Ava nodded.
“Then we understand each other,” he concluded, standing up. “Someone will call you.”
Ramos walked over to the door and opened it. “In Mexico, we say that flies don’t enter a closed mouth.” He indicated for her to leave. “One can ask too many questions.” His expression was cold. “You should be careful what you wish for.”
It was still raining heavily as she left the gallery and headed south and west, through the quieter roads of Mayfair.
Her mind was still buzzing from the meeting with Ramos.
It had gone well.
It felt good to be getting somewhere.
Once south of Piccadilly, she turned into St James’s Gardens, and parked the bike in a small garage in the mews a few doors down from her house.
She ran the last few yards to get out of the downpour, enjoying the fresh smell of the rain. But as she approached her front door, noticed a figure on the step beside it. She tensed, then saw it was only a neighbour, Julia, sheltering under the porchway, clearly waiting for the rain to ease.
“Here.” Ava handed her the umbrella, and Julia took it with gratitude.
Ava hurriedly opened her front door and stepped into the dry hallway.
As she shook out her hair, the calm was shattered by two distinct gun shots.
Stunned, she ran to the door’s spyhole and peered out.
She could see nothing through the rain droplets obscuring the view on the bubble of glass, so she opened the door carefully, and gazed out through the driving rain into the street.
Julia was lying on the pavement immediately outside Ava’s door, the green umbrella still in her hand, a pool of blood oozing from her neck into the puddles of water around her body. At the end of the street, a racing bicycle was disappearing around the corner at speed.
“Oh my God, Julia!” Ava shouted, running out and crouching beside her, placing her first two fingers on the radial artery of Julia’s outstretched left wrist.
The flesh was warm and dripping with rainwater, but there was no pulse.
It was hardly a surprise.
The majority of Julia’s neck and one side of her face had been ripped out by two expanding bullets.
Her dead eyes stared up glassily.
Ava heard another neighbour coming out of his front door onto the pavement. He was shouting hysterically into his mobile phone for the emergency services.
Ava stood up slowly, her heart hammering hard, the horror at the situation now compounded by a sickening realization.
Those bullets had not been intended for Julia.
They had been meant for her.
DAY FOUR
Chapter 19
Oryol Oblast
Russian Federation
TWO HUNDRED AND fifty miles south-west of Moscow, Durov replaced the grey Soviet-era telephone’s handset onto its cradle, cutting the line dead.
He smiled to himself.
A world away, in northern Israel, the boy had done well.
He now had the means to do what had to be done.
Durov felt a flush of excitement at the knowledge the plan was coming together.
It would not be long now.
He crossed the room’s old tea-coloured floorboards, and reached for the rectangle of undyed cream wool hanging on the back of the door. Lifting it off the hook, he moved his long hair aside as he draped the heavy tasselled shawl around his shoulders and over his simple rustic clothing.
Feeling buoyed up, he strode through the simple wooden house, into the hallway, then out into the morning sunshine.
As he shut the door, two bodyguards fell in step either side of him.
Around him, a sprawling settlement of rustic wooden houses and barns gave way to fertile open green countryside. Nearby, the River Oka meandered north, where it would eventually be joined by the Moskva, before ploughing into the vastness of the Volga at ancient Nishny Novgorod.
He stared down at the track’s rich black chernozyom earth, its fertility famous throughout the country.
His eyes lingered on it appreciatively.
This was where he had grown up.
Wild Russia.
Home.
This is where the Holy Mother had first visited him, years ago, marking him out as special.
Here his house was simple. He could live among his people as one of them. They knew of his other life, in Moscow, but they understood that it was necessary for him to have fine things and mix with the elite. How else was he going to gain the trust of the men in the Kremlin and guide them? Look at what had happened to Rasputin – another country boy who had walked in the corridors of power, and who had paid with his life for not being one of them.
Durov was not going to make the same mistake.
There was a wooded area off to his left, where several dozen cars nestled in a clearing, the number plates indicating some had travelled many miles to be there.
Turning off the track, he headed up among the oaks, ash, and elms towards a large semicircular building built out of the same forest woods as the other houses, although with visibly more care and attention. It was an unusual structure, with only one storey, and its smooth walls unmarked by windows or any other feature.
Pushing open the Knista’s heavy main door, he breathed in the smell that always made him feel so alive.1
The smell of his people.
The Elect. The White Doves. Those who had been chosen.
The ancient chamber was set up as an amphitheatre, and the only light came from standing candelabra casting a theatrical glow.
The Skoptsy were sitting silently on solid wooden benches arranged in concentric semicircles, all focusing on a large empty chair mounted on a raised dais at the far end of the hall. Behind it, carved into the wood high on the wall and burnished with gold leaf, was one vast word:
URHA
Durov gazed around the familiar chamber as he made his way up to the dais.
Arriving at the imposing chair, he faced the audience, and waited until all eyes had settled on him.
