A Sacred Storm (33 page)

She felt Kamal's gaze shift back to her and looked away self-consciously. She thought the world of him and knew that he wouldn't ever hurt her or take advantage, but she didn't want him knowing how much she adored him, not for the moment at least. It was too close to everything that had happened for her to take a leap like that and leave herself exposed and emotionally vulnerable again. As this thought went through her head the pain came back and she winced.

“Are you okay?” said Kamal.

Annie covered her mouth and yawned. “Yeah, just a bit tired after all that food.”

“You can go to bed if you like. You do not have to stay up on my account. I will be quite happy on my own with the view.”

“No, I'm fine,” she said. “I'd rather just sit here with you.”

“Good. I am pleased. I have missed your company.” He looked into her eyes and saw the briefest glimmer of a sparkle. It was something that had understandably been missing ever since fate had drawn them together at the hotel in London. It gave him hope that one day she might free herself of the chains of guilt that bound her every waking hour. Guilt from what she could have done, and most of all the guilt of survival.

“I'm not sure why you've missed my company,” said Annie. “I'm hardly the life and soul of the party at the moment.”

“It does not matter. Just having someone to sit with is good for me. I have not made many friends in my life. Mainly because of my job, but also because I like to keep a lot back for myself. I do not find it easy to talk to people. You probably know more about me than anyone ever has.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It is,” said Kamal. “Perhaps if you had asked me six months ago I would have given a different answer, but I have come to understand things a lot better now. I used to think that having somebody know me was a weakness, and now I see it is not necessarily the case. In fact, if I am honest, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I am finding strength in my biggest fear.” He paused. “Anyway, I am talking too much. It is probably nonsense.”

Annie looked at him with moistened eyes. “It's not nonsense,” she said. “Not at all.” She leant over and kissed him on the cheek and hugged him. After holding the embrace momentarily she sat back down. “I just wish I could forget about everything. I wish that the pain would go away and that I could start living again.”

“I want that for you too,” said Kamal. “But it will take time, lots of time. There is no hurry, you must not try and force it. The wounds will heal at their given speed.”

“I hope so,” she said. “Sometimes I'll sit here and everything will be okay for a while, but then suddenly something will pop into my head and take me right back to where I started. There's so much unfinished business floating around in my head that it hurts to even think sometimes. I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye to them properly. I wasn't at the funeral, and I'll never be able to go back and lay flowers at their graves.”

“Do not be so sure,” said Kamal. “The truth may well come out one day. You have done nothing wrong, remember that.”

“Then why do I feel like I have?! Why do I feel so fucking guilty all the time? Why am I stuck out here, unable to set foot in my own country, while those fucking bastards get away with murdering my family? Tell me that Kamal. Why?!” She burst into tears.

Kamal pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. “I have no answers,” he said. “I wish that I did.”

Annie held him tight. “I should have killed him,” she sobbed. “I should have killed him.”

“No. You should not. The violence had to stop somewhere. It would not have done you any good.”

“Wouldn't it?” Annie said, pulling away. “At least justice would have been done. I'd feel a whole lot better than I do now.”

“Perhaps in the short term. Over the years it would have eaten away.”

“Don't keep telling me that! You're always saying that! I don't believe you anymore. It's just words…” Her voice trailed off into her tears.

Kamal pulled her close once more. “Like I said, I have no answers. But you did the right thing. However hard it was, you did the right thing. I feel it in my heart.” He kissed her on the forehead and stroked her hair gently. “There is purpose to everything, but only the universe knows.”

“I'm sorry, Jennings,” said Stone, and raised his gun. Next to him Davis did the same, aiming straight between Grady's eyes. Stone lifted his weapon above his head and brought it crashing down on Davis' neck. His partner froze and then fell to the ground. Stone clicked the safety back on his firearm and returned it to its holster.

Jennings looked on wide-eyed, unable to comprehend what he'd just seen.

