Five more days for the Disciples of Judas to strike the most decisive blow of all.
They had promised to shatter the world's faith.
Killing one man would not do that.
He had no idea what would.
And then he realized what this was: the calm before the storm.
Everyone in the world would think this was it, that it couldn't get any worse. They'd seen cities ruined from within and without, and then the Father of the Catholic Church struck down.
He looked at the woman across the table from him. "Do you think this is over?"
She didn't answer him for a long moment. She genuinely seemed to be thinking about her answer rather than glibly saying yes. "We have no reason to suspect more attacks," she said finally, like she was parroting the official press release.
"Yes, you do," he said. "You have very good reason to expect more attacks, because they told you they were coming. Forty days and forty nights of terror in every city in the West. Wasn't that what they said? Something like that. Not just Berlin and Rome."
"But the threats in Rome and Berlin were different."
She was right. Lethe had pointed that out. They were. "So that's what you've decided? The threats were all about assassinating Peter II?"
"We have no reason to suspect otherwise."
"Until they give you a reason."
"They won't," she said, with surprising certainty.
"What about the promise to destroy the faith of the world? Are you just discounting that?"
"How do you destroy someone's faith?" she asked in all seriousness. "There are 1.3 billion Catholics in the world, 2.1 billion Christians. How could you possibly shatter the beliefs of a third of the world's population?"
"Not by killing one man," Konstantin said, trying to force home the point.
"No, and every scientist who stands up to decry there is no god and has evidence to support his claim doesn't change the fact that these people believe. Evolutionary biologists can call them stupid for believing, they don't care. They still believe. So how do you do it?"
"You prove it wrong."
"But that's what the scientists are doing, isn't it?"
"Then how do you do it?"
"I don't know. That's why I am not worried about it. That's why I am much more interested in much more mundane questions like who you work for and who you are working with."
"I've told you, I work for Sir Charles Wyndham. The project is codenamed Ogmios. Ask him," he said again, willing her to just go and track down the old man herself.
The next time she came into the interrogation room she brought something for him. It wasn't a cup of coffee. She put the silver dagger on the table between them and said, "What's this?"
He looked at it. It was the first time he had seen it properly. It was obviously old. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said.
"Try me."
He shrugged. "It's a dagger."
"I can see that, so that hardly counts as unbelievable. So tell me, what's so special about it?"
"It's two thousand years old for a start," Konstantin said. He didn't want to say more, saying more meant he knew more. Knowing more only implicated him further. He breathed deeply. What did it matter? He wasn't walking away from this. He might as well tell her what he knew, if for no other reason tha talking to her kept her partner away. The man's constant badgering and boorishness was boring.
"Go on."
"It's silver."
"I can see that."
"Silver's not usually the stuff of weapons. Too soft. It'd break, maybe not the first time it's used, maybe not the second, but it would break. And no fighter wants to go to war knowing his weapon could fail him at any time."
"Makes sense."
"Because it is sense. Common sense.
"So it's ceremonial?"
"You'd think, but no. I think it is more accurate to say it is commemorative."
"That's an odd choice of words, don't you think? Are you saying the dagger used to murder the Pope was a commemorative dagger? So what, it was made for a King's Jubilee? Something like that?"
He did like this woman. She was sharp. "Something exactly like that. A king two thousand years ago." If he said two thousand years often enough she'd make the intuitive leap. He knew she would. "That's one thing that makes this dagger special--it's silver, it's two thousand years old. What kings do you remember from two thousand years ago?"
She spread her arms wide.
"Think," Konstantin said. "King of the Jews, two thousand years ago?"
"Jesus? You're telling me this dagger was made to commemorate the life of Jesus?" She didn't laugh, but he could see she wanted to.
"How does silver fit into the story?" he guided her. "Think."
"Silver?"
"Come on. You know this. Every one learns the story when they're kids. Thirty pieces of silver."
She shook her head. "No bloody way. Not possible. I don't believe you."
"You asked me. I told you you wouldn't believe me."
"You didn't say I wouldn't believe, because it was ludicrous though, did you? So, tell me, how did you get your hands on a dagger forged from Judas' silver? Hell, I can't even believe I am asking a question like that. Jesus, Judas, we just wandered off into criminally insane territory. Is that what this is? Are you fashioning your defense? Going to plead the Devil made you do it? That you heard the voice of Judas telling you to strike back? To punish the unfaithful for treating him so badly?"
"No," Konstantin said.
"Then what? Talk me through it, Konstantin. Help me understand, because right now I've got a murder weapon, a murderer, and a truckload of evidence, but something doesn't fit when I think about it. It's a niggle. The old cop instinct, if you like. I want to say I don't think you did it, but I've watched the footage a thousand times; you're as guilty as sin. So I don't know why I keep coming back to the fact that I want to believe you."
