by Peter James
Brother Pete Stellos stepped off the plane at Heathrow Airport in the late afternoon. In his hand, he carried the same small leather bag that he’d had with him when he first arrived at Mount Athos. It was lighter than back then, because it now contained little other than his Bible, toothbrush and toothpaste. Pretty much all the clothes he had in the world, he was wearing. His black habit, kalymafki and black shoes. That was all.
Now heading into passport control, he was bewildered. The crowds around him. The signs, the cordoned channels. It was strange being back in a world full of colour and noise. To see women again. Until he had arrived at the airport at Thessaloniki earlier today, he had not seen a woman for ten years. Or a child. Or people running. Or a dog.
He stood still. Rooted to the spot. Not daring to take another step. He felt the bustle and swarm of the crowds around him like a vast, suffocating weight. In a moment of near panic, he struggled to breathe.
His first instinct was to turn and run back to the aircraft from which he had just disembarked, and beg them to fly him back home.
But he had made a promise to his cousin, Brother Angus.
There was no greater sin, he believed, than to break a promise.
A promise under God’s eyes.
‘Can I help you?’ a woman in a uniform asked.
He held out his arms. ‘I – guess – I – I’m a little confused.’
‘Do you live in the EU, sir?’
‘Yes, yes I do, but I have an American passport – a new one – issued through the Pilgrim’s Bureau in Thessaloniki.’
She pointed. ‘Go down that way and join the queue there.’
He thanked her and shuffled along the line. Twenty minutes later he stepped forward to the Border Control officer’s booth, and handed him his passport.
The man studied it carefully. Then he said, ‘Peter Stellos?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Tell me about your outfit.’
‘I’m a monk, sir. In the Greek Orthodox monastic commune of Mount Athos in Greece.’
‘And what brings you to England?’
‘I’ve come at the request of my cousin who is also a monk, who is dying.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
The officer handed him back his passport and waved him on.
He walked through the ‘nothing to declare’ channel and entered the duty-free section, where he was stopped by a man who was selling Heathrow Express tickets into central London. He bought one.
As he emerged into the arrivals lounge he stood for some moments, bewildered. Passengers hurrying past him, all urgently going somewhere, many talking on their little phones, some looking worried, some happy. He stared at a sea of placards held up by men in business suits. Arms were being thrown round loved ones. Business travellers headed towards their drivers. There was a sense both of anticipation, reunion and urgency.
He had no such urgency.
Time stood still for him.
Ten years that had flashed past in silence.
Ten years in which the world had changed so much. And he was exactly the same. Ten years of serving God. Of praying for the world.
He looked around, feeling a sudden, irrational, flash of his old anger returning. Did any of these people know he prayed for them? Every day. Fourteen hours a day. Did they appreciate it?
He looked up at the noticeboards, trying to spot a sign for the trains. As he did so a large man towing a suitcase barged into him, almost knocking him over, and strode on without apologizing.
For an instant, he wanted to shout at him, but then he remembered something the Abbot had told him a while ago, after he had punched the journalist. A Buddhist saying: ‘Everyone you meet is fighting a battle of their own you know nothing about. Be kind to everyone.’
Pete calmed himself down. Then felt a sudden chill ripple through him. As if something very bad had happened.
His cousin?
When they had spoken on the phone just a few days ago, Angus had sounded a very different person from the man he remembered. His voice was weak, without energy or joy.
He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed. Prayed that his cousin Angus would still be alive.
Tonight, he was staying at a hotel that the Mount Athos Pilgrim’s Bureau in Thessaloniki had kindly found for him, close to Victoria railway station where, in the morning, he could catch a train to Sussex. He had told his Abbot he hoped to fly back tomorrow afternoon.
Although Pete had other plans.
121
Sunday, 19 March
Ross felt slugged by tiredness as he disembarked and began the long walk through to the immigration zone.
