A Sacred Storm (22 page)

“Mind if I join you?”

“I would be glad,” said Kandinsky. “What would you like to drink?”

“I'll have whatever you're having,” he said.

Kandinsky motioned the barman to fetch another cognac, and carefully folded the photograph and put it back in his pocket.

“Who are they?” asked Grady.

“People from the past,” said Kandinsky emphatically. “They are dead now.”

Grady took the hint and said no more about it. He accepted a cigar and sat quietly next to his host. He had managed to force a couple of hours' sleep, but his head was still a mass of energy. His thoughts had turned back to Brooke and their unborn child. The buzz of the rescue had gone, replaced by worry and guilt. If one of those bullets had connected with a vital area it would have left a mother and child alone.

“We did well, yes?” said Kandinsky, breaking the silence.

“Sorry?” said Grady.

“The rescue. It went well, did it not?”

“Yeah. We got her out of there, and nobody got permanently damaged, so we did do well. Personally I had my doubts that it would work. But I was glad to be wrong.”

Kandinsky nodded sagely. “But what now?” he sighed. “What can we do to stop the madness that is sweeping the world? Already I fear it is too late.”

Grady sipped at his drink. He'd heard the news at the same time as Kandinsky, but hadn't really thought about it too much. Having spent so much time isolated from what he considered the civilized world, it was beginning to seem almost irrelevant. “I don't know what to make of it if I'm being honest,” he said. “It's all like a dream to me at the moment. For the last month I've either been stuck in the jungle or on this submarine – I'm finding it difficult to comprehend the world at large. All I'm really thinking about is my pregnant wife.”

“That is a fair comment. It is good that you think about your wife. There is nothing as important. But this situation is going to affect everybody, including your family. It would not surprise me if the world was at war within the week.”

Grady puffed on his cigar. “You could be right. But like you said – what can we do? The whole world's going to be caught up in this mess in some way or another. But ultimately it's going to turn into a straight fight between the Muslim's and the Christians, with the winner taking control. I'd bet on the Christian's myself – I'm not sure of the exact figures, but I think they outnumber Muslim's roughly two to one.”

“Yes, you are correct. But I am not sure if it is really a game of numbers in that respect. The two sides only account for half the world's population between them. It is what the other religions choose to do that will ultimately sway the tide. Our one hope is that Stratton can do something to force opinion away from the two false Messiahs.”

“He'll have his work cut out,” said Grady. “It's not easy appealing in the face of religious fanaticism. If it was down to me we'd get a sniper to pick them both off. Although, no doubt that would just make martyrs out of them.”

“Yes,” said Kandinsky. “Absolutely. It is a problem without answer. I feel we will just have to wait and see what happens over the next few days and react accordingly. Meanwhile I think we should head for Rome to meet up with Stratton.”

“Probably the best move,” said Grady. “But once we get there I think I'm going to head back to the States. If there is going to be trouble I want to be there to protect my family.”

“Of course,” said Kandinsky. “You must look after them.” He retrieved the photograph from his pocket once more and laid it on the bar in front of them. “This was my family. My wife and my daughter.”

“They're beautiful.”

“Yes, they were. I loved them more than anything.”

Kandinsky's face remained impassive, but Grady caught a slight welling in his eyes. He wanted to ask the Russian what had happened, but was unsure of the reaction he might get. Instead he fell silent and ruminated over his cognac, waiting for his host to change the conversation.

“They were murdered,” Kandinsky said without fanfare. “Murdered by a competitor of mine. It was my fault. I had grown powerful, but I had also become clumsy and greedy. I was also taking too much cocaine. My judgement had become clouded and paranoid.” He sipped some cognac and puffed on his cigar. “I started to treat my employees very badly, and that was the biggest mistake I ever made. I would accuse them of disloyalty and hit them on a whim. I became a tyrant and a bully, and I suppose it was only a matter of time before one of them turned against me. It was contrary to everything I believed in. I had built my empire on discipline and loyalty and respect for my people – once I had lost that it was inevitable that I should suffer a fall.”

