A Sacred Storm (29 page)

He passed the deserted Co-op and turned left at the traffic lights, looking nervously across to the railway bridge as he did so. A lone car came towards him and trundled past eerily like a mechanized tumbleweed. There were no pedestrians and there was no sound of trains. He'd never known the town this quiet. The silence of the streets unnerved him.

The Causeway seemed equally destitute, with the exception that every now and then he could see shadows of human life projected through light curtains. It gave him some comfort to know that he was not entirely alone, but at the same time made him feel more isolated. He proceeded cautiously, his eyes and ears alert to every tiny movement or sound.

Halfway down he stopped and turned. His ears had detected what he thought were footsteps. He peered into the orange dusk, but could see nothing except for parked cars and houses. After a brief wait to make certain, he carried on and upped his pace. The footsteps sounded again, this time more hurried. Once more he halted to check, and once more he saw nothing.

He was only a hundred yards from Jenna's flat when he finally saw them: a group of five sprinting towards him noiselessly, their faces covered by scarves. By the time he had a chance to react they were almost upon him. Without thought he sprang away down the path. He had never been the fastest of runners, but fear and adrenaline spurred him on with a rapidity that he would have previously considered impossible.

As he approached the flats it occurred to him that he would have no chance of opening the communal door before his pursuers bore down. He had no choice but to bypass his destination and carry on running. With no more than a rapid glance he hurtled past Jenna's building and off into the darkening evening. He couldn't hear the gang behind, but he could sense them and they weren't losing ground. He made a decision to swerve into the small park and head back through to the main road.

The park was cloaked in near blackness. The one lamp in the centre had blown, and the only light to guide him was that shining through from the Middleton Road a hundred yards ahead. It was here that the relentless effort began to tell and he started to tire. He gritted his teeth and tried to force one last thrust to propel him through the darkness. Behind him the gang prepared to strike.

The next thing Tariq knew he was tumbling forward in an uncontrollable dive. He'd been tripped from behind. He blindly held out his hands to break the fall. Hitting the path at speed he rolled forward and sideways onto the grass. Before he could get his bearings the kicks started to fly in. Cradling his head in his arms he curled himself into a ball and tried to weather the storm.

The blows were fast and vicious and pointed, and came from every conceivable angle. The pain of the constant barrage to his kidneys and back quickly became unbearable. He started to scream loudly, but this only encouraged his tormentors to rain down harder. Boots penetrated his defences and hammered into his face. The beating continued mercilessly until he thought he was going to pass out. Then, with a solitary word the blows ceased.

“Enough,” said a gruff voice.

Tariq didn't move. He could feel them stood around him, watching and waiting. He heard one of them clear his throat loudly and hawk a pool of spit. It landed on Tariq's temple and dribbled through his fingers into his eye.

“Muslim scum,” said the same gruff voice as before.

It was at least five minutes before Tariq dared to move. He thought he had heard the gang leave, but wanted to make certain. During this time he just lay there in silence dreading the start of another attack. Eventually, convinced that he was on his own, he lowered his guard and sprawled out on the grass taking in shallow gasps of air. The taste of blood swamped his mouth and his two front teeth wobbled in battered gums. His steamrollered body ached with every breath.

Reaching tentatively into his trouser pocket, he withdrew his mobile phone and held it up in front of his watery eyes. The screen was blurry, but he managed to find the right buttons to speed-dial Jenna. He put the phone to his ear and waited.

“Hello honey,” said a comforting voice. “I've been wondering where you were.”

Tariq tried to rasp a reply, but his throat was clogged with blood.

“Hello,” Jenna repeated. “Hello? Tariq?”

Tariq cleared his throat weakly and spat out some blood. “Park,” he whispered. “Park.”

The phone slid from his hand and he blacked out.

