Sidney Sheldon Untitled Book 2

‘Go and see what’s making that racket would you, Juanita? The noise is bothering Señora Alexandris.’

‘I don’t know how you can be so calm, Stavros,’ Daphne Alexandris hissed, her thin neck straining with stress so that the sinews bulged beneath the crepey, sixty-year-old skin. ‘What if it isn’t foxes? What if it’s her? No one close to Mantzaris is safe. You said so yourself. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’

Walking over to his wife, Stavros laid a skinny hand on her shoulder. ‘We are here because it is safe here, my darling,’ he reminded her. ‘Athena’s business – if she truly is alive – is in Greece. Trust me, Chile will not even be on her radar. She wouldn’t waste resources sending somebody trekking all the way up here, to the top of the world, just to find the likes of us.’

Turning away from her, he walked across to the bar and poured himself a large measure of Frapin Extra Grande Champagne Cognac.

‘Will you have one more, Daphne? Calm your nerves before bed?’ he asked, reaching up for a second brandy glass. ‘Daphne? Did you open a window? It’s terribly—’

Turning around he froze, letting both glasses drop to the floor and shatter into a thousand pieces across the Persian carpet. His wife sat just as she had been before, perfectly still, her eyes wide open. Except that now there was a bullet hole right through the middle of her forehead. The sash window behind her stood open, its lace curtains fluttering in the evening breeze.

A slow, cold terror crawled over him, rooting him to the spot.

Stavros had heard nothing. Nothing! Not a shot. Not a breath. Not a sound.

Black spots swam before his eyes.

Why? Why Daphne? Why not him? Surely it was him she wanted. That bitch! Dimitri’s she-devil …

He looked around him at the empty room, and the darkness beyond the window, wild panic in his eyes.

Then, like a hunted animal, he turned and ran.

‘Shall we?’

Ella looked up again at the two-foot-thick wooden gates in front of her. Set into a barbed-wire fence, they were twice her height, and would have looked vast anywhere else. But here, deep in the California forest, dwarfed by redwoods that towered over everything like a battalion of ancient giants, they seemed almost comically small, like the gateway to a children’s fort.

The journey here had been long and bizarre. It had been a six-hour drive from Ella’s hotel to the coordinates the man had given her last night. If, indeed, what she’d heard as she lay on the bed really was the man trying to contact her, and not a sign that she had finally lost the plot and needed to check herself into a mental facility as soon as possible, whether she liked it or not.

Her satnav had sent her on a narrow road that wound higher and higher into the hills. The scenery was breathtaking. Wilder and more rugged than the rolling pastures of her grandmother’s ranch, but every bit as beautiful, this part of the state was like a Tolkienian fantasy, all pines and rocks and deer and bears and dazzling blue skies that seemed to stretch to eternity. Watching eagles soar above her, and waterfalls cascade down the rocks beside the road, so close in places that if Ella opened her driver’s window and stretched out her arm she could almost touch them, she found herself forgetting everything else as she lost herself in the wonder and majesty of nature. Her grandmother’s rigid version of religion had never appealed to her, never seemed real. But places like this – the peace, the beauty – made Ella want to believe in God, or at least in something outside of herself, something bigger and more important. Something she could trust in.

The tranquility was interrupted by the next leg of the journey. Ella was met at the designated coordinates by a young woman called Agnes, who led her on a two-mile hike up a steep escarpment, littered with loose rocks, and then insisted on blindfolding her in the back of an expensive-looking Range Rover Velar for a bumpy, tortuous forty-minute drive through the forest. Disorientated and exhausted, Ella had been on the brink of demanding to go home. But after eight, grueling hours, she had to see this through.

The property Ella glimpsed looked more like a well-maintained hotel than the prison camp suggested by the gated front. Small white bungalows were dotted amongst neatly mown lawns, and soft outdoor uplighters revealed lovingly planted flower beds and charming brick walking paths snaking throughout the grounds. Here and there, parked golf carts, some piled high with bags of what looked like dirty laundry, only heightened Ella’s feeling that she was checking in to the San Ysidro Ranch, and not potentially risking her life at the mercy of some obscure and secretive cult.

