A Sacred Storm (41 page)

“Good evening, New York!” he started. “It is an honour for me to be here.”

The people cheered.

“Thank you!” he said. “Thank you very much. As I said, it is a great honour for me to be here in America, especially in the famed Yankee Stadium. I am a great lover of sport and the way it brings people together. Whether it is baseball, or soccer, or basketball, or football, it unifies people all over the world whatever their faith. At its best and most profound it takes us out of our everyday lives and teaches us meaning. Among many things it shows us the importance of teamwork, it shows us the importance of good grace, it shows us the importance of practice and hard work, and it shows us the importance of belief. These are all attributes that we require to live happy and fruitful lives.”

He paused briefly and looked around the stadium, and then glanced at the autocue.

“But I am not here today to talk at length about sport. On another day perhaps I might, but not today. Today is a very sad day for us all, not just the Muslim faith. I am talking about the shooting earlier today of the man they called the Mahdi. There have been many accusations thrown, including a suggestion that the Catholic Church was somehow involved. This, I can assure you, is a lie. The Catholic Church deplores any act of violence, and is as saddened at the news as the rest of the world. This is not only an act against Islam, it is an act against God himself. It does not matter if this man was indeed who he claimed to be or not, the killing of another human being cannot be justified in any way.”

He paused again, this time to sip some water. He was about to carry on when a movement at the corner of the stage caught his eye. A dark, bearded man, dressed in loose cream trousers and shirt appeared from the shadows. In his hand he held a gun. Christiano froze and then looked around for help – had nobody seen this intruder?

The man moved into view and towards the rostrum. Christiano began to panic. He knew the man was going to shoot and there was nothing he could do to stop him. Time slowed down. Christiano closed his eyes and drew the protection sign in his head. He heard a gunshot; then another. He felt nothing. Opening his eyes he saw the man being wrestled to the ground by two agents. He looked down at his body to see if he had been injured. There was no blood, but on the floor beneath him were two crumpled lumps of metal. He eyed them curiously.

The world suddenly returned to real time. The crowd was in uproar and government agents piled onto the stage. One of them came up and grabbed his arm.

“Are you okay, sir?”

Christiano stared at him blankly for a moment, then said, “Yes, I am fine thank you.”

The agent noticed the mangled bullets on the floor and gave his charge an inquisitive look. Only then did the magnitude of what had just happened hit home. An overwhelming pulse of empowerment rose through Christiano's entirety. “Do not worry about me,” he said. “I am the Messiah – nothing can harm me.” The words echoed in his head:
“Nothing can harm me.”

Christiano regained control of himself quickly and ordered all agents off the stage. He picked up the bullets and approached the rostrum and began to speak, urging the crowd to calm themselves. His voice was rich and commanding, and soon the whole stadium was surrounded by hush.

“Thank you,” he said. “I understand your concerns, but really there is no need. As you can see I am unharmed.” He held out his palm and showed it to the camera linked to the giant screens dotted around the stadium. “These are the bullets that were fired at me.” The crowd gasped. He drew himself up and spread his arms wide. “If any of you doubted before, then doubt no longer! I am the true Messiah!”

In the wings Ayres and Vittori smiled at each other. The plan had worked perfectly.

Jennings watched the live feed open-mouthed as Christiano opened his palms and displayed the crumpled metal. His disbelief continued as the “True Messiah” reinforced his divinity to the spellbound crowd. Beside him, Grady, Stella and Cronin were equally dumbfounded. Even Stratton appeared bemused.

“What the hell?!” said Jennings. “I just don't believe it. How the hell did he manage that? It must be some sort of trick.”

“It's got to be,” agreed Stella. “There's no way anyone can stop bullets.” She turned to Stratton. “What do you think?”

Stratton gave a non-committal shrug. “I'm not sure what to think at the moment. I'd like to take a look back at it before I make any sort of judgement. It could be a trick, but then again he might have really done it. If you remember, I managed to stop Yoshima hurting you by using the symbols.”

