Jennings looked on wide-eyed, unable to comprehend what he’d just seen.
Stone walked forward. “Like I said, I’m sorry. Sorry for everything.”
There was a brief silence as the situation was digested.
Eventually Jennings spoke. “What the fuck is going on, Andy?” he said. “What the fuck is going on?”
Stone pulled a set of handcuffs from his jacket pocket and knelt down beside Davis. “We’d better restrain him. He won’t be out for long.”
Jennings helped Stone manoeuvre Davis’ porky frame, and they cuffed his hands behind his back. Stella lit a cigarette and paced around in front of a bemused Grady.
With Davis secure and leant comatose against the wall Jennings again pressed Stone for some answers. “Come on, Andy,” he said. “I want to know what’s going on. For a start you could tell me what the hell you two are doing here.”
Stone approached Stella and asked her for a cigarette. He lit it with shaky hands. “We’re here with Ayres,” he said. “We’ve been here for over a week. He’s been in talks with the Vatican. I couldn’t tell you exactly what’s been said because he’s been behind closed doors, but I know he’s part of this whole Messiah thing.”
“Who’s he been talking to?” asked Jennings.
“The Pope and some cardinal called Vittori as far as I can make out. He’s been very careful not to tell us too much. We take him over to the Vatican and then the Swiss Guard look after him. I wish I could tell you more.”
“What about Stratton?” asked Stella. “And Father Cronin. Do you know anything about them?”
Stone nodded. “Yeah. They’re being kept in a little hut by the river. Well, they were. I’m not sure they’ve got long now. Davis phoned through and told Ayres that we had you, so there’s no reason to keep them alive now.”
“Fuck!” cursed Jennings. He looked Stone in the eye. “Have you got a car?”
“Yeah, it’s at the other side of the garage.”
“Well come on then, let’s get going!”
After retrieving their weapons, and with Stone in the lead, they ran through the parking level to the car, a silver Mercedes. Stone jumped in and started the engine, waiting only briefly for the rest to get seated before reversing out and wheel-spinning off to the exit.
The night-time traffic was slow but not static and Stone weaved his way in and out with speed and skill.
“Why are you doing this, Andy?” asked Jennings. “I mean, why now? Why couldn’t you just have helped me when I needed it back in England?”
Stone shifted down a gear and accelerated round a line of cars, causing the oncoming traffic to swerve. “I don’t know. It’s complicated. There’s no time for it now.”
Two minutes later Stone hit the brakes and swung in to a parking bay on a secluded part of the Lungotevere della Vittoria, leaving his headlights on. All four doors opened simultaneously as they sprang out into the night.
“Wait!” Stone ordered. “We’ll have to be careful. I’ve got two men in there and they’re no slouches. We can’t—”
Before he could finish his sentence a muffled gunshot sounded from the trees in front of them. It was followed quickly by another and another. Jennings’ heart leapt into his throat. They were too late.
Chapter 61
“Wait!” said Cronin. “You don’t know what you’re doing. If you kill us then the whole world’s in danger.”
The chief suit held his gun steady at Stratton’s head. “Really,” he said. “Do I look like I give a shit? I’ve got my orders and that’s the way it is.” He turned to his partner. “Come on let’s get this over with.”
Cronin closed his eyes. Stratton smiled at his executioner.
“What the fuck are you grinning at?”
Stratton shook his head. “Nothing.”
Unnerved by Stratton’s knowing look, the chief suit wavered. It was a hesitation that he would sorely regret.
From nowhere a giant arm came flying through the air knocking the weapons out of the hands of the captors. The startled men staggered back and tried to keep their balance. Before they could reorient themselves a huge mass bore down and pinned them to the ground. They struggled violently but were unable to get the purchase to move.
