people in the world have ever been made privy to it. The story goes like this:
‘In 2003 the Pentagon commissioned a secret report that outlines the possible worst-case scenario in the event of a major new cooling event, using computer models to predict exactly what might happen and how nations might cope – or not cope. According to the projections, within a decade of the beginning of this new cold era, global food, water and energy resources are drained away. Massive shortages leave millions hungry and desperate. Panic and disorder are not restricted to the public, but extend to the level of government. Neighbouring European states, desperate to aid their populations, are forced to dispute access to shared rivers, oil reserves and whatever agricultural land is still capable of food production. As resources become increasingly restricted and precious, competition sparks off tense rivalry that inevitably escalates into war.
‘At which point, the degenerating situation becomes the responsibility of the superpowers to take charge of. The USA radically steps up its role as the world’s policeman, declaring a state of emergency across Europe, and mobilising peacekeeping forces to quell conflict and distribute aid to the struggling populations. Back on their own territory, the Americans suffer increasing problems as the US runs out of food and experiences mass migration from poorer countries south of the border. Meanwhile, China faces catastrophe as unprecedented famine begins to kill off the largest population on the planet by the tens of millions. The best efforts of the Chinese government to maintain control of the nation fall apart as civil war breaks out. Desperate, the ruling forces threaten to invade Russia to seize its rich natural gas resources. Chinese warships clash with the US navy in the Persian Gulf over Saudi oil reserves both sides badly need to keep their nations running. Neither the Russians nor the Saudis take kindly to these actions. In Asia meanwhile, both India and Pakistan join the fray, adding more weight to a volatile situation. As tensions continue to escalate, nuclear war between two or more of these rival nations becomes a real possibility, threatening to heighten the already catastrophic situation into an apocalyptic scenario of mutual destruction.’
Braendlin had related the whole account in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, like a science teacher describing some everyday chemical reaction to his class. He paused to gauge Catalina’s reaction. She had none, because she was too horrified to speak.
Braendlin went on. ‘Perhaps now, Miss Fuentes, you begin to understand? It goes without saying that the public at large is completely unaware that these future scenarios are being seriously discussed behind the scenes. And it’s imperative that this situation be maintained for as long as we possibly can. If even a hint of what you and I both know to be the real climate science of the future were ever allowed to reach a significant audience through the mainstream media, we would very quickly find ourselves faced with a situation of widespread disruption, unrest, even panic. Surges in crime, social violence, looting, riots, would all inevitably result.’
He gave another dry, crackly smile. ‘Human beings are capable of doing many things very well, but they’re also very prone to irrational behaviour. Our psychological studies suggest that people would not respond well to the news that, within a century or less, humanity could be facing an unprecedented threat to its very survival. People believe in people. It’s a human need. They want to believe we’ll be here forever – or at least, for a billion years, which is close enough to forever in the minds of ordinary citizens. They don’t want to think that their future children, or their children’s children, might be doomed to witness, first-hand, such terrible pain and suffering as their world is destroyed around them. For billions of people across the globe, the burden of that knowledge will simply be too great.
‘We are in the business of maintaining order,’ Braendlin continued in an emphatic tone. ‘Whatever the world’s rulers – and I am not referring to democratically elected leaders, but the actual rulers – might be discussing behind closed doors, as far as the public are concerned, it’s business as usual for the next billion years. The future must appear relatively stable and predictable, or else the very fabric of social order will unravel at the seams and we will descend into chaos, rapidly followed by the global economy. The effects at all levels could be catastrophic, the human cost untold. Do you really want to be responsible for that, Miss Fuentes?’
‘But what about the truth? I don’t care what you say. People have a right to know about their own future.’
‘The truth,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What was it Winston Churchill said? “In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.” And we are at war, always. Truth is a virtue we can’t afford, and seldom have done throughout history.’
‘So you would murder inn
ocent people in cold blood, just to keep that information quiet.’
Braendlin said, ‘By the middle of this century there will be an estimated nine billion people on the planet. A handful of lives is a small price to pay for long-term global political and social stability. Our job is to protect the greater good, by whatever means necessary, in a practical and expeditious fashion. Don’t take it personally.’
‘You people are nothing more than vermin,’ Catalina said.
For the first time in Braendlin’s presence, Grant spoke up. ‘For all your cleverness at sniffing out the truth, Catalina, you still haven’t the first idea what’s really going on. Kester Holdings, for instance. Not ringing any bells? Didn’t think so.’ He chuckled. ‘I don’t just make wind turbines, you know. And it’s not only the so-called sustainable energy technologies that stand to do well out of the war on fossil fuels. Whether they’re aware of it or not, our little Green friends are a great boon to the nuclear industry. As a matter of fact, what you and your kind would never cotton onto in a thousand years, because you’re all so utterly clueless, is that the current Green fad was devised only as a long-term strategy to promote nuclear power to all the same people who kicked up a stink and thought they were being clever getting rid of it years ago. For now, let them think they’re saving the world with their electric cars and their solar panels and their windmills. When we’ve milked that for all the billions we can get, we’ll turn around and say, “Sorry, folks, this whole renewable energy idea isn’t working, because we’re going to need ten million more turbines to provide enough energy for Europe’s population alone, and there isn’t enough battery power available on the planet to store all the terawatts of juice. Still want to keep sucking up all that electricity? Fine, let’s build you a bunch of nice new nuclear plants instead.” By then, yours truly will have made a gigantic pile of money out of these fools. Then when we dismantle all the wind farms and go back to building power stations in their place, I’ll still be making more money than ever before with Kester Holdings, because we’ve just spent the last twenty years becoming the go-to guys for companies with a mountain of radioactive waste to dispose of on the cheap, nice and easy, no red tape, no questions. The nuclear gold rush is a-coming, and we are waiting with open arms.’