by D C Macey
He had hurried to the island the evening before, arriving in time to watch from a discreet distance as his subject dined with Sam Cameron. Then he’d trailed them on their gentle evening stroll. Finally, Cameron had left to go into his hotel, and the subject had made to head back to his own hotel in the quiet of the Valletta night.
That quiet had been broken by the screech of tyres and the sound of hurrying footsteps. His subject had turned to see the source of the disturbance only to be enveloped in a scuffle of feet and shadowy shapes.
Now, in the pre-dawn darkness, Cassiter raised his hand, signalling to his men to begin. At once, one of the men ripped away the hood that had been covering his subject’s head. Cassiter gave a little smile to himself when he saw the harsh light flood into Iskinder’s eyes. The priest blinked frantically and glanced about, trying to get his bearings. His wrists had been bound tightly to the armrests of an old metal-framed chair that had been dragged from a corner where it had provided years of break-time comfort to hardworking farmhands. He was disoriented; the gag, tight around his mouth, prevented any protest.
Iskinder blinked again. An unshaded electric bulb swung gently somewhere above him. The reach of its harsh light failed to fill the whole space, leaving pools of darkness beyond the circle of light.
Cassiter stepped forwards. He leant on a stick. It made him angry that his previous clash with Cameron and that church minister girl, Johnson, had left him disabled. Yet, he was better off than Parsol. When the pair had been dragged from the rubble of the tunnel collapse on Crete, Cassiter had found himself nursing a crushed knee; Parsol would never walk again.
‘Welcome to my workshop,’ said Cassiter.
Iskinder shook his head from side to side while shrieking a muffled objection through the gag.
‘Didn’t quite catch that, I’m afraid. Still, not to worry, you’ll have an opportunity to talk in a minute.’
Standing close to Iskinder, Cassiter leant his weight on his stick while stretching out his free hand to stroke Iskinder’s hair. ‘I’ve got some questions. But first, I’m going to make it easier for you by letting you know how badly things go for people who don’t answer me quickly.’
Cassiter manoeuvred round the chair until his right hand touched Iskinder’s left wrist. His fingers explored the binding, and he nodded appreciatively towards the man who had tied it. ‘Good work. That won’t come undone in a hurry.’ The guard acknowledged his praise with a curt nod. ‘Now, shall we begin?’
The priest shook his head, while leaning it away from Cassiter.
Cassiter caressed Iskinder’s hand, stroking it gently. ‘I need to know what’s been happening. Why they visited you in Tanzania, and what was the box Bishop Ignatius gave to Helen Johnson in Nairobi? I need to know it all, do you understand?
‘Most of all, I want to know what you’ve been discussing with Cameron and what your plans are.’ Cassiter leant down close to Iskinder’s ear and continued in a theatrical whisper. ‘Everything. I need to know everything.’ He reached up and freed the gag.
The priest gasped in air then let out a shout of rage. ‘Never. I will not betray my bishop’s confidence. Never! Let me go!’
‘You don’t have a choice. You will tell me.’ Cassiter’s voice was calm, almost comforting, but inside, the old thrill was returning. It had been a while since he had a person completely at his mercy. Now, here he was, and his victim was connected to Helen Johnson and Cameron. It couldn’t be better. He could harvest knowledge, enjoy the task and take some proxy revenge to assuage his appetite until he finally caught up with the minister and her mate.
‘I am an emissary of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church. Release me; you have no right to hold me.’
Cassiter looked down at his captive and laughed. He looked into the priest’s eyes and saw the man flinch. ‘Tell me what I want to know, and I will be merciful. You can die quickly.’
Cassiter’s fist slammed into the side of Iskinder’s head.
‘Tell me everything,’ said Cassiter. His voice and face betrayed no emotion.
Iskinder shook his head groggily.
‘As you wish, but now you will tell me on my terms.’
