The Cassandra Sanction

  ‘Maybe we should let him choose,’ Catalina said. ‘He’s very imaginative that way.’

  ‘You think you can hand me over to the police?’ Grant said in a hoarse rasp. There was blood on his lips. ‘Just you try it. No court will ever convict me, not with my connections. I’ll never see the inside of a jail. Hear me? I can guarantee it.’

  ‘I know,’ Ben said. ‘But jail’s not what we had in mind.’ Stepping over to the fireplace, he reached up and lifted down one of the long, curved swords that were mounted crosswise in an X over the mantelpiece. It was lighter than it looked, beautifully balanced in his hand, and still sharp after so many years. ‘Italian cavalry sabre,’ he said, admiring it. Then he handed it to Catalina, hilt first.

  ‘You must have read my thoughts,’ she said to Ben. She clutched the sabre tightly and looked at Grant.

  Ben said, ‘Now do what you came here to do, and let’s get out of here.’

  Grant shrank away as Catalina walked slowly towards him. ‘No! No!’ he protested, his voice rising to a shrill cry as she kept coming. He staggered back until he was up against the wall and could go no further. ‘Please!’

  ‘This is for my friends,’ Catalina said. What she did next, she did without hesitation. Grant screamed as she plunged the curved blade of the sabre deep into his gut. She used both hands to push and twist it in all the way, then let go of the hilt and stepped back. Grant’s eyes were almost popping from their sockets. Red foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth. He staggered sideways a step, leaving a smear of blood down the silk wall covering. Then he fell to the marble floor, kicking and twitching and clutching at the steel with both hands and trying to pull it out.

  Catalina spat on him. ‘Rot in hell, you bastard.’

  Grant opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a glut of dark blood and a gurgling croak. His eyes were already glazing over. His spasmodic movements became weaker and slower, until he went limp and lay still with the sword hilt pointing up like a flag planted on some conquered battleground.

  ‘I think it’s time we made our exit,’ Ben said, touching her arm. She nodded. They turned away from the dead man and followed his blood trail out of the room, out of the villa.

  The crashed chopper was still burning intensely, and the fire had spread all along the hedge. If the wind picked up in the right direction, it might reach the house. Ben walked over to the smoking, blackened body of one of the guards, picked up his fallen pistol and slipped it into his jeans pocket.

  ‘Are we expecting more trouble?’ Catalina said.

  ‘Not from these guys,’ Ben replied.

  Crossing the courtyard, they paused at the corpse of the old man. ‘Who was he anyway?’ Ben asked.

  ‘One of the secret rulers of the world,’ Catalina answered.

  Ben looked down at the twisted body. ‘Why are these Masters of the Universe types always little blokes?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m an astronomer, not a psychologist.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go. I have a car outside the gate.’

  The two of them walked slowly, side by side, almost like lovers. To face danger and death together was to share the most intimate things. Ben found the Camel soft pack in his pocket, fished out a cigarette and lit up. Maybe he could get used to these.

  ‘What will you do now?’ he asked her.

  ‘I have a lot of decisions to make,’ she said, frowning. ‘Like what to say to my family when I see them again. I lied to them and broke their hearts. It’s not going to be easy. And I’ll have to decide what on earth to do with the rest of my life. I have no job. I have very little money. I don’t know what I’ll do. Play guitar in the streets for coins, maybe. Actually, right now, that sounds pretty good to me.’

  ‘What about TV stardom?’ he said. ‘The big revelation to the world?’

  She smiled. ‘We’ll have to see about that. Maybe the world isn’t yet ready for the return of Catalina Fuentes. Maybe I’m not, either. One day, perhaps. There’s time.’ She paused a beat, then asked him, ‘Will you call Raul for me? I don’t suppose Austin wants to hear my voice, after what I did to him.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ he said.

  ‘I might go to stay with him in Frigiliana for a while.’

  ‘I think that’s a great idea,’ he said. ‘Raul will be happy.’

  ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  ‘Me?’ He shrugged. ‘I gave up trying to make plans.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said tentatively, ‘maybe you’d like to come to Frigiliana with us. With me, I mean. I’d like that, too.’

  He said nothing. They were reaching the gates at the end of the driveway.

  ‘Ben? Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Cover your ears,’ he said. He took out the pistol, shot out the lock and kicked the gates, and they swung heavily open on their iron hinges. The road was quiet and empty, apart from his car parked up on the verge. He walked out of the gate and went to fetch her leather bag from its hiding place at the foot of the wall.

  Catalina was gazing at the bright yellow, slightly travel-stained, Lamborghini. ‘This is yours?’

  ‘It belongs to a friend,’ he said, stowing her bag in the small luggage space in the nose. ‘Hop in. Let’s take you home.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said, getting into the passenger side. ‘You said you have no plans. I thought, maybe …’

  Ben just smiled. He tossed away his cigarette, got behind the wheel and started the car.

  Read on for an exclusive extract from the new Ben Hope adventure by

  Scott Mariani

  Star of Africa

  Prologue

  Salalah, Oman

  Hussein Al Bu Said stood at one of the tall, broad living room windows of his palatial residence and gazed out towards the sea front. The sunset was a mosaic of reds and purples and golds, cloaking its rich colours over the extended lawns and terraces of his property, reflecting gently off the surface of the pool behind the house, silhouetting the palm trees against the horizon. Beyond the landscaped gardens he could see the private marina where his yacht was moored, its sleek whiteness touched by the crimson of the setting sun.

  Ice clinked in his crystal glass as he sipped from it. Pineapple juice, freshly pressed that day. Hussein was a loyal and devout Muslim who had never touched alcohol in his forty-four years. In other ways, he knew, he had not always proved himself to be such a virtuous man. But he tried. God knew he tried. Insha’Allah, he would always do the best thing for his family.

  He smiled to himself as he listened to the sounds of his children playing in another room. Chakir had just turned twelve, his little sister Salma excitedly looking forward to her eighth birthday. He loved nothing more than to hear their happy voices echoing through the big house. They were his life, and he gave them everything that he had been blessed with.

  ‘You look as if you’re very deep in thought,’ said another voice behind him. Hussein turned to see his wife Najila’s smiling face.

  ‘And you look very beautiful, my love,’ Hussein said as she came to join him at the window. Najila was wearing a long white dress and her black hair was loose around her shoulders. She put her arms around his neck, and they spent a few moments watching the darkening colours wash over the ocean.

  Nobody had to tell Najila she was beautiful. She was his treasure, soulmate, best friend. Hussein was a dozen years older, but he kept in good shape for her and was still as lean and fit as the day he’d spotted her and decided she was the one to share his life with. They’d been married just weeks later. Hussein was also about twice as wealthy as he’d been then, even though he’d already been high up in Oman’s top twenty. Their home was filled with the exquisite things he loved to collect, but Najila was by far the most wonderful and precious.

  Hussein set down his glass and held her tight. He kissed her. She laughed and squirmed gently out of his arms. ‘Not in the window,’ she said, glancing through the ten-foot pane in the direction of the cl
uster of buildings that were the staff residence where the security team lived. ‘The men will be watching us.’

  ‘I gave them the night off,’ Hussein said. ‘It’s just you and me.’ He drew her in and kissed her again.

  With typical timing, their embrace was interrupted by the twelve-year old whirlwind that was Chakir blowing into the room, his sister tagging along in his wake. Chakir was clutching the handset for the remote controlled Ferrari, his favourite of the many toys he’d had as recent birthday presents. ‘When can I get a real one, like yours?’ he was always asking, to which his father always patiently replied, ‘One day, Chakir, one day.’

  ‘Please may we watch TV?’ Chakir said.

  Hussein knew Chakir was angling to see the latest Batman film on the Movie Channel. ‘It’s nearly time for dinner,’ he replied. ‘You can maybe watch it later, after your sister has gone to bed.’ Chakir looked disappointed. Salma pulled a face, too, and it was obvious that her brother had got her all worked up about seeing the movie.