So Konstantin told her everything--Masada, Mabus, the two Akim Caspis, the prophecies and the threats, and his involvement in it. He told her about the gun in the apartment and the timer and the birdseed in the trees meant to cause a distraction. He told her about trying to fight his way through the crowd to save the Holy Father and being too late. He told her about the Swiss Guard and begged her to put his face out across the wire, to warn people. Because he was still out there, and the body in the Moselle proved someone else had witnessed the murder and he'd silenced them before they could talk. He told her about Humanity Capital trading on tragedy, about Miles Devere, about the hostages in England. He told her everything.
It felt good to confess it, to put the burden onto someone else, because it wasn't over yet. He knew that as surely as he knew the sun was going to rise on the ninth day and the College of the Cardinals would enter conclave to elect the next Pope. It wasn't over.
"What are you going to do with the dagger?" he asked her.
She looked at him. He couldn't read her face. He didn't know whether she believed a word he had said. What she couldn't argue with was how it all hung together. He couldn't have made up a story like that while they had him trapped in the interrogation room. "It's a murder weapon. It's evidence."
"When it's over?"
"Why?"
"Like you said, it's evidence, but not just of murder. In a weird kind of way it's proof, isn't it? Proof that Jesus and Judas existed, proof in the stuff they want us to believe. It's the kind of treasure the Vatican will want, no matter how tainted it might be."
He lost track of the time between visits. He was beyond tired. But they wouldn't let him sleep. Not properly. Only snatches here and there. That told him they had cameras on him and someone watching him at all times. Whenever he started to doze they returned, like clockwork.
They kept coming back, working away at him. Softly from the woman, great hammer blows from the guy. He kept trying to tell them they were wasting their time, that the real assassin was out there, still safe in his position inside the
inner ring of the papal guard, but they refused to believe him.
He still didn't know their names. They were just the woman and the man. It kept it impersonal, stopped him from thinking of them as friends. If he had been running the interrogation, the first thing he would have done was make it personal. Sometimes he did not understand the logic of these people. If they wanted him to trust them, surely they should be using every trick at their disposal to convince him there were bonds between them. They couldn't bring in the torturer, so what else could they do?
This time when they came for him it was different.
They weren't alone.
There were six other men with them. Konstantin watched them file into
the cell. It was like the tiled wall had been replaced with muscle. The muscle didn't talk. They didn't acknowledge his nod. I was as if he didn't exist to them. That suited Konstantin.
"Get up," the man said.
He didn't move.
"I said get up."
Konstantin placed his hands flat on the table and pushed the chair back,
dragging the metal legs across the floor so they grated. He stood up slowly. "What's going on?" he asked the woman.
She didn't answer him. She looked at the man.
"You're being moved."
He looked at the woman. "How many days has it been?"
This time she answered him. "Eight."
He had been out of touch with reality for eight days. Eight days. Anything
could have happened in that time. Akim Caspi could be dead. Mabus could be dead. A third of the world's population could be dead. He wouldn't have known. All he did know was that tomorrow the novemdiales would be over.
If the Sicarii were going to strike tomorrow, it would be the perfect moment. For nine days the world would have mourned Peter II, and the victims of Rome and Berlin along with him, and each new dawn would be a day further away from the tragedies. Nine days was enough for the numbness to have receded. Nine days was enough for the world to think that final attack wasn't coming. Nine days was enough to make a fool out of everyone.
"Where are you taking me?" "Russia, Italy, London? Does it matter? One cell looks pretty much the same as another wherever it is," the man said.
"I'd like to know."
"Berlin," the m "The fun stuff's over. You're going to be held accountable for what you've done, and then we're going to bury you way down deep. And when the world has forgotten about you we'll whisper in the right ear and someone will find you in the showers or shiv you in the yard. It won't matter to us. But I am sure we'll find someone who really wants to hurt you; maybe an excountryman of yours? Or maybe someone who isn't enlightened enough to turn the other cheek. It doesn't matter one way or the other to me. Justice will have had its way, and the world will have its blood, so everyone is happy."
"Except for me," Konstantin said, as they came around the table and grabbed his arms. Two men forced them behind his back and cuffed him. They cuffed his ankles and ran a chain from one cuff to the other, meaning he could barely shuffle more than a foot at a time.
"And who the hell cares if you're happy?" the man asked.
The muscle bundled him into the back of an SUV and drove. They left the man and the woman outside the BKA offices in Wiesbaden. They didn't talk until they were more than thirty minutes outside of the city, then the driver switched on his blinkers and followed the traffic off the next exit ramp, leaving the Autobahn. This wasn't the way to Berlin.
For a moment Konstantin thought that perhaps they had decided to do it the Russian way, drive him somewhere remote then finish him, cleaning up the problem he posed. He licked his lips.
The driver pulled over to the side of the road.
It was a remote spot, far enough away for his body not to be found quickly. Remote enough the local wildlife might take care of that problem altogether.
There was little in the way of passing traffic. No one would accidentally see anything from the side of the road.
It was a good place to kill a man.
The driver leaned forward, opening the glove box.