Stone walked forward. “Like I said, I'm sorry. Sorry for everything.”

There was a brief silence as the situation was digested.

Eventually Jennings spoke. “What the fuck is going on, Andy?” he said. “What the
fuck
is going on?”

Stone pulled a set of handcuffs from his jacket pocket and knelt down beside Davis. “We'd better restrain him. He won't be out for long.”

Jennings helped Stone manoeuvre Davis' porky frame, and they cuffed his hands behind his back. Stella lit a cigarette and paced around in front of a bemused Grady.

With Davis secure and leant comatose against the wall Jennings again pressed Stone for some answers. “Come on, Andy,” he said. “I want to know what's going on. For a start you could tell me what the hell you two are doing here.”

Stone approached Stella and asked her for a cigarette. He lit it with shaky hands. “We're here with Ayres,” he said. “We've been here for over a week. He's been in talks with the Vatican. I couldn't tell you exactly what's been said because he's been behind closed doors, but I know he's part of this whole Messiah thing.”

“Who's he been talking to?” asked Jennings.

“The Pope and some cardinal called Vittori as far as I can make out. He's been very careful not to tell us too much. We take him over to the Vatican and then the Swiss Guard look after him. I wish I could tell you more.”

“What about Stratton?” asked Stella. “And Father Cronin. Do you know anything about them?”

Stone nodded. “Yeah. They're being kept in a little hut by the river. Well, they were. I'm not sure they've got long now. Davis phoned through and told Ayres that we had you, so there's no reason to keep them alive now.”

“Fuck!” cursed Jennings. He looked Stone in the eye. “Have you got a car?”

“Yeah, it's at the other side of the garage.”

“Well come on then, let's get going!”

After retrieving their weapons, and with Stone in the lead, they ran through the parking level to the car, a silver Mercedes. Stone jumped in and started the engine, waiting only briefly for the rest to get seated before reversing out and wheel-spinning off to the exit.

The night-time traffic was slow but not static and Stone weaved his way in and out with speed and skill.

“Why are you doing this, Andy?” asked Jennings. “I mean, why now? Why couldn't you just have helped me when I needed it back in England?”

Stone shifted down a gear and accelerated round a line of cars, causing the oncoming traffic to swerve. “I don't know. It's complicated. There's no time for it now.”

Two minutes later Stone hit the brakes and swung in to a parking bay on a secluded part of the Lungotevere della Vittoria, leaving his headlights on. All four doors opened simultaneously as they sprang out into the night.

“Wait!” Stone ordered. “We'll have to be careful. I've got two men in there and they're no slouches. We can't—”

Before he could finish his sentence a muffled gunshot sounded from the trees in front of them. It was followed quickly by another and another. Jennings' heart leapt into his throat. They were too late.

“Wait!” said Cronin. “You don't know what you're doing. If you kill us then the whole world's in danger.”

The chief suit held his gun steady at Stratton's head. “Really,” he said. “Do I look like I give a shit? I've got my orders and that's the way it is.” He turned to his partner. “Come on let's get this over with.”

Cronin closed his eyes. Stratton smiled at his executioner.

“What the fuck are you grinning at?”

Stratton shook his head. “Nothing.”

Unnerved by Stratton's knowing look, the chief suit wavered. It was a hesitation that he would sorely regret.

From nowhere a giant arm came flying through the air knocking the weapons out of the hands of the captors. The startled men staggered back and tried to keep their balance. Before they could reorient themselves a huge mass bore down and pinned them to the ground. They struggled violently but were unable to get the purchase to move.

Cronin looked on in astonishment as Kandinsky held the two men down. The Russian's legs were still tied to the chair but he had somehow managed to free his arms, and he now had a henchman under each of them. He waited until they stopped wriggling and then lifted himself slightly and grabbed their throats, squeezing with just enough pressure to render them unconscious. He ripped off the ropes that bound his legs and clambered to his feet.

