Cait moved her gaze to Tariq and immediately noticed his scowl and his vacant, angry eyes.
Such hate, she thought to herself, seeing nothing but loathing and frustration behind his dull, resigned exterior. His dark pupils resembled an unfathomable well of motionless black oil that was backlit by the flames of pain and suffering. She suddenly remembered James’s subtle warning and sensed a terrible feeling of coldness and danger about the man staring back at her over the top of his drink.
And that dark and sinister aura. You’re holding it so close to your body. Not a good sign. You really have put up a wall around you, thought Cait.
She instinctively knew that the man behind the stare wasn’t a person you would turn to for an empathetic ear.
You’re a radical who’s fueled by hate. I can feel it! Cait’s mind was running at full speed, her inner warning system on high alert, a voice in her head cautioning her: There’s a really frightening, ever-present danger about you.
Cait paused momentarily to let the ripples in the waters of her thoughts settle.
You’re definitely not one of God’s caring and sharing creatures.
Cait’s psychology studies at university kicked in big-time, and remembering the brief few lectures on radicalization she attended with a “well, I’m certainly not going to be dealing with extremists when I graduate” attitude, she now suspected that Tariq had the makings of a perfect terrorist. Hate and violence emanated from every pore of his frustrated, short frame. She made a quantum leap and momentarily invaded his mind, jumping the ether between them as she read his thoughts.
But she couldn’t get past the front door of his subconscious. An uncompromising group ideology that was like a brick wall in his mind confronted her, allowing no conflicting ideas or thoughts to pass through its restrictive boundary. Cait was locked out.
I can’t get past it! she realized.
Tariq angrily looked at Cait, feeling her darting around inside his head trying to scavenge his thoughts, but he was powerless to respond. She was in control, seeking a route to pass the ideological barrier that was denying her access to his innermost thoughts.
Cait kept searching, looking for clues, darting this way and that, following Tariq’s dendrites, looking in the hidden corners of his mind that she could access. Piecing together what she was able to scavenge from his jumbled thoughts, she intuited that Tariq had been so totally indoctrinated into whatever group or sect he followed that he was unable to see or accept any other viewpoint.
Tariq was a fanatic. Cait became aware that he had traded empathy for violence; to him, as far as she could determine, the end always justified the means, so if people had to be killed or sacrificed along the way, they were just collateral damage. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, so it was their fault, not his.
Having seen enough, Cait forcefully extracted herself from Tariq’s subconscious, his protective aura immediately closing over the gap that she emerged from, and turned to his younger brother, Aziz.
“So Aziz, your friend here with you, is he family?” There was something going down and Cait had to get to the bottom of it. Her ancient grandmothers kept whispering in her ear, pushing her to find out more, and a distant memory of James sending warning signals was never far away.
And why did the angry short man standing behind Aziz have so much power over him? Cait had already seen in her vision the burden and pain that Aziz was living with when she brushed Aziz’s hand that time in Palermo, and now here he was again standing in front of Dec.
“Tariq? He’s my older brother,” said Aziz, casting a quick glance at him over his left shoulder.
There’s definitely tension there, Cait sensed. He’s frightened of his brother.
Cait took a mental step back and took in Aziz, the person. His eyes showed no emotion or happiness, only hopelessness along with resigned despair. And fear. He was a broken man, wandering aimlessly without a cause or a reason to go on. Her vision of the capsized life raft replayed again in her mind’s eye.
That’s it! Cait realized in a blinding flash of enlightenment.
Abdul died while under your care. And you feel a lesser person for it, don’t you? And your brother blames you for Abdul no longer being here.
Aziz had guilt written all over him, as surely if he had an illuminated floating sign above his head with a huge arrow pointing down at him saying: I didn’t deserve to survive. It should have been me who went to Allah, not Abdul. It was obvious Tariq had told him about his failure.
Many times.
“Tell me, Aziz. Where do you live here in Sicily?” Cait asked politely, prying, searching for whatever it was that she knew she had to find out from him. There absolutely was something there. She could feel it. The answer was somewhere in the trivia of the moment.