Cassiter forced his fingers beneath Iskinder’s tied hand, wriggled his hand to secure the best position then began interweaving their fingers, slotting each of his strong digits between the milk soft fingers of the priest. Ready, Cassiter caught his breath, closed his eyes for a moment. ‘It’s time to talk now, priest.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Very well, then I must commence, and you will come to hell with me. We’ll talk again when I’ve finished here.’ Cassiter applied pressure, bending back the priest’s fingers. He felt the resistance of muscle and tendon bracing against the pressure he applied and gave a little smile as he ramped up the load. He heard Iskinder’s little gasps of pain as the priest’s hands tried to resist his. It was futile; wrists bound to the chair-arms meant there was no defensive leverage.
‘Stop. Stop! In the name of God, please stop.’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. Just let me finish what I’m doing.’ Cassiter stepped up the pressure again, increasing the torque applied to the priest’s fingers. Experience told him that he was almost there. He could feel the tension mounting. Then, with a sudden snap, one of the fingers gave. The sound was lost beneath Iskinder’s scream which renewed again and again as more fingers distorted and snapped.
Done, Cassiter released Iskinder’s hand and stepped back. Leaning his weight on his walking stick, he watched the priest. Saw how the broken hand, tied to the chair’s arm, was held still to minimise any further pain while the other strained against its bonds in a desperate and unfulfilled bid to reach across and comfort its twin. Minutes slipped by, and the screams and groans subsided into muttering as the first wave of pain subsided a little. Cassiter did not understand what Iskinder was saying. In his pain and distress, the priest had reverted to Amharic, his mother tongue.
Reaching out, Cassiter took one of the broken fingers and twisted it hard. ‘English. Speak only English. Do you understand me?’
Iskinder howled in distress. Unable to form any words in the depths of his pain, he could only nod a desperate acknowledgement. With a final vigorous twist, Cassiter let the finger go and stepped back. Now he was content to wait a while, allowing his victim’s pain to subside sufficiently for him to converse. Meanwhile, he pointed into the shadows at the far end of the barn and waved one of his men away to fetch one of the large potato crates that were piled up ready for the gathering of the next harvest.
Cassiter sat on the upturned crate and leant close to Iskinder’s tear-streaked face. The priest’s frightened and pained eyes glanced at Cassiter then darted away, scared of what any further eye contact might bring.
‘We’ll speak in English now,’ said Cassiter.
Iskinder nodded then gave a little groan as he arched his back as far as his bonds would permit, trying without success to find some way to ease the pain in his broken hand.
‘You look uncomfortable, priest. I can help with that but only once you’ve answered my questions. Do you understand?’
Iskinder kept his eyes gazing down.
‘I said, do you understand? Answer me when I ask questions, or I will shake your hand again.’ Cassiter reached out towards the broken hand.
‘Yes! Yes! English. Only English! I swear. Please, please …’
Cassiter let his hand drop and commenced his questioning. He could tell the man was holding nothing back. Broken by the pain, all the priest wanted was the end, which would come only when Cassiter was content.
‘Inside my briefcase, there’s a paper. You can have it …’
Cassiter listened carefully to his victim’s gasped account then opened the man’s briefcase. Inside was a folded sheet of paper; he withdrew the copy of the text. A quick glance confirmed what Iskinder had explained, it was old and unintelligible. He’d get it to Parsol as soon as possible. The Frenchman had historical experts w
ho might confirm its meaning.
The questioning was over. He had no idea of the significance of the little box that had been given to Helen Johnson and would need to think through the implications of Cameron’s proposed trip to Libya. One thing he was sure of, the priest had nothing more to tell. Standing up, he limped to the other side of his victim’s chair and allowed his hand to stroke Iskinder’s unbroken one. The priest let out a cry of fear as Cassiter’s fingers interwove with his. The sound merged into a deeper shriek of pain as pressure built on his joints, and his feet drummed in despair on the concrete floor while Cassiter exerted yet more pressure, absorbing the raw human energy that poured from the broken man.
