The 4th Secret

by R D Shah

‘Yes, sir,’ David replied, resisting the urge to argue the semantics regarding the clone. ‘You are right, of course, but the Council are quite adamant in their views.’ The younger man was now looking nervous and he gulped as Wilcox slammed his clenched fist down hard on the thick oak table beside him.

  ‘The Magi Council,’ he hissed menacingly, ‘are my counsellors, my base, and my administrators. They are not my equals, nor are they this organisation’s leader.’ Wilcox raised one finger to his cheek and tapped it pensively. ‘It appears the members of the board think that my being out of sight means also being out of mind and thus allowing them free reign. I therefore think it’s time I paid them a visit in person,’ he concluded with a wide, threatening smile. ‘Just to put their minds at ease, don’t you think?’

  ‘Actually, that is the main reason I am here,’ David replied confidently, despite his own increasing nervousness. ‘Due to the controversy that your leaving the Vatican in such a way has caused, and the worldwide attention you still attract on a daily basis, the Council have decided that your position has, for the time being, become untenable. They have therefore decided to hold a vote for an interim leader, until things have settled down.’

  Wilcox remained silent and his eyes began to grow calmer as he gently put his arm around the other man’s shoulders. ‘You seem to be under the illusion that this is a democracy, David.’ Wilcox said patiently as a father would do in explaining to a child about the naivety of his understanding. ‘The Magi has endured for over a thousand years as a hierarchy … and it will remain a hierarchy for the next one thousand, you silly boy.’

  Wilcox then slid his arm away and leisurely made his way back to other side of the desk with a renewed spring in his step. ‘You do know the punishment for treason?’

  David watched in silence as his master took his seat and picked up the phone.

  ‘Michael, could you join us please,’ He requested, and replaced the handset before turning his attention back to his guest as the same balaclava-wearing guard entered the room and stood off to one side, with both arms crossed.

  ‘Don’t worry, my boy, I am not one to shoot the messenger but I would like you to let the Council know that I will be attending their meeting, and I will take it as a personal slight if all of them do not show.’

  Wilcox’s measured response brought a wave of relief to the younger man and he snapped to attention with any air of defiance now gone. ‘Yes, sir, I will notify them immediately.’

  With a gracious nod from Wilcox, the go-between was already making his way towards the door when the Magi leader called out after him.

  ‘One last thing before you go,’ Wilcox said and then turned his attention to the waiting guard. ‘Michael … break his fingers would you.’

  ‘Which ones, sir,’ the henchman replied, as David’s face began to turn pale.

  ‘All of them,’ Wilcox rasped.

  In one speedy movement the guard grasped the younger man around the shoulder and forcefully stretched his arm out straight. He then clamped both hands around the guest’s fingers, curled them inwards and began snapping them one by one, with a crack inducing a cry of intense pain from David. Once all four fingers had been snapped, the henchman released his grip, allowing the younger man to retrieve his hand and hold it to his chest protectively, sweat now pouring from his forehead.

  ‘Good, that will do,’ Wilcox announced. ‘Someone will contact you soon with a place and time of my choosing.’

  David managed a shaky nod, his eyes welling up with tears at the agonising pain in his fingers, which now hung bent and twisted. ‘Is there anything else you would like me to notify them of, sir?’ the young man stammered, his eyes fluttering as he fought the urge to pass out.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Wilcox replied nonchalantly, and then gestured towards the other man’s crippled hand. ‘I think they’ll get the message, don’t you?’

  Chapter 11

  ‘Do I look like a member of al-Qaeda?’

  ‘With respect, Professor Harker, looks have nothing to do with it these days. There are more Caucasians being radicalised every day. It’s a common misconception to assume otherwise.’

  ‘OK, well, don’t all of them still end up committing suicide during their atrocities because, if you hadn’t noticed, I am still very much alive?’

  ‘You certainly are and, who knows, maybe something went wrong, or maybe you were supposed to survive but never got away in time, or maybe you are just a useless and inept terrorist. Either way, you two were the only people to walk out of the cathedral alive and I want to know why?’