“Today we remember the very earliest times,” he began, his delivery slow and slightly detached, mildly hypnotic. “We recall the days immediately following the Meshiha’s glorious journey beyond the sacrifice of the Cross, to rule in triumph beside his heavenly Father.”
It was a subject he knew well.
It had been his life’s study.
“His eleven faithful Sheliahin, who had remained in Jerusalem and not gone home to Galilee, soon elected another to replace Judas Iscariot. According to the Scriptures, they also chose James, the brother of the Meshiha, to be their leader. In turn, he was assisted by the fisherman, Simon Kepha, and by John, the disciple whom the Meshiha loved the most. Together, this triumvirate formed the Three Pillars of the new community.”
He surveyed the room, taking in the attentive faces all around, soaking up their adulation.
“The Meshiha said: ‘I am the way’. In remembrance, his earliest followers in Jerusalem named themselves Urha, the Way – a name we, their direct descendants, bear with honour. We reject the later labels imposed by the pagans. The Way was our name in Jerusalem long before the word ‘Christian’ was invented in the pestilential filth of Antioch.”
Durov felt the words flowing freely.
He knew he was being guided from above.
“Names are power. Therefore, never forget: the Meshiha’s given name was Yeshua – Joshua. The Romans hid it, twisting it into their barbarous Latin name: Jesus.”
Durov watched the flickering candles, feeling their calming effect.
It was important that the Elect truly understood all these things, if they were to be ready.
“We must honour our ancient heritage. The birth of a redeeming Meshiha was foretold by the Hebrew prophets. The Meshiha and his followers were Jews. The Way was Jewish, and worshipped in the synagogues, keeping the laws of Moses – circumcision, kosher, Passover.”
He lowered his voice, feeling the audience hanging
on his every word. “But then, Satan came in the form of Saul the Pharisee. Saul knew nothing of the Meshiha, being from far-off Tarsus. He persecuted the Way, ravaging its numbers, hurling its men and women into prison, gleefully participating in the stoning of Stephen, our first martyr.”
Durov sensed the power in the room. Redemption was present in the holy Russian Orthodox Church, of course, in the gilded domes of the Kremlin. But that was just the outside layer of the Mystery. Here, in this room, among the Elect – this was where salvation dwelt in fullness.
“Then came the lie. Saul the Persecutor says he was visited by the Meshiha on the road to Damascus, and he claimed that he had been chosen. He changed his name to Paul, and joined the Way. But, deceitful snake that he was, he sowed dissent, tempting the Sheliahin to abandon their ancient ways. He turned them from the path, and moulded them into a religion fit for the pagan Hellenes and Romans.”
He felt his blood running hot.
“We alone remember the true faith of the Way. We alone observe the order, ‘Prepare ye the Way of the Lord’. Therefore, this is a day for joy – as two among us are preparing to join those blessed by our holy covenant. The Great Seals they receive today will number them among the Elect, and they shall be saved at the Rapture and the great Tribulation. For in—”
Durov broke off at the sound of a commotion outside the door.
It burst open, and four men entered, dragging a man and a woman between them.
Durov stared at the intruders, anger flaring at the unprecedented interruption in his teaching.
The prisoners were in their early twenties. They looked dishevelled, dejected, and beaten.
The emaciated man leading the party addressed Durov. “Rabbuni, these two have brought shame onto this community.”
Durov liked Yegor, the guard who had spoken. He was not a subtle man, and had come to the Skoptsy late. But forty-five years in the KGB – then its successor the FSB – had given him a good instinct.
Behind Yegor, the captured man glared at Durov with hostility.
The woman’s eyes were cast down.
Durov inhaled deeply. “It has been our custom since the earliest days to confess our sins before the whole community.” He spoke softly. “The confessional is a place of forgiveness, freely given to all who desire it with their hearts.”
Yegor continued. “We found their white vigil gowns smouldering in the furnace. They had discarded them after abandoning the prayers of preparation in the little oratory. We tracked them down on the road to Trosna, already six miles from here.”
Durov stared at the couple with disbelief.
These were the two preparing for the Sealing?
The blood started to pump harder in his veins as he looked more closely at the woman’s baggy clothing, and noticed the tell-tale shape of her chest.
“Your names?” he demanded, fighting down the rage surging within him.
“Brother Nicolay and Sister Nataliya,” Yegor answered.
Durov stared at each of them in turn, his eyes black with indignation. “Is what Brother Yegor says true?”
An oppressive silence filled the room, becoming heavier as the seconds passed by.
“Sister Nataliya,” Durov addressed the woman. “What is your explanation for this?”
Her head was hung in shame, her flaxen-blonde hair falling messily over her face. Durov could just make out tears gathering on her eyelashes.
She did not look up.
He turned to the congregation. “The Gospel of Matthew is clear.” He raised his voice, letting it fill the chamber. “He said unto them: For there are some eunuchs which were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.”
He gazed around the room again, his expression stony as the ominous words settled on the crowd.
