A Sacred Storm (17 page)

“I think it might be best,” said Christiano, pleased that the confrontation was over with, but still very apprehensive.

Zola led them across the hallway to the large private gym, and then into a smaller ante-room that housed a couple of massage tables. With Christiano's assistance he lifted Sophia up onto one of them, where she lay face down with her head to the side.

Although Christiano had performed Reiki before, this was his first attempt since learning the three hundred odd symbols that Vittori had supplied him with. He was still unsure within himself as to whether or not they would work, and he felt uncomfortable being thrown in at the deep end.

“Would you like to be left alone?” Zola asked, sensing his apprehension.

Christiano was about to say ‘yes' when Vittori spoke for him. “That is not necessary – is it, Christiano?”

Christiano stalled briefly, then replied, “No, of course not.” He felt uneasy with everybody watching, but didn't want to displease the cardinal.

He took a deep breath and began his preparations. First he lit a few of the aromatic candles that adorned a shelf in front of the table, then washed his hands in the small sink at the side of the room. After drying them he closed his eyes and drew the master symbol in his head three times, and then did the same with the power symbol. A surge of energy passed through his body. Opening his eyes once more he stepped across and let his hands hover a few inches above Sophia's lower spine. A blast of cold air indicated that he was in the right place. He told her to close her eyes and relax, then rubbed his palms together to get the power flowing.

Vittori looked on in nervous silence with Zola and his wife.

Now completely focused and unaware of anything else around him, Christiano placed his right hand on the affected area and lay his left on top. He closed his eyes and invoked the master and power symbols once more, together with the secret one he had memorized that targeted the lower spine. At once the cold changed to a blinding heat. He wanted to whip his hands away, but they were glued to the spot. Beneath him Sophia started to tremble. Wave upon wave pulsed through Christiano's soul: waves of joy, and waves of light. The intensity was such that tears welled in his eyes and streaked down his cheeks. He was flying; touching the sky; touching God.

Beneath him Sophia was still trembling. From the moment Christiano laid his hand on her, and she had felt that exquisite warmth charging through her upper body, she knew that something amazing was about to happen. The warmth had been supplemented by a tingling in her lower back, a sensation which grew until she could almost feel her nerve endings reattaching themselves under her skin. Now, as life thrust itself back into her, she too was overwhelmed to the point of crying.

Christiano arched his back in ecstasy and let out a gasp. His head fell forward in exhaustion.

Daniel Zola had been transfixed as soon as he saw the tiny cloud form above Christiano's hands. Even from a distance he could tell that something strange was occurring. Maria had grabbed his hand for reassurance, her grip tightening as the haze above their daughter thickened and sparked blue flame. As Christiano reached a crescendo, a subtle chill passed through them, followed by a soothing heat. It was only when he finally bowed his head that they started to breathe once more.

Christiano stood still, tired and disoriented. Vittori walked over and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You are alright, Christiano,” he said. “Everything is alright. Just breathe slowly.”

Christiano did as the cardinal suggested and gradually regained control. He opened his eyes and looked down at Sophia. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Sophia turned her gaze upwards. “I think so,” she said dreamily. Without thinking she flipped over and pulled herself to a sitting position on the edge of the table, swinging her legs idly.

A stunned silence engulfed the room.

“What is it?” said Sophia, sensing everybody's eyes on her.

“Your legs,” said her mother.

Sophia looked down and it hit her. She started to cry.

Unable to contain his joy, Daniel Zola leapt across and hugged his daughter. Rivulets of tears cascaded down his face. “Thank you,” he wept. “Thank you so much.”

Maria embraced her family. “Who are you?” she asked Christiano through her tears.

“He is the Messiah,” said Vittori. “He has returned to save us.”

Maria looked at him earnestly. “Is this true? Are you the Messiah?”

