Chapter 2
Cardinal Miguel Desayer was troubled. He leant back in his chair and ran a weary hand down his weathered face. For thirty years and more he had been dreading this moment, ever since the day his mentor, Gabriel, had let he and Abdullah in on the secret. Over four decades of subterfuge and searching had followed: pretending to be the perfect holy man; obeying doctrines that he knew to be false; pedantically toeing the line to keep his cover. It had been torture at times, but he had kept his composure and held his tongue throughout so that his promise to Gabriel would be honoured. If the rumours coming out of Mecca were true, though, then it had all been for nothing.
Opening his desk drawer he drew out an old silver-framed photo and reminisced. The two boys in the black and white picture were barely into their teens, but both were strong and vital. They were barefoot and dressed in raggedy kit ready for a game of soccer. The boy on the left, the darker of the two, held the ball under his right arm. They were locked together and grinning like Cheshire Cats, their whole lives ahead to do with what they wished, or so they thought. But that was then. Now Abdullah was gone, and all that remained of him were fading memories.
A knock on the door stopped him dwelling. He put the photograph back in the drawer and beckoned his visitor to enter, hoping it would be Father Patrick Cronin with fresh news. He wasn’t disappointed.
Cronin hobbled in on his crutches, greeted the Cardinal formally, then sat down and faced him across the desk. His boss tried to appear calm but the lines etched on his face gave away his concern.
“Well then, Father,” said Desayer. “What do we know?”
Cronin cleared his throat and proceeded. “It doesn’t look good I’m afraid, Your Eminence. Our sources in Mecca have confirmed it – there is a man there claiming to be the Hand of Allah. He has been healing all manner of illnesses and deformities: curing cancers; restoring vision; remobilizing the crippled – the list goes on.”
Desayer’s fists tightened as he tried to control his breathing. “Then they have found the sacred knowledge. They must have.”
“I can’t be sure, Your Eminence, but it appears that way. Our sources have witnessed this man’s healing powers for themselves, he’s definitely the real thing.”
“So how have they come by it? I thought that the box and the parchment were safely on their way to Majami.”
“So did I, Your Eminence. And as far as I knew everything was going to plan. Kandinsky’s man dropped them at the beach and they were last seen heading off with their guides.”
“But you’ve had no word since?”
“No. But then I didn’t expect to until they came back out of the jungle.”
“Didn’t they have a satellite phone?” the Cardinal asked.
“No. It would have been too dangerous for them to have contact with anybody once they were in the jungle. It doesn’t matter how careful you are nowadays – there’s always someone listening. And it only takes a few seconds to pinpoint someone’s position from their phone signal.”
“Of course,” said Desayer. “You must think me terribly outdated.”
“Not at all, Your Eminence. Most people don’t realize how vulnerable technology has made us.”
“Yes, indeed. Soon there will be no secrets left.” He gazed thoughtfully out of the window. “What about Kandinsky? Are you sure he was telling you the truth? Perhaps he took the box and sold it to the highest bidder.”
“With respect, I think that’s highly unlikely, Your Eminence. I’ve known Kandinsky for a number of years and, although he wouldn’t be first in line for canonization, I’ve always found him to be a man of his word. He has never been anything but honest with us from the start, and he wants to see the sacred knowledge safe just as much as we do. And besides, even if he had taken the box it would be useless without the key to the symbols; and they were taken by a different route.”
“Yes, yes, of course they were. Sorry, Father, I am just not thinking logically at the moment.” He took a sip of water and a deep breath. “So, Father, have you any ideas as to what has actually happened?”
Cronin shrugged. “To be honest, Your Eminence, I’m as in the dark as you are. I can only really hypothesize.”
“Well then – go ahead.”
“We have to assume that the Muslims have managed to acquire both the box and the symbols – it’s the only way this man could have gained his power. Therefore it stands to reason that they waylaid both our parties in the jungle. I don’t know how they did it, but it’s the only explanation I can think of.”
Desayer raised his eyebrows. “But the box and the parchment were taken by separate paths.”
“Yes, they were. And I didn’t for one minute think that both would be found, but I guess that whoever took them was one step ahead of us. I suspect treachery somewhere along the line.”
Desayer digested the information for a moment. “What about this man who took your place? What was his name again – Brady or something?”
“Grady, Your Eminence. Scott Grady.”
“Yes, that was it, Grady. Well, is there not a chance that he may have betrayed us?”
Cronin looked to the floor awkwardly. Grady had been a gamble on his part, a big gamble. Stratton and Stella seemed to trust him which is what had swung it for him in the end – well, that and the fact that there was nobody else available – but he’d had reservations about the guy from the start. It wasn’t anything personal, it was just an inbuilt mistrust of anyone from American intelligence. He’d experienced first hand how they operated, and it certainly wasn’t on an ethical basis. On the outset Grady appeared to have seen a brighter light, but the temptation to make a small fortune from what was effectively just a piece of paper may have proved too much.