Konstantin was suddenly aware of his breathing. It was hard. A regular push in, out, in, out. He looked at his options. There wasn't a lot he could do. He couldn't very well fight from the back seat of an SUV with six other slabs of solid muscle surrounding him. Well, he could, but he wouldn't win. He wasn't Superman. He couldn't run. The back doors would be child-locked to prevent him from opening them from the inside. So, he did the only thing he could do: nothing.
The driver pulled a padded envelope from the glove box. It didn't look bulky enough, or heavy enough in his hand, to contain a service revolver, and they wouldn't have risked a close-combat weapon like a Korshun knife or a SARO machete. He turned in his seat and looked straight at Konstantin. "We've got a message for the old man from Control," the driver said in a coarse Manchester accent. "This is it, all debts paid in full. He's kept up his end of the bargain, but this is the end of the road. You're cut off, as of now. You understand?"
He handed Konstantin the envelope.
It contained a passport with his picture on it in the name of John Smith, just about as English as names came, and a plane ticket from Frankfurt Main back to Heathrow, leaving in six hours. There was also a billfold with about 300 Euros in it.
"You get yourself caught, you're on your own."
"How are you going to explain this?" Konstantin said, meaning the plane ticket. "They're expecting me in Berlin."
"Yours is not to reason why, soldier. Yours is to get your ass home. End of story."
He nodded. He knew enough not to ask operational details. No doubt the real wall of muscle was arriving right about now at the BKA building and the man and woman were scratching their heads, wondering who the hell they'd just turned him over to if it wasn't the good guys. Or maybe only one of them was scratching his head. The woman had said she wanted to believe him. Maybe that had been enough to convince her to make the call? Had the simple act of telling the truth set this entire chain of events into action like the first domino going over?
One thing Six could do was paperwork. This crew would have presented every necessary piece of paper, with every i dotted and every t crossed. In and out, no one any the wiser until the real prisoner transport team arrived, hence the thirty minutes of driving rather than taking him straight to Frankfurt Main or the military airport at Wiesbaden. Six didn't want the Germans knowing it was Her Majesty who'd sprung their suspected papal assassin. It wasn't exactly good form for a monarch to be getting her royal hands dirty like that, even if she didn't know what was actually being done in her name.
Konstantin pocketed the passport and the ticket.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me, mate. I'm only doing what I'm told. Thank the old man for calling in every favor he had with every man, woman and child from here to Timbuktu. Without him you'd be rotting away in Berlin for the rest of your natural, pal."
He broke one of the smaller Euro notes at a kiosk, buying a phone card. It took him the best part of an hour to find a working pay phone. He called in to Nonesuch.
Lethe answered on the first ring. It took a moment for the line to connect and then both of them were talking without the other hearing. Then the line opened. Konstantin started again, "I am on the evening flight from Frankfurt Main to Heathrow. When I land I am going to call again. By then I want you to have found Miles Devere for me."
He hung up before Lethe could get a word in.
It was an uneventful flight, both on the ground and in the air. A lot could happen in nine days it seemed, including people forgetting a face, or halfrecognizing it and not being sure where from, even when it was a face they had seen day after day on the news reels and in the press. He wasn't a film star and he wasn't a pro ball player. What that meant was when they looked at him a few people did a weird sort of double-take, then shook their heads as though dismissing him. They had recognized him on some subliminal level, just like
any other famous person, but they had filed him as just that, a famous person. Logic told them he had to be one, and who was he to argue with logic? The fact of the matter was that the BKA were hardly about to announce to the world that they'd lost him. Airports, train stations and bus terminals would be swarming with agents on the ground looking for him--but they weren't looking for John Smith.
As it was, he landed in London refreshed from the flight and disembarked the plane. On the way along the metal passage back toward the gate, he asked one of the ground crew where the nearest pay phone was and made the call to Lethe.
"Welcome home, Koni," Lethe said, even before the phone had started to ring in his ear. "We were worried about you."
"Touching, I am sure. You have the address for me?"
"The old man told me to tell you he wants you here for a debriefing first thing."
"Second thing. First thing I have a promise to keep."
"Whatever you say, man, I'm just passing on the message. Second thing it is."
"The address?"
"He's in England. He entered the country the day after the assassination."
"England isn't small. Where in England?"
"I just want you to appreciate my brilliance for a moment, Koni. I found him for you, just like you asked. But think about it, if I say he's in London, that means he's one of seven and a half million people spread over thirty-two different boroughs. That's a lot of people and a hell of a lot of streets. That's your needle in a haystack right there."
"Where is he?"
"Well, out of all those millions of buildings, I found the one he's in. That's how good I am at what I do, Koni. He has a place in the heart of London, Clippers Quay, off Taeping Street. You can take the DLR to Mudchute and walk from there in a couple of minutes. Most of the houses are built around the old Graving Dock. There are four apartments in the block. The penthouse is his. You can't miss it."
"A graving dock? Isn't that appropriate," Konstantin said.
"It doesn't mean they used to bury people there, Koni," Lethe said in his ear. The phone line started to beep, but he talked over them.
"Well it does now."
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