The Doomsday Prophecy (6 page)

‘Come on,’ Ben said. ‘Why would she be?’

Bradbury stared at him. His hand was gripping the table edge. ‘Will you help us? We trust you.’

Ben was silent.

‘We’re desperate, Ben. It’s not that we want you to persuade her to come back here, or anything like that. Just find her, make sure she’s safe and well. And ask her to please, please get in touch with us. Tell her we’re sorry for all the quarrels and anything we might have said. And that we love her.’

Ben didn’t reply.

‘We’ve thought of flying out there ourselves and looking for her,’ Bradbury said. ‘But even if we did find her, she’d never want to talk to us. She’d only go into one of her moods – start accusing us of parental interference or something, and run a mile. I know what she’s like, and it would only make things worse.’ Bradbury grimaced. ‘We need an outsider, someone who’s a friend of the family but more objective. Someone who can approach her, who would know how to handle this.’

Ben drained his glass and put it down on the table. ‘I’m sorry for what’s happened to your family, Tom. Truly, I am.’

Bradbury bit his lip.

‘But I can’t help you,’ Ben said.

‘Naturally, you’d be paid,’ Bradbury said, looking agitated. ‘I should have mentioned that. We have savings. I can pay ten thousand. That should cover all the expenses with plenty left over. I can do an internet bank transfer. The funds would be in your account instantly. I’m just sorry I can’t pay more.’

Ben smiled. ‘It’s not the money. I’d do it for nothing. But I’m retired. That’s why I’m here. I’m finished with all that. Trying hard to put that life behind me.’

‘But this would be different,’ Bradbury said. ‘This is nothing compared to the things you’ve been involved in. Please. I’m begging you.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’ Ben paused. ‘But let me tell you what I
will
do. If you want someone you can trust to go out there and find Zoë, there is a guy I would recommend …’

When he left the Bradburys’ place Ben walked straight back to his flat. He picked up the phone and punched a number into the keypad. Charlie answered.

‘That thing you were asking me about,’ Ben said. ‘Would you still be interested, if I told you an opportunity had come up?’

Charlie didn’t need time to decide. ‘I’d be interested.’

‘Good. Now listen.’ Ben told him in careful detail what Bradbury was offering.

‘That would take care of the mortgage for a year,’ Charlie said. ‘But I already know what Rhonda will say.’

‘All you have to do is find Zoë. You don’t have to try to bring her back. She shouldn’t be too hard to track down, by the sound of it. Just follow the party music and the trail of empty bottles. All her parents want to know is that she’s safe. The most you’d need to do is persuade her to make contact with them.’

‘It sounds easy.’

‘That’s because it is easy,’ Ben said. ‘It’s low season
there at the moment, so you won’t even make much of a hole in the ten grand. You can tell Rhonda that all you’re doing is delivering a message – surely that won’t be a problem for her? This is the Greek Islands, not Afghanistan. And you’ll be there and back inside five days, maximum.’

‘I’m interested,’ Charlie said again.

‘I need to call the Bradburys right now and tell them yes or no. It’s your decision.’

‘Count me in,’ Charlie said.

At that moment, one and a half thousand miles away on the tiny Greek island of Paxos, Zoë Bradbury was being roughly shoved and prodded down the beach, back towards the jetty where she’d tried to escape four days before.

It was the first daylight she’d seen since then. For four days she’d been tied down to the bed, only allowed free when she screamed to be allowed to use the toilet. For four days, they’d been questioning her around the clock.

The whole time, she was racking her brains to remember.
Who was she?
Sometimes there was just nothing there, nothing but a big empty blank. But then, every so often, it felt like something was stirring in her mind, as though the drifting fragments of memory wanted to gel together and fall into focus. Faces, voices, places. They hovered tantalisingly in her head. But just when they seemed so close and she tried to reach out to them, they would suddenly dissolve back into the mist.

She stared for hours at the tiny scar on her finger.
A childhood injury, maybe. But how had she got it? She had no idea. A thousand other questions crowded and jostled in her mind. Where was she from? Who were her family and friends? What was her life like?

And then there was the most horrifying question of all.
What did these people want with her?

As her initial acute terror faded into a new kind of steady, chilling horror, she watched and listened to her captors. Two of the men never spoke to her and she saw little of them. It was the woman and the fair-haired guy she had the most contact with. The woman had a hard look about her, but there were times when it seemed to melt a little, and she spoke more kindly.

The fair-haired guy was a psychopath. Zoë hated him profoundly, and the only thing that had kept her going throughout those endless hours had been her fantasy of somehow getting free, getting that gun or the knife from him, and using it on him.