Ordinarily, a text from Imogen would have pinged in when he switched his phone on after a flight, but there was nothing from her now. And ordinarily, he would have sent her one saying he had landed safely, followed by kisses. But he didn’t feel in the mood to. Whether it was because he was still angry at her after their lunch yesterday or enjoying himself too much with Sally, he wasn’t sure.
As they stood together at the baggage carousel, waiting for it to start moving, he mentally calculated the time difference. An eleven-hour flight, 4 p.m. Los Angeles time. Late evening in the UK. Too late to text her anyway, he justified to himself.
A short man in a tweed jacket, polo shirt and chinos was standing unobtrusively right behind them, holding his phone. He had his Bluetooth setting on and it was doing a scan for other devices. Among the list of over twenty that popped up on the screen was one that read: Ross’s iPhone.
Big Tony smiled and pressed a couple of keys.
‘Do you have dinner plans for this evening?’ Sally asked.
He shook his head and stifled a yawn. ‘I guess it’s heading towards midnight, body-clock time. I hadn’t thought about food. But a cocktail would be good, maybe.’
‘There was a time in my previous job, at CNN, when I commuted back and forth across the pond. I found the way to beat jet lag is to stay up as late as you can, then get up early and go out into daylight and take a long walk. If you go to bed now, you’ll wake up at 3 a.m. and feel like shit later on. Go and check into your hotel then meet me in the lobby bar there – you’re staying at the Beverly Hilton, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘A couple of cocktails and you’ll sleep like a lamb, I promise.’
‘You do?’
‘Trust me, I’m a radio presenter.’
‘And international authority on jet lag?’
‘That too.’
Ross had a rental car booked at the airport, and he offered Sally a lift. As he drove, following the satnav and trying to get used to the car and different roads, he stared out at a landscape so different from the UK. He’d been here once before, five years ago, and liked it a lot. Images from so many movies and TV series he had seen set here replayed in his mind.
He dropped her at a very posh hotel called Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica. Before setting off again, he dialled the number of his detective contact.
It was answered after two rings by a curt but friendly voice. ‘Jeff Carter.’
‘Hi, it’s Ross Hunter.’
‘You in town, buddy?’
‘Just landed.’
‘Welcome to LA! Do you have plans this evening?’
‘No – not anything I can’t move around.’
‘Good stuff. Where are you staying?’
‘The Beverly Hilton.’
‘Meet you there for a beer at 7 p.m.?’
‘That would be great, thank you.’
‘You got it, pal.’
Ross ended the call then sent Sally a text.
So sorry, tonight not good, my cop contact wants to meet with some news – tomorrow – dinner?
Moments later she replied.
Sounds good. Call me after, would love to hear what he says. Perhaps a late drink after if you’re still up for it? Take care. XX
After he had checked in to his hotel room, he decided he ought to send Imogen a text.
Arrived safe. X
He was surprised when she called him almost immediately.
‘Hi,’ she said, sounding friendlier than at their lunch.
‘You’re up late.’
‘I’m worrying about you, Ross. So, what’s happening – did you hear from your cop?’
‘I’m meeting him here later.’
‘Great, call me after?’
‘That could be three or four in the morning, your time.’
‘Good point. Email me, will you? I want to hear all about it.’
‘Sure.’
He unpacked, undressed, then stood in the shower for several minutes to refresh himself. Six floors above him, in a larger, grander room, Big Tony was taking a shower, too. With the unpredictable traffic in this city, he thought it would be convenient to keep close to his target, even though Ross’s phone was now his eyes and ears on the man. Big Tony could listen to every conversation and see on his map exactly where Ross Hunter was. Accurate to within ten feet. He just had to hope the man didn’t lose it or drop it down the toilet. That had happened to him once before.
At a few minutes before 7 p.m., dressed in fresh clothes, Ross went downstairs and into the bar. He sat in a studded leather corner seat, glanced through the cocktail menu for some minutes and then ordered a beer.
