A Sacred Storm (27 page)

Ayres gave the young man an icy stare. “Listen to me, Casper,” he said. “I didn't get to my position by being a fool. If I thought for one minute that Christiano was a street magician then I wouldn't even contemplate the course of action I'm taking. But I've been there Casper. I've seen him with my own eyes. I've witnessed the blind seeing again; I've witnessed the paralysed walk out of their wheelchairs without even a limp. Healing people is no cheap trick. I'd like to see David Blaine try it.”

Fox grunted and shook his head. “You're just seeing what you want to see, Jonathan. You're blinded by faith.”

“If you think that then why don't you come over to the Vatican with me right now? I'll prove to you that he's no charlatan.”

“It wouldn't work,” said Fox. “The Vatican isn't a controlled environment. They could be up to any amount of trickery there. The only way that man could prove anything to me is if he came over to Britain, and in a controlled environment healed someone I knew to be genuinely disabled. That might go a little way to convincing me.”

“He will be coming to Britain at some point, just not straight away.”

“Well then, Jonathan, I guess this conversation is finished. You're obviously not going to see sense, so there's no point in me carrying on. But remember – if you don't come back with me then the consequences for you and the country will be dire.”

“They'll be even more dire if I leave here now. I've made a decision, Casper, and I'm sticking to it. You might think you have all the answers, but you're certainly not God. So I suggest you go back and carry on as normal. If it keeps you happy I'll make a statement to the British public reassuring them of my intentions, and calling for calm.”

“I don't really think that's going to help. You're already making a statement by being over here. You're saying that Catholicism is right and Islam is wrong. That isn't the sort of message you want to be sending a multicultural society. Can't you see what's happening?”

“The message I will be sending is one of peace and harmony. That is the Catholic way. That is the message of the Messiah. It can in no way be construed as inflammatory.”

Fox sighed in defeat and picked up his briefcase. “I'm going to get some food downstairs and then I'm going back home. I've warned you what's going to happen, but if you refuse to listen then that's your lookout. There's nothing more I can do here.”

Ayres patted him on the back. “Everything will be fine,” he said. “You guys are just worrying too much. I'll be back in a couple of days when I've finished here.”

Fox shrugged. “Whatever. But don't be surprised if you have nothing to come back to.”

Jennings stepped onto the dock and stretched his legs. It was a beautiful, cloudless morning, and the temperature was already into the seventies. He took off his baseball cap and wiped his brow with his sleeve, resisting the urge to fiddle with the false beard that was driving his skin mad. The disguise was probably slightly over the top, but he knew that he was still on Interpol's most wanted list and didn't want to take any more risks than he needed.

Stella was also incognito, but only with a baseball cap and sunglasses. Her body had made a remarkable recovery overnight, and although the pain hadn't entirely gone, she was able to walk around unaided. She looked up to the sky and basked in the freedom of the sun.

Kandinsky led them off the dock and onto the streets of Rome. The deserted cars had finally been reclaimed by their owners and the traffic was back to normal. The hustle and bustle of the city was a shock to Jennings' system. He'd spent so long away from civilization that the onslaught of horns and human voices took him by surprise. It was like stepping out of an isolation tank into a bar full of drunks.

“Are you alright?” asked Stella.

Jennings took a deep breath. “Yeah, I'll be okay. It's just a bit much. My head's not used to all this noise and activity.”

“I know what you mean. I'm suffering from sensory overload myself. It's like being woken from a peaceful dream. How I managed in London all these years I'll never know. When you see things from a different perspective it makes you wonder.”

They moved quickly and were soon out of the urban sprawl, and into the relative tranquillity of the Villa Borghese with its lush, verdant gardens and peaceful walkways.

“This is more like it,” said Jennings. “I'm not sure I could have stood any more of that noise.”

“Yeah, it's beautiful isn't it,” said Stella. “I came here once on a school trip. I always wanted to come back. Pity about the circumstances though.”

