A Sacred Storm (16 page)

Staying low she made her way through the rows of luxury vehicles, all the while keeping a close eye on the two sets of guards. The intense lighting made her feel conspicuous, but through a mixture of stealth and a general lack of interest from security she made it across the courtyard without incident.

Positioning herself behind a 4x4 she waited for the row in front of her to fill up. Another three cars and she would be ready to make her move. She focused all her attention and ran through the manoeuvre in her head: whack the valet; take the keys; race through the gates – three simple steps to secure her escape. A pulse of joy seared through her body as she thought about seeing the outside world once more. But just as this went through her mind, a cry from the palace doors caused her heart to stop dead. The gate guards turned round to see what the commotion was about, and she suddenly felt naked. Panicking that she had exposed the tip of her gun, or left a foot sticking out, she huddled up tighter, praying silently and hardly daring to breathe. The voices grew louder and closer, until she was sure that any moment she would see a rifle pointing round the side of the 4x4 forcing her to her feet and back inside the palace. She checked the safety was off on her weapon and braced herself for the inevitable.

Whatever had disturbed the guards, though, it wasn't Stella. The voices were nearly upon her when they abruptly softened and started to drift away. She looked up to the sky in thanks and continued to wait patiently for the row of cars to fill up.

It wasn't long before her moment arrived.

The valet backed a white Mercedes expertly into the space in front of the 4x4 and quickly opened the door to get out. Before he had a chance to expose more than his left foot, Stella was on him. Crouching next to the unfortunate attendant she thrust the butt of her gun sideways into his face with her full weight. His head jerked back and to the side, and then flopped down limply on his chest. Thankful that he had succumbed quickly Stella grabbed his arm and dragged him out onto the grass. Then, watching for hostile eyes, she leapt into the car and started it up.

Taking it slowly, so as not to draw attention, she casually navigated her way through the grid of automobiles, stifling her desire to put pedal to metal. She didn't know how long it had been since she'd disconnected the camera, but she felt sure that if security hadn't checked it out already it would only be a matter of minutes.

As she rounded the last row of cars and turned to face the gates she shuddered with a nervous chill and unconsciously slowed to a near standstill. With liberty just a hundred or so yards away, panic began to overtake her, planting doubts in every corner of her brain. She closed her eyes and made a silent pact with God, promising that if he got her out of there then she would be a good girl for the rest of her life, and devote it to helping others. The Lord was apparently out to lunch, because as she opened her eyes once more a loud shout emanated from the direction of the empty space she'd left. She looked across to see one of the valets leaping up and down and pointing to ground. Within seconds the whole courtyard was in uproar and the guards on maximum alert.

Stella did the only thing she could, and that was floor the accelerator. With wheels churning and tyres smoking she made for the gate. The guards turned to face the speeding car and let fly a heavy salvo from their weapons. Stella instinctively ducked behind the steering wheel. The bullets, however, ricocheted off the armoured windshield, leaving her unharmed and careering towards freedom. The heavy gunfire continued.

As she approached the gates the guards leapt aside, and before she had time to think she was through and away. It was then that she sat up and realized that the headlights had been shot out. Spearing into an unfamiliar blackness she had no choice other than to slow down. But before she could react the gunfire began again in earnest. She heard a loud pop from the back of the car and found herself in a desperate fight with the steering wheel; a fight which she had no chance of winning.

The car lurched heavily to the right, the front end dropping off an unseen ledge, and then flipped into the air. Stella gripped the wheel as she drifted in a weightlessness that seemed to last for ever. And then came the first impact; so severe she thought her spine was going to skewer her brain. After that the world became a dizzying mass of noise and disorienting twists, until eventually there was silence.

Jennings sprang up and gasped for air in the darkness, gripped by the terror that comes of changing worlds too quickly. For a while he sat motionless, unable to make sense of where he was or what was happening. And then, as his consciousness finally synchronized with his body, he remembered.