A few minutes later a lean man in his early fifties, with a crew cut, a bomber jacket over a black T-shirt, jeans and trainers that looked fresh out of their box, sauntered in and stared around. His eyes fixed on Ross and he made a beeline for him.
‘Ross?’
Ross stood up. ‘Jeff?’
Although he had spoken to the LAPD detective a couple of times, when he’d been working on his piece on celebrity stalkers, they had never actually met.
He ordered Carter a beer then they sat down opposite each other. Until the detective’s drink arrived they made small talk, about his flight over, about the weather in England. Ross tried to probe him on his views on gun control, but the detective was evasive on that topic. Then, finally, when Carter had a glass in his hand, he said, ‘Michael Delaney? Right?’
‘Yup.’
‘Tell me your interest in him, buddy?’
‘Oh, it’s a piece I’m writing for one of my newspapers, the Sunday Times.’ He hesitated. ‘About rogue evangelical preachers who use magic – conjuring tricks – in their work.’
‘Well, I’ve checked out the name, Delaney, and there are no evangelical preachers by that name. The match we have – and it’s a pretty significant one – is for a former close magician and sometime lay preacher with that name. Mike Delaney – born 1947. Used to have his own prime-time television show under his stage name, Mickey Magic, until he got pushed out, about twenty years back.’
‘Do you know why?’ Ross asked.
‘Off the record, drink problem. That’s what I hear. He was on the sauce. Could only face his audiences if he was tanked up. But don’t quote me on that, OK?’
Ross moved his fingers in a zipping motion, across his mouth.
‘March 2014, he was arrested in West Hollywood and charged with Driving Under Influence after an automobile wreck – he ran a red light and T-boned a garbage truck.’
‘Not the best thing to hit.’
Carter gave a sardonic smile. ‘I guess if you’re gonna be T-boned, a garbage truck’s about the most solid vehicle to be in. The driver was lucky. No one was hurt apart from Delaney and his driver’s license.’
‘You said in your message that you had found him – you know where he is?’
‘So, what I can tell you from Social Security records,’ the detective said, ‘is that Delaney is working for a charity close to the Farmers Market over on Fairfax and West Third.’
‘A charity?’
‘It’s a drugs rehab centre run by nuns. La Brea Detox Sisters.’
Ross wrote it down. ‘Interesting, thank you. That’s great. Fantastic.’
The detective gave Ross a studious look. ‘Not sure you’re gonna get much mileage out of him for your paper.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it.’ Ross smiled, but Carter wasn’t smiling back. ‘This is really helpful, Jeff.’
‘It is? If you want rogue evangelical preachers, we got a whole ton of them on our radar.’
‘I may come back to you on that.’
Carter stared at him. ‘You got some other reason you want to see this Delaney character that you’re holding back from me, Ross?’
‘No, it’s my editor, she has a bee in her bonnet about my talking to him. Editors get that way – they latch on to an idea and that’s it.’
The detective nodded. ‘So, anything else I can do for you while you’re here in the City of Angels?’
‘Do you have a residential address for Delaney, Jeff?’
‘I spoke to the nun in charge of the detox centre. She thinks he has a room he rents somewhere in the neighbourhood. But doesn’t know where.’
‘Thank you again, I really appreciate your coming out on a Sunday night like this.’
‘Not a problem.’ Carter drained his beer.
‘Another?’ Ross offered.
‘Thanks, but I guess I’d better get going. My kid’s just started school and he’s not too happy – Sunday-night thing. Promised him I’d get back in time to read him a story. You have kids?’
‘One on the way.’
‘You got it all to come.’
They shook hands and the detective left. Ross ordered another beer then went out, into the mild evening air, to smoke a cigarette. He watched the traffic passing on Wilshire Boulevard and the steady stream of cars and cabs pulling up at the hotel.
When he had finished, he called Sally and updated her, to check her reaction.
‘Sure you don’t feel like a nightcap?’ she asked.
