by Peter James
He stared down at the street. All was surprisingly quiet for a Saturday afternoon, probably because Brighton and Hove Albion were not at the Amex stadium, but were playing away.
Why would Wenceslas or his organization have wanted him dead?
Was the pastor worried about the consequences of what his findings could do to his empire?
He opened up his file on the story, and for the next two hours he sat typing. He continued with the log of events that he had begun on the train to Birmingham – that felt like an eon ago. Then he sent what he had written, along with an accompanying email, to his editor.
Hi Natalie, this is not for publication, only for safety. I’ve had a credible warning of a death threat against me. Hopefully I’ll be filing more copy soon. Just hold this for now, and if anything happens to me you’ll have some good material here!
He sent the email and attachment.
Then he went downstairs, pulled on his boots, put on Monty’s lead, picked up his torch and went outside into the falling dusk.
He took the dog across the road bridge, then let him roam loose in the fields on the far side, walking along behind him in the blustery wind.
We believe your safety may be threatened.
He thought back to his meeting with Benedict Carmichael, the Bishop of Monmouth. His warning.
Do you know what I really, truthfully think, if someone credible claimed to have absolute proof of God’s existence, Ross? I think that person would be killed.
Now Wenceslas was dead. Murdered. Who had killed him and why?
As he walked, breathing in the country smells and looking towards the lights of a distant farmhouse, he felt very alone. He thought back to his lunch with Imogen. With the angry stranger who was his wife. The angry stranger carrying his child.
Take Silvestri’s money? End all their financial problems and try for a new start? They could put their house on the market and move out into the country, which had been their dream for a long time. But he came back to the same place. Could he spend the rest of his life wondering what might have been because he had sold his soul for thirty pieces of silver?
116
Saturday, 18 March
An hour later, guided by his torch, Ross headed back across the fields. As he reached the fence before the main road, he called Monty and clipped his lead back on. They crossed high above the dual carriageway and threaded their way through the network of Patcham streets back home. As he reached the front door of the house, bright headlights shone behind him.
He spun round.
A limousine pulled up. It was the same Mercedes with the diplomatic plates from three nights ago, he recognized. The rear door opened and Giuseppe Silvestri alighted.
‘Ah, Mr Hunter!’
‘Good evening, Mr Silvestri.’
‘Would this be a convenient moment to have a chat?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Perhaps I could have just a few minutes?’
‘I’m sorry, this is not a good time.’
‘Mr Hunter, I know what you are doing.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Do you not realize the damage you will cause? Please listen to me.’
‘I’m listening. Damage to what?’
Silvestri looked around him, uncomfortably. ‘I don’t think this is such a good place to talk. I would like to continue our discussion from before.’
‘What damage are you talking about? Damage to what, exactly?’ he repeated.
‘To all of our religions, all belief systems in our world.’
‘Really? To Sikhs? I don’t think they would be damaged by proof of God’s existence. Their God is in everything. They know he exists.’
‘The Roman Catholic Church is not an organization you should upset, Mr Hunter.’
‘Are you worried about losing your monopoly, Mr Silvestri? You sound more like a Mafia negotiator, come to make me an offer I cannot refuse, than a man of God. I thought the days of the Inquisition were long past.’
‘Mr Hunter, the world is in dark times. We hear things, we know things, we have ears everywhere. We are the direct channel to God.’
‘What is it you want from me? The chalice and the remains of the tooth, that may or may not contain the DNA of Jesus Christ? Why are you so keen to have these?’
‘Jesus Christ is fundamental to the Christian religion. To our existence.’
‘What if He is back here now?’
‘On earth?’ Silvestri looked at him dubiously. ‘Jesus Christ back on earth? I think, Mr Hunter, that we would be the first to know.’
‘In which case, you have nothing to worry about.’ Ross gave him a polite smile, opened the front door, let Monty in and followed him, then closed the door behind him and slid the safety chain home.
He unclipped the dog’s lead, then ran up to his den, entered without turning the lights on, peered out of the window and down at the street. He watched Silvestri stand for some seconds, hesitate, then walk slowly back to his limousine and climb in.
The car drove away.
He switched his desk light on, sat down and logged on.
There was an email from his LAPD contact, Detective Investigator Jeff Carter.
Ross, call me when you get into town. I think I’ve found your guy.
117
Sunday, 19 March
Not knowing how long he might have to be in Los Angeles, Ross had finally decided to take a decent-size suitcase and check it in. With an hour and a bit to go before the flight, he went to the WHSmith shop and bought several Sunday papers, then carried them over to a cafe, where he grabbed a coffee and a Danish.
He found a table, sat and scanned the front page of the Observer, then flipped through it.
And stopped.
A whole page on Pastor Wesley Wenceslas. Pictures of grief-stricken men and women attending a service at his London church. And the story beneath, which included several quotes from Detective Inspector Simon Cludes.