“La tatahadath maeaha, Aziz,” muttered Tariq. “Hi kafir. Wa'ayn hi hijabuha. Laysat mushiiyat Allah.”
(Don’t talk to her, Aziz. She’s an infidel. And where is her hijab? It’s not Allah’s will.)
“Hayaa bina nadhhab,” said Tariq nervously.
(Come on, let’s go.)
He wasn’t comfortable dealing with nonbelievers.
But Aziz stayed. Cait had him under her spell and he was going nowhere.
“We stay at Cara di Mineo,” said Aziz.
“The refugee camp?” said Cait. “I heard about it from our friend who drove us down here from Palermo. There’s nearly four thousand refugees there, right?”
Paul had actually divulged a lot more about the living hell that Aziz and his brother resided in. It was the largest refugee camp in Sicily, a dumping ground for the dispossessed, hidden from public view, located in a disused American army base fifty-five kilometers to the west of Catania, conveniently out of the way. Paul had intimated to Cait and Dec in the car on the way down to Catania that parts of the camp were violent, lawless and dangerous, with razor wire fences surrounding the compound and heavily armed soldiers keeping the peace.
The refugees were apparently free to come and go, but at what price? It was a hotbed of boredom, discontent and insurgency, and a breeding ground for radicals and terrorists, which is why he wouldn’t allow the two of them to tag along with him when he visited the facility this afternoon.
And it looked like Aziz and his brother lived there.
“No wonder you’re so fucked up,” Cait muttered quietly to herself as she processed the moment.
Cait turned toward Dec and said, “We must tell Paul all about Aziz and his brother. Maybe he can help them. You know that’s where he is at present?”
“Yeah, yeah Cait. Good idea.” Dec had been listening in on what had transpired, picking up on threads of conversation. But this was his sister’s domain. When she was on one of her “mystical trips” as he liked to refer to them, she was best left alone to follow it through. As far as Dec was concerned, he didn’t have a numinous bone in his body. Cait had inherited all the supernatural stuff from Jools; he was more into the practical, down-to-earth side of life like G.
“So, where did you come from before you arrived in Sicily?” asked Dec, keeping the conversation flowing as best as he could. He wasn’t privy to Cait’s paranormal insights, so he only knew that Aziz and the short man were refugees.
As Dec and Aziz chatted, Cait tore herself away from the conversation and caught Tariq glancing around, his eyes darting to all corners of the piazza as if he was searching for someone. He suddenly spun on his own axis and faced her head-on as a tourist on the other side of the road started taking some holiday snaps of the old, rather dilapidated three-story, seventeenth-century building they were currently sitting out front of. The dirty façade was stained black with hundreds of years of accumulated dirt and grime, making for an uninteresting picture.
Strange move, Cait thought, her built-in radar flashing caution. Why would you do that? The building may be old, but it’s really got nothing going for it.
She glanced over at Mr. Happy Snap and he seemed engrossed in
what he was doing. All looked perfectly normal: well-built young guy, dark wraparound sunglasses, beige cargo shorts, loose-fitting blue patterned shirt that was flapping slightly in the cooling breeze and half open, hinting at a ripped body with a six-pack . . . but he did seem to be taking an inordinate number of pictures.
Why would you use a telephoto lens for a panorama shot? she absently thought. Ah well, to each his own.
Diverting her gaze from Mr. Happy Snap back to Aziz’s brother, Cait drifted off for a split second and James appeared in her head: “The small man. He’s not as he seems. Beware of the Brethren.” Then as quickly as James’s image appeared it vanished, his oracle-like prophecy rolling around inside Cait’s head looking for a place to park itself.
“Brethren. What Brethren?” Cait wanted to ask, but her psychic soothsayer had gone.
Cait looked back at Tariq and a fleeting vision of his inner self was on display, peeking its head through his outward persona. Her visitations to his mind had proven correct. The man was pure evil; someone to be avoided. Tariq returned the glare with a violent intensity, setting the air between them on fire.