He hesitated. Tempted. But he was really exhausted now. ‘I’d love to but I’m really zonked. I wouldn’t want to fall asleep on you.’
‘I wouldn’t let you!’ she said, teasingly.
He grinned. She made him smile and he liked that a lot. ‘Dinner tomorrow?’ he said.
‘I’ve already made a reservation – somewhere the concierge recommended,’ she replied.
‘Can’t wait.’
‘Me too.’
He went back inside and finished his beer, reflecting on what the detective had told him, before heading up to his room and emailing Imogen with all he had been told. Then, totally exhausted, he peeled off his clothes, brushed his teeth, set the alarm and crashed out.
Big Tony listened to his heavy breathing for some minutes until he was satisfied he was asleep. He switched off, took a miniature whiskey from the minibar, then made a couple of calls.
122
Monday, 20 March
Shortly before midday, the taxi Brother Pete had taken after arriving at Horsham station slowed down. They were driving along a two-lane country road, bordered on both sides by hedgerows.
Ahead was a white sign sticking out of an unkempt grass verge.
Above the wording announcing ST HUGH’S CHARTERHOUSE was the simple cross and orb symbol of the Carthusian order. Brother Pete remembered the words this stood for.
Stat crux dum volvitur orbis.
The cross is steady while the world is turning.
The taxi turned right onto a driveway. After a short distance it curved right, through the archway of an ornate gatehouse. A couple of hundred yards in front of them, straight ahead, was a vast, magnificent-looking building. The central part was a tower with three spires, with a wing stretching out for several hundred yards on either side.
They pulled up outside the oak front door.
Brother Pete paid the driver, walked up to the door and pulled the large bell-handle beside it.
He heard a faint jangle. Followed by another. The door was opened by a rotund man in his sixties, in a white habit. He smiled. ‘Hello, I am Father Raphael, the Prior, can I help you?’ he asked.
‘My name is Brother Pete – Pete Stell
os – from the monastery of Simonopetra in the monastic commune of Mount Athos. I’ve come to see my cousin, Brother Angus.’
‘Indeed, we’ve been expecting you.’ His expression changed, becoming more serious. ‘Please come in.’
Brother Pete followed him along a long, stark corridor, up a flight of stone steps and then along another corridor and into a large, cosy-feeling, book-lined office. The Prior ushered the monk to a chair.
‘You have travelled a long way, Brother Pete.’
‘I have, Prior.’
‘You must be thirsty and hungry. May I offer you coffee, tea? Something to eat?’
‘Coffee would be good, please. No milk.’
The Prior went out of the room, returning some minutes later with a tray containing two cups of coffee, a plate of biscuits and another plate on which sat a chunk of Cheddar cheese, several slices of bread and a knife. He set the tray down on the table in front of them. ‘Please, help yourself.’
Pete helped himself to a chocolate digestive. As he bit a piece off, the Prior said, ‘I’m afraid I have sad news for you.’
Pete stopped in mid-bite, his eyes locked on the Prior’s.
‘Your cousin, our dear Brother Angus, passed away last night after a long battle with cancer.’
‘I’m too late. I –’
The Prior looked at him, sadly and expectantly.
‘I had a feeling,’ Pete admitted.
‘You need to know that he was truly a man of God.’
Brother Pete nodded. ‘I do. It was he who brought me on this path.’
‘He asked you to come here because he had some very important things that he wanted you to keep safe.’
‘That’s what I have come for.’
‘I have them. He was so happy that you were on your way. And relieved. I think he did his very best to hold on for you, but our Lord decided otherwise.’ The Prior lifted up a small hessian carrier bag. ‘They are in here. I don’t know what they contain, and I did not ask, because we are all private here. But please take this and keep its contents safe, as he asked you.’
Brother Pete put the bag inside his own.
‘I’m very deeply sorry for your loss. And for our loss. He was a real visionary.’