Cronin looked on in astonishment as Kandinsky held the two men down. The Russian’s legs were still tied to the chair but he had somehow managed to free his arms, and he now had a henchman under each of them. He waited until they stopped wriggling and then lifted himself slightly and grabbed their throats, squeezing with just enough pressure to render them unconscious. He ripped off the ropes that bound his legs and clambered to his feet.
“How long have you been awake?” asked Cronin.
“Long enough,” said Kandinsky. “It will take more than a little injection to keep me down.”
Cronin shook his head in disbelief. “But me and Stratton were out for over twenty-four hours.”
“That’s true,” said Stratton. “But we’re a lot lighter than Arman. They should’ve given him a larger dose. Anyway, let’s not sit here arguing about it, let’s get these ropes off and get out of here.”
Kandinsky knelt down and untied them both swiftly. Stratton was first up and hobbled around trying to get some sensation back into his limbs. The ropes had been so tight that he’d lost almost all feeling in his extremities. Cronin followed him, stumbling about as he regained control of his functions. After clearing their heads as best they could, they tied up their captors and propped them against the far wall.
“Right then,” said Stratton. “Let’s go.”
Kandinsky reached for the door handle, but as he did his legs buckled at the knees. He held himself up and took a couple of long, deep breaths.
“Are you okay?” asked Cronin.
“Yes,” said Kandinsky, giving his head a shake. “I will be fine. Just a little faint.” He turned the handle and slumped forward again.
“Listen,” said Cronin. “If you’re still dizzy, sit down for a moment. We can take a bit more time – those guys aren’t going anywhere.”
“No,” said Kandinsky. “We cannot afford to wait. We do not know who is on the other side of the door.”
“Exactly,” said Cronin. “Which is why we don’t want to go out there half-cocked.”
Stratton was just about to agree when Kandinsky opened the door, and after a brief look stepped into the night. They followed him out and found themselves surrounded by trees, the only illumination coming from the hut behind. They heard the sound of a car passing about fifty yards to the left. They nodded to each other and headed in the direction of the road.
The trees were dense, blocking off any streetlight and leaving them almost blind. Cronin led the way, with Stratton behind and Kandinsky bringing up the rear. They crept along quietly, stopping every few steps to listen out for dangers.
They had only gone fifteen yards when a barely audible click caused them to swing round and face the hut again. A lone figure stood in the gloom, its arm stretched towards them. They froze.
“Come out with your hands up!” commanded a man’s voice.
No-one answered.
The man repeated his command. Again he was met with silence. Another man appeared by his side.
“You two must run,” whispered Kandinsky. “On the count of three. One, two, three…”
Before either Stratton or Cronin could stop him Kandinsky was thundering towards the gunmen, his arms outstretched to shield his friends. There was a flurry of shooting, but still he stormed on, oblivious to the bullets peppering his torso. He ran to within three yards and then launched himself into the air and down onto the two helpless shooters, crushing them with his unnatural frame. Stratton and Cronin broke cover and came to his aid.
Stratton raced up and knelt down beside the heap of bodies. The two men were still conscious but groaning under Kandinsky’s weight. Their guns had been thrown in the collision and were safely out of reach.
Stratton touched Kandinsky�
�s shoulder. “Arman,” he said. “Are you alright?”
There was no answer.
“Arman?!”
Kandinsky moaned and lifted his head. “I am not so good,” he croaked. His head dropped back down.
“Come on, Pat,” said Stratton. “Let’s help him off and get a look at his injuries.”
Cronin picked up the guns and tucked them safely away. He then bent down to help Stratton move Kandinsky. They heaved with all the energy they could muster but it was no use, the Russian was just too heavy.
“Fuck it!” said Stratton.
It was then that a number of bodies burst through the trees. Cronin looked up and instinctively drew one of the guns.
“It’s us, Pat!” shouted a familiar voice.
Cronin squinted into the gloom and saw Jennings running towards them flanked by Grady and Stella. He sighed with relief and put the weapon away again.
“What’s happened?” asked a breathless Jennings.