The Parco dei Principi Grand Hotel and Spa was situated towards the edge of the Villa Borghese. It was a byword for fivestar luxury and outstanding cuisine. Kandinsky was on excellent terms with the owners and stayed there whenever he was in the city. He had rung the manager the night before and arranged to occupy his favourite suite.

Jennings opened the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The view was nothing short of stunning, with St Peter's Basilica forming a proud and majestic focal point in the most historic of cities. He breathed in the warm air and smiled.

Grady came to join him. “It looks much better from up here doesn't it?” he said. “Without the noise and pollution it's almost beautiful.”

“It is,” Jennings agreed. “What time's your plane?”

“Seven o'clock this evening. Kandinsky's arranged for a limo to take me to the airport.”

“It's alright for some.”

“Yeah, it's good. I can't wait to see Brooke again. I've really missed her.”

“Ah, you old softie,” said Jennings giving him a friendly dig.

“You're not angry with me then?” said Grady.

“No, of course I'm not angry. I'd do the same thing in your position. You've got to look after your family, mate. And besides you're probably more of a hindrance than a help anyway.”

“Fuck you,” laughed Grady.

A little later Kandinsky called room service for lunch and ordered enough for Stratton and Cronin as well. He and Stella joined the other two at the balcony table.

“What time are they supposed to be here?” asked Jennings.

“About half past twelve,” said Kandinsky.

Jennings looked back to the clock in the suite. “It's quarter to one now.”

Kandinsky shrugged. “It was not an exact time. And besides, the traffic is murder in the city at this time of day.”

“I guess so,” said Jennings, none too convinced. He'd had an odd feeling in his stomach all morning. Every time he thought about Stratton a shadow fell over his soul. He hadn't said anything to the others for fear of causing needless worry, but as the time ticked by his sense of dread became greater. Kandinsky was right about the traffic of course, but surely Cronin would have taken that into account.

“I'm sure they'll be here in a minute,” said Stella, perceiving Jennings' concern. “Try and relax.”

The food arrived at one o'clock and they ate outside on the balcony. Jennings picked at some pasta and salad, but his appetite was waning by the minute.

“If it makes you feel better I will give Father Cronin a call,” said Kandinsky. He picked up his mobile and speed-dialled the priest's number. Two seconds later he hung up. “It's gone straight to answerphone. I'll try the phone I gave Stratton.” Once again the call failed.

At quarter to two Kandinsky phoned Cronin's direct line at the Vatican. There was no answer. He then tried Cardinal Desayer. Again there was no answer. He started to think that Jennings' worries might be justified.

“What should we do?” asked Stella.

“There's not a lot we can do,” said Grady. “We're just going to have to wait for them to turn up.”

Jennings stared blankly out across the city. “You can wait all you want,” he said. “They're not coming. Something's happened.”

Stratton opened his eyes and tried to focus. The world was one big blur and his head a spongy mass of fuzz. The last thing he remembered was drifting off to sleep. What he did know was that he was no longer in the same place. He was sitting on a cold, hard chair with his legs fastened tight, and his hands uncomfortably knotted behind his back. He shook his head to try and restore some vision, but his eyes continued to see nothing but hazy, swirling grey.

He began to hear whispering voices. They grew louder until eventually he could make out a couple of English accents. He mumbled a groggy “Hello”. There was no answer, and the voices fell silent.

A while later he heard a door open. Another person entered. After a brief exchange with the whisperers, footsteps approached Stratton's chair. He opened his eyes once more and tried to get some clarity. This time, instead of a grey mess, he could make out the shape of a person standing in front of him.

“Awake at last,” said a man's voice. It was familiar but Stratton couldn't quite place it. “I thought you were going to sleep forever. Perhaps we were a little heavy-handed with your dosage. You can't be too careful with people who rise from the dead though.” He held Stratton's head back and tipped some water into his mouth. “Have a drink, it'll help you come round.”