He sighed and continued. “Anyway, one of my men decided that enough was enough and he crossed over to the other side. He helped my main rival, a man called Kolinsky, penetrate security and enter my house with a small army of men. They shot everyone they came across – including my wife and daughter. I was down in the basement games-room when they attacked, off my head on cocaine and brandy. I heard the gunfire, but by the time I reacted it was too late. I raced up to my daughter's bedroom and found them both lying there, just feet from the safety of the panic room I had installed. Then, I do not know…”

Grady watched Kandinsky swirl his cognac. The story hung awkwardly in his head. The big man was plainly suffering inside, and probably had been for years. It wasn't in his nature to feel sympathy for ruthless killers, but there was something inherently tragic about Kandinsky that caused him to think. The man wasn't after pity, but that in a way made Grady warm to him all the more. Perhaps it was because he saw a part of himself. He wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words.

“Anatol found me the next day: lying in the panic room with Maria and Natalia by my side. I had been shot four times in the back and was barely alive, but he got me treatment and I pulled through. Although sometimes I wish that I had gone with them.” He winced, then after a brief silence affected a laugh. “But that is enough of my woe, the past does not matter. We must look to the future now – dark as it is.”

When Stella woke from her long sleep it took her a while to remember where she was. Once her brain kicked in she leant over and switched on the light. She blinked furiously and then pulled herself up to a sitting position. The manoeuvre was uncomfortable in the extreme. The painkillers had worn off and the tiniest movement was accompanied by a stabbing sensation. She reached for her tablets and swigged a couple down with some mineral water. Feeling hungry she phoned the galley and asked for them to bring some breakfast. She then called Jennings who came over almost immediately.

“Morning,” he chirped as he came through the door. “How are you feeling?”

“I've been better. But I've just had a couple of those codeine, so hopefully they'll do the trick.”

“You certainly look a lot better.”

“So do you,” she said. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

“Yeah, I had some breakfast in my room. What about you?”

“I've just ordered some. You can sit with me while I eat.”

“Thanks very much,” laughed Jennings. “I feel very privileged.”

Stella smiled. “I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that it would be nice if you sat with me, that's all.”

Jennings pulled up a chair. Stella was glad of his company. She still felt guilty for the way she'd spoken to him the day before. He'd gone out of his way to rescue her and all she'd done was ply him with questions about Stratton. She put a lot of it down to the trauma, but there was no real excuse for taking him for granted in such a cruel way.

“I haven't really thanked you properly,” she said.

“What for?” asked Jennings.

“For coming to get me.”

“You thanked me last night.”

“I guess so,” she said. “But I was a bit of a mess and I don't think I said enough. I feel like I was really ungrateful. But I'm not you know. It means a lot that you risked your life for me.”

“Grady and Kandinsky did as well.”

“I know and I really appreciate it. But I don't think anyone would have come if it hadn't been for you.” She reached out and squeezed his hand.

Jennings looked into her eyes and felt himself melting. In that instant he knew that he loved her far beyond the confines of his physical world. A wave of calm swept over him, followed by a beautiful sadness. His eyes began to water. “I'm sure somebody would have come,” he said, looking away. “Stratton would have made sure of it.”

“Maybe,” said Stella. “But it's academic really. You were the one who actually came.” She smiled softly and squeezed his hand again.

Jennings felt a sudden dryness in his throat. He reached for Stella's mineral water and took a few sips. He'd waited for ever for Stella to look at him like she was at this moment, but now that the time had come he felt overwhelmed and confused. Part of him wanted to believe that she'd finally fallen for him, but another, stronger part, told him not to misread the signals. He kept the bottle to his lips until he regained a thread of control.

“You wouldn't have heard,” he said, changing the subject, “but both the Catholics and the Muslims have announced their redeemers. It happened yesterday apparently.”