  Najila bent down and clasped both her daughter’s hands. ‘Why don’t you go and look at that nice picture book your father bought you?’

  ‘I can’t find it,’ Salma said. She had the same beautiful big dark eyes as her mother, and the same irresistible smile when she wasn’t pouting about not being allowed to watch TV.

  Najila stroked her little heart-shaped face and was about to reply when a loud noise startled them all. It had come from inside the house.

  Najila turned to Hussein with a frown. ‘What was that?’

  Hussein shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did something fall over?’

  Hussein thought that maybe a picture or a mirror had dropped off the wall in one of the house’s many other rooms. He didn’t understand how that could happen. He started towards the living room door that opened through to the long passage leading the whole length of the house to the grand marble-floored entrance hall.

  Then he stopped. And froze.

  The door burst open. Three men he’d never seen before walked into the room. Europeans, from the look of them, or Americans. What was happening?

  Najila let out a gasp. Her children ran to her, wide-eyed with sudden fear. She wrapped her arms protectively around them. Little Salma buried her face in her mother’s side.

  Without a word, the three intruders walked deeper into the living room. Hussein stepped forward to place himself squarely between them and his family. ‘Who are you?’ he challenged them furiously, in English. ‘What are you doing in our home? Get out, before I call the police. You hear me?’

  The oldest of the three men was the one in the middle, solid, muscular, not tall, in crisp jeans and a US Air Force-style jacket over a dark T-shirt. His hair was cut very short, and greying. Probably prematurely. He probably wasn’t much older than Hussein, but he had a lot of mileage on him. His features were rough and pockmarked and his nose had been broken more than once in the past. A very tough, very collected individual. He was giving Hussein a dead-eyed stare, unimpressed by all the angry bluster. He reached inside the jacket and his hand came out with a gun. The men either side of him did the same thing.

  Najila screamed and hugged her terrified children close to her. Hussein stared at the guns.

  ‘Now, Mister Al Bu Said, this doesn’t have to be hard,’ said the greying-haired man. So let’s take it easy and do it right, and we’ll be out of here before you know it.’ He had an American accent. He was very clearly the boss out of the three.

  ‘I -What do you want?’ Hussein stammered.

  ‘I want item 227586,’ the man said calmly.

  Hussein’s mind wheeled and whirled. How could these men even know about that? Then his eyes narrowed as it hit him. Fiedelholz and Goldstein. This was an inside job. Had to be. He should never have trusted those dirty Swiss dogs with his business. Now that he’d changed his mind about selling, the bastards were betraying him. It was unbelievable.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  The man sighed. ‘Sure you don’t. Oh well, I guess some people have to be difficult.’ And he shot Hussein in the left leg, just above the knee.

  The blast of the pistol shot sounded like a bomb exploding. Najila screamed again as she watched her husband fall writhing to the floor, clutching his leg. Blood pumped from the wound onto the white wool carpet.

  The other two men stepped over Hussein. One of them put a pistol to Najila’s head and the other grabbed hold of twelve-year-old Chakir and ripped him away from his mother. The boy kicked and struggled in the man’s grip, until a gun muzzle pressed hard against his cheek and he went rigid with terror.

  ‘Now, like I said,’ the older man went on casually, gazing down at the injured and bleeding Hussein, ‘this doesn’t have to be any harder than it needs to be. You got a safe, right? Course you do. Then I guess that’s where you’d be keeping it, huh?’ He reached down and grasped Hussein by the hair. ‘On your feet, Twinkletoes. Lead the way.’

  ‘Take what you want,’ Hussein gasped through clenched teeth as he struggled to his feet. The agony of his shattered leg had him in a cold sweat and his heart felt as if it was going to explode. ‘But please don’t hurt my family.’

  ‘The safe,’ the man said.

  ‘Tell this bitch to quit howling,’ said the one with the gun to Najila’s head. ‘Or I’m going to put one in her eye.’

