“Besides, that doctor from the crowd who stepped in knew a lot more about keeping the lad alive than me.”
“Yeah, maybe . . . but Cait and Dec are like my own kids. I’ve known them ever since they were born,” said Paul. “And the bomb was obviously meant for me, not Dec.”
O’Donnell felt Paul’s pain.
He blames himself for the explosion, doesn’t he, thought O’Donnell, the realization hitting him between the eyes like a thunderbolt.
“Paul, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been tailing who I think exploded the bomb for the past two weeks or so. They were two refugees from Cara di Mineo. The camp where you visited when Cait and her brother were in Catania.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Paul, give me some credit. This is what I do for a living. I’m a field operative, okay? It wasn’t hard to piece it all together. So I made a point to contact Cait.”
“Look Tony, Cait’s just been through hell and her brother’s fighting for his life in the ICU. So you’ve got to cut her some slack,” said Paul protectively. “She needs time to process all of what’s just happened, apart from waiting to see how Dec’s doing. From what I hear, sadly he’s touch and go.”
Picking up his wine, Paul promptly drained half his glass in a single mouthful, then put it back on the white tablecloth, his attention drawn to a drop of red that had run down the neck of the bottle, leaving a crimson stain like a sentinel on the white tablecloth.
O’Donnell then proceeded to grill Paul about Aziz and Tariq: Did you know of them perchance? No. Without giving anything away or seeming suspicious in any way, would you be able to secure a copy of the occupant manifest for Cara di Mineo? Maybe. Has there been talk or any intimation of terrorist activity or terrorist cells among the detainees? Not to my knowledge, but considering the background of most of the refugees, it’s in the cards that some undesirables could have slipped through the initial interrogation and background checks. Would you be prepared to discreetly act as my eyes and ears in the camp and be my conduit if required? Yes, but remember I’m not at the refugee camp very often . . .
Paul slipped straight into covert mode, secretly enjoying the clandestine side to his job. Although he wouldn’t admit it, it was a bit of a rush and fulfilled a few schoolboy dreams about being a secret agent. Even if he was just an observer.
“So tell me Paul, why do you think they tried to kill you?” If nothing else, O’Donnell was blunt and to the point, which made two of them in this regard.
“In fact, do you have any idea who gave the orders to blow up the car?” Ice was following his nose, and it was telling him that Paul might be able to provide another link in the chain.
“This terrorist Tariq and his brother Aziz must have had instructions from someone up the food chain. You got any thoughts on who may be involved?”
Bingo! Paul now had the opportunity to get on his soapbox and espouse his theories about what was really happening.
“Mate, that’s the smartest question you’ve asked so far.”
Paul’s hunger suddenly went on hold. He sensed where this was leading and he had to pursue the line of thought. He knew what was really going down in Cara di Mineo and he had a willing ear: it was all about the money. And at the end of the money trail there were always bad guys filling their coffers full of euros that weren’t theirs, but nonetheless were there for the taking.
O’Donnell focused, sensing a watershed moment that could break the whole case open.
“Scusi, you like to order,” said the young waiter in halting English, interrupting their conversation midstream.
Paul looked up, pissed off that the flow had been interrupted. He finally had someone to listen to his theories, so to speed things up, without any reference to O’Donnell he decided to order for both of them.
“Like me to order? My treat. You got any allergies? Preferences?” Paul wanted to get the whole food bit out of the way as quickly as possible so he could return to his conspiracy theory.
“Yeah, sure. Go for it. I’m a vacuum cleaner. Eat everything and anything,” replied O’Donnell.
“Good,” Paul said to the patient waiter, who was standing beside him, pen and notepad poised. “Let’s have the cuttlefish salad . . . mmm . . . the mussels in spicy tomato sauce and the barbecued gamberi for starters.”
Paul was in his element, surfing the menu.
So many tempting dishes, so little time . . .
“And a spaghetti vongole with an insalata mista.”