Arman Kandinsky strode purposefully up to the large arched gates and entered into a brief discussion with one of the Swiss Guards on sentry duty. He stated his name and announced that he had an appointment with Father Cronin. The guard had a brief gawp at Kandinsky's size and then radioed control. After a swift conversation the gate opened and he escorted the Russian in. He led him across a large courtyard and then through a double oak door. Inside the building Kandinsky followed his guide down a maze of imposing corridors. He looked around as they walked, impressed but not overawed by the artwork and architecture. It was striking, but not half as inspiring as the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg, he thought. He did, however, very much like the guard's multicoloured livery. The red, yellow and blue striped uniform could easily have been over-the-top kitsch, but the tone and blend was such that it exuded imperious grandeur. A reminder of a lost age.

The guard showed Kandinsky into Cronin's office and asked him to wait while he located the priest. Kandinsky sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk, knowing full well that the last person who'd be arriving was Cronin. He patted his waistband, reassuring himself that if trouble emerged then he at least had his tranquilizer gun to take a few down.

It was only a few minutes before a priest – who wasn't Cronin – arrived.

“Hello,” he said holding out a hand. “I'm Father Panduro. You must be Mr Kandinsky.”

Kandinsky stood up and shook the outstretched hand firmly.

Panduro looked up and smiled, trying to hide his fear. “I'm afraid Father Cronin is unavoidably delayed,” he said. “He shouldn't be longer than ten minutes though. I'll make you a coffee if you like.”

“That would be lovely,” said Kandinsky.

Panduro put the kettle on and fumbled about in the cupboard for some coffee mugs. “I'm afraid it's been all go around here lately, as you can probably imagine. Our whole world's been turned upside down by the appearance of Christiano. After some trying years, suddenly overnight we're popular again.”

“I expect you are,” said Kandinsky, only half listening.

“There didn't seem to be a lot of room for faith in this modern society,” Panduro continued. “People were more interested in worshipping footballers and pop stars than God. Congregations had dwindled to almost nothing in some areas of the world. The only way to fill a church would have been to have Madonna or Beyonce perform. Of course, that's all turned on its head now.”

Kandinsky watched Panduro's hands carefully as he spooned in the coffee granules.

“Would you like milk and sugar, Mr Kandinsky?”

“No, thank you. Black will be fine.”

Panduro poured the boiling water and stirred. Kandinsky's eyes didn't leave the mug. The priest handed him his drink and sat down in Cronin's chair opposite. Kandinsky sniffed the coffee and placed the mug on the desk.

“Yes, exciting times,” said Panduro. “Exciting times. Of course I never dreamt in a million years that something like this would happen, well not in my lifetime. I knew that God would return to us eventually, but maybe not quite so soon. Although if you think about it, we've come to a point as a society where we probably need his guidance more than ever. What do you think?”

Kandinsky stared at Panduro impassively. By the sound of his prattling the priest was nervous and trying to buy time. What concerned him more, however, were the contents of his drink. He hadn't noticed anything suspicious in its making, but that in no way meant that it was safe to imbibe.

“Well?” said Panduro.

“I am not sure what to think,” said Kandinsky. “Everything has happened very quickly. And let us not forget that the Mahdi has appeared for Islam. It seems very strange that two saviours have appeared at the same time, no?”

“Let us not forget that Christiano appeared first,” said Panduro. “The only suspicious thing is that the Muslims announced this ‘Mahdi' a few hours later. It was patently just an attempt to deflect attention. There is no substance to their claims. I'm sure the world will see him for what he is sooner or later. Probably sooner.”

Kandinsky looked at his watch. “How long did you say Father Cronin was going to be?”

“He'll be here imminently,” said Panduro. “Like I said, we're all rather busy at the moment. And what with the unfortunate death of Cardinal Desayer, I'm afraid Father Cronin has more on his plate than most. Have a drink and relax, he'll be here soon.”

Kandinsky watched Panduro sip some coffee, but decided to stay away from his own. The room fell briefly silent.

“So, Mr Kandinsky, what is your line of work, if you don't mind me asking?”

“I am a businessman.”

“Really? What sort of business?”

“I have many businesses,” he said bluntly.

Panduro realized that the conversation was going nowhere and began once again to talk about the Church. He carried on waffling until eventually Kandinsky could stand it no longer. “Father,” he said firmly, holding his palm up. “That is enough. Where is Father Cronin? I really must speak to him.”