“Oh . . .” Cait involuntarily gasped, momentarily paralyzed as she felt herself engulfed by a malevolent force that she could only feel, not see. Cait shivered, the hairs on her arms standing on end, the dark emotion of the moment looming and ever present, like a cold, ominous shadow.
Warning, warning!
She’d been here before and her premonitions were rarely wrong. Cait’s antennae for trouble went on full alert as a vision briefly flashed in front of her eyes: a white car with black tinted windows exploding, a driver sitting inside, the car on fire, people running from the burning wreck, someone badly injured . . .
Forcing herself to look away, Cait diverted her attention from the intense gaze that was still boring into her. Like flicking off a switch, her vision dissipated. But its memory remained etched in Cait’s consciousness, even after the foreboding, dark force field that had just been enveloping her vanished.
Maybe that’s what my grandmothers wanted me to see? thought Cait.
But why?
Feeling like she had just been through the wringer, Cait turned her attention back to Aziz, who was still conversing in broken English with Dec.
“So we prefer to be in big city. Not in Cara di Mineo,” said Aziz in answer to Dec’s question as to why he was here in Catania. “Too much trouble in refugee camp. Dangerous. I feel safer here. And we can make little money to buy food.”
With all that had just gone down, Cait needed a break to ground herself. She had a troubling, all-pervading feeling that this wasn’t the last time she would be in contact with Aziz and Tariq. But the next time mightn’t be so pleasant.
“Okay Dec, time to go.” What Cait really meant was “conversation over,” but that wasn’t really appropriate. She presumed Dec would pick up on the subtlety of her words. She needed to clear the clutter and make sense of the random recollections of what had just transpired that were currently rushing through her mind at breakneck speed.
“What do you want this time, sis? White wine, spritz or a cleansing ale?” said Dec as the waiter hovered over the table, patiently waiting for an order.
Cait and Dec were sitting at Caffè del Duomo on the edge of the tourist haven, Piazza del Duomo, having an afternoon aperitif and some accompanying nibbles while they waited for Paul and his driver to arrive sometime within the next thirty minutes.
“An Aperol spritz sounds great. And Dec, get a serving of that seafood fritto misto that the table over there has, would you? Like, it smells delicious.”
“Done deal, sis. I could eat a whale.”
“Ah, better make that two servings, Dec. Or maybe grab arancini Siciliani to share. I’m hungry. Been a busy day sightseeing.
“Hey, that castle was pretty cool, wasn’t it,” continued Cait as she lazily cast her eyes around the square, people watching as usual. Dec was half there as he attempted to order the drinks and food using a combination of English, hand gestures, and sign language that included him moving his clenched fingers from an imaginary plate on the table to his mouth.
“Hey, they must be following us,” Cait said jokingly. “There’s Aziz and his brother over there working the square. Do they ever give up?”
“Leave them to themselves, eh. We’ve done our bit today for the refugees,” said Dec. He just wanted to chill with a cold beer in hand and replay the events of the day in his head.
The sun had drifted into the western sky and was now behind them. Dec had positioned Cait and himself in the shade of a large white café umbrella looking straight down the piazza toward the pickup point near Sant’Agata Gardens, about a hundred meters to the northeast of where they were sitting.
“There’s Paul. I’m sure that’s him over there near that large tree in the gardens,” said Dec, pointing in the general direction.
Cait looked up and waved, Paul’s height and physical size making him stand out from the crowd as he made his way through the horde of tourists over to Caffè del Duomo. She could see his driver Paolo in the shade on the other side of the gardens, having a cigarette. She assumed that he had parked close by around the corner.
“You two have a good day?” asked Paul as he pulled out a chair and sat down.
Without waiting for a reply, Paul picked up Dec’s stubby of beer and holding it up for the waiter to see, started making hand signals indicating that they needed three more. The fact that Cait still had a half-finished spritz sitting in front of her was inconsequential. This was typical Paul: bon vivant and generous as the day is long.