“I know,” said Stella. “But stopping a bullet's completely different to stopping someone kicking you.”

“Maybe. But the principal's still the same. The shield isn't made of anything tangible so there's no way we can know what sort of force it can take. For all we know it may be able to stop cannonballs or even missiles. Don't ever underestimate the power of the universe.”

Jennings grabbed the remote control for the big screen and rewound the picture to the point just before the shooter appeared from the side of the stage.

“Look,” said Stratton. “Just as he picks up his water he looks to the side. Watch his face – he's just as surprised as anyone else that someone's invaded the stage.”

Jennings paused the film. “I agree,” he said. “Unless he's a brilliant actor then he's genuinely startled. He's not really sure what to do.” He let the footage run again.

“There you go,” said Stratton. “He's closing his eyes and drawing the symbol in his head.”

“How exactly do you know that he's drawing a symbol in his head?” asked Grady. “It looks to me as if he's just scared and closing his eyes to pray to God.”

“He could be, but my instincts tell me otherwise. He's concentrating hard. Praying is just a spur of the moment thing, it doesn't require much concentration at all.”

They watched the footage through another couple of times, pausing and slowing it down at relevant points, but still couldn't tell for certain what exactly had gone on.

“If only we could slow it down enough to see the bullets,” said Cronin.

“We probably could,” said Jennings. “The machine's capable, it's just the camera was too far away. We wouldn't be able to zoom in close enough.”

“It doesn't look as if we'll need to,” said Grady pointing at the screen.

The live broadcast had stopped and the CBS news team were now discussing the event in detail. They were showing slowed down and magnified footage from a camera positioned directly on the stage. The picture followed the path of the first bullet as it left the gun and headed towards Christiano. They watched in silence as the projectile stopped and crumpled in mid-air about an inch from Christiano's head, and fell harmlessly to the floor. The second shot followed a different course but ended with the same result.

“Well there's our answer,” said Stratton. “The camera never lies, as they say.”

“Except when it's lying,” said Grady. “That doesn't prove a thing. You can do pretty much anything with special effects nowadays.”

“I don't know, Grady. It looks realistic enough to me,” said Jennings. “They'd have had to have worked bloody quickly to manufacture these images in the time since the shooting – even in this day and age. I think you're clutching at straws.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Grady. “But someone's got to keep a reality check on all this.”

“Fuck reality,” said Stella. “This is beyond any reality that we're used to. The parameters are changing every day. I agree with Jennings – there's no way they could have doctored the image so quickly. And the pictures are from CBS anyway – not the Catholic Church.”

“And who's to say that CBS aren't in cahoots with the Catholic Church?” said Grady.

“No-one,” said Stella. “But I think it's unlikely. I think we've just got to accept that this guy has mastered the symbols and can do pretty much anything. Convincing people that he isn't the Son of God is going to be nigh on impossible.”

“And so is getting rid of him,” said Grady. “I think this guy's here to stay.”

Night drew in and the rain continued to fall. Jenna stood underneath a tree in the hospital gardens smoking a cigarette. The car park was full and ambulances seemed to be arriving every few minutes. She looked on with detachment as people helped their injured loved ones through the doors, and paramedics wheeled in trolley after laden trolley. How far the rioting had spread she didn't know, but from the amount of traffic in and out of A&E she guessed the police had been unable to contain it. And how long before it reached the hospital itself? How long before the patients began fighting amongst each other? The atmosphere on Tariq's ward was already beyond tense. One misplaced word and the place could erupt.

With these thoughts travelling through her mind she stubbed out her cigarette and went back inside the building. The formerly long, bleak corridors were now hives of activity as overworked medical staff attempted to go about their business while fending off enquiries from distraught visitors. Bedside manner had long gone, replaced by stern looks and curt and efficient statements. Jenna tried to ignore the desperation in the air, but it was infectious, and by the time she got back to Tariq's bed her spirit was beginning to fail. When she saw he wasn't there it almost broke. Lying in his place was a young girl of about twelve with a bandaged head and a plastered arm. At her side were a couple of tearful parents.