But however they tried to get the information out of her, whether the threats were implicit or whether they were obscenely violent and screamed in her face, none of it was working. She could see they were getting increasingly desperate.

Then a new thought had come into her mind. What if her memory
did
come back to her? What would they do to her, once they had whatever it was they wanted?

She had a good idea what the fair-haired man wanted to do, if the woman let him. Maybe her amnesia was the only thing keeping her alive.

And now they were taking her somewhere. But where? Had they finally given up on her? Her heart
raced at the thought. Maybe they were letting her go, taking her home.

Or maybe the time had come when they’d decided it was pointless, and they were going to finish it. End her life. Here, now, today. Her hands began to shake.

The fair-haired guy’s pistol was pressing hard against her spine as he shoved her across the beach. ‘Move it,’ he muttered. She tried to walk faster, but the soft sand was heavy going in her bare feet, and her legs felt like jelly. She stumbled. A rough hand grabbed her arm and jerked her up to her feet. The gun stabbed painfully into her.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. The man was glowering at her. Behind him, the woman was following with a pensive look on her face, checking her watch and gazing up at the sky. The other two men tagged along quietly with blank expressions. One of them was holding a gun loosely against his side.

Zoë trembled violently. They were going to kill her. She knew it.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the low voice said behind her. ‘You want to run.’ He chuckled. ‘So run. I want you to run, so I can shoot you down.’

‘Keep your mouth shut,’ the woman snapped at him.

They reached the edge of the sand. Zoë was shoved towards the wooden jetty. She stepped up onto it, feeling the hard salt-encrusted planks against the bare soles of her feet. They followed. Were they going to drown her?

Then she heard it. The distant buzz of an aircraft approaching. She shielded her eyes and looked up to
see a white dot against the sky. She kept watching it as she walked slowly along the jetty.

The white dot grew bigger until she could make out its shape. It was a small seaplane.

They reached the end of the jetty. The clattery rumble of the seaplane’s twin engines filled her ears as it sank lower and lower in the air. Its underside skimmed the waves, bounced and then touched down, sending up a fan of spray. It settled in the water and came round in a wide arc, leaving a churning white wake. It drew up level with the jetty and sat bobbing in the water. The spinning props settled down to an idle. The sound of the engines was deafening and Zoë cupped her hands over her ears. The gun was still pressed hard to her back.

A hatch opened in the slim fuselage, and a man peered out. He stared coldly at her, then nodded to the others. He and another man moored the plane up to the jetty and slid out an extending gangway, like a narrow bridge over the water. Zoë felt herself being pushed towards it. She staggered across the wobbling gangway into the plane. It was hot and cramped inside. A strange man thrust her down into a seat.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she gasped in terror.

The fair-haired guy appeared in the hatch, and for a moment she froze at the thought that he was coming with her. Then the woman put a hand on his shoulder and shook her head at him. He seemed to protest, then relented. He stepped aside and it was the two other men, the quiet ones, who climbed into the plane and sat down beside Zoë. They ignored her completely.
Then the hatch was shut, and she felt the vibrations mount as the twin aircraft engines revved up for takeoff.

Hudson and Kaplan stood and watched the plane skim across the waves. It climbed into the blue sky and became a fading white dot. Then it was gone.

‘Out of our hands,’ Kaplan said.

Hudson cast a sullen look at her. He’d been counting on getting on the plane and being there when they went to work on the girl. After days and days on this rock, now he’d been cheated. ‘Then we can get out of here,’ he muttered.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘We have other work to do.’

Oxford
The tenth day

It had been a blur of time for Ben as he sat endlessly hunched over the desk in his flat, deep in study, completely immersed in textbooks and dictionaries and piles of notes, stopping only to eat and sleep. No phone calls, no visitors. It was a time of total focus, and his mind thrived on the concentration. It helped him forget.

By afternoon on the third day of it, his eyes were burning. The spread-out papers on his desk were turning into a mountain. The coffee at his elbow had gone cold hours ago, neglected while he’d been trying to decipher page after page of knotty Hebrew. It was driving him crazy, but as the lessons of twenty years ago slowly filtered back into his brain, things were coming into focus for him.

For the first time in days, his phone rang. He felt its pulsing buzz in his pocket, dug it out and answered. It felt strange to hear his own voice again.

It was Charlie. He sounded far away, anxious and agitated.

‘Ben, I need your help.’

Ben leaned his weight back in the reclining swivel chair and rubbed his eyes, light-headed from concentration. He forced himself back into the present. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m still here on Corfu,’ Charlie said quickly. ‘Things are turning out more complicated than you said they would. I’m running into problems.’