  Harker sank back into his grey leather seat and shot Chloe a reassuring glance. His alleged partner in crime was holding up well and the shock which had gripped her some hours earlier had all but vanished. That vacant expression and her taut lip muscles had faded within the first hour and she now appeared to be back in control of her faculties, despite her look of disbelief at the ridiculous accusations currently being heaped upon them.

  They had been arrested after exiting the cathedral by a group of police officers who had seemed just as stunned at seeing the piles of bloody corpses littering the forecourt as they were. With jackets pressed to their mouths, two of the law men had then ventured inside, only to make a hasty retreat upon seeing the human devastation within. The younger of the two had retched his guts up on to the stone steps outside, adding to the sheer unpleasantness of the whole scene. Amid the nauseous groans and paling faces, Harker and Chloe had been hustled into the back of a black police transit van to wait until a Haz Mat squad for infection control had arrived. This unit had immediately gone to work by setting up a series of unfolding plastic containment tents, whereupon Harker and Chloe had been escorted into one by two men wearing pale-blue biohazard suits, while others cordoned off all the cathedral’s entrances. After four hours of testing and examinations, whereby he and Chloe had been deemed free of any biological threat, the pair had next been released into the custody of Interpol Detective Xavier Rodriguez who had promptly cuffed them and bundled them both into the back of a grey Audi A4 with blacked-out windows. They had been on the road ever since, during which time Detective Rodriguez had continued bombarding them with every question under the sun and then re-asked them again and again and again. Although emphatic about both his own and Chloe’s innocence, Harker had remained calm and respectful since, after all, over a hundred people had died back at Notre Dame. No, now was not the time to be forgetful of that fact and it was clear to see from Chloe’s submissive demeanour that she was of the same mind-set.

  ‘Detective, I am just as horrified as you are,’ she declared softly, ‘but our only link to this awful catastrophe is that we both happened to be there at the time.’

  ‘Yet you were the only ones to come out of it without so much as a scratch,’ Detective Rodriguez was glaring uncompromisingly into his rear-view mirror, ‘and you both know each other. If it had been two strangers that survived, then the odds would be on your side. But the fact that out of a hundred people only two survived, and those two knew each other… that’s a coincidence too far!’

  Harker released a tired sigh. The Detective’s logic was undeniable and he was right in that there was a connection, but revealing the discovery and interpretation of a prophecy was not going to do either of them any good. They would simply think he was crazy and, besides which, Bishop Canard had been with them during the opening of the Secret, and it certainly had not stopped him from dropping dead.

  Neither Chloe nor he had mentioned their real reason for being at Notre Dame and he refused to believe that this disaster had anything to do with simply reading out a few words. This disastrous event had to be something more, something tangible. Something real.

  ‘What’s going on, Detective, is that somehow we were both incredibly lucky. I can’t explain it, and we certainly don’t know what caused it, but I can assure you that neither of us were involved,’ Harker shook his head from side to side. ‘And, anyway, since when are of
ficial interrogations carried out in the back seat of a car?’

  Rodriguez continued to frown with mistrust, then returned his attention to the road ahead. ‘When a hundred innocent bystanders drop dead without explanation, that’s when.’

  Just then the car pulled up to a red-and-white striped pole barrier with a woman in a navy-blue security uniform manning it. Rodriguez pulled out his Interpol ID badge and pressed it flatly against the windscreen, getting a nod from the guard. She reached inside the small monitoring cubicle next to her, and within moments the barrier was raised and they were on the move again. The access road continued between two large tar-covered dome-shaped buildings, one on either side, which Harker recognised immediately.

  ‘Why are we at an airport?’ He demanded.

  Chloe followed quickly: ‘Shouldn’t we be going to a police station?’

  Rodriguez remained silent for a few uneasy seconds before answering, and Harker got the impression the Interpol agent wanted his two passengers to sweat it out as for as long as possible. ‘You’re both being flown to Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, for interrogation.’

  He barely finished speaking before the car had reached a large tarmacked area upon which was parked a white Gulf-Stream 450 twin jet, with two stocky men wearing black suits and sunglasses standing either side of a short flight of stairs leading up into the open hatch. The entire area was a network of taxiing roads leading from various hangars to the single runway, but it was the boundaries of the airport that betrayed its true identity. The entire perimeter was surrounded by a high chain-link fence which in turn was hugged by a row of tall conifers offering protection from unwanted attention.