Paul picked up the handwritten page of daily pesce specials.
“Tony, you like tuna?” Ice gave an approving nod. He obviously didn’t really have any say in what was about to be placed in front of him, but that was fine. It was far easier to let Paul do all the work. And pick up the tab.
“And a grilled lemon tuna steak,” Paul added, almost as an afterthought. There’d be enough food for ten men, but that’s how Paul traveled.
The young waiter turned to walk away with his order.
“Scusi . . . and another bottle of vini rosso, grazie.” Paul was on a roll and needed lubrication to finish his discourse.
He glanced over at O’Donnell, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Now we’ve got the hard part out of the way,” continued Paul. “Let’s see, where were we?”
“You were going to tell me who’s behind all the corruption at Cara di Mineo,” prompted O’Donnell.
“It’s the bloody Mafia. The Cosa Nostra. They run the camp one hundred percent, put their own men in places of authority, issue the contracts to supply services to their own businesses. They’ve got the port authorities onside, the cops on the payroll and the ear of the politicians.”
What Paul was saying wasn’t really anything new. It was a known fact that there was corruption in the administration of the refugee camps, and it was strongly suspected that serious money was being skimmed. The difference was that Paul had just confirmed what Tony had suspected all along.
“Tell me more.”
“I’ve only been able to have a quick look at the books. That Cosa Nostra puppet, Three Fingers Marco, who runs Cara di Mineo is as bent as a three-dollar note. He wouldn’t lie straight in bed,” said Paul.
“And he’s doing his best to stop me sniffing around. But I can tell you this, I’ve already found out enough to be able to say with certainty that there’s corruption and graft at the highest level. Seems like half of Sicily’s got their snout in the pig trough, hands out for a bit of payola on the side as goods and services pass through.”
Paul took a pregnant pause to gather his thoughts before continuing.
“It’s amazing there’s anything left for the refugees at the end of the day.”
“So do you feel that you’re seen as a threat?” said Tony, taking Paul’s corruption theory on board and running with it.
“I hate to say it, but in a nutshell, yes.”
“So you were the target in the bombing?” queried O’Donnell.
“Positive of it. The bombing wasn’t some random terrorist attack. It may have been made to look like it, but in the cold, hard light of day it was meant to put me out of the equation.”
“Do you feel you were getting too close to the truth?”
“I know I was. And I confronted that Cosa Nostra stooge Marco recently with some questions about missing funds and unaccounted for expenses.”
“And?” asked O’Donnell.
“He didn’t like it, I can tell you. Squirmed like an eel in a jar. I’ve been told that the refugee racket has turned out to be more profitable for the Mafia than drugs and prostitution, and there’s virtually no risk involved. It’s a no-brainer.”
O’Donnell now had to join the dots. He could see a pattern emerging, but the missing link was making a connection with Tariq back to the Cosa Nostra. He had him at the bombing, and from what Paul had just told him, there was a likely connection emerging between the car bomb and the Mafia. And Paul was obviously the target. So by
deduction, Tariq must have been under orders from the Mafia.
“This person . . . who was he again? . . . Marco. Have you any idea who his boss is?” asked O’Donnell. If he was ever going to crack this open, he had to move higher up the food chain and find out who was pulling the strings at the top. And Paul was perfectly placed to feed him the intel he required.
“Mate, that’s your domain. You’re the spook. I’m just a lowly observer,” replied Paul. “But if I had to make a guess, it’s got to be the head honcho. The Don.”
“Cait, Cait, Dec’s floating. He’s lost,” whispered James urgently, his ethereal words of warning echoing inside her head.
James had appeared out of nowhere, once again leaving another imprint on Cait’s memory banks. He was now such a constant companion that she was almost becoming used to his comings and goings. He’d suddenly pop into her head and leave a message. It was as if he was Cait’s guardian angel, looking out for her, forewarning her of dire cosmic events that were happening in his dimension, cautioning her, guiding her. Their relationship was symbiotic, as James needed Cait’s support in the mortal world she lived in just as much as she relied on his guidance and warnings from the fourth dimension.