“How long have you been awake?” asked Cronin.

“Long enough,” said Kandinsky. “It will take more than a little injection to keep me down.”

Cronin shook his head in disbelief. “But me and Stratton were out for over twenty-four hours.”

“That's true,” said Stratton. “But we're a lot lighter than Arman. They should've given him a larger dose. Anyway, let's not sit here arguing about it, let's get these ropes off and get out of here.”

Kandinsky knelt down and untied them both swiftly. Stratton was first up and hobbled around trying to get some sensation back into his limbs. The ropes had been so tight that he'd lost almost all feeling in his extremities. Cronin followed him, stumbling about as he regained control of his functions. After clearing their heads as best they could, they tied up their captors and propped them against the far wall.

“Right then,” said Stratton. “Let's go.”

Kandinsky reached for the door handle, but as he did his legs buckled at the knees. He held himself up and took a couple of long, deep breaths.

“Are you okay?” asked Cronin.

“Yes,” said Kandinsky, giving his head a shake. “I will be fine. Just a little faint.” He turned the handle and slumped forward again.

“Listen,” said Cronin. “If you're still dizzy, sit down for a moment. We can take a bit more time – those guys aren't going anywhere.”

“No,” said Kandinsky. “We cannot afford to wait. We do not know who is on the other side of the door.”

“Exactly,” said Cronin. “Which is why we don't want to go out there half-cocked.”

Stratton was just about to agree when Kandinsky opened the door, and after a brief look stepped into the night. They followed him out and found themselves surrounded by trees, the only illumination coming from the hut behind. They heard the sound of a car passing about fifty yards to the left. They nodded to each other and headed in the direction of the road.

The trees were dense, blocking off any streetlight and leaving them almost blind. Cronin led the way, with Stratton behind and Kandinsky bringing up the rear. They crept along quietly, stopping every few steps to listen out for dangers.

They had only gone fifteen yards when a barely audible click caused them to swing round and face the hut again. A lone figure stood in the gloom, its arm stretched towards them. They froze.

“Come out with your hands up!” commanded a man's voice.

No-one answered.

The man repeated his command. Again he was met with silence. Another man appeared by his side.

“You two must run,” whispered Kandinsky. “On the count of three. One, two, three…”

Before either Stratton or Cronin could stop him Kandinsky was thundering towards the gunmen, his arms outstretched to shield his friends. There was a flurry of shooting, but still he stormed on, oblivious to the bullets peppering his torso. He ran to within three yards and then launched himself into the air and down onto the two helpless shooters, crushing them with his unnatural frame. Stratton and Cronin broke cover and came to his aid.

Stratton raced up and knelt down beside the heap of bodies. The two men were still conscious but groaning under Kandinsky's weight. Their guns had been thrown in the collision and were safely out of reach.

Stratton touched Kandinsky's shoulder. “Arman,” he said. “Are you alright?”

There was no answer.

“Arman?!”

Kandinsky moaned and lifted his head. “I am not so good,” he croaked. His head dropped back down.

“Come on, Pat,” said Stratton. “Let's help him off and get a look at his injuries.”

Cronin picked up the guns and tucked them safely away. He then bent down to help Stratton move Kandinsky. They heaved with all the energy they could muster but it was no use, the Russian was just too heavy.

“Fuck it!” said Stratton.

It was then that a number of bodies burst through the trees. Cronin looked up and instinctively drew one of the guns.

“It's us, Pat!” shouted a familiar voice.

Cronin squinted into the gloom and saw Jennings running towards them flanked by Grady and Stella. He sighed with relief and put the weapon away again.

“What's happened?” asked a breathless Jennings.

“We think he's been shot,” said Cronin. “But we can't lift him.”

With extra leverage from the newcomers they slowly lifted Kandinsky off the two gunmen and lay him on his back in the grass. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. Stratton ripped apart his shirt to get a better look at his wounds. His body was covered with blood and bullet holes.