While they were waiting for the next round of drinks, Cait and Dec proceeded to describe to Paul the events of the last four hours: the large imposing baroque cathedral in the piazza opposite where they were sitting, drawing in hordes of tourists and a few faithful locals; the frenetic activity of the fresh food and produce market just off the main square, the noisy traders all seemingly yelling at the same time over the top of each other; the myriad of intertwined ancient narrow streets winding this way and that, overlooked by disheveled seventeenth-century stone houses, most with small wrought iron faced balconies that almost touched each other from both sides of the street; the two-thousand-year-old ruins of the ancient amphitheatre, indicative of a time when the might of Rome ruled the known world; the recently restored Castello Ursino, dating back to the Normans; the busy harbor, full of ferries, fishing boats and yachts of all shapes and sizes.
Cait and Dec had walked the length and breadth of the old town and were knackered.
The refugee standing in the shadows of Catania Cathedral on the opposite side of the piazza took out the crumpled photo from his pocket and looked at it one last time as his target finally paid and left the bar.
Yes, that is the man, Mohammed thought to himself.
He felt in the side pocket of his long gray pants for the black mobile phone that Three Fingers had given him. He took it out, checking for the third time that it was switched on, then reconfirmed the preprogrammed number in the speed dial. It reminded him of military maneuvers in Tripoli when he was a freedom fighter with the rebels. Check and recheck. Mohammed was a veteran of some five years of ambushing and killing, sometimes fighting side by side with the ISIS invaders, all in the name of the warlord who was paying him. The warlord, in turn, was trying to wrest control and carve out his own fiefdom in a country where there was nothing but anarchy outside of Tripoli.
Mohammed was ready. In another forty meters his target would be at the car.
Easy.
As they left Caffè del Duomo, Dec led the way, with Cait and Paul a dozen paces or so behind, chitchatting about how Paul’s day had gone at Cara di Mineo. Cait and Paul stopped halfway across the piazza and they both turned around so she could get a selfie of the two of them with the fountain and Catania Cathedral in the background.
“What about Dec?” asked Paul. “Don’t you two want a photo together?”
Ca
it looked around but Dec was already ten paces in front and approaching the Sant’Agata gardens. It was all too difficult and way too hot to call him back.
“Don’t worry, Paul. We’ve got plenty of photos from today. Give Dec a pass on this one.”
Mohammed nervously played with the phone in his hand, turning it over and over while he waited for the opportune time to push the green send button.
Thirty meters.
Cait and Paul turned around and started walking over to the limousine, which Paolo had just moved to the edge of the piazza.
“Paul, I’ll meet you at the car. I’m just going to buy a couple of cold drinks from that street vendor over there for the trip back,” said Cait.
“Good idea,” said Paul, turning with Cait and following her.
The refugee became agitated. His target was walking in the wrong direction.
“Come on, come on. Hurry up,” Mohammed muttered out loud to himself.
“What are we doing here?” asked his companion. “Why are you watching those people?”
“None of your business. Just shut up and follow me. And don’t be seen by them. Stay over there in the shade.”
Moving along the wall of the building that they were in front of, the two refugees melted into the shadows cast by the ornate three-story buildings that edged the piazza.
Twenty meters.
“Yes!” said the shorter of the two. “They’re moving again.”
Dec looked up and saw Cait and Paul walking toward him across the piazza with a handful of water bottles, so he turned and walked slowly toward the limousine to allow them to catch up.
Ten meters.
Mohammed stopped fidgeting with his mobile phone and placed his twitching index finger on the green dial button.
Without warning, a storm of evil thoughts invaded Cait’s mind, violently swamping her brain like a giant wave. Her previous vision when she was mentally dueling with Aziz’s brother a few hours ago returned with a vengeance: the white car with black tinted windows, driver sitting inside, the car in her vision exploding in a ball of brutal flames, totally engulfed, people running away from the burning wreck, someone badly injured . . .
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 56
