“Also, consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labour or spin. Yet I tell you, not even the richest man who ever lived was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, gone tomorrow, how much more will He clothe you?”
“Do not be afraid, for your father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide wallets for yourself that will not wear out. A treasure in heaven that will never fail, where no thief comes and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there will be your heart..."
'Amen to that.' Barnabas said.
Swanger turned the radio off. Gave him a look. 'You follow Jesus?'
'Is that a problem?'
'It might be for you.'
'How?' Barnabas frowned.
Swanger sighed. Where did they get these people? 'Part of our job is to keep an eye on Jesus and his main associates, the so called disciples. Peter and that bunch.'
'So?'
Swanger laughed. 'Could be, one day they're brought in for questioning. You might be involved in the interviews. How do you feel about that?'
'Don’t we have specialist teams to question suspects?' Barnabas queried. 'I thought we just gathered the information.'
'You're right, son. We do. But sometimes we monitor the interrogation, make sure the right questions are asked,' Swanger shrugged, 'suggest further questions. How would you feel if it was Jesus being questioned?'
'I don't know about the twelve disciples,' Barnabas chuckled, 'but you won't find Jesus breaking the law.'
'How's that then.' Swanger wanted to know.
'Simple. Jesus is without sin.'
Swanger, stunned into silence by this naivety, settled back to wait for their target to appear.
✝
Approaching Northumbria International Airport.
Pilate was buzzing. Even the bumpy flight back from Berlin hadn't dampened his enthusiasm for what he'd learned. Now, nearing home, he closed his eyes, prayed to a god he didn't believe in, and hoped for the best. The aircraft banked as the pilot lined up the final approach to Northumbria International. Pilate licked his lips, tried to relax, but the undercarriage clanking down startled him for a second. He looked out of the window at the fast approaching ground, knew it would be a good landing.
Thirty minutes later in his official limousine, even the latest news of the riots, relayed to him by Winston, couldn't take the edge off his excitement. It was a stunning idea, even if it’d been presented by that odious creep, Heydrich. Pilate fingered the lock on his attaché case, thought of the slim red folder with the bold black letters on the front, the Wannsee Protocol, Top Secret. When Heydrich had talked them through the plan, it'd been one of those, why has nobody thought of this before moments?
But then it turned out, they had. Wannsee was a resurrection of an old plan first mooted in the time of the first Fuehrer and named for the Wannsee Conference centre on the outskirts of Berlin, where the idea had first been discussed. In essence and somewhat simplified, Wannsee offered Jews and other undesirable people groups the opportunity of living in their own settlements in various locations throughout the Union. These would be self-contained, walled, gated communities, where they'd be able to lead happy comfortable lives with their own kind. They would be offered favourable terms to move and, once they did, would have to remain there for the remainder of their lives. It was hoped that the vast majority would take the Fuehrer's kind offer.
When one brave soul had asked about those who might not want to go, Heydrich had turned his dead eyes on the man, told him refusal wasn't an option. They could either go of their own accord, all expenses paid, or go kicking and screaming, but, go they would.
What was the timescale, somebody else wanted to know.
Plans had been drawn up for these new towns and villages, Heydrich explained. Building work had already commenced at Auschwitz, Belsen, Buchenwald and Ravensbruck. The names meant nothing to Pilate, but the layout of the settlements, the plans for the buildings, looked good on paper.
The Fuehrer hadn't been present of course. She was a busy woman with a Union to run, and Pilate had been disappointed and relieved in equal measure by her absence. As much as he loved the Fuehrer, he found her unpredictable with her ferocious tempers that would blow up out of nowhere.
One thing puzzled Pilate though. There seemed to be another level to Wannsee, but nobody spoke of it. He'd just heard whispers of something called, Endlosung, The Final Solution.
✝
Leeds, Northumbria.
Bocus needed a drink. It’d been another tough day in the office. His boss, Schultz, had been a complete arse over some figures. The drive home, always slow, was worse than ever today. A shunt on the ring road had delayed him for thirty frustrating minutes. The utility companies were taking turns to dig up the roads, cones and red barriers blocking off major sections, diversions in place. The traffic news on the radio accurate as usual, but no use when you were already jammed. Two lines of vehicles were merging into one. A white van jumped the queue, out muscled Bocus into the next available space.
Bastard.
In the mood for a ruck, he leaned on the horn in anger, willed the driver to get out, but amidst the answering chorus of blaring horns the man raised his arm in a conciliatory gesture. Bocus let it go, his anger draining away. He thought back to work. It went through his mind that he was being targeted. He’d caught Schultz giving him a speculative glance more than once, the Saxon looking away when Bocus caught his eye.
The traffic was now moving in a single file, it was steady progress. Bocus tried to push his anxiety aside, told himself he was too sensitive. His paranoia not helped by the coffee machine gossip, the persistent low level buzz going round the office that the spate of bombings at Northumbria Water sites was an inside job.
