A Sacred Storm (19 page)

“I don't think it's got anything to do with old age,” said Stratton. “This situation is enough to confuse the best of men. There's no real way of knowing what to do.”

Cronin nodded. “You're right. Of course you are. I guess I'm being too harsh. It's just that I'm so used to him having all the answers that I feel frustrated without them.”

“You'll probably feel better now you've spoken to someone about it,” said Stratton. “It doesn't matter who you are or what your background is, it's not easy carrying a burden on your own.” He leant towards Cronin. “This might help you out as well.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes and take some steady breaths.”

Cronin did as he was told. After a couple of breaths he felt Stratton's palm on his forehead. It was warm and comforting. Within seconds he sensed a change in his body. The tightness in his chest began to drain away, like somebody had opened a sluice-gate. It rushed through his abdomen and then down through his legs and off into the ether. He flopped back into the leather seat and sighed loudly. “Wow!” he said, opening his eyes. “What the hell was that?”

“Just a little remedy for stress. Do you feel better?”

“Much,” said Cronin. “I didn't realize how wound up I'd become.”

Stratton picked another bottle of mineral water from the fridge and handed it to Cronin. “Here, drink some of this, you'll probably feel thirsty.”

Cronin drank half the bottle straight down. He wiped his lips then finished the rest. In front of him the driver's partition started to whirr down. “What is it, Gino?” he asked.

“It is the radio, Father. I thought you might want to listen. Something is happening.”

Cronin reached over and switched the radio on.

“…the scenes here in St Peter's square are quite phenomenal. Since the news broke fifteen minutes ago people have been arriving in their swarms. The whole of Rome has come to a standstill. The faithful are gathering waiting for their first glimpse of him. In all my years as a reporter I've never felt such a sense of occasion and anticipation. There's an expectant hush that's almost indescribable. We're all wondering the same thing – can it possibly be true?…Wait a minute – I think something's happening. The Pope has come to the balcony. He's getting ready to speak...”

Cronin and Stratton leant forward tensely.

“…has arrived. It is a time in the history of mankind, when we must all come together to eradicate the evil that pervades our world. The evil of violence; the evil of greed; the evil of adultery and deviance. As a society we have too easily let ourselves drift into sin. It is now, into this cauldron of depravity, that someone has returned to us. He came two thousand years ago to show us the error of our ways, and there could be no more opportune time for him to come again. He is here to bind us once more, to make the world as one again…I give you – THE MESSIAH…”

The radio roared with cacophonous cheers. Stratton looked to Cronin, and Cronin to Stratton. The storm had begun.

For a brief moment the sheik didn't register what he was seeing. Then it suddenly dawned on him. But what were Kandinsky's bodyguards doing with his prized possession?

Jennings and Grady kept still and waited for him to speak. There was no getting away from the fact that they'd been caught bang to rights. No explanation in the world was going to get them out of this one.

“What exactly do you think you are doing?” the sheik said calmly.

The bodyguard unlatched the safety on his weapon and trained it between Jennings and Grady who immediately put their hands up.

“Where is your boss?” the sheik asked. “Does he know about this?”

Jennings' mind went blank. Sweat poured into his eyes.

“Well?” pressed the sheik.

A few smart lines went through Grady's head, but the wild look in the guard's eyes helped stay his tongue. He'd been around long enough to spot a trigger-happy lunatic when he saw one.

“I see,” said the sheik. “It matters not. We will soon get to the bottom of this little charade.” He turned to the guard and barked some orders in Arabic. The guard reached for his headset and hollered into it.

Grady's shoulder was starting to ache, the weight of Stella becoming more pronounced with his inertia. He shuffled awkwardly trying to get her into a more comfortable position without alarming the guard. As he did so he felt her fidgeting clumsily at his waistband. He was about to whisper to her to knock it off when he realized what she was doing, and in that instant he felt the first signs of panic. She was going to get them all killed.

“Turn around,” she whispered to him.

Grady ignored her and continued staring face front. The last thing he wanted to do was give the wild-eyed guard an excuse to pop them.

