A Sacred Storm (39 page)

“Yeah, sorry about that. I should have warned you.” He grabbed his bottle of water and took a long drink. “I think something's happened,” he said.

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Something bad.”

Just then Stella burst into the room. “It's the Mahdi!” she gasped. “He's been shot!”

Ali walked casually into the Ciragan Palace Kempinski Hotel and headed for the stairs. He looked around nonchalantly as he walked, but inside he was racked with anxiety. His palms perspired and his throat was dry. Every person that caught his eye was a potential enemy. Every step he took a potential giveaway. He felt alone and exposed. He smiled politely at the girl on the reception desk and continued on his way.

He negotiated the stairs quickly and strode off down the long corridor to the complimentary suite that he and the Mahdi were to have shared. The air was cloying and humid and the walls closed in on him as he walked. By the time he reached the door his breathing was laboured and his clothes moistened with sweat. He took one last look down the hallway and entered the suite.

Closing the door behind him he took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to relax. The Mahdi's death had shaken him to the centre of his soul. An hour ago his world had been full of optimism and life, and now it was empty and devoid of all hope. He hung his head and slumped back against the door.

He remained impassive until a wave of electricity suddenly jolted through his spine, freeing his body of its temporary paralysis and causing him to stand to attention like a scolded soldier. In less than a second he was alert and wired to the world once more. The Mahdi's voice whirled around his head, urging him to hasten.

Without any further thought he rushed to the corner of the room and removed the portrait of the sultan from the wall, revealing the safe behind. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the eight-digit code that the Mahdi had taught him only a few hours before. The first four digits were 4154, of that he was pretty certain; the last four, however, were proving elusive. He had never had a good memory for numbers, and indeed had never had the need to recall so many at one time. The harder he tried, the more jumbled the figures became. Eventually his head hurt so much he thought it may explode with the pressure.

Just as he was about to lose it completely the Mahdi's voice came to him once again, telling him to relax and clear his mind. As soon as he did the whole sequence of numbers popped into his head: 41542389. He typed them into the keypad and pressed the ‘Enter' button. The safe clicked open and he reached in and pulled out the box in its hessian sack.

With his heart drumming he left the suite and entered the corridor once more. He had no idea where he was going, but instinctively knew he had to get out of the hotel as quickly as he could. He was about to make for the ground floor when a group of the Mahdi's security guards appeared at the top of the stairs. For a brief moment he froze with panic, and then with no other choice he walked the opposite way. He looked back and knew that he had been seen.

His footsteps got faster until he was almost at a run. He had no idea if there was another way down to the ground floor, but he had to keep moving forward. Behind, he heard the guards shouting at him to stop. He reached the end of the hallway and, after a quick look both ways, turned right.

After another twenty yards he came to a fire exit. He swung it open and leapt down the flight of steps to the floor below. Without looking back he burst through the bottom door and sped off down another long corridor. Ahead he saw another fire exit. He hoped it would lead him out of the building.

With the guards closing down on him he thrust through the exit into the open air. With no time to get his bearings, he jinked to the right and hared towards what he thought would be the city streets. He knew once he was there he would have a good chance of losing his pursuers in the complex maze of alleys and bazaars.

Having been crippled since birth Ali had never run before in his life, but somehow he managed to keep going. With abrasive lungs and weakening legs he sprinted through the hotel gardens and out onto the main road. Weaving through the heavy traffic he crossed over and into a narrow street. The guards fell back, their ungainly frames unable to match Ali's agility.

Gleaning hope from the distance he had put between himself and those chasing, he found a second wind. He ran and ducked and dodged down a succession of slender passageways until he felt sure that he'd lost them. Then, cradling the box in his arms, he flopped down in a doorway and tried to catch his breath. Never in his life had he felt so exhausted. For two or three minutes he didn't move. Then, as his composure slowly returned, he lifted his head and peered out from the recess. He looked up and down the street but could see no-one. Clambering to his feet, and without any fixed idea, he moved on calmly and headed deeper into the city.

He felt in his pocket to check he still had the money the Mahdi had given him. It was a sizeable amount and would certainly enable him to get far from Istanbul. But where was he going to go? He certainly couldn't take the box back to Mecca. He had to take it someplace out of the way. Someplace where nobody would find it – hopefully for hundreds, maybe thousands of years. The problem was that the only place he knew was Mecca. He'd been there all his life in the same house on the same street. He knew nothing really of the world outside the city walls. He decided that he would go to the station and just get aboard the first train out of Istanbul and take it from there. The longer he tarried, the more chance there was of getting caught.

He wandered through the empty backstreets looking out for someone to ask for directions to the nearest train station. After a couple of minutes he came upon a woman with a young child in tow and she gave him the information he needed. He went over the route in his head a number of times and then moved along.

The streets grew gradually busier allowing Ali to feel slightly more comfortable and anonymous. He slowed his pace and tried to blend in with the locals, attempting to give the appearance of one who had lived there forever. Like this he covered the distance to the station safely and without sign of the guards.

He was about to climb the station steps when he took one last look around. His heart lurched in horror as he saw two guards running directly towards him from the right. He flew up the steps and into the main building, his eyes darting frantically looking for a means of escape. Behind him the guards entered the station.

With nowhere to hide Ali began to run blindly towards the platforms, shoving bodies out of his way as he went. The guards were hot on his heels and gaining with every stride. There was no way he could reach a train without getting caught. The only hope he had was to try and lose them some other way. He ran to an empty platform and jumped down onto the tracks hoping that the guards would think twice about following. The move didn't deter them. They leapt down straight after him and continued to close. Ali scrambled back up onto the platform and ran back into the station.