Panduro feigned indignation. “Well really, Mr Kandinsky, I told you – he'll be here shortly.”

Kandinsky shook his head. “Do not lie to me, Father. I am not a fool, and you should not treat me like one. We both know what is going on here. So I ask you once again – where is Father Cronin? What have you done with him?”

“I really don't know what you're—”

Before Panduro could finish his sentence Kandinsky left his chair and reached over the desk. He wrapped an enormous hand around the priest's throat. He had promised himself not to use violence, but the conversation was going nowhere fast. “I ask you once again – where is Father Cronin?” Panduro said nothing. Kandinsky increased his grip. “Where?” he growled.

Panduro's eyes shot to his left. Kandinsky let go his grip and whipped round about face. In front of him, just three feet away, were two Swiss Guards, each brandishing an Uzi. Before they could react he'd bridged the distance between them and slammed their heads together with his massive palms. They fell to the floor.

Kandinsky closed the office door and locked it. “Nice try,” he said to the terrified Panduro. “But you will have to do a lot more to get the better of Arman Kandinsky. Now, where is Father Cronin?”

“You can't escape you know,” said Panduro. “This room's being monitored by CCTV. There'll be more guards here in seconds.”

“Bring them on,” said Kandinsky. “They still have to get into the room. That gives me plenty of time alone with you, my friend.” He stepped towards Panduro with intent.

“Alright! Alright!” Panduro yammered. “They took him a couple of days ago. I don't know where. Listen, I'm just a priest, I don't really know anything about all this. I'm just doing what I'm told.”

“Oh yes,” said Kandinsky. “I am sure you are very innocent in all this.” He stepped across to the window and sized up his escape options. They were about seven metres up and the drop onto concrete looked less than inviting.

His thoughts were interrupted by shouting and banging at the office door. The guards were trying to break their way in. For a moment it occurred to Kandinsky to pick up one of the Uzis and shoot them through the wood, but he remembered his talks with Stratton and made the choice not to. Instead he pulled the dartgun from his waistband and positioned himself at the side of the door. He figured that if there were only another couple of guards he might have a chance to put them out. It could buy him a little more time with which to question the reticent Father Panduro. There was no question of leaving without more information about Cronin and Stratton.

It only took ten seconds for the guards to break through. Three of them stormed in at once, giving Kandinsky little time. He shot the first one in the neck, but before he could aim again the whole room was swarming with bright uniforms. He thought briefly about making a fight of it, but with so many guns trained on him he had no choice but to surrender. He dropped his weapon and lifted his arms above his head.

Father Panduro stepped from behind the desk and walked over to his new hostage. In his hand was a syringe. He dragged one of Kandinsky's arms down and injected him. The last thing Kandinsky heard was “Goodnight”.

When Tariq finally came round he was still lying on the grass in the dimly-lit park. A voice was calling his name from afar. His eyes felt like they had been glued shut, but he managed to open them just enough to get a glimpse of the outline of Jenna's face.

“Tariq,” she said, her voice growing closer. “Can you hear me?”

Tariq nodded.

“I've called 999. The police and ambulance will be here soon. I love you.” She touched his face softly and bent down and kissed him on the forehead.

Tariq closed his eyes, the effort of keeping them open being too much. It didn't matter anyway, he knew Jenna was with him and that was enough. The pain, if anything, had got worse, and even breathing caused him agony. Every time he drew air into his lungs, his chest and back protested with a swathe of stabbing needles. The world around seemed distant.

Jenna looked down at her stricken love through watery eyes. His call had almost sent her into shock, only necessity had held her nerves together. She instinctively knew the park he meant and had slipped on a pair of trainers and run down there. She should have phoned the police before she left the flat of course, but she had been so preoccupied that the thought hadn't registered. When she'd found him lying there, she had at first feared he was dead. A quick feel for his pulse had allayed that fear, although it was faint and decidedly weak. It was only then that she'd called the emergency services. She cursed herself for being so negligent. If he didn't make it, she didn't know what she'd do.