Bocus had joined in with the chatter to begin with, enjoyed the vicarious thrill of knowing he was talking about himself and Beaumont, but soon tired of it once the speculation of who it might be had started. He didn't feel in any danger. There were plenty of other candidates on the list of potential suspects within the company, engineers were always in and out of these places, not to mention the long list of disgruntled ex-employees let go in the recent round of redundancies. Now, not wanting to tempt fate, he kept his own counsel when the talk turned to Four Kingdoms United.
Once out of the city, away from the road works, the traffic eased. Bocus relaxed, imagined the ice cold lager in the fridge, his name on it. He turned off the main road into his estate, his feelings of negativity almost gone. They soon returned though, when he was met by a barrier blocking his street. Beyond that workmen, diggers, noise, chaos.
✝
Beaumont opened his eyes, blinked. He wasn't sure where he was. He eased his way to his feet, became aware of Bocus stood in the doorway, an amused expression on his face.
'What you doing behind there?' Bocus asked.
'Trying to get some peace.' He massaged his temples.
'Beer?'
Beaumont shook his head. 'No thanks.' He had a raging headache and a cricked neck. He told Bocus about the woman at the door.
'It’ll be a clipboard Charlie.'
Beaumont frowned. 'Who?'
'It's what we call the people who knock on doors and explain what's happening.' Bocus explained. 'Keeping the customer informed. I expect the gas board do the same. It's good PR. Cuts down the number of complaints.'
In the kitchen Beaumont swallowed three headache tablets and drank a pint of water. 'Is it genuine?'
'Is what genuine?'
'Whatever they're doing, digging up the road.'
Bocus shrugged. 'Looks genuine to me. There's a strong smell of gas out there.'
Beaumont thought for a second. 'Could it be faked though?'
'Anything can be faked,' Bocus laughed, 'but why?'
Beaumont shrugged. A gesture that irritated Bocus. He drained the can, crushed it. 'Do you think all that,' he wa
ved towards the street, 'has been set up just to annoy you? Faking a gas leak, digging up the street, just to wind you up?'
'No, of course not. But it would be a good way to get in the house, have a look round.'
Bocus stared at Beaumont, wondered whether to laugh, or play along.
The doorbell rang. Beaumont jumped. 'Don't answer it.'
Exasperated, Bocus said. 'Don't be daft. She'll have seen me come home.'
‘You could be in the shower, on the bog, anything.' Beaumont sounded desperate.
'She'll come back. Look, I know these people. I know how they think. It's better to answer the door, let her give me the spiel.'
'Don't invite her in.'
No, course not.' Bocus took his friend by the arm. 'Get yourself upstairs, out the way. Let me handle it.'
From a position on the landing Beaumont heard Bocus open the door, heard the woman say in her ordinary voice that there was nothing to worry about. The leak would be repaired soon, but would it be possible to do a quick meter check while she was here.
✝
State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.
Swanger rubbed her eyes. Knackered didn't do it justice. Against the dark outside the computer monitor was unnaturally bright. She switched on the small angle poise lamp on her desk. A quick glance at the clock, it was gone eleven. She knew without checking that she was the last one from the day shift still in the building. She drained her cold coffee, poured a whisky, and lit another smoke. Okay, one last play through the video, then she'd go.
Double clicking on the icon, she watched the feed from the body cam as the front door approached. Her finger snaked out, rang the bell, waited. Was there movement behind the door, a hurried panicked conversation, and then a scuttling up the stairs?
The door opened. Bocus stood there, open expression, friendly, smiling. No surprise though. He’s expecting somebody to ring the bell. She paused the video.
Why would that be? He's just got in. Because, she told herself, somebody had warned him.
She thought back to those first impressions. There was a strong smell of cannabis. Nothing wrong in that of course. All drugs were legal, as long as they were bought from registered outlets, and the tax paid. She knew too well though, from her days in the anti-smuggling department there was always somebody who could supply it cheaper. Knew too how successful they were at it. The open borders policy of the Union meant no restrictions on the southern border with Mercia. The Union’s relations with Scotland being friendly, there were hardly any checks on entry and exit. In any case there were plenty of unmanned crossing points. And that was before you considered the sea routes, the small dark coves, the relatively short distance across the water to the Isle of Man, Eire, and beyond that, the Combined States of America, with all the decadence of that Dark Continent.
Swanger sighed. Smuggling had gone on for centuries, it was the second oldest profession. She poured herself another shot, pressed play, immersed herself in the video, and tried to concentrate.
'Good afternoon, sir. Northumbrian Gas.' On the screen Swanger flashed her genuine Northumbrian Gas id card.
Bocus glanced at the card. 'About the leak, is it?'
'That's right, sir. This is just a courtesy call to keep you up to date. All the details are on the website, but we believe it's important to see our customers face to face at times like this.'
Bocus smiled, nodded, not at all impressed by Swanger's faux corporate bull. 'Be long will it, before we're back on?'
'About an hour, I'd say.'
'Okay, thanks.' Bocus moved to shut the door.
Swanger resisted the temptation to put her foot in the way. 'There is one other thing.'
'Oh?' Bocus held the door half open, looked ready to slam it.
'Yeah.' Swanger consulted her clipboard. 'We’d like to take this opportunity to check the meter against our records.'
Bocus laughed. 'Make sure your precious customers ain't fiddling the system.'