By now the chase had drawn the attention of the police. Three uniformed men appeared at the main entrance and started to move towards Ali. He swerved in and out of the crowd and made a run for the side exit. But before he could reach it two more policemen came into view and blocked his way. He was fast becoming cornered. In a last desperate attempt to escape he launched himself sideways and into the middle of a large group of students who were checking the timetables. He ducked down and ploughed through them stealthily, keeping as low as he could.

At the edge of the crowd he poked his head out warily. After looking left and right he saw no sign of either the guards or the police. The main entrance was now directly in front of him. Without stopping to think he ran for the doors. Behind him the police hollered as they caught sight of him once more. With one last spurt he crashed through the doors and out into the open air. His elation was short-lived. Coming towards him from the street were two more guards. He looked around for possible escape routes, but there were none. This time he was trapped.

With nowhere to left to go the Mahdi's words came flooding back to him. Whatever happened he could not let them get hold of the box. As the net closed he had one last, desperate idea. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether what he was about to do was right. And then, knowing that he no longer had a choice, he shot to his left towards a kebab-seller. The man shouted as he approached but Ali wasn't listening. He pushed the man out of the way and flung the grille off the top of the flaming brazier, scattering bits of meat everywhere. Then, pausing only for a split second, he dumped the hessian sack and the box deep into the heart of the fire.

Within seconds the police and the guards were upon him. They grabbed him roughly and restrained his arms, but Ali didn't put up a fight. He just stood and watched mournfully as the flames licked higher and higher. His task was complete. The knowledge was gone forever.

Inside the Plaza Hotel, New York, Cardinal Vittori switched off the television and reclined thoughtfully in his armchair. The scenes in Istanbul had been terrifying, and the enormity of what they had just done was beginning to strike home. He closed his eyes and said a small prayer for the people in the stadium.

The plan had been Ayres' for the most part, and although Vittori had agreed to it, it had been with a certain amount of reluctance. Of course he wanted what was best for the Church, but the resulting storm had worried him from the outset, and the reaction from the crowd in Istanbul had only increased his fears. They were, without doubt, headed for trouble on an unimaginable scale.

Christiano came out of his room and sat down opposite his mentor. He had seen the news report and his face was fraught with concern. “It is terrible, Your Eminence.”

“Yes, Christiano, it
is
terrible.”

“But who would do such a thing? Who would want to kill him?”

Vittori shook his head. “I am not sure. There are many crazed people in this world, and many dangerous ones too. There are also many dangerous governments. It is possible that his assassination was ordered by one of these. It is well-known that his coming has upset the Israelis. Their situation in the Middle East is becoming increasingly precarious. It would not surprise me in the least if they had a hand in this.”

“But what if it wasn't the Israelis? What if it was someone else? Like you say, there are a lot of crazed and dangerous people in this world. It worries me.”

“You do not need to worry, Christiano. You are very well-protected.”

“So was the Mahdi,” said Christiano. “And look what happened. What if the same people want to get rid of me as well? Or maybe someone else will try? I no longer feel comfortable about my appearance this evening.”

Vittori leant forward and laid his hand on Christiano's knee. “Come, come, Christiano. There is no need for fear. Nobody will be able to do anything to you. We will have the best security possible. The Americans are meticulous in all aspects of counter-terrorism. There will be no place safer than Yankee Stadium this evening.”

“I am still not happy with the situation. They cannot watch everybody all of the time.”

“You would be surprised what they can do,” said Vittori. “But I nevertheless appreciate your concerns. Of course, if you wish to pull out of this evening's appearance then I will understand. And I am sure that the people will understand too. But you have to ask yourself – would the Son of God be afraid of showing himself in public, even in these circumstances?”

Christiano was about to answer when the door to the suite clicked open and Jonathan Ayres walked in. “Have you heard the news?” he asked, grabbing a chair.

Vittori nodded solemnly.

“Awful business,” said Ayres. “Absolutely awful.” He shook his head. “But there you go. That's the kind of world we live in at the moment. That's what we're here to change. Isn't it, Christiano?”

“Of course.”

“You're not frightened, are you?” asked Ayres.

“A little,” admitted Christiano. “But I know that I must not let it affect me. I cannot show my fear to the people or else they will lose faith in me.”

“Exactly,” said Ayres. “You must show the world how strong you are and that you fear nothing. Your strength will be their strength. And really there is no reason for you to be afraid anyway.”

“I know,” said Christiano. “Cardinal Vittori has assured me that my security is the best. The Americans will protect me well.”

“Yes, they will,” said Ayres. “But that is not the only reason for you to feel safe is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your divine powers of course. Surely the Son of God cannot be harmed if he doesn't want to be?”

“I have the power to heal. Not the power to stop bullets.”

“Well, that's not entirely true, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you do have that power, but perhaps you don't realize it. I believe that amongst the symbols there is one that you can use for protection. It is signified on the key as a picture of a man with – how should I put it – a force-field around him: he's repelling an attack from a warrior. Do you know the picture I mean?”

“Yes, of course,” said Christiano. “But I have not tried to use it. I wasn't really sure exactly what it did. I guessed that it was some kind of protection against a physical attack, but I have had no cause to try it out.”

“Well then,” said Ayres. “Let's do it now. I'll try and punch you, and you use the symbol.”

Vittori frowned. “Are you sure about this, Jonathan?”

“Yes, yes, Fabio. Don't worry about it. I'll just start off with a gentle tap to the shoulder or something like that, and then build it up from there. I'm not going to give him a right hook straight away. It's the only way we're going to be able to test it out. Is it alright with you, Christiano?”