‘What do you need from me?’

Charlie said something Ben didn’t catch.

‘You’re breaking up.’

‘I said, I need you to come out here as soon as possible.’

‘I can’t do that. Can’t you just tell me what’s going on?’

‘I know it sounds odd, but I have to explain it to you face to face. I can’t talk about this on the phone. There’s a situation developing here.’

‘It’s a simple job, Charlie.’

‘That’s what you told me. But believe me, things didn’t turn out that way.’

Ben sighed and was quiet for a few seconds.

‘Ben, please. This is serious.’

‘How serious?’

‘Serious.’

Ben closed his eyes.
Shit
. ‘And you’re absolutely certain you can’t handle this on your own?’

‘I’m sorry. I need backup. You know this kind of stuff better than me.’

Ben sighed again. Shook his head. Punched out his left fist and looked at his watch. He did a quick calculation. He could catch the Oxford Tube into London and be at Heathrow in a few hours. Catch a flight to Athens and from there to Corfu. ‘OK, copy that. Give me an RV point and I’ll be with you by midday tomorrow.’

He was there by breakfast.

It was an island Ben had never been to before. He’d expected an arid landscape but from the air Corfu was strikingly green, a paradise of woods and wildflower meadows, mountains and blue ocean. In the distance he could make out rambling ruins and sleepy villages nestling in the pine forests as the plane circled and dropped down towards the airport at Kérkyra, Corfu Town.

But he didn’t have much time for the beauty of the place. He was tired, and fighting to contain his annoyance. He couldn’t understand why he had to be here, why Charlie couldn’t deal with this on his own. Had he misjudged him? The man had been a good soldier. Tough, determined, resourceful. But maybe he’d lost his edge. Ben had seen that happen before.

He stepped off the plane into the warmth of the sun. In the small airport he rented a locker and stuffed into it his passport, his return tickets and the thick hardcover philosophy book he’d brought to read on the plane. He wasn’t planning on staying long, and he wanted to travel light. The only items he kept with him were his wallet, his phone and his whisky flask.

He wondered about the Bible. He’d been carrying it around a lot lately, and had got used to having it to hand to dip into. It was compact and not too heavy. He decided to bring it along. He slung the lightweight duffel bag over his shoulder, secured the locker and put the key and his wallet into his jeans pocket.

Outside the airport, he hailed a taxi. He leaned back in the noisy Fiat and took in the scenery. The driver talked incessantly in such rapid broken English that Ben couldn’t understand a word. He ignored him, and pretty soon the guy shut up. It was only two miles into Kérkyra, but traffic was already building, and by the time they entered the city the roads were badly snarled up. Ben paid the driver in crisp euros, hauled his duffel bag out of the back and decided to walk it.

He walked fast, impatient to hear what Charlie was going to tell him. The rendezvous was at the guesthouse where Charlie was staying. Ben had the address and used a cheap map he’d bought at the airport to find his way through the old town.

He walked up narrow streets where washing hung like banners on lines strung between the houses. The place was crammed with life and bustle – shopping arcades, tavernas, hot food bars and cafés. He walked through a thronging marketplace, rich with the salty tang of lobster and squid. Stand after stand of fresh olives glistened in the sunshine. In the hectic buzz of San Rocco Square people were sitting outside cafés, taking their morning coffee. Traffic rumbled through the old twisty streets.

He reached Charlie’s guesthouse just before nine, a
faded stone building on the edge of a busy road right in the heart of the old town. It had a café terrace outside, tables lining the pavement and shaded by wide parasols and dozens of trees planted in big stone urns.

Charlie was sitting at one of the tables, a newspaper and a pot of coffee in front of him. He saw Ben across the street and waved. He looked relieved more than happy, and he wasn’t smiling.

Ben threaded his way across the brisk traffic and between the tables to where Charlie was sitting. The place was already busy with families eating breakfast, the season’s first tourists with their cameras and guidebooks, people grabbing a bite on their way to work. A small man in a light cotton jacket was sitting alone near the edge of the terrace, working on a notebook computer.

Ben hung his jacket over the back of the empty wicker chair at Charlie’s table, dumped the duffel bag on the ground and sat down. He leaned back in the chair, kicked his legs out in front of him and crossed his arms.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Charlie said.

‘This had better be good. I’m tired and I shouldn’t have to be here.’

‘You want coffee?’

‘Just talk,’ Ben said.

Charlie was frowning. He looked even more agitated than he’d sounded on the phone. He folded up his paper and laid it on the table beside him, took a sip of coffee and looked hard at Ben.

‘I have a bad feeling,’ he said. ‘About Zoë Bradbury.’