“Excuse me,” said Jenna. “Where's the man who was in this bed?”

The father shook his head. “I'm sorry. I don't know.”

Jenna looked around the room and spotted a nurse conversing with a doctor. She walked over and interrupted the conversation. “Excuse me, but where is the man who was in that bed?”

“We've discharged him,” said the doctor. “We needed the bed for the little girl. Her injuries are far more severe.”

Jenna opened her mouth to say something, but the doctor was already giving the nurse instructions about another patient. Too tired to argue she left and made her way down the corridor, shuffling slowly with her head down. She had only gone a few yards when something bumped into the back of her legs. She turned round to find Tariq behind her in a wheelchair.

“Aren't you going to wait for me?” he said.

Jenna forgot her troubles briefly and smiled. “I didn't know where you were. The doctor just said that they'd discharged you. I couldn't believe it, I'd only been gone for half an hour.”

“Yeah, well they work quickly in here. They're discharging anyone who can move a couple of feet at the moment. They just haven't got enough beds. The doctor seemed happy enough to let me go though. He doesn't think I'm in any great danger. I just need a lot of rest.”

Jenna shook her head. “I don't believe this. I don't think you're in any state to be going anywhere.”

“Listen,” said Tariq. “I honestly don't feel that bad. He's given me a couple of liquid morphine capsules to take home as well. That girl they brought in needs the bed far more than I do, I'm sure. She's got really bad head injuries.”

“Where are your family?” asked Jenna.

“They're still here somewhere. My dad went to find out if the roads are clear yet so he can take us back home.”

“I thought you were going to stay with me.”

“I want to, but he's trying to organize everything and it's difficult to talk to him when he's got a head on. I think he'll be alright about it to be honest – he's probably got enough on his plate trying to look after the rest of the family. He'll be glad if you take me off his hands.”

“If you say so,” said Jenna, unconvinced. “Anyway, the way it is in the town, we'll be lucky to get you anywhere. God knows what's happened to my car, and I doubt whether there're any taxis running.”

“Come on,” said Tariq, wheeling past her. “Let's go and find my dad and see what's going on.”

Jenna followed him down the corridor wondering what exactly they were going to do. It was all very well the doctor discharging him – but where were they supposed to go? And how were they supposed to get there? The emergency services were obviously still able to manoeuvre about the streets, but did that viability extend to civilians as well? She soon had her answer when they caught up with Tariq's father near the entrance to A&E.

“What's happening then, Dad?”

Tariq's father gave them a disconsolate look. “It is not good I am afraid. I have just spoken to a policeman and he says that the centre of town has been closed off to all traffic except ambulances. There is only limited access anyway, as most of the roads are still blocked with abandoned cars.”

“What about the rest of the town?” asked Jenna. “Is there any way of getting around the outside?”

“It is possible I think, but it is not wise. There is still a lot of trouble, and any journey will be dangerous. The police cannot guarantee our safety. Their advice to everyone at the moment is to stay put.”

“So we're stuck here for the night then?” said Jenna.

“I do not think there is any other option. The military are coming in with emergency bedding and food supplies so it may not be too bad.”

“Not too bad?” said Jenna. “It couldn't get much worse. “

Tariq took her hand. “We'll be okay, Jen. It's only one night. By tomorrow they'll have calmed everything down I'm sure. Then we'll be able to go home.”

Jenna forced a smile but her senses told her this was only the beginning of the nightmare.

Jonathan Ayres laid the phone back into its cradle and sighed. The news from back home was not good and had brought him roughly down to earth after the elation of the afternoon's success. He knew, of course, that trouble had been brewing for a while, but he assumed that it would be a minor storm, and over almost as soon as it had begun. And even though Casper Fox had warned him, he never thought that the situation would really escalate to the point where the military had to be deployed. Yet, that was exactly the juncture they had reached.