At this moment, we have no leads on who might have committed this terrible crime against such a popular man of the cloth and his loyal right hand. I would appeal to anyone who has information to come forward, or if they would like to remain anonymous, to call the Crimestoppers number below.
Ross could not help his natural scepticism. Such a popular man of the cloth. Really?
How about instead, Detective Inspector Cludes, Such a ghastly old money-grabbing fraud who charges you £25 to pray over a bit of cloth?
A few moments later he was interrupted by a familiar voice behind him.
‘No oysters today?’
He spun round on the stool.
It was Sally Hughes.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Probably the same as you – catching a plane.’
‘Let me get you a drink. Have you got time? Tea, coffee?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’ She jumped onto the empty stool beside him, wearing a suede jacket, jeans and boots, with a large, smart handbag slung over her shoulder.
‘This is a bit of a coincidence! So where are you off to?’ he asked.
‘LA. You?’
‘You’re going to Los Angeles?’ he said, astonished.
‘My radio station wants me to get soundings on how people are feeling about the current political climate.’
‘LA’s pretty hard-core Democrat terrain. I don’t think you’re going to find too many happy Trumpers there.’
‘So where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Believe it or not, LA too!’
‘No way! What flight are you on?’
‘BA 201,’ he replied
‘Seriously?’
‘Yep!’
‘Me too. You’re probably in First or Business – or at least Premium Economy,’ she said.
‘You have to be joking. I’m Coach, Economy or whatever they call it. Back of the bus. You?’
‘I’m in the ghetto, too.’
He grinned. ‘So where are you sitting?
’
She pulled out her boarding card. ‘43B.’
He pulled out his and peered at it, then showed it to her.
‘I’m right in front of you!’ she said.
He was in seat 44B.
This was too weird, he thought. It was beyond a coincidence – she had to be up to something.
118
Sunday, 19 March
‘What is this?’ Bloor said, disdainfully, as the stewardess on the Gulfstream handed him a tray of sandwiches.
‘Your lunch, sir,’ she replied politely. ‘Smoked salmon, chicken salad, egg mayonnaise and hummus and tomato.’
‘I’d expect this in Economy on a commercial airline, but on a private jet? Jesus!’
Julius Helmsley, seated opposite him, began to remove the cling film from his tray. ‘It’s different on a small jet, boss.’
‘Yes?’ Bloor retorted, angrily. ‘We pay all this money for a private jet to get bloody sandwiches?’
‘I didn’t have time to organize a five-course banquet.’
‘We’d have had better food First Class on British Airways, at a quarter of the price of this!’
‘You wanted to arrive in LA ahead of Hunter, Ainsley. That’s what we’re doing. Relax. Chill! Next time maybe we should charter a bigger plane.’
‘Is Hunter yanking our chain again?’
‘Wait until we yank his back,’ Helmsley said. ‘Hard enough so his damned head comes off. But not yet. We have our ducks in a row. We know where he’s staying and we know where he plans to go.’
‘Approximately,’ Bloor reminded him.
‘Well, we have our informant and she is being well rewarded.’ Helmsley smiled.
‘Very nice work that, Julius.’
‘We’re in a pretty good place to keep track of him and, with luck, when we need it at some point in the next day or so, one crucial step ahead.’
‘And then?’
Helmsley smiled again. ‘We know that he believes Jesus Christ is back and in LA, and that someone he knows in the LAPD is helping to track him down. If Christ himself, or a credible imposter, is truly in LA, Hunter is going to lead us straight to him.’
Bloor nodded. ‘And our plan is then?’
‘Goodbye, Hunter.’
‘And then negotiate with Jesus Christ to become the public face of Kerr Kluge?’
‘We see how real he is.’ Helmsley bit into a sandwich and some egg fell out and dropped on his napkin. ‘How significant the DNA is.’
‘I actually can’t believe what we’re doing, Julius. Is this the world’s biggest ever wild goose chase? Flying halfway round the globe to find someone who might or might not have some of Jesus Christ’s DNA?’
‘That’s not what we’re doing, Ainsley. We all have some of the DNA from our distant ancestors. What we’re talking about here is a unique genetic signature in the mitochondrial and Y-chromosome DNA of Delaney that’s identical to the DNA of Jesus. Big difference.’
‘Yes, and isn’t there a one in ten billion, or something like that, chance of that happening?’
‘The probability’s even less than that. But yes, I agree, this could be just the wildest imaginable coincidence. However, realistically, the chances of the matrilineal and patrilineal lines converging in the same individual more than two thousand years after Christ are vastly small.’
‘The thing I keep coming back to,’ Bloor said, ‘is that if this truly is the Son of God, and He’s pushing seventy years old, how come He’s spent his life being invisible? That ridiculous book of fairy tales that Christians read says that the Second Coming will be heralded by all kinds of signs. Portents. Wars. Catastrophe. Impending doom. Whatever.’
Helmsley looked at him with a serious expression. ‘Don’t you think that’s pretty much where the world is?’
‘It’s where it’s always been.’