Cronin looked back up to the Cardinal and decided to keep his concerns to himself. “Theoretically he could have done, Your Eminence, but I doubt it – he didn’t seem the type. Anyway, with respect, I think we’re getting away from the main issue. It doesn’t matter how they got hold of the artefacts, the point is that they did. We’ve got to figure out what to do about it.”
“You are absolutely right, Father. You must forgive me. Like I said before – I am not thinking logically at the moment. Have you got any immediate suggestions?”
Cronin sighed. “I’m not sure what we can do at the moment. According to our sources this man – the Hand of Allah – has already built up a massive following in Mecca. It won’t be long before his legend spreads right across the world.”
“Is there no way of getting to him?” asked Desayer.
Cronin raised his eyebrows. “You mean an assassination?”
Desayer nodded.
Cronin shook his head. “Not really, Your Eminence. But even if we did manage to get to him they’d just replace him with someone else wouldn’t they? Or bring him back to life. Then they really would have a Messiah on their hands. The only thing we can do is watch and wait, and hope that a solution presents itself.”
“Yes, I think you are right, Father. Although I fear we are fighting a losing battle. As soon as they got their hands on the symbols we were beaten. It will not be long before Islam has conquered the globe. And I do not believe for one minute that it will happen peacefully.”
“Don’t despair, Your Eminence, nothing’s happened yet. There’s always hope.”
“Yes, hope...” He said the word reflectively. “There is always hope.”
Preceded by a quick rap on the door a young priest walked in with a message for Desayer.
“Cardinal Vittori requests your presence at an urgent meeting, Your Eminence,” he stated.
“Right this minute?” asked Desayer.
“Yes, Your Eminence, it is a matter of some importance.”
“Very well, tell him I shall be along directly.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.” He bowed his head deferentially and exited the room quickly.
“Well then,” said Desayer. “I suppose I must go and see what this is all
about.”
“Of course, Your Eminence,” said Cronin. “I shall return to my office and make some more enquiries.” He struggled to his feet and shuffled out of the Cardinal’s chambers.
As he turned into the corridor, his mind elsewhere, he was knocked back into the wall. His head jerked in confusion and his left crutch clattered to the floor. He was about to follow it down when a firm hand steadied him.
“I am very sorry, Father,” said a voice. “Are you okay?”
Cronin looked up and stared at the man. He was a civilian with sharp features and looked very familiar.
“Yes, I’m fine,” said Cronin. “If you could just pass me my crutch.”
The man obliged and Cronin thanked him, brushing off more apologies politely, and trying to place his accent. He watched him head down the corridor accompanied by Cardinal Vittori’s messenger. As they moved out of sight he furrowed his brow in contemplation and started back to his office. Just where had he seen him before?
Chapter 3
Stella stared up at the ceiling and traced imaginary faces in the elaborate mouldings. It was something she did at home; trying to pick out shapes in the stippled paintwork, or maybe animal forms in the clouds. If you looked hard enough at something it would invariably distort and reveal a hidden treasure, a bit like the ‘magic eye’ pictures that had been so popular in the nineties. Perhaps if she focused all her energy into one point she could create a hole from which to escape through, but even her imagination she felt would not extend that far. She was trapped, and no amount of dreaming or wishing was going to free her.
Of course, there were worse places to be held captive, and she shuddered as she remembered the cold cellar within which Augustus Jeremy had incarcerated her and Stratton, but a prison was a prison, mink-lined or not.
Having grown tired, and with her eyes beginning to strain, she shuffled across the substantial bed and sat on the edge with her toes dangling on the cool marble floor. She stretched her arms and yawned, blinking a couple of times to restore her blurry sight, and then allowed herself a brief smile as she took in the wondrous surroundings. She didn’t know how long she’d been there – a week, maybe longer – but she still couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer unadulterated luxury of the place. With the finest furniture, hand-woven silks and original art on the walls, and solid-gold fittings in the almost cavernous bathroom she felt like a storybook princess. And the ornate, probably priceless, porcelain just added to the indulgence. But if she was a princess then she was one locked in a tower awaiting her Prince Charming to come to the rescue.
It seemed like a lifetime since she had been captured in the jungle. If only she hadn’t been so bloody stupid. Jimi had told her to stay quiet and still in the undergrowth, but as soon as she heard the horrific howls of pain she knew she couldn’t just lie there. But what had her rash actions achieved? Nothing.
The image was etched in her brain now, an indelible tattoo of her sorrow. She hoped that Jennings had died quickly, and that his pain was short-lived, but she knew the reality would probably be very different.
Beginning to dwell, she forced herself from the bed and took a walk around the room, bending and stretching her legs with exaggeration as she moved to shake off the stiffness. After a couple of small circuits she went to the bathroom and refreshed her face with cold water. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked, unsurprisingly, pale and drawn. A close inspection of her hair revealed a few strands of grey creeping through into the black as well. When she returned to civilization she would do have to do something about it. But for now it could wait, because despite the fact that cosmetics, including hair-dye, had been made available to her, she was determined to look her worst. She wasn’t going to give her jailer the satisfaction of her beauty.