  Hussein looked at his wife. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he assured her. ‘Just do as they say.’ Najila’s cries fell to a whimper. She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face, and clutched her trembling daughter even more tightly to her.

  Hussein limped and staggered across the room, leaving a thick blood trail over the carpet. The safe was concealed behind a $250,000 copy of a Jacques-Louis David oil painting on the living room wall, The Death of Socrates. It was a big wall, and it was a big painting, and it was a big safe too. Sweat was pouring into Hussein’s eyes and he thought he was going to faint from the pain, but he managed to press the hidden catch that allowed the gilt frame to hinge away from the wall, revealing the steel door and digital keypad panel behind it. With a bloody finger he stabbed out the twelve-digit code and pressed ENTER, and the locks popped with a click. He swung the safe door open.

  ‘Please,’ he implored the leader of the three men. ‘Take what’s in there and leave us alone.’

  ‘Oh, I’m going to take it, all right. Out of the way.’ The grey-haired man shoved Hussein aside, and Hussein fell back to the floor with a cry of pain as the man started searching the shelves of the safe. Stacks of cash and gold watches, business documents and contracts, he wasn’t interested in. Just the one item he was being paid to obtain.

  He found it inside a leather-covered, velvet-lined box on the upper shelf. When he flipped the lid of the box and saw what was inside, his dead-eyed expression became one of amazement. You had to see it to believe it. ‘Bingo,’ he said. He took it out and weighed it in his hand for a second, keeping his back to the other two men so they couldn’t see what he was holding. He slipped it into the leather pouch he’d brought with him, then slipped the pouch into his pocket. It would be transferred to the locked briefcase later that night, before they got the hell out of Oman never to return.

  ‘Now you have it, go,’ Hussein gasped. The agony was burning him up. He was losing blood so fast that he felt dizzy. The bullet must have clipped the artery. The white carpet all around where he lay was turning bright red.

  The man stood over him, the gun dangling loose from his right hand. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, Mister Al Bu Said. We’ll be out of here in just a moment. One thing, before we go. I need to ask – you wouldn’t even dream of calling the cops and telling them all about this, now would you?’

  ‘No! Never! Please! Just go! I promise, no police.’

  The man nodded to himself, and a thin little smile creased his lips. ‘Guess what? I don’t believe you.’

  The gunshot drowned Najila’s scr
eam of horror. Hussein Al Bu Said’s head dropped lifelessly to the blood-soaked floor with a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead.

  Then the living room of the palatial family home resonated to another gunshot. Then two more. Then silence.

  The men left the bodies where they lay, and made their exit into the falling night.

  Chapter 1

  Paris

  It should have been a simple affair. But in his world, things that started out simple often didn’t end up that way. That was how it had always been for him, and he’d long ago stopped questioning why. Some people had a talent for music, others for business. Ben Hope had a talent for trouble. Both attracting it, and fixing it.

  Which was the reason he was sitting here now on this chilly, damp November afternoon, parked under a grey sky on this unusually empty street in the middle of this bustling city he both loved and hated, at the wheel of an Alpina BMW twin-turbo coupé that had seen better days, smoking his way through a fresh pack of Gauloises, watching the world go by and the pigeons strutting over the Parisian pavements and the entrance of the little grocery shop across the road, and counting down the minutes before trouble was inevitably about to walk back into his life.

  He wouldn’t have to wait much longer. It was thirteen minutes past three o’clock, which meant the deadline for Abdel’s phone call had been and gone exactly thirteen minutes ago. Precisely as Ben had instructed Abdel to allow to happen. If the Romanians anywhere near lived up to the image that was being painted of them, then such an act of open defiance would not be tolerated. They’d be here soon, ready to do business. And Ben would be ready to put the first phase of his plan into action. It might go smoothly, or then again it might not. That all depended entirely on how Dracul decided to play it. Either way, it wasn’t exactly how Ben had planned on spending this brief return visit to Paris.