“We think he’s been shot,” said Cronin. “But we can’t lift him.”
With extra leverage from the newcomers they slowly lifted Kandinsky off the two gunmen and lay him on his back in the grass. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. Stratton ripped apart his shirt to get a better look at his wounds. His body was covered with blood and bullet holes.
“Can you do anything?” asked Cronin.
“I’m not sure,” said Stratton. “I’ll give it a try. I just hope the world’s in a good mood.”
Kandinsky opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly. “No,” he gasped. “Leave me. Let me go.” Blood sputtered out of his mouth as he choked.
“We’re not leaving you,” said Cronin. “You’ll make it. Stratton will look after you.”
Kandinsky shook his head again. “No,” he rattled. He reached down to his pocket and then moved his hand to his chest. He closed his eyes and spoke no more.
“Come on Stratton!” shouted Stella. “Do something!”
Stratton shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “He’s gone. He wanted to go. I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”
They all bowed their heads and fell silent, each with their own thoughts. Grady looked at the battered photograph clutched to the big man’s heart. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek.
Chapter 62
The twelve men that made up the council sat behind the crescent-shaped marble table and studied the Mahdi in silence. He had been summoned before them as a matter of routine to review all that had happened in the last two weeks. They were pleased with his progress, but equally wished to keep him from becoming too arrogant with his new power, and so had isolated him in the centre of the room a level lower than themselves to compound their authority. He sat there cross-legged waiting for them to start their questioning.
Eventually a grey-bearded man near the middle of the crescent began to speak. “Welcome, Assam,” he said gravely. “We have been following your progress most closely.”
“I hope that you are not displeased with my efforts.”
“We are not. We are satisfied with the situation thus far. You have done as we asked, and performed your tasks admirably. We do, however, have some concerns about the way we are headed.”
The Mahdi gave a single nod, but did not reply.
The grey beard continued. “Wherever you go the crowds have taken you to their hearts, of that there is no doubt. You have proved yourself beyond question to everyone that has seen you, or been healed by your hands. And so the word has spread that you are indeed the genuine redeemer, the Mahdi. Even those who thought the legend fictional are now converted. Throughout the Muslim world there is unshakeable belief that the time has come when the faithful shall be given their just reward by Allah.” He paused and looked around the table. “There is also a line of thinking that Allah will at last punish the infidels who have taken his name in vain and kept his children in fear and subjugation. The greedy West who take our lands by force, and the stubborn, cursed Jews who kill our brothers with impunity. These people and other enemies of Islam need to be brought to justice. Do you not agree?”
“I agree that the violence should stop.”
“You agree that the violence should stop? That is not the same thing. I am talking about justice.”
The Mahdi surveyed the stony faces around the table. There would be no allies for the stance he was about to take. “Perhaps we would be better served by a less vengeful attitude.”
The grey beard’s eyes flashed with anger. “What!?” he thundered. “Are you trying to tell this council what to do? Are you trying to dictate our doctrine? We had an agreement, Assam. When you were chosen for this task you went in knowing full well what our intentions were. You cannot start changing now.”
“The intention was to free Allah’s children and to bring his teachings to the world at large.”
“Yes, indeed it was. But we cannot free our brothers without rising up against our oppressors. All your speeches are about peace and forgiveness, which is admirable, but our immediate aim is to maintain our standing and to rid this world of those who do not wish to live under Allah’s loving laws. It is almost as if you are oblivious to everything else that is going on in the world. We are at war with the West whether you like it or not. And now our enemy the Catholic Church grows mightier by the day. We need to be giving our brothers the strength and the heart to fight.”
“No,” countered the Mahdi. “We need to be giving our brothers the strength and the heart to lay down their arms. The force of mind and faith to bow before their enemies.”
The council murmured angrily. The grey beard echoed their sentiments. “This is madness!” he exclaimed. “We cannot give way to the West! We have lost too much already. They are wicked and will turn our lands into havens of sin and debauchery. Our people will be turned from their faith. The time has come to rise up in force against our dissolute enemies. It is the will of Allah.”