The mere thought of him angered her to the point of explosion. His false smile; his creepy, clammy, wandering hands; his foul breath that mingled noxiously with the smell of frankincense on his clothes; and most of all his unwillingness to accept that what he was doing was wrong. His constant referral to her as a guest was infuriating, not only because it was a million miles from the truth, but because he actually believed it. The reality was, though, that she was a prisoner, a white slave, and it wouldn’t be long before his advances became more pressing and brutal, until eventually he would go ahead and take what he wanted without her consent. And so it would go on, day after day, week after week, maybe allowing his friends and business associates to have a go as well. Any resistance on her part would probably just make it more fun for them.
She took a determined look in the mirror, pursing her lips resolutely, and promised herself that she would escape or die trying. She then returned to the main room and started her daily workout. With nothing but time on her hands it had been easy to get back into a fitness regime. After an initial bout of cramps her body had accustomed itself and each day since had been a progression. She was starting to feel strong again, like she had been at her peak in the Met. Every strained press-up and sit-up was accompanied by a grunt and a burning likeness of her keeper and the men that sold her to him.
And what of Stratton? What the hell had happened to him? One minute they were racing along the track, and the next he and Jennings had disappeared. She had been trying so hard to keep up with Jimi that she hadn’t noticed them falling behind. He had been in a bad way, so if Jennings was captured why wasn’t he? He certainly wasn’t the guy hanging next to Jennings on the branch – that, although she couldn’t figure how, appeared to be Grady.
So where was Stratton now?
Many scenarios streamed through her head, but the one that pleased her most was the idea that he had survived and was at this very minute planning a rescue mission. She pictured him crossing the desert with a group of crack mercenaries, each one ready to do battle with the sheik and his cadre of bodyguards. They would scale the walls and Stratton would come bursting through the barred window in a cloud of explosives to save her from peril. She smiled at the thought, but knew in her heart that no such thing was going to happen. If she wanted saving she was going to have to do it herself.
Chapter 4
Stratton woke to the sound of jungle chatter. It was some time after dawn, but light was only just beginning to filter through the thick canopy. He yawned loudly and stretched his arms wide, accidently hitting Titan’s head as he did so. The panther paid little attention and continued to snooze happily by the side of the bed.
Stratton strained to see in the gloom. He reached out to the small table and fumbled for the water bowl, being careful not to upset it. His throat was burning dry and he drained the vessel in several prolonged gulps. Thirst quenched, he propped his back against the wall and closed his eyes for a brief meditation.
The fever that had held him for so long seemed all but gone, and for the first time in ages he could feel blood and energy coursing once more. He tried to remember when he had first started to ebb, and figured that it must have been just after he and Oggi had arrived at the motel. From then on it had been a downward spiral until his resolve completely gave way that night in the undergrowth. Technically speaking, however, it wasn’t actually his resolve that had capitulated.
His mind drifted back to his time in between worlds, after Jeremy had killed him, and before Oggi had brought him back. He recalled the improbably vivid colours, the almost unbearable light, and the constant current of the cosmos pulsating through his soul like a climax without end. He also recalled the choice he had been given, and the conditions attached when he decided to forego his ascent and return. There could only be two explanations for his recovery: either the world had suddenly become a better place, or Majami had somehow managed to override the limitations imposed upon him by the universe. Neither seemed very likely.
Suddenly feeling a presence in the room he opened his eyes. Majami was standing next to the bed holding a candle. He bent down and lit the one on the table from his own.
“Did you have a good sleep?” asked the
monk.
“Yes thanks. I feel a lot better. I could do with getting up and having a walk about though – if that’s okay with you, Doctor?”
Majami smiled. “That is fine, as long as you feel up to it. You can join us for breakfast if you like. Unless you would like me to bring it to you?”
“No thanks. I think I’ve spent long enough in bed. I could do with a wash before I eat though.”
“Of course,” said Majami. “I can bring you some water, or there is a stream at the back of the hut.”
Stratton had an urge to get out into the open air. He put on his T-shirt and trousers and followed Majami out of the hut and down a small slope to the water. His legs were surprisingly stable considering his long incapacity and, after supplying him with some leaves to act as soap, Majami appeared happy enough to leave him unsupervised. The water was cool but not unkind, and he immersed himself fully to expel the inertia. Within minutes he felt revitalized, and after a thorough scrub down he dried off on the bank and headed back up to the hut. The only thing missing had been a shave. He would have to ask Majami if he had salvaged his rucksack, which contained a blade.
The hut was divided into four rooms; two on either side separated by a small corridor. On returning Stratton found Majami in the front left section, stirring a rice dish over a small stove.
“Please, sit down,” said the monk, motioning to a rustic table surrounded by four equally basic chairs. “Help yourself to some tea.”
Stratton poured some hot liquid from the copper kettle into a wooden cup. A wonderful, invigorating fragrance wafted up to his nose and he savoured the scent momentarily before taking a sip. It was quite unlike any tea he’d tasted before.
“You like?” said Majami, turning from his pan.
A Sacred Storm Page 2