Christiano felt the universe swell through him again. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

Tariq opened the curtains and watched the sun rising in the east. He thought about the Mahdi. The fever of the meeting at the mosque had worn off, and in the cold morning light he wondered if any of it was really true. Sure, the Imam had told them all that the Mahdi was real, and he'd even done his little dance to prove it, but Tariq wasn't about to leap headlong into anything without first checking it out logically. Having spent his teenage years studying street magic he knew very well not to trust all that you see. Although he did feel guilty for questioning the integrity of a man he'd known since childhood.

He turned his gaze back to the bed and smiled. Jenna was sleeping peacefully, her beautiful face a picture of serenity, her long chestnut hair tousled across the pillow. Being with her felt so right. Just occupying the same space as her made him feel alive like he'd never done before. He got back into bed and kissed her lightly on the lips. She stirred and lazily reciprocated, stretching her arms around him.

“Morning, you,” she said drowsily. “What's the time?”

“Seven o'clock.”

“Why are you up so early? It's Saturday.”

“I know, but the sun was coming through and it woke me.”

She grinned and pulled him close. “Oh well, seeing as we're both awake...”

A while later, as Jenna smoked a post-coital cigarette, Tariq went to the kitchen to make some coffee. Once again he started to think about the Mahdi. If he had come to dispense justice on the world, where exactly did he, Tariq, stand. The Koran was open to many interpretations, perhaps nearly as many as there were Muslims. What would the Mahdi's stance be? Would he preach hard-line fundamentalism? Or would he spread a message of peace and forgiveness? What would his opinion be of Tariq and Jenna?

It occurred to Tariq that even if the Mahdi was the genuine article, his presence on earth was going to pose awkward questions for the whole of humanity. If, for instance, he said that mixed-race relationships were wrong, then that would be it for Tariq and Jenna. There would be no argument, no more interpretations, Allah would have spoken. If he said that all women had to cover their faces in public, then that's what they'd have to do. The more he thought about it the more he realized that a legitimate Mahdi had licence to impose any laws or restrictions that he saw fit.

Tariq stirred some milk into his coffee and took a sip. He had been brought up to be a good Muslim, but recently his adherence to the faith had been lacklustre to say the least. He had even been neglecting the recitation of his
salat
(prayer to Mecca). Some days he recited it just once or twice, compared to the mandatory five times. It wasn't that he didn't believe in God anymore, he just didn't believe that Allah was going to strike him down for missing a few prayers here and there. He wondered what the Mahdi would make of it.

Tired of contemplating, he went back to the bedroom. Jenna sat up and took her mug of coffee. “You're the best,” she said. “Stay as long as you like.”

“Would you like me to make some breakfast?” he asked.

“Breakfast as well? Yeah, I'd love some. Scrambled eggs and bacon would be great. If you don't mind cooking the bacon that is?”

“It'll be fine,” he laughed.

Jenna looked up at him with beaming eyes. “You know what Taz? I think I love you.”

Tariq gazed into her eyes and knew that he felt the same. He hoped that nothing would change it.

From the comfort of Kandinsky's Lear Jet Stratton gazed down at the world below and smiled. He hadn't been in a plane for a long time and had almost forgotten the serenity of altitude. As they climbed steadily over Yemen and then out over the sea he felt a calm that had recently been alien to him. The higher one went, he thought, the less significant everything seemed, much like the path to enlightenment.

The beautiful stewardess broke into his thoughts. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked.

Stratton swivelled the large leather seat round to face her. “Please,” he said. “I'll have some still mineral water.”

“Would you like some food as well?”

“What have you got?”

She reached to the side of the seat and produced a small menu. Stratton scanned it quickly and ordered some smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. He had half a mind to get some champagne as well, but knew it would be unwise at this particular juncture. From now on in he was going to need his wits about him every minute of every day.