“Turn around,” she repeated, this time slightly louder.

Grady weighed up the situation and his options. It was pretty much certain that once back-up arrived for the guard they were finished. There would either be a painful death or, even worse, a painful imprisonment. If they were to have any chance he had to act now. “Fuck it,” he mumbled, and swung round while the guard was still occupied on his headset. In the corner of his eye he saw Stella's pistol-laden hand whip out and fire.

The guard felt the sting in his neck and instinctively reached up. Within seconds he was on the floor.

Jennings, who had been caught by surprise, recovered his wits and pulled his own pistol from behind and shot the flustered sheik. “Come on!” he urged Grady. “Let's get moving.”

Grady thought about letting Stella down, but there wasn't time to see if she was okay to walk, so he gritted his teeth and followed Jennings. They swerved round the lifeless sheik and his guard and sprinted off down the corridor.

After reaching the exit they stopped briefly to gather themselves. Jennings opened the door and peered out into the courtyard. Kandinsky wasn't there. He checked his watch and discovered that despite their interrupted progress they were still two minutes ahead of schedule. “We're early,” he said.

“Great,” said Grady. “So we've got to hang around here waiting to be caught.” He lowered Stella to her feet keeping her steady with a firm grip. “Are you okay to walk?” he asked.

Stella gave him a daft grin and slurred, “I think sho Gravy.”

“It's Grady. G-R-A-D-Y.”

He let go of her arms. She dropped to the ground.

“Fuck!” said Grady. “How the hell did she manage to shoot that guard.”

“Just pick her up,” said Jennings. “Kandinsky's driving across to us now. It's only another few yards and you can dump her on the backseat of the Jeep.”

Grady muttered something beyond Jennings' hearing and stooped to pick up his charge.

Two guards appeared at the end of the corridor and rushed towards them. Jennings shot out of the door followed closely by Grady. Kandinsky was making his way slowly round the edge of the courtyard. Jennings sprinted for the Jeep. The cries of the guards seemed to draw nearer and were echoed by another group who had appeared at the main door. As they began to fire Kandinsky sped up. Jennings dived for the cover of the Jeep and whipped the door open throwing himself onto the backseat. Grady hoisted Stella into the moving vehicle and then leapt in after her. “I'm too fucking old for this!” he hollered, slamming the door behind him.

Kandinsky put his foot down and circled the courtyard, going past the gates and round again, the armoured plating and glass standing up well to the barrage of bullets. After a couple of circuits he slowed once more and Grady jumped out into the cover of a clump of bushes fifty yards from the main gates.

“Let's just hope he can get them open,” said Jennings.

Grady waited for ten seconds and then took a tentative look. The guards' fire was still concentrated on the Jeep and they appeared to have missed him. He turned to face the gate, where he noticed the two sentries were also engaged, giving him time and space to prepare his shots.

He loaded the pistol with two darts and aimed at the furthest sentry. The shot was a beauty and hit the target right on the side of the neck. Before his partner could react Grady let the other dart fly and once again bulls-eyed the mark. He surveyed the area once more before breaking his cover and running for the gate.

By now the whole courtyard was lit up like a football match, leaving Grady exposed and vulnerable. He was barely halfway to the gate when shots began to pepper the wall behind him. Digging deeper than he ever thought possible he picked up his pace and surged forward, his eyes almost popping with the strain. The bullets continued to clip at his heels.

A mighty leap from fifteen feet propelled him into the open gatehouse. Crashing against a wall he lost his footing and fell to the ground in a momentary daze. He shook his head and sprang back up, scanning the large control panel for the gate mechanism. The buttons were labelled in Arabic. He cursed loudly and began pressing each one in turn, hoping that he'd get lucky sooner rather than later. Shots started to rattle the booth.

“Look!” shouted Jennings. “The gates are opening!”

Kandinsky changed course and made directly for the exit.

Jennings watched as a group of four guards ran along the far wall heading for the gatehouse. “We'll never get there in time! They're going to cut him off!”