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ said Agnes, registering her passenger’s surprise. ‘The training program can be pretty intense, so Mr Redmayne believes it is important that members should have a pleasant environment to return to at the end of the day. Not luxurious, but relaxing.’

Ella listened. She wondered whether the man who had visited her was in fact ‘Mr Redmayne’ and, if so, when he would appear in person.

‘Accommodations are divided up by gender,’ Agnes went on. ‘You’ll be staying in the female quarters, obviously. Whoah, hold up!’

She slammed on the brakes. A group of disheveled and exhausted-looking women had staggered into the road in front of them. They were wearing army fatigues and most were filthy, their hair matted and their faces splattered with mud. They were also all strikingly thin. As Agnes screeched to a halt, one of them turned and looked right at Ella before sinking to her knees, and vomiting violently. That fairly comprehensively ruined the San Ysidro vibe.

‘Oh my God!’ Ella reached for the handle of her door.

Agnes’s arm shot out to stop her. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to help her, of course,’ said Ella. ‘Didn’t you just see that?’

‘She’s training,’ Agnes said, as if that explained everything. ‘And she’s with her unit.’

‘Training for what? Armageddon?’ Ella asked, watching the other women stagger on while their teammate fell back against the tarmac, apparently unconscious. ‘And her “unit” just left her there.’

With a growing sense of foreboding, she waited for them to arrive at check-in, or registration, or wherever it was they were going. But instead, after only a few hundred more yards, Agnes pulled over outside one of the bungalows, gesturing for Ella to get out.

‘These are your quarters,’ she told her, jumping out herself and retrieving Ella’s backpack from the back of the truck.

‘OK …’ Ella said hesitantly.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, it’s just … don’t I need to sign in? Let somebody know I’m here?’

Agnes laughed loudly ‘Oh, Ella! Everybody knows you’re here, my dear. Where else would you be? We’ve all been waiting for you.’

Ella tried not to think about Bob’s ‘Jonestown’ warnings. Whatever she had let herself in for, it was too late now.

You’re here by choice, she coached herself. Not for them. For you. To get what YOU need. To take back YOUR life.

Then you get out.

‘Community dinner’s in an hour,’ Agnes chirped. Ella reflected that the poor women she’d just seen didn’t look as if they’d eaten dinner in weeks, community or otherwise, but she kept the thought to herself.

‘If you need anything before then, your roommate should be able to help.’ Handing Ella her backpack, Agnes hopped back into the driver’s seat. ‘Welcome to Camp Hope!’ she said cheerfully, driving away.

Tentatively, Ella opened the bungalow door. ‘Hello?’

She was met by a squeal, a strong waft of perfume, and the slightly disconcerting sight of a buxom blonde in a skin-tight pink T-shirt bounding up to her like a puppy. This girl certainly hadn’t been starved. If anything she looked as if she might have eaten the other women’s food, every ounce of which had made its way to her enormous boobs.

‘Oh my God. You’re here! You’re finally here. I do not believe it, oh my God oh my God oh my God!’

The blonde looked to be about Ella’s own age, although there was something distinctly teenagerish in her manner, from the gushing welcome to the look-at-me clothes. The room was split into two halves, each with a single bed and a washbasin. While Ella’s side was bare, the girl had kitted hers out in a sea of pink, complete with fluffy rainbow pillows and ‘Hello Kitty’ bedding. Décor-wise at least, it was less ‘spy’ and more ‘pre-pubescent Japanese schoolgirl’.

‘You must be Ella.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Christine. Christine Marshall. Sooooooo happy to meet you.’ Drawing her into a hug, Christine squeezed tightly and let out another, only slightly more muted, squeal.

Extricating herself from Christine’s enthusiastic embrace, Ella put her stuff warily down on the bed.

‘You’re probably exhausted,’ Christine said kindly, taking a step back. Everywhere she went, an aura of perfume followed her like a miasma. ‘I know I was when I first arrived. But if you have any questions, any questions at all, just fire away.’

Ella had a lot of questions, but they were for the man to answer, not this human Barbie doll.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ she told Christine, describing the man as best she could. Stocky. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Well dressed. As she spoke it occurred to her how vague and generic she made him sound.

‘He’s the person who recruited me, and I really, really need to speak to him. Tonight, if possible. Do you know him?’