One guard averted his gaze. He had heard all about Cassiter’s party piece, but seeing it for real, he didn’t have the stomach for it, and there was a deadness in Cassiter’s eyes that frightened even him.
Stepping back, Cassiter let the broken digits be and took a moment to survey the crumpled, moaning form that had so recently been a proud human being. He pointed at the potato crate. ‘Put him in that.’ Then he waved for the guards to follow him, and he set off towards the barn doors, his stick tap-tapping on the floor. The guards came behind, dragging the crate and Iskinder out into the night.
‘Dig a hole, a deep hole. Bury him.’
‘He’s still alive, sir.’
‘Bury him.’ Cassiter moved away to his car, got in and instructed his driver to return to Valletta. The local men Parsol had organised to support his actions were a disappointment. They lacked the backbone of his own men. He felt the losses he had incurred and once again promised himself that Cameron and the Johnson girl would suffer an eternity of pain for the harm they had caused him, an eternity.
As the tail lights of Cassiter’s car receded into the distance, his men took an executive decision. They stowed their shovels and lifted the crate onto the back of their pickup truck. With a groan, Iskinder lifted his head. His eyes peered out through the slats, unfocused, unseeing. The pickup headed for the coast.
• • •
Sam sat at the same outside table he had occupied the previous day. His coffee finished and the clock ticking, he wondered where Iskinder had got to. As it approached eleven, the appointed time for their meeting with the captain of the blue boat, he decided to make a move.
Putting some euros inside the folded bill, he slipped it onto the plate that the waiter had delivered shortly before. Then he stood, tapped on the window and was gone long before the waiter arrived to clear the table.
Over on the quayside, Sam took a final glance around. There was no sign of the priest so he resolved to go it alone. As he approached the gangway, his access was blocked by the same deckhand who had barred their way the previous day.
‘What’s up, man?’ said the hand.
‘You told me to call back at eleven this morning. Here I am. Is the captain available?’
The deckhand gave a shrug, raised his hand to stop Sam at the foot of the gangway then turned, disappearing into the bowels of the boat.
The vessel was old and the paintwork was in desperate need of a refresh, but Sam knew that neither age nor appearance counted for much. In the final analysis, what really mattered were: was it watertight, and were its engines and equipment well-maintained and functional? Seaworthiness was all - everything else was just window dressing.
He stepped a little to the side, looked along the length of the hull and suddenly recognised that beneath the tired paintwork was a vessel with a very trim line. He guessed it could deliver a fair turn of speed if called on.
‘What do you want?’ The captain’s voice pulled him back to the moment.
Sam smiled at the man, received nothing in response.
‘I’m looking for you. We understand yours might be the boat we should charter for a few days, if we want to take a quiet trip.’
‘We?’ said the captain looking about.
‘Yes, we. My companion couldn’t make it. He’s a priest, so I’m guessing his morning service lasted longer than he’d expected. He’ll be along shortly, I’m sure.’
‘Carlos said there was a priest. That’s good, I’ve been expecting him. Not so good that he hasn’t turned up.’
‘You were expecting him?’
‘Yes, a business friend tipped me off that some African church has been looking for a boat to charter. They were given my name. So I’ve been expecting a visit. But you’re not African.’ A note of suspicion suddenly hung in the air.
‘No, I’m not, but we’re together. Your man spoke to us both yesterday.’
‘I know, but your priest friend is the man with the introduction. Go find him and come back, then we’ll talk.’
‘I’ll do that, but I really don’t know what time he’ll turn up. In the meantime, can you confirm, are you available for charter?’
A dry laugh reached down to him from the deck. ‘Come back with your priest friend later, and we can talk. Then I’ll check my availability.’
‘I’ll be back, don’t worry. But to be clear, are you available right now?’
‘As I said, we can talk with your friend when he gets here. I know his credentials, I know nothing about you.’
‘Okay, but just tell me, are you available for charter right now?’
‘No, the boat’s on another charter, starting tomorrow morning, and that’s going to keep me busy until the middle of the week.’