“The Gatekeeper’s calling your brother. Cait, you need to grasp his migratory soul before he fully passes over. He’s drifting.”
James could only flit in and out of the Gatekeeper’s domain. Every time he entered that sinister dark abyss he risked being caught and his soul dragged back to the purgatory Cait had rescued him from. But this time it was different. Cait was his protector and cosmic savior, and he knew it was his duty while he was trapped in this halfway house to in turn protect her, which by default included Dec.
And Dec needed them both now more than ever. He was about to pass over, as he had left his mortal body lying on that bed in the naval hospital.
“You need to be careful, Cait. The Gatekeeper wants your soul too. I’ve sensed his energy. He’s searching, casting out his net, trying to locate and trap you.”
James broke his normal convention and forced himself to cross over to Cait’s sentient world, appearing as a translucent shimmer of silver-white light with no definable shape, no real profundity, just a three-dimensional rolling depth of pure energy that vacillated between recognition and a gossamer puff of smokelike form.
A wraithlike, ethereal hand reached out through the apparition to Cait, beckoning her to cross the boundaries with him and enter the Otherworld again. But this wasn’t to traverse the safe new world she’d recently discovered, the world of her shamanic grandmothers. Rather, it was to cross over to the dark world—a sinister place full of demons and ghouls, death and suffering, pain and endless torment, where lost souls lived out eternity in a never-ending hell. James was leading Cait toward a door that should never be opened except in catastrophic circumstances; a place so dark and ominous that even her grandmothers had little influence.
The world of Lost Souls.
Cait had been there once before and come back scared and touched by its evil. She massaged the scar on her left side where the Gatekeeper had landed his blow, memories of her last confrontation with the evil beast rushing up from the hidden recesses of her mind, coming back to haunt her.
She reached out and felt James’s ghostly grasp slowly envelop her—warm, humid, with an all-consuming drawing power that held her in its grasp. Perception of the world around Cait subtly faded like a curtain going down in a theater at the end of a show as she crossed the border midway between her conscious and subconscious, and entered the mystical realm of spells and the paranormal.
James firmed his grasp on Cait and dragged her deeper and deeper into his world, onward toward where Dec’s soul was floating, waiting to be claimed by the Gatekeeper. The clock was ticking and although time had no meaning, no substance in this eerie world, Dec’s body had given up his soul and was now lying lifeless, flatlining on his hospital bed.
“Your brother’s soul has almost completed its journey. He’s about to let go of his mortal existence,” whispered James in Cait’s head, his voice as clear as if he was talking to her in the corporeal world.
“You have to grasp hold of it now before the Gatekeeper comes to claim his latest victim.”
The realization hit Cait hard. She could feel it; sense it; even see it. She was about to lose her brother for good.
Summoning her inner force, Cait concentrated her entire self on Dec’s drifting soul, casting a shimmering diaphanous net like a spider’s web out into the void that she found herself floating in.
I have to capture your soul, Dec. Come to me, Cait implored, pleading with herself, forcing the ethereal net to capture her brother before he sank into the darkness of the abyss and out of sight, gone forever.
Then the voices started screaming, yet again. Agonizing yells, as if there were a thousand innocent souls being flayed alive. They were shrieking at her from the blackness that dominated this world, louder and louder, until the screams became the space, filling it with their pain.
And Dec was being called there, and this black hole had a name: Eternity. And he would rest there unless she could either rescue his soul from the clutches of the Gatekeeper, or he was able to pass over to a new world where his soul could start afresh.
Then Cait felt it. A cold force, dark and sinister, building in the ether.
More like an approaching maelstrom, the sheer dominance of its might resembled a category four cyclone about to unleash havoc and mayhem. Fingers of jagged lightning violently cracked in its center, radiating out from a burning core, as strong as the sun but with no radiant heat. With a frightening intensity, the building force rushed at Cait, bent on completing unfinished work.