'No, sir.' Swanger can hardly restrain herself from laughing. 'It's for your benefit as well as ours.'
Bocus opened the door. 'Cupboard under the stairs.'
The camera moved into the cupboard. Swanger flicked on her torch, wrote down the serial number, read the display, backed out, switched off the torch. 'That all seems to be in order, sir.' Swanger paused, pen poised. 'Just to complete the records, is it just yourself living here?'
And there it was. The tell, the giveaway. Bocus' eyes flicking to the stairs, back to Swanger. 'Yeah, just me love.'
Swanger leant back in her chair. An expensive operation, yes. Also, lots of disruption for ordinary law abiding citizens. But, she'd put money on Bocus being involved in something dodgy and there being somebody hiding upstairs.
FIFTEEN
BURNLEY, NORTHUMBRIA.
It had been a busy time. Jesus and the disciples travelled throughout Northumbria teaching in towns and villages, keeping away from the larger venues. Attempting to keep a lower profile, the disciples assumed. Not that it worked. Massive crowds appeared wherever Jesus went, all asking, pleading, and persuading him to heal them, bless them, and even arbitrate in their financial disputes. Like the money grabbing git who called out at the last event, Phil recalled, just as Jesus was reaching a critical moment in his talk.
'Jesus, tell my brother to share his lottery winnings with me. We had a deal and he's broken his word.'
Jesus had paused, turned to the man who'd interrupted, telling him, 'Who appointed me a judge between you? Watch out. Be on your guard against all kinds of greed. Life is not about the size of your wallet.'
He'd then carried on with his address.
Then there were the constant concerns about the future. Folks always asking who would be saved.
Jesus advised people not to worry about others, but to make every effort to enter through the narrow door, telling them, 'Many will try to enter on the basis that they know me, but that's not enough. They will not be allowed access. Once the owner of the house gets up and closes the door, you will stand outside in vain knocking and pleading for entrance.'
'There will be much upset,' he'd warned, 'people will come from all over the world to take their place at the feast in the kingdom of God. Those who are last will be first, and those first will be last.'
The venue was filling up. Phil could hear an excited buzz in the hall, so many packed in, jammed together, trampling on each other. Why couldn't they just sit still, wait in patience, then hear what the Boss had to say. He looked round for Jesus, wanting to share his latest song. He couldn't see him, then remembered he'd withdrawn for quiet prayer and reflection before speaking.
He thought back to the recent Festival of Dedication when Jesus, walking in the Temple Courts had been surrounded by tourists, priests, Pharisees. Questions flying in thick and fast.
'How long will you keep us hanging on, Jesus?'
'All this suspense.'
'If you're the Messiah, tell us.'
Jesus had stopped walking, stood firm in the midst of the crowd surging and swaying against him. 'I've told you many times.' He'd told them, 'but you're a stubborn people. You don't believe. The works I do in my Father's name testify about me, but you don't believe them because you're not my people. As sheep listen to their shepherd, my people listen to my voice. I know them and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish.'
He'd paused, waiting for further dissent. The crowd, silent and hostile, waited.
Then, 'No one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all. No one can snatch them out of the Father's hand.'
This response enraged a few people in the crowd. They booed, hissed, a few clenched their fists.
Jesus addressed them firmly. 'For which of my many good works do you object?'
One of his tormentors replied, 'We're not attacking you for the good work, but for blasphemy. You're a man, yet claim to be God.'
Another called out, 'Piss off now, b
efore Caiaphas gets his hands on you. He'll sort you out.'
Jesus had laughed at that one. 'Go, tell that fox, I will keep on driving out demons and healing people today, tomorrow, and on the third day I will reach my goal.'
The hostility soon reached a level where Peter, concerned for Jesus’ safety, quickly organised a protective shield around the Boss. With the aid of decoys they’d managed to slip away through the crowds and avoided a possible attack.
Jesus was back in the dressing room. One second he wasn’t around, the next his presence filled the room. Phil knew he was back without seeing him, or hearing him speak. He always told the others he could feel the energy.
Jesus gathered the disciples close around him, told them, 'Be on your guard against the hypocrisy of the Pharisees. There is nothing concealed that won't be disclosed, or hidden that won't be revealed. What you say in the dark will be heard in the light of day, and what you have whispered in secret will be proclaimed from the rooftops.'
The disciples had glanced round, grinning at each other. They loved these impromptu teaching sessions. Every one revealed a nugget of gold.
'I tell you my dearest friends,' Jesus continued, 'do not be afraid of those who kill the body,' he shrugged, 'after that they can do no more. I will show you whom you should fear. Fear him, who after your body has been killed, has the authority to throw you into hell. Yes, fear him. Are not five rabbits sold in the market for a few Euros? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs on your head are numbered. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many rabbits.'
Silence.
'I tell you, whoever publicly acknowledges me before others, then I will acknowledge before the angels of God. But whoever disowns me before others will be disowned before the angels of God. And everyone who speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but anyone who blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven.'
Peter gave the disciples a quick look. This was serious stuff. He prayed they were taking it in. Hard times were coming and they'd all need to be on their guard.
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