‘I disagree. The whole world order is crumbling. It’s back to how things were in the 1930s. Discontent, anger, people feeling disenfranchised, despots gaining power over the world’s nations, religious foment. General turmoil. Perhaps He’s been biding His time – and now is the time.’
‘Julius, I seem to remember in one of the fairy tales that the Second Coming is regarded as the literal return of Jesus Christ to earth as king in power and glory to rule for a thousand years. If He’s nudging seventy He’d better get on with it.’
‘He’s done better than last time round. He only made it to thirty-three then.’
‘Yup, well I think in the next day or two we’re going to find out just how real or otherwise he is,’ Bloor replied.
‘Yes.’
‘And if He is real, Julius?’
‘You’ll have a bit of a problem as an atheist, won’t you?’
119
Sunday, 19 March
Big Tony was feeling very chilled as he finished his third glass of vintage Roederer. Earlier, whilst boarding, he had noticed Ross Hunter standing in the long Economy line.
Have a good flight, buddy. Enjoy your last hours on earth!
He dug a chilled prawn out of the salad and forked it into his mouth. It was a bit too cold for his liking, but the rich bubbly washed it down nicely.
He was so tempted to take a walk down the plane and see how his target was getting on. But caution got the better of him. No point in taking unnecessary risks. Ross Hunter wasn’t going anywhere. He had all the time in the world.
He clicked his fingers at a stewardess. Another glass of Roederer appeared.
Magic!
‘Magic!’ Ross said to Sally, who had managed to swap seats with another passenger, raising the plastic glass of champagne she had treated him to. ‘So how exactly did this happen?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s very nice,’ she said with a grin. She rolled her head over towards him. ‘Maybe fate put us together? I’m pretty happy about that.’ She laid an elegantly manicured hand on the armrest between them.
He took it and squeezed it, playing along. ‘Me too, if only I wasn’t married. Hey, I think we could make quite a team.’
She grinned. ‘I understand and I respect your morals. Let me know if you ever change your mind.’
‘Deal!’ He grinned back. ‘Never say never . . .’
Their food trays arrived.
Soon after he had finished his meal, Ross fell asleep. When he awoke two hours later, Sally was sitting, headphones on, watching a movie he did not recognize.
He pulled his laptop out of the pocket in front of him, his legs feeling stiff, and flipped open the lid as far as he could with the seat in front of him partially reclined. Awkwardly, he read through the story he had written so far, then began to type, starting with the email from the LA detective who reckoned he had found Michael Delaney.
He omitted any mention of meeting Sally Hughes on the plane.
Then he pulled up the map of the section of West Hollywood he had downloaded from Google Earth and studied the vast network of streets. Thinking.
Los Angeles?
If Jesus Christ had really returned, why had he chosen LA over the Mount of Olives in the Holy Land, as prophesied in the Bible?
Holy Land. Holy Wood? Hollywood? Was there some significance?
Then he noticed Sally peering at his screen.
She removed her headphones. ‘What are you looking for? You’re being very mysterious about your reasons for flying to LA. Can I try to guess?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘The third set of compass coordinates from your friend, Dr Cook?’
‘Could be.’ He smiled, evasively.
‘The location of the Second Coming?’
‘Do you seriously think He would come back to earth in Los Angeles, of all places?’
‘Actually, yes,’ she replied.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘If I were Jesus and I wanted to make the maximum impact on the world, then America is a good choice. My options would have narrowed a lot in the past two millennia. I think I would choose the nation that m
aintains one of the strongest Christian traditions and has the most influence on the world. If I were God and I wanted my Son to have the maximum possible exposure, I think I would send Him down to one of the media capitals of the world. LA is all of that.’
‘And if I were Satan and wanted to send the Great Imposter to somewhere on earth where he could get the maximum global exposure, I might choose the same place,’ he replied.
‘Is that what you think, Ross? The reason you’re going to LA? To expose an imposter? Satan posing as the Second Coming?’
‘I’m a newspaper reporter, Sally, not an oracle. I just follow leads, stories. I don’t know what I’m going to find. If anything.’
‘So, if you do find who you are looking for, how will you know what’s the truth?’
‘There’s an ancient saying among the people of Mesopotamia, that four fingers stand between the truth and a lie. If you measure that, you’ll find it’s the distance between your eyes and your ears.’
She looked at him. ‘Between what you hear and what you see?’
‘Exactly. It’s a principle I’ve adhered to throughout my career. The rumours you hear and the truth you actually see.’
‘Will you tell me if you find the truth?’
He stared back at her. As he did so, the man in front lowered his seat further, pushing the lid of his laptop down so far, he could no longer read the screen. ‘I’ll tell you and the whole world.’
She raised a cautioning hand. ‘Promise me something?’
‘What?’
‘Just in case it’s a truth that isn’t palatable. I don’t want to see you have a fatwa against you – what happened to that writer, Salman Rushdie. Please run it by me first, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I am too.’
‘Promise?’
He raised his right arm. ‘Scout’s honour!’
120
Sunday, 19 March