The last time they met, Cait had sent the Gatekeeper scurrying. This time he intended to finish the battle and claim her soul for good.
And Dec’s.
But second time around, Cait was prepared. She knew exactly what to expect.
Momentarily turning inward, Cait concentrated her energy into a single, powerful entity, then focused intently on the moment. She knew the Gatekeeper would strike hard, rushing at her like a locomotive with a full head of steam.
Cait thrust both hands straight out in front of her, palms facing outward, tracing a protective circle around her body that cocooned her inside a protective shell. She braced herself for the first onslaught, which, if like their last clash, would attempt to pass directly through her, ripping her guts out.
But unbeknownst to her, Cait also had a new weapon in her arsenal. Just before James had dragged her into the abyss in an attempt to save Dec, her grandmothers had gifted her with a unique ability to alter the form and size of her presence.
Like a lull before the storm, all went deathly silent, the echoes of the screams quieting, leaving an ominous void where a second ago there had been nothing but all-consuming noise.
Then the attack commenced full on.
A loud, high-pitched whistling sound built to a deafening crescendo, like a warning of worse to come, heralding the assault. Senses heightening, Cait slipped into defensive mode, preparing for the power of the rush that she knew was about to hit her with the force of a Mack truck at flat-out speed on a freeway.
Cait held her ground, hopeful that her preparation was up to the battering she knew was about to hit.
As a forerunner to the imminent clash, the same vile stench of the Gatekeeper battered her senses again: acrid and musty, a noisome aroma of death and decay.
Then the full power of the Gatekeeper hit with a vengeance. Far stronger than the last time, it was as if he attacked this time with all guns blazing. But Cait’s protective shield held firm. Like passing through the eye of a cyclone, the force of the Gatekeeper parted as it hit her body, leaving no sign of impact in its wake, then ran around her to regroup and land a further assault from behind.
Cait sensed a second wave building in the dark void surrounding her. As a brief hiatus dominated the space, she became aware of the
Gatekeeper’s force strengthening to a terrifying summit. She instinctively knew—intuited—that the second-round assault would be as strong and violent as the first strike, if not worse.
“Dec, Dec, where are you?” Panicked thoughts ran through Cait’s head. “I’ve got to find you.”
Cait focused, urgently searching for the footprint of Dec’s energy in the ether before the Gatekeeper struck again.
“I’m here, for you.” Cait screamed into the abyss, “Dec, give me a sign.”
And there he was, a shimmering image lurking in the periphery of her consciousness.
Without hesitation, Cait changed form to a solid mass of concentrated energy and shot off to her brother, leaving the Gatekeeper with no target in front of him to attack and annihilate.
She’d disappeared.
Cait’s new and unfamiliar powers granted to her by her grandmothers as she was entering the dark world for the second time enabled her to momentarily dematerialize, and then reappear at a place she had envisaged in her head. But these powers were all new to Cait, totally flummoxing her as if she was swimming in uncharted waters.
And the Gatekeeper was left with a trace of Cait’s presence only.
Cait located the vestige of Dec’s persona and swooped it into her protective mantle that was still scintillating around her, enveloping him, desperately clutching on to his life force. He’d be safe with her there, for the moment at least, until she could drag him out of the abyss and away from the dangerous clutches of the Gatekeeper.
“Bring him to me. I’ll guide you through the maze,” whispered James, his words playing inside her head.
Cait allowed herself to drift into James’s ethereal grasp, dragging Dec’s fragile soul with her as James encapsulated both of them and transported them away from the death zone and away from immediate danger.
On her way out from the dark abyss, Cait felt a malevolent force attempting to drag her back like a magnet to that place of pain and suffering she was desperate to escape from: You’ve invaded my space again! it seemed to be saying, the evil words sticking like glue to the inside of her head.
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 65