He watched the girl walk up to the galley and briefly wondered whether she was on the menu as well. It was the first time in months that sex had even crossed his mind. After spending so long with his head in the ether, the physical realities of being human had escaped him. Today seemed different, however. He guessed that the world as a whole was feeling pretty good about itself, because from the moment he had woken his body had been pumped full of energy. The universe was flowing through him like a torrent. A gush of goodwill had sprung from the depths of despond. Were people finally uniting in harmony? He wanted to think so, but instinct told him that the current state was probably temporary and that he should enjoy it while it lasted.

By the time the girl returned with his food he'd shaken off his ardour and was watching the news on the giant plasma screen. Any day now he was expecting the news to break of either a second coming, or a Muslim redeemer. Fortunately there was still no sign of movement from either camp. The headline story was yet another summit on global warming, with the same old people giving the same old soundbites. After five minutes he decided to change channels and watch a movie instead. He finished his food quickly and settled back into his seat, flicking off his thought switch and resting his brain for the long road ahead.

The desert appeared to go on forever. Jennings stared out on the expanse of empty sand and felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. As the miles clicked by his thoughts grew deeper and darker, until the isolation began to claw at his heart.

“What's up with you?” said Grady, who was sat next to him in the back of the 4X4. “Are you starting to think again? Didn't Stratton warn you about that?”

Jennings turned away from the window. “Yes, I know,” he sighed. “It's difficult to keep your spirits up in this godforsaken wilderness though. Why would anyone choose to live out here?”

“Beats me,” said Grady.

“Wait until you see the palace,” said Kandinsky, craning back from the passenger seat. “Then you will maybe change your mind.”

The palace was as impressive as Kandinsky had said it would be. As they approached, Jennings looked up in awe at the domed towers and felt like he'd been transported back in time to a magical age. It wasn't long, though, before the imagery was spoilt by the sight of uniformed guards with AK-47s slung over their shoulders.

“He doesn't take any chances then?” said Grady

“No,” said Kandinsky. “He does not.”

Jennings sighed. “Looks like we've got our work cut out then.”

They pulled up outside the front gates and, after a lengthy security check, were finally let in. They drove round the courtyard and parked outside the main doors where the sheik was waiting to greet them.

“Arman!” he shouted enthusiastically. “It is so good to see you again.”

Kandinsky strode up the white stone steps and grasped the sheik's hand firmly. “Hello, Farouk, it has been too long.”

“Indeed it has,” the sheik replied. “But no matter, you are here now and most, most welcome.” He looked down at Grady and Jennings.

“My bodyguards,” said Kandinsky.

The sheik gave Jennings the once over.

Kandinsky leant forward conspiratorially. “He may not look like much, but he is deadly,” he whispered. “Ex-SAS.”

The sheik nodded approvingly and gave Jennings a respectful glance.

The inside of the palace was much as Jennings expected, with a cavernous entrance hall from which sprang long white decorous corridors. He guessed there were hundreds of separate rooms spread over three or four floors. Even if Stella was still alive it was not going to be easy to locate her.

They were shown to their quarters personally by the sheik. Jennings and Grady being given a room right next to Kandinsky's on the second floor. As they walked through the never-ending passages, Jennings nosed about as much as he could without arousing suspicion. There was, however, no sign of anything strange or sinister.

The sheik left them to settle in and freshen up. “Make yourselves at home,” he said. “Feel free to have a look around the palace – there is much beautiful artwork to be seen everywhere.”

After sweeping the room for bugs, Jennings sat down on the edge of one of the beds. “It doesn't sound like he's hiding anything,” he said to Grady. “He wouldn't be giving us free rein over the place if he was.”

“No,” said Grady. “But I don't expect the invitation extends to us poking our noses in every room.”

“I guess not. But there's no harm in having a little wander about to see what's what.”

They both showered and changed, and then joined Kandinsky in the adjoining suite. He agreed that an initial tour of the palace was a good idea, but warned them not to be too intrusive. The sheik could be easily offended. “And remember,” he said. “The corridors are monitored by CCTV cameras, so our every move is going to be watched and logged. Just act casually and look interested in the artwork.”