‘Have you got an agent we can contact if you’ve already sailed when my colleague turns up?’
‘No, only me.’ After a moment’s thought, he pointed towards the tourist information kiosk set further along the quayside.
‘If you do need to contact me, go in there, ask for the manager, tell him you need to get a message to Captain Blue; he’ll manage it.’
‘Captain Blue? Really?’
The captain slapped his hand against the dirty blue bulkhead. ‘It’s the colour of the boat. That’s all he needs to know, all you need to know. All anyone needs to know.’ He fell silent, pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Putting one between his lips, he flicked on a lighter, brought the flame to the tip and drew deeply. Eyes closed, he held the smoke in his lungs for a moment while turning away from Sam. He leant his elbows on the ship’s rail and slowly exhaled.
Realising the interview was over, Sam turned without a word and walked away along the quayside. It was quite clear that Blue had not seen Iskinder this morning, so the priest was missing. First job would be to find him. Sam didn’t fancy a trip to Libya, but if that was where the answer to opening the two boxes lay, he’d go.
• • •
Helen carefully followed the hand signals that guided her off the road and into the natural layby formed at the gateway into the field. The snow had stopped falling now, but a thick white blanket had settled over everything to merge roadside, verge and ditch into one even white surface. She had to trust completely in Alan Ralston’s intimate knowledge of his land and continued to edge forwards, responding to his beckoning fingers. She stopped in immediate reaction to his signal.
Alan strode to the driver’s door and pulled it open. ‘Helen, good to meet you. Thanks for coming out. It’s rotten weather.’
Helen reached out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Alan, and it’s my pleasure to be here.’ She placed her rubber boots in the snow beside the car door. Kicking off her shoes, she swung her feet out and round to slip them into the boots. ‘Never mind the weather, more to the point, how’s your father? I’m so sorry he’s had this accident.’
‘He’ll live. It can’t be helped. Now watch your step here, the snow’s deep, and it gets worse as we cross the field. There’s been some drifting. Do you want my arm?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll manage. I love the snow, don’t you?’ she said, while fastening her coat against the cold and swinging her bag across her shoulder.
‘Well, I expect it’s alright if you don’t need to go out in it. On the farm, I mostly do. So I’m not so keen.’ He touched his hand on th
e bonnet of Helen’s car. ‘That’s a nice 4x4 you’ve got there. It’s just what you need to come out here today.’
‘It’s my boyfriend’s. I borrowed it. I didn’t think my little car would make it out here in this weather.’
‘Good thinking. The council are struggling to keep the main roads clear just now. You’d never have got here today in a wee city car. I’d have had to come and get you out with a tractor.’
Alan stepped through the open gate into the field and she followed. Once he’d swung the gate shut, he pointed past his Land Rover which was parked just inside the field. ‘It’s in that part of the wood over there.’ Alan delved into the back of his vehicle and pulled out a roughhewn stave. ‘Here, you’ll find this useful as a walking stick for crossing the field and in the wood too.’
Taking the wooden pole, she looked up the gentle slope to a treeline perhaps a hundred paces off. ‘Right, let’s go.’
The wood was much thicker and deeper than it had appeared from the road. Even though the ancient deciduous trees had shed their leaves for winter, the thick overhead latticework of interwoven branches contrived to cast everything into shadowy shades of grey.
At ground level, filling much of the space between the gnarled old tree trunks, were the shrubs and bushes that spent all summer jostling one another for any flashes of sunlight that might break through the overhead canopy. Today, they were still, wet-black branches and twigs linked and woven like three-dimensional spiders’ webs, spreading to fill the available space and cut visibility for anyone trying to get through the wood.
‘This is thick,’ said Helen.
‘It is that. We don’t encourage visitors. It’s a protected habitat.’
‘I know, and I’m thinking you could get lost in this quite easily.’
‘Well, I don’t know …’
The interwoven tree branches, together with all the undergrowth and bushes, were like a blanket that raised the ground temperature just enough to discourage what snow that reached the ground from settling.