  ‘This is a private airfield,’ Harker grunted, a feeling of trepidation beginning to rise from the pit of his stomach, as the car came to a stop next to the fuselage of the aircraft. ‘And why fly us all the way to Lyon?’

  ‘What’s wrong with Lyon?’ Chloe snapped, the tension in her voice evident as the two suited men outside made their way over to the car.

  ‘Because Interpol doesn’t have an interrogation section there – or anywhere else,’ Harker explained. ‘Its primary role is to act as intermediator between separate law agencies around the world.’

  ‘Very good, Professor Harker,’ Rodriguez remarked sarcastically as both the Audi’s passenger doors were suddenly flung open. ‘Now get inside the damn plane.’

  ‘Motherfu…’ Harker’s abusive reply was cut short as one of the men in suits hauled him firmly out of the back seat and, with one hand planted around the chain of the handcuffs, began marching him towards the Gulf-Stream and then up the steps leading to the open hatchway. A few feet from the opening, Harker jammed his foot against the plane’s fuselage and thrust backwards trying to catch his burly chaperone off balance. But it was like pushing against a brick wall and the only thing he succeeded in achieving was pulling his own hamstring. Without a weapon he was going nowhere and, even if he did manage to get the handcuffs off, the single strip of spearmint gum in his jacket pocket did not constitute anything he could use in a viable plan of attack. Besides which, he was not the MacGyver type.

  Harker therefore ceased resisting and allowed himself to be pushed through the entrance accepting that for the time being they were not going anywhere, even if Chloe – who was yelling and demanding to be released – had yet to reach the same conclusion.

  The interior of the aircraft was deceptively spacious and Harker’s nostrils were greeted by the smell of leather and fresh fabric, evoking in him a curious feeling of contentment given the circumstances. The cabin windows were covered with drop-down blinds denying admission to even the slightest sliver of sunlight, thus adding to the false sense of security he felt. Up-lighters lining the cabin’s floor emanated a cosy orange glow, reflecting off the lacquered walnut strip-panelled edges of a shiny round conference table bolted securely to the floor. Comfy-looking padded-leather business chairs encircled it, with each leg nestling in a deep divot set within the thick cream carpet, thus ensuring they remained in position during any moments of unforeseen turbulence. At the far end, a wall partitioned off the room, with an open doorway on either side leading deeper into unobservable areas of the aircraft’s interior beyond. The partition itself had a large LCD plasma screen fixed into its surface which provided much of the ambient light with a plain blue hue. The room was finished off perfectly with an impressive corner bar, its well-secured crystal tumblers sparkling with evidence of their extravagance and cost.

  ‘Please have a seat,’ the suit-clad man stated firmly, sounding more of an instruction than an invitation and he pushed Harker down on to the nearest conference chair. Chloe was led past him, through one of the open doorways and out of sight, still protesting as she went.

  ‘Where are you taking her?’ Harker demanded loudly, rising to his feet before being thrust back down again.

  ‘She will be fine, sir. You have my word on that,’ the suited man replied, now standing back a few paces with arms crossed and allowing Harker some personal space.

  ‘Oh, I have your word, do I,’ Harker snapped sarcastically. ‘Well that doesn’t exactly inspire me with any confidence considering you’re obviously about to kidnap us.’

  The man in the suit shrugged his shoulders indifferently, then made his way back to the aircraft’s entrance where he pulled the door closed and secured it with the large metal locking handle, thus blocking out the last vestiges of the daylight outside. ‘Someone will be with you shortly, sir,’ the guard informed him and then headed for one of the internal doorways. ‘Please take a moment to relax in the meantime.’

  ‘Relax?’ Harker gasped, raising his still handcuffed wrists into the air. ‘Really?’

  A genuine smile of amusement crossed the man’s lips before he disappeared deeper into the aircraft, leaving Harker alone with nothing but his thoughts, his surging temper, and a pair of steel handcuffs restricting the flow of blood to his hands.