Reaching to his left he pulled the switch on the bedside lamp and blinked in the sudden light. He picked up a half bottle of
Evian
and drained it in an attempt to quench his unnatural thirst. Still too hot to think straight he went to the sink and doused his head in cold water until he finally regained his composure.

The dream had been vivid. Stella; the gunfire; the crash – it was all so real. He could still feel every last bump and jolt as the car turned over and over, crunching and smashing its way to a flattened standstill. He paced about the room stretching his arms and legs to remove the stiffness then picked up the phone.

Two minutes later a rather merry and twinkly-eyed Stratton knocked on the door and entered Jennings' quarters. “What's up, mate?” he asked cheerily. “You sounded a bit put out.”

“I am,” said Jennings. “Well, not so much put out as disturbed. I've had a bad dream.”

Stratton was about to make a comment about calling Jennings' mother but decided against it. Instead he took a more sensitive tact. “What was it about?” he asked sympathetically. “You look really shaken up?”

Jennings described what he'd seen.

“That doesn't sound good,” said Stratton, pouring a couple of brandies from the mini-bar. He handed one to Jennings and sat down next to him on the bed. “Do you reckon she survived?”

Jennings swigged a hefty measure from his tumbler. “I'm not sure - but I don't know that she didn't.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“It tells me that she's hurt and we've got to get to her as soon as possible.”

“You're probably right,” said Stratton. “But it's going to be at least another 24 hours before we get to Yemen. Until then you're just going to have to keep calm. I know it's difficult, but there's fuck all you can do about it at the moment.”

Jennings shook his head. “This is an absolute fucking nightmare,” he said, getting up and pacing anxiously. “I'm all over the place. My mind just won't stay still. It's like billions of little explosives going off every second.”

“Your eyes have been opened mate,” said Stratton. “And you're still getting used to the light.”

“I guess so, but knowing it doesn't help. I need to be out there doing something to help her, not sitting about here twiddling my fingers. I just feel so fucking useless and helpless.” He kicked the side of the bed in frustration.

“Careful there,” said Stratton. “You're not going to be any use to her with a broken foot.”

Jennings gave Stratton an angry glance and then, with the tension building up to a crescendo inside, he began to laugh. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “You must think I'm a real twat.”

“Not at all,” said Stratton. “You just need to clear your mind and get some sleep. Lie down on the bed and close your eyes.”

Jennings put down his drink and did as his friend suggested.

“Now,” said Stratton. “I'm going to put my hand on your forehead, and I want you to count slowly down from ten.”

Jennings felt Stratton's warm hand on his brow and began to count. He was out before he reached six.

Sophia Zola had not been able to walk since the age of ten. A car accident had left her paralyzed from the waist down for fourteen years. And although she was quite used to her disability and living a happy and fulfilled life, there was still a part of her that longed to roam free, unencumbered by wheels and ramps. The doctors, of course, had told her that this would never happen, but with technology and medicine moving on at a barely believable pace, and the advent of stem-cell research, she had not given up hope that one day she might walk again.

Sophia's mother and father were staunch Catholics, and they were also very wealthy and influential. They went to, and occasionally hosted, the best parties in Rome and were personal friends with His Holiness the Pope. They doted on their daughter and had spent fortunes sending her to the best medical centres in the world. There was nothing they wouldn't do to see their daughter back on her feet once more. So when Cardinal Vittori called and said that he may have found someone to help Sophia, there was no delay in arranging a meeting.

As Christiano walked into the Zola's mansion he was immediately taken aback by its splendour. Working at the Vatican he was used to architectural grandeur, but he had no idea that a private residence could be quite so ornate. He looked around the entrance hall admiring the statues and artwork, and wondered how anyone could possibly afford such luxury.

Daniel Zola appeared from one of the many doorways and strode across to greet Vittori and his young friend. Zola was a young-looking sixty with black and silver hair and a healthy tan. He was dressed casually in jeans, a white silk shirt and a pair of Gucci loafers, and exuded the quiet confidence of the super-rich.