“That's not good is it?” said Stella. “What's the reaction been like?”

“As far as I can tell from the news reports it's ranged from euphoria to shock. I don't think anyone quite knows what to make of it yet, it's too soon to tell. I think the world's in a state of complete and utter confusion. But whatever happens when the dust settles I don't think it's going to be pretty.”

“No, I don't suppose it is,” Stella said thoughtfully. “Has Stratton actually got a plan?”

“I don't know,” said Jennings. “You can never tell with him can you? I don't think he went to Rome with anything specific in mind, but equally he might already have the whole thing sorted in his head.”

“And what are we going to do?” she asked.

“Again, I don't know. I think Kandinsky wants to meet up with Stratton in Rome, so I guess we'll be heading there. It doesn't really matter to me anymore – I've got no home to go back to so I'll just go with the flow.”

“You'll get back there one day,” she said. “The truth has to come out sometime. You know you've done nothing wrong.”

“I know, and you're probably right.” He looked away ruefully. “The problem is, the way things are headed, I'm not so sure that we're going to have anything to go back to.”

Ali Hussein couldn't believe how his life had changed. In a matter of weeks he had gone from crippled errand boy to fully-functioning disciple. From the day the Master had healed him in the market square he had been on a rollercoaster of joy. His previous existence was now but a hollow thought, confined to the depths of indistinct memory. He had been propelled into a world of wonder, where every day was a new and exciting opportunity to learn and become closer to Allah.

The Master was everything that Ali expected him to be: kindly; knowledgeable; wise; and in possession of a patience far beyond the realms of human capacity. However many questions Ali asked, and however long it took him to grasp even the simplest concept, the Master would remain untouched and persist slowly until it had all sunk in. There was no doubt in Ali's mind that he was truly the Mahdi.

The day had been hectic to say the least and Ali was glad to at last have a little time to himself. They had spent the afternoon in Islamabad where the Master had addressed a large gathering at the cricket ground. He had worked his way through a huge procession of the frail and sick, curing everything from limps to blindness. Some people even stood in line pretending to have ailments just so that they could feel the touch of Allah. The television cameras and paparazzi had been in their face all day too, but not once had the Master complained or lost his temper. He had dutifully continued to heal and had even made jokes with the surrounding media circus, answering all their questions with the calm and wit of a seasoned politician. Now that evening was drawing into night they were guests at the presidential palace.

Ali stretched back in the sumptuous red leather chair and closed his eyes. The Master was in the next room performing his daily meditation, and would not be calling on him for at least another half hour. He thought about his mother and wondered what she was doing and whether she was unhappy that he had left so suddenly. He had called her every day and she had sounded pleased and exceptionally proud that he was doing something so important, but he still worried that she would be lonely without him, her only child. He hoped that Farouk was stopping by each day to check on her as he said he would.

A little later Ali woke. He blinked a couple of times and then started from the chair, concerned as to how long he had been asleep. He took his position as the Master's aide extremely seriously and was anxious not to disappoint. The clock on the mantelpiece indicated that he'd been out for just twenty minutes. He went to the table and picked up a mineral water.

Ten minutes later the Master appeared from his room. Even after his long day he was still glowing with energy. His eyes sparkled like stars and his aura glimmered with gold. As young as the morning dew, and as old as mountains. Ageless. Ali gazed up in awe and then bowed his head in reverence.

“Are you rested my young friend?” the Mahdi asked.

“Yes, Master, thank you.”

“Good. Then I think it is time for us to eat.”

As a rule it was Ali's job to prepare meals for the Mahdi, but on this occasion, as they were guests of the President of Pakistan, their food was made in the palace kitchen and brought to them by servants. Ali felt awkward at being waited upon, but the Mahdi reassured him that it was alright: “You have served me well, young Ali,” he said. “You have worked hard and long. Do not deny yourself an experience by layering it with needless guilt. Sit down, enjoy the food, and relax while you can. There is a long road ahead of us and much work to be done.”