  After a few moments, something stirred up ahead, near one of the cabin’s darkened internal doorways. Harker’s attention honed in on it immediately.

  ‘I would say you look remarkably relaxed,’ a voice declared. ‘All things considered.’

  Harker watched as the shadowy figure appeared through one of the two doorways and began to make his way into the light cast by the LCD screen. He moved with a familiar gliding motion but the voice alone was unmistakable – as was his sense of relief that Harker felt upon hearing it.

  Dressed in a charcoal-grey pinstriped suit, dazzling white shirt and a matt-black tie, Sebastian Brulet, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, continued towards the table with all the graceful poise Harker had come to expect. Neither man said a word as Brulet reached over and slid a slim metal key into the handcuffs, released them with a click and then dropped the uncomfortable restraints into the spare seat next to Harker.

  ‘Sorry about those,’ Brulet apologised, ‘but you know … appearances and all that.’

  Harker was immediately on his feet and warmly shaking the hand of his friend. ‘Is there any time you don’t make a dramatic entrance?’

  ‘Not if I can help it, since it adds to the mystique,’ Brulet joked, and for a moment Harker was again transfixed by the unique shape of the Grand Master’s truly distinctive if not bizarre eyes, which seemed to exude mystery like no others Harker had ever known. The eyes themselves were normal, of course, but it was the yellow irises and pupils each formed in the shape of a cross that commanded attention, since it looked as if Brulet was wearing special contact lenses. Of course Harker knew this was only the result of a genetic disease, Coloboma, which deformed the pupils in such a way. But, when combined with Brulet’s second rare condition called Waardenburg’s Syndrome, which affected the body’s pigments and gave the Templar’s skin a light almost silver tinge, it made the man’s overall appearance exquisite. Harker found it just as mesmerising now as on the first occasion he had met the Grand Master.

  ‘Still bewitched by my appearance, Alex?
’ Brulet remarked casually and without any hint of offence. ‘If you keep staring at me people will talk.’

  The jest broke any awkwardness that could have entailed, and Harker quickly responded. ‘Well we certainly wouldn’t want that, would we?’

  Brulet gave a friendly nod and then motioned for Harker to resume his seat as he himself took the chair opposite.

  ‘Well, then,’ the Templar continued, folding his arms and settling back in his seat, with an expression now all business, ‘perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what on earth is going on?’

  A number of questions were already forming an orderly queue in Harker’s mind, and first in line was how Brulet’s men had managed to get to him so quickly. But by now Harker knew the drill and that the Grand Master would eventually reveal all, and probably already knew more about what was going on than he did. ‘I’m not sure where to start, Sebastian.’ Harker replied, fumbling for the beginning of his explanation. ‘The last 24 hours have been crazy.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt.’ Brulet replied with a wistful smile. ‘Hold on one second.’

  The Templar stood up and made his way over to the corner bar, where he quickly mixed a drink in one of the crystal glasses. He then returned to his seat and placed it in front of Harker. ‘Vodka and Red Bull right?’

  ‘Perfect, thank you.’ Harker gave a grateful smile and took his time over a long, deep swig, allowing the potent liquid to soothe his throat and refuel his dipping energy reserves that were waning after the day’s events.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Brulet, settling back in his seat. ‘Now, why don’t you start from the beginning?’

  ‘OK, from the beginning,’ Harker agreed and took another satisfying gulp, ‘but bear with me because it’s… complicated.’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’ Brulet answered, crossed his legs and listened as Harker began to recount the events that had led him to the chair he now sat in. He detailed the attack on the priest by the demons, and the message they had delivered. He told Brulet about the faking of the three Secrets of Fatima, and how the real ones detailed the Second Coming of Christ and that this would signal the beginnings of the prophecy. He went on to explain how many in the church hailed the cloned Christ child’s arrival as the genuine Second Coming, and how that very fact meant acquiring the other two Secrets was now imperative. Harker went on to divulge what he had learnt during his meeting with Doctor Eckard and then of his escape aided by Chloe from the psychopath McCray. He told how Eckard’s revelation had led them to Notre Dame and the discovery of the second secret, and how, after reading it, everything had descended into chaos and death.