Kandinsky swerved slightly and hit the accelerator hard to try and block their route. The Jeep roared and the guards ran faster.

For Jennings the next few seconds were a blur. He looked on helplessly as they headed towards an inevitable collision with both the guards and the wall. As they reached the point of no return he instinctively raised his arms and ducked his head, bracing himself for a brutal impact. There was a screech and a skid, and then a sideways jolt which threw him across into the door. Outside, the guards clattered into the back of the Jeep.

Regaining control, Kandinsky let off the handbrake and thrust forward to the gatehouse where Grady was waiting beside the door. He jumped in, landing on top of Jennings and Stella. “That was some manoeuvre man!” he yelled.

Behind them the shooting started again in earnest. But it was too late. Kandinsky engaged the engine and the Jeep screamed off into the night.

Stratton was struck by a wave of euphoria. The elated cries of the crowd in St Peter's square pulsed through him like a jet of pure joy. His back arched in an ecstatic spasm, and his chest burst upwards filling his lungs with limitless life. He drew in the atmosphere hungrily, as if he'd just discovered how to breathe after years of suffocation.

Cronin looked on incredulously, unsure what to make of the sudden outburst, wondering if his friend was having a fit, and whether he should do something to help. His quandary was eased when Stratton suddenly relaxed and re-entered the physical plane once more.

“Are you alright?” asked Cronin. “What happened?”

“I can feel their happiness,” said Stratton. “It gives me strength.”

Cronin's brow furrowed. “I'm not sure I understand.”

Stratton took a long drink of water. “No, I guess you wouldn't yet. I haven't told you about it.”

“About what?”

“My link to the world. Basically, if the world feels good then so do I. If it's angry and poisonous, then all my power leaves me. I'm like a spiritual barometer.”

“Christ!” said Cronin. “That's amazing!”

“It wasn't a few weeks ago I can assure you. This is great, but the downside is really steep.”

The limousine ground to a halt. The driver turned round and said, “I'm sorry, Father, but we can't go any further – the whole city's in gridlock.”

Cronin lowered his window and looked out into the street. It was mayhem. The sound of horns and sirens was incredible as droves of people abandoned their cars and headed into the heart of the city on foot. “This is a nightmare,” he said, turning to Stratton. “It's going to take us ages to get anywhere with all these people about. Even the pavements are gummed with bodies.”

“Let's wait for a bit,” Stratton suggested. “There's not a lot we can do at the moment anyway. The cat's already out of the bag.”

Cronin shrugged. “I guess you're right.”

A wild man approached the car and started gabbling at Cronin through the open window. “Father!” he shouted. “Is it true? Has the Messiah really returned to us?”

“I couldn't say,” said Cronin. “I've only just heard the news myself.”

“But surely it must be true. The Pope himself has declared it.”

“Well then – there's your answer.”

The man kissed Cronin on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd. Cronin closed the window before anyone else decided to seek a professional opinion on the matter.

“I think you're going to be very much in demand over the next few days,” said Stratton with a grin.

“Tell me about it,” said Cronin. “I wanted to tell him that the whole thing was a sham, but he was so full of it all that there didn't seem to be any point. He wasn't going to listen to anything I said other than ‘yes, it's true'. Any contradiction would have just led to an argument. I don't know what he was asking me for anyway – he'd obviously made up his mind already.”

“I guess he just wanted it reaffirming by someone in the know,” said Stratton. “More than that, he wanted to share the moment with you. Perhaps he sensed that you weren't as happy as you should have been at the news.”

“Well, if he sensed that then at least he wasn't totally gone.”

“What about Desayer?” asked Stratton. “I'm surprised he hasn't been in touch about this. Wouldn't he have phoned you before the Pope made his statement?”

“Oh fuck!” said Cronin. “I've had my phone switched off all morning. I was getting fed up with him ringing me every five minutes.” He pulled the phone out of his pocket and started it up. “Twenty missed calls. I'll bet he's been having kittens.” He speed-dialled the cardinal.