“I cannot agree,” said the Mahdi. “The will of Allah is to lay down our weapons and talk with our enemies.”
“We are not the aggressors here, Assam. We are the victims. The West have brought this war to us. They are the ones who wish to conquer the globe, not us. I agree that the Qur’an demands love and understanding, but it also permits defensive warfare. We will do no more than stand our ground, and once we have driven them away we will stop. This was all agreed.”
The Mahdi stood up, raising himself to the council’s level. “I did not agree to incite violence in our people. My remit was to promote the true ideals of the Qur’an and Allah. I will continue to do only that.” His eyes went from one elder to the next, burning each with the intensity of his focus.
“Come now, Assam,” said the grey beard. “Please sit down. There is no point arguing amongst ourselves. We are on the same side – the side of Allah.”
“That is to be determined,” said the Mahdi. “I fear the council has strayed from the path.”
“I understand your concerns, but we have not strayed from any path. The coming of this bogus Christian Messiah means that we must alter our strategy. It is true that in an ideal world we would solve our differences peacefully, but this world of ours is far from ideal.”
The Mahdi continued to stand tall. “I will not be swayed on this. There will be no violence on our part. You say that defensive warfare is permitted by the Qur’an, and I do not deny this, but there has as yet been no act of aggression from the Catholic Church or anyone else in the West. And even if there were I am no longer sure if I can condone any form of combat.”
“Open your eyes, Assam!” said the grey beard. “Reports are coming through every day about attacks on our brothers in the West. The two mightiest religions on earth are both claiming the high ground – there is no escaping bloodshed. Do you want to see your brothers suffer? Is that your wish?”
“It is not my wish to see anyone suffer, be they Muslim or Christian or Jew or Sikh or whomever. As I said, I do not deny that the Qur
’an permits defensive warfare, but my attitude towards this has changed. The power and the energy given to me by the symbols has shown me a new wisdom. There is no room for retaliation in the world of the future, we must do as the prophet Jesus said and: ‘if anyone hits you on the right cheek, then offer him the other as well’. This is the way forward for Islam and the world. After all, did not Muhammad himself accede to the demands of the Meccans, enabling him to take the city without bloodshed? That act of surrender empowered him with the true spirit of Allah that flows with inner peace. Islam is ‘surrender’.”
“We know very well what Islam means thank you, Assam, but it is not meant to be taken literally all the time. You must temper it with common sense. Offering no resistance to a man who is about to kill you will not save your life. The modern world is brutal and we must change with it, we must adapt to our environment.”
“The world of Muhammad was far more brutal than ours,” countered the Mahdi, “and look what he managed to do. We must go back to this fundamental tenet and lay ourselves bare to our enemies. We must throw down all weapons and engage the power of Allah and the universe. We will come to no harm.”
The grey beard slammed his hand down on the table. “Fool!” he yelled. “If you persist with this nonsense we will be destroyed! The Meccans in Muhammad’s time may have been brutal but they were also deeply religious and believed in the power of Allah. It was the fear of Allah that stayed their hands. Do you think the West is afraid of God? Their leaders might be making a big show of faith in light of the emergence of the Messiah, but do they really believe? Do you really think the powers that be at the Pentagon are going to be scared of divine intervention? Once they see us back down they will crush us like ants. They will take everything that is holy and desecrate it with their immoral greed. Our people will be led down the path of capitalist evil. We cannot allow this to happen. We will not allow this to happen.”
“Then we are at an impasse,” said the Mahdi. “For too long we have manipulated the Qur’an for our own purpose, justifying our actions with false interpretations. The hatred must stop now. I will not incite our brothers to fight. That is my final word on the matter.” He stared firmly and unblinking at the grey beard, who replied thunderously.
A Sacred Storm Page 26