Stratton gulped at the water and shook his head again. The man's face began to take shape in front of him. It was Jonathan Ayres. Stratton blinked heavily to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

“Surprised?” said Ayres.

“Not really,” said Stratton. “I always thought you were a snake. I never voted for you.”

“Never mind, millions did.”

“Can I have some more water please?” asked Stratton.

Ayres obliged and he took a long drink. His eyesight was returning to normal and he surveyed his surroundings. He was sat in a corner of what appeared to be a shed. It was about twenty feet by ten feet, with corrugated walls and a concrete floor. It was lit by a single bulb on the far wall where two men were seated at a shabby table. They were both large and wearing suits, and Stratton assumed they were part of Ayres' security detail. Possibly the pair who had framed Jennings. To his left Pat Cronin was bound to a chair and still out for the count.

“Feeling better?” asked Ayres.

“Yeah,” said Stratton. “I feel like I could run a marathon.”

“You've still got a sense of humour. That's a good sign.”

“What exactly do you want?” said Stratton.

“Good question,” said Ayres. “For a start I want to keep you out of the way. We're at a critical point, and the last thing the Church needs is someone like you coming along and spoiling the party.”

“Why haven't you killed me then?”

“Because I suspect that might be easier said than done. You're a bit of an enigma as far as we're concerned. I wasn't even sure if we'd be able to drug you. Also, I need you alive for a while longer to draw out any conspirators of yours who might want to put their oar in.”

“I don't have any conspirators.”

“That's not strictly true is it? You have the esteemed father here. And also, I suspect, the late Cardinal Desayer.”

At the word ‘late' Stratton's head dropped.

“Yes,” said Ayres. “I'm afraid he had a heart attack in his sleep last night. It's a tragedy, but he was quite old. Still, he will be honoured by His Holiness for his services to the Church.”

“People might wonder why your Messiah couldn't bring him back to life,” said Stratton.

“Why would he bring him back to life? He has gone to serve in the Kingdom of God now.”

“Whatever,” Stratton snorted.

Ayres took a sip of water for himself. “And of course there's the small matter of your little friend Jennings. I can't have him running loose with all that he knows.”

“Jennings?” said Stratton shaking his head in ignorance.

“Don't even go there,” said Ayres. “I know a lot more than you think. He couldn't have disappeared without help and neither could you. You're all in it together with that Stella girl and this pseudo priest.” He pointed at Cronin. “It's all worked out quite nicely really. We've had our eye on Desayer and his stooge for a long time, and now they've brought us a decent prize.”

“Who is we exactly?” asked Stratton.

“Just a group of the faithful who want to keep Jesus' message clear and true. We can't have everyone going around being a Messiah now, can we? There would be anarchy across the globe.”

“Clear and true?” said Stratton. “That's a fucking joke. It's called lying and keeping people in the dark. But that's what you do for a living isn't it?”

“People need to be led Stratton, you're an intelligent guy, you should understand that. And what I'm doing is no different from what you're trying to do is it? I mean, you're not about to unleash this great knowledge on the world are you? You're trying to keep it as secret as we are. So let's not be hypocritical about this.”

“Don't try and turn this around Ayres. My intentions are completely different. This knowledge has to be kept secret because it's dangerous. As a race we're just not capable of utilizing it safely yet. But that doesn't mean that people should be kept in the dark as to its origins. What you're doing is pretending that Christiano's something he's not just to gain power. And the Muslims are doing exactly the same thing. I'm quite prepared to let the world know exactly where Jesus' power came from, and I intend to do so. I've got documentary evidence from St Thomas. People need to know that they can attain the spiritual heights of Buddha and Jesus.”

“No Stratton, people need to know that they must obey God and his word. That is the only way to keep them in check. What we're doing is encouraging unity in mankind.”

“What you're doing is starting World War III,” said Stratton. “You and the Muslim's are dividing the world. As if things weren't bad enough before all this. How do you think this is going to end? With everybody saying ‘live and let live'? No. It's going to end with man killing man over two very big lies.”