The Doomsday Prophecy

‘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.

Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_384ec0b5-bd7d-5e39-92e6-f88677d08e51)

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.’

Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_8077a8cd-e2ef-5638-a28b-82394638c03a)

OxfordThe 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.’