“From the beginning, the righteous have always heeded this commandment. Even in the early Church, the great theologian Origen of Alexandria understood, and castrated himself to live more fully in the Meshiha.”
He stared at Nicolay, his voice dropping in volume. “So, my brother, why do you think you know better?”
Durov could see the emotional struggle on the young man’s face, and after a long pause he raised his eyes up to Durov on the dais.
“Some of them were married.” Nicolay’s expression was smouldering with resentment. “The gospels say the Meshiha cured Simon Kepha’s mother-in-law of a fever. Paul even wrote that Simon Kepha’s wife used to travel with them. Simon Kepha was the rock on which the Meshiha said he would build his Church, and he became first pope of the Romans. Being married didn’t stop—”
“And yet,” Durov cut him off, his eyes narrowing. He spoke slowly, and with mounting venom. “Can you tell me where the Scriptures say that Simon Kepha and his wife had carnal knowledge of each other?”
Durov smiled, confident in his argument.
Of course he couldn’t.
Durov had studied it for years.
He knew he was right.
All lust was odious – repulsive and bestial. It was hateful in the eyes of the Meshiha. Only abstinence marked out the Chosen, setting them aside for God.
“They were all chaste, just as the Holy Mother was a vessel of purity, so was the Meshiha.”
He was angry now.
“Yet you come in here and besmirch their names with your filth?”
He glared at them. He had offered this couple the most precious gift of eternal life. And they had thrown it back at him.
“Haven’t you been taught that Abraham made a covenant with the Lord, binding his people to show their devotion by circumcision? Yet the Meshiha explicitly gave us the new covenant of the Seal – ‘let him receive it’ – he enjoined. Accordingly, as related in the Scriptures, was not one of the first men baptized into the Way a eunuch from Ethiopia?”
Durov felt the Spirit strongly now.
And it was swelling with rage.
Divine love was not always merciful. At times it was hot enough to combust and consume.
He turned to the woman. “Sister Nataliya, did you lead our brother astray? Did you lure him into temptation? Did you corrupt him?”
He stared closely at her for a reaction. But she remained with her head hanging, immobile.
There was a pounding in Durov’s head.
“Very well,” he strode towards her. “As our brother, Nicolay, chose to place his trust in you rather than in the Way, we will honour that confidence.”
He searched for a reaction beneath the hair falling loose over her face.
There was none.
He stopped a few feet from her. “Who better than you, Sister Nataliya, to decide his fate? As the Lord gave Abraham a choice over Isaac, I give you one. Brother Nicolay can be Sealed, or he can be stoned for his blasphemy. He trusts you, Sister Nataliya. So you choose. What will be his fate?”
Durov watched with satisfaction as she crumpled against Yegor. Her face drained of all colour, and her frail body began to tremble at the enormity of the responsibility thrust upon her.
He watched as she raised her face and her lips moved, but no words came out.
“Very well,” he moved closer. “I can choose for you.”
Now he could see real fear in her eyes.
Her lips moved again, but her voice was inaudible.
Yegor leant in closer as she repeated the word almost soundlessly.
“Sealed,” he announced to the room.
Durov turned on his heel and strode back to the chair.
He felt a wave of revulsion.
She was a coward.
His lips tightened in disgust.
She was not one of the Elect.
Neither of them were worthy.
He sat down heavily in the chair, the anger receding, to be replaced with a small smile of satisfaction.
At least he
had found them in time.
He inhaled again deeply, feeling the wisdom running through him.
“The sentence of the Knista is that you shall both be taken from here and Sealed.” He paused, allowing the words to sink in. “But for you it will be a harsh punishment, not a blessing of redemption. Neither of you will be among us on the coming day of glory. Instead, the wounds you receive today will be your end. By your deeds, you have relinquished the right to be numbered among us, now and always.”
They would not pollute the ranks of the Chosen Ones.
He would not allow it.
He turned to the congregation. “It is for you to confirm or reject my sentence.”
Durov knew they would not go against him. They had learnt years ago that he was guided from above.
He was a prophet.
Without hesitation, they nodded solemnly, their heads the only discernible movement in the flickering candlelight.
Chapter 20
10b St James’s Gardens
Piccadilly
London SW1
England
The United Kingdom
“IT WAS A professional job,” Ava confirmed, sitting down at the kitchen table and tying her hair back. “No question.”
“Did you get a look at him?” Ferguson’s face was grim.
She shook her head. “Dark clothing, Helmet. Could’ve been anyone. We can pull the CCTV footage from the area, but we won’t get anything. He’ll have dumped the bike somewhere out of sight. And he knew not to use a car or motorbike to avoid the number plate being logged and tracked real-time on the ANPR camera feeds.”
Within fifteen minutes of the shooting, the police and scene-of-crime team had turned out in force, and the noise of voices and engines had gone on late into the night.
Ava had told them everything she could recall, but there were always small details that came back later.
One of them could be important.
She had lain awake for hours, replaying the scene in her mind over and over again, trying to remember every aspect of what had happened.
The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2) Page 13