“Fabio!” exclaimed Zola, holding out a manicured hand. “It is so good to see you. It has been too long.”

“Indeed it has, Daniel,” said Vittori smiling. “I hope I am finding you well.”

“Yes, yes,” said Zola. “I am good, very good. And, might I say, since your phone call – rather excited.” He looked at Christiano. “Is this the young man you said may be able to help us?”

“Yes,” Vittori nodded. “This is Christiano, a special young man – a very special young man.”

Christiano went red and shuffled awkwardly at the cardinal's praise.

Daniel Zola offered him his hand. “It is good to meet you Christiano. You are very welcome here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Zola laughed kindly. “There's no need to call me ‘sir', Christiano. Call me Daniel.”

He led them across the hall and into a huge space which Christiano guessed must be a living room. With sprawling leather settees and a selection of sumptuous armchairs it was nothing like his own, but even with the chandeliers and oil paintings it still had the feel of a family area – just a little bit bigger than normal.

As they entered, a glamorous flame-haired lady left the central settee and walked over to greet them. She was so beautiful that Christiano felt almost unable to speak.

“This is my wife Maria,” said Zola.

Vittori greeted her as an old friend. Christiano smiled meekly and tried to mumble a hello.

“And this is my daughter Sophia,” said Zola, gesturing to young woman who had just pulled up beside him in a wheel-chair.

Christiano was once again lost for words. If the mother was stunning then Sophia was indescribable. As she looked up at him with her dazzling emerald green eyes, he felt as if his heart was thumping out of his chest on a stalk like a cartoon character.

“Hello,” she said softly. “It's good to meet you.”

Christiano nodded and replied with a falsetto “hi”.

Zola invited them to sit down, and the group spent the next half hour catching up over coffee. Christiano felt a little alienated by the conversation, but the Zola's being perfect hosts made every effort to include him wherever they could, and the occasional reassuring glance from Sophia went a long way to putting him at his ease. By the time the talk turned to himself he was feeling quite at home.

“So, Christiano,” said Zola. “I believe that you can help my daughter.”

Christiano looked across to Vittori, who nodded encouragingly.

“Yes, sir…I mean Daniel, I would very much like to try.”

“And how do you propose to do this? Where is your clinic? What methods do you employ?”

Christiano once again looked to Vittori for help.

“Christiano has no clinic,” said the cardinal. “You will not find him registered anywhere. He is no doctor or scientist. He is a healer, Daniel.”

“A healer?” said Zola, his face tightening. “You have brought me a faith-healer, Fabio? What do you take me for exactly? My daughter is paralyzed from the waist down. She needs a specialist, not some charlatan wafting incense and waving crystals in her face.” He stood up and glared at Vittori. “I thought we were friends.”

Vittori kept his calm. “Please, Daniel,” he said. “Do not get excited. We are friends, very good friends, and you should know that I would not bring false hope into your house. Christiano here is no charlatan, and he does not seek any financial reward for his powers. He is here with the full blessing of the Vatican. I have witnessed his gifts for myself, and I can assure you that if anyone can heal Sophia then it is him.”

Zola sat back down and contemplated Vittori's words. “I am sorry, Fabio,” he said. “I should not doubt your intentions. But I have been given false hope once too often to be anything other than sceptical. Not a week goes by without some quack or other trying to get money out of me, and I am becoming tired of it. Very tired.”

“There is no need to apologize,” said Vittori. “You have every right to question Christiano's credentials. But please, reserve your judgement until you have seen the results.”

“Yes, father,” said Sophia, joining the conversation. “Please let Christiano at least try to help. He can't make me any worse now, can he?”

“No, of course not,” said Zola. He turned to address Christiano. “I am very sorry if I have made you feel uncomfortable. If there is anything you can do for my daughter, then please go ahead